OUTLAW GOLF

I stood in front of the boss' desk, trying to look calm as he thumped his fist on the humor column and course review I'd just handed over. I knew it took exactly three steps and a shimmy-sidle to get through the door in 2.4 seconds, marginally quicker than he could throw. But as it was 5.00 p.m. Friday, for once I'd have time to sight the door handle.

Spittle spattered his desk while the rant continued. "Narrow margins ... it's a bunker of quicksand out there ... trying to make a decent living ... bills, bills, bills, overheads ... the Internet's killing publishing..."

He stubbed out a cheap cigar in an overflowing ashtray and I slid my right foot towards the exit. His chubby hand searched the desk as he fixed me with a gaze that could dry flowers. I gave thanks for being not only the magazine's leading writer but also the office cleaner. He'd never think of looking for his paperweight in the filing cabinet.

While I stared into his eyes, my peripheral vision concentrated on his hand, judging the degree of danger by the color of his fingers as he picked up a book. Still pink. The time to take evasive action was when you could pick out each dark hair, highlighted by white knuckles.

"This could be our savior." He waved the book under my nose. "The official four yearly updated Rules of Golf — a must-have for every golf club and rules pedant." He looked at the ceiling and whispered, "A common breed, thank goodness," before glaring at me. "If we can persuade the authorities that New Zealand needs an updated version every year, and that my company is the best publisher for it, we'll make a killing."

I pulled my foot back and relaxed. That book was his bible, he'd never throw it. Now that the circulation of his golf magazine Slice of Heaven had dropped by a third, his idea to print a local version of the golf rules would guarantee a healthy future for his business. New Zealand's unique golf course terrain — volcanoes, geothermal fields, sheep paddocks — coupled with a pioneering 'we'll make our own rules' attitude, had created some of the most devious rule stretchers in the annals of golf.

A case could be argued that the unpredictable ferocity of the topography necessitated updated rules, especially now that the stretching had spread to perfectly safe courses. If we proved that New Zealand needed an annual update, the rest of the world was sure to follow. As the boss often stated, the Internet ensured the rapid spread of ideas — good and bad — and cheats were universal.

Gently placing the book before him, he leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, arms bracketing his stomach. A malevolent Buddha in a suit. As usual I wondered, how the hell did he ever get a nine handicap, having to swing around that girth?

He sighed. "Face it, Michele. You may be an above average golfer and an A-grade referee but ... you're the wrong side of thirty. You don't have what it takes any more." He leaned forward and grasped the desk. "I need a younger, hungrier, investigative journalist. To dig up the scandal and the dirt. Peer beneath the divots. Interview the hookers. Find out what really goes on in the greenkeeper's shed."

Watching his knuckles, I sidled closer to the desk, fiddling with the pitch-mark repairer in my pocket. "Test the new journalist on the magazine if you must. But don't give him this assignment. I've put in a lot of preparation. I'm primed and ready to go." And desperate for my twenty-five percent cut if we pull it off, I thought. Only my wages stood between Mum and my siblings' eviction from the old shack we called home.

The boss grabbed a cigar and spat the end at a nearby rubbish bin. It missed. I glanced at the door and took my hand out of my pocket, readying it at handle height. But he remained relatively relaxed, studying the ceiling and shaking his head. He muttered, "I dunno. You don't look undercover material. Five foot four, fifteen pounds overweight, that dopey smile." Head on one side, he studied me closely. "S'pose that might be to your advantage. If only..."

"...You had the time, you'd do it yourself, because there's no one better."

He glowered, so I hurried on.

"Which means I've learned from the best, so I'm the logical one to infiltrate this notorious club of blatant cheats and free-relief stretchers and prove to the authorities that we need an annual update of the rules."

He smiled, so I deduced thoughts of sales figures filled his mind and I should launch my strongest argument. "I've spent the last three months watching every episode of Mission Impossible and all the James Bond films. You aren't looking at Michele Llaw, golf humor columnist, any more. You're looking at..."

I stepped back and flourished a tiny camera and tape recorder from my left pocket. "Secret Agent Oh-No-7 Over — the country's foremost undercover investigator of golf cheats."

The flash accidentally went off and blinded him for a few seconds. I pressed on. "By seeking out situations not adequately covered by the Rules of Golf, I shall worm my way into the confidence of Shady Acres Golf Club members and record every 'fantastic' interpretation they come up with."

Face screwed up, the boss blinked a couple of times before focusing on me again. "Maybe you deserve another chance."

I winced as his fingers rasped over chin stubble while he studied me from head to foot. He cleared his throat and spoke sternly. "If the Shady Acres committee discover what you're up to, the situation could turn nasty." His beady little eyes locked on mine. "Should you be discovered, I will disavow all knowledge."

"I can live with that."

"There'll be no monetary compensation."

"Nothing at all?"

"Zilch. But considering your ... preparation, you must be confident your cover will hold."

I cleared my throat and wished I'd used a stronger deodorant. "Of course," I squeaked.

He tore the list I'd given him in two, then grinned. "No money in the budget for these high-tech gadgets. You shouldn't spend all your spare time watching movies." He handed me a cassette. "Fortunately, you have the natural cunning of the single figure golfer to draw on. Listen to that tape on your way to Shady Acres. It came through the mail, anonymously, but I have a hunch who sent it." He paused, appearing undecided whether to continue. Finally he pointed at the tape. "You'll get my thoughts at the end. I suggest you listen carefully.

The only reliable part of my vehicle was the tape deck. I ejected Dusty Springfield and put her back with Gene Pitney and Roberta Flack. Real singers of real songs you couldn't help but sing along to.

A tinny voice droned out of the speakers. As I left town and headed north, I tried to concentrate on the litany of rule infractions — one eye on the road and the other on the temperature gauge.

My nose wrinkled at a strange smell and I thumped the door to get the window halfway down. The odor intensified but all the gauges read normal and no steam issued from the motor. I slowed down as the voice on the tape changed and I heard my boss say, "Watch out for a..."

"What?" I snapped, finally looking down. "Shit!"

I ejected the smoking tape and hurled it out the window, then rubbed my scorched fingertips across the passenger seat. I pulled off the road. "Idiot! Moron! Shanker!" I spluttered, thumping the steering wheel. "Why didn't you just give me a note and I could have eaten it?"

No more driving music, I thought.

But what am I supposed to watch out for?