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  His partner, Hiram, was so much like him they may as well have been brothers. More than once, he let us know he was a former super-secret agent man for the CIA. The two of them spent the entire day telling wild stories and it was downright annoying. Mick was one of my best friends, but he was also an irritating curmudgeon who often took great joy in pushing my buttons.

  All I wanted was a peaceful round of golf, but it wasn’t happening. In addition to the asinine prattle, these guys sucked at golf. Even Wally, who was supposed to be a pro. They hooked, sliced, topped, chunked, bladed, whiffed, you name it. As a result, our pace of play was abysmally slow. Oh, and yeah, they cheated. The foot wedge and unlimited mulligans were constantly in use. Even for Mick.

  After what seemed like an eternity, we finished the round. I thought it was over, but then Mick and Wally began bickering over the score. I tried to ignore them, but my patience was at an end.

  “For the love of God, knock it off!” I said it a little louder than I intended and immediately regretted it. “C’mon, let’s go try the restaurant here.”

  “They better have cheeseburgers and beer,” Mick grumbled.

  “Lunch sounds wonderful, I’m famished,” Wally said.

  “Here, here,” Hiram added.

  I did not intend for Wally and Hiram to join us, but I guess it was my own fault for mentioning it in front of them. I motioned for them to follow and hopped in our golf cart.

  The waitress was on us as soon as we sat and we all ordered beers. I looked around as the three stooges prattled on. I’d done a little research and knew the place had been in business since the sixties. It was obvious from the style of architecture, but the interior had been redecorated into a modern motif with a nice blend of pastel colors and scenic pictures hanging on the walls. I could almost see myself as a frequent patron.

  “What are you going to order, Dago?” Mick asked.

  “Good question. May I ask that everyone order something different? I want to see if the cook staff is on the ball.”

  “No problem. I’m getting a cheeseburger and fries,” Mick quickly said.

  “But I wanted a cheeseburger,” Wally grumbled.

  It took some wheedling, but I finally got them all in agreement. Wally ordered a turkey club, Hiram got chicken tenders, and I got an Italian beef sandwich. I could make one blindfolded and would readily be able to tell if the cook was any good. The beers came within a minute. Mick took a big slurp.

  “The course is in nice shape,” he remarked.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “They do a good job of maintaining it.” They’d put down fresh sod in spots that did not survive the winter and I could smell a fresh application of fertilizer on the greens.

  “It reminds me of the Albany golf course,” Wally said. “I placed second there on three different occasions. I never could pull off a win though. Too much wind for my playing style.”

  Mick rolled his eyes and drank another slurpy swallow. Wally was prone to telling tall tales in regards to his professional golfing career. Mick and I looked him up on the PGA website once and he’d only played in two pro events, failing to make the cut in each tournament. Mick finished his beer, waved the glass at the waitress, and wiped his face.

  “Well, Mister Pro-Golfer, let’s see what the final score is,” he said and pulled the scorecard out of his back pocket. “It looks like we tied the front nine, won the back nine, and had the best overall score. That means you two owe us twenty dollars, each.”

  “No, no, and no,” Wally rejoined. “I tied Thomas, therefore we tied the back nine and tied overall.”

  Mick gave him the stink eye. “What world are you living in? We’re not counting those mulligans you kept taking. Thomas beat you by seven strokes, and that’s without a single mulligan.”

  Wally let out a condescending sigh. “Mick, Mick, Mick. I noticed you took a mulligan or two as well.”

  “Thomas didn’t. He smoked you like a cheap cigar and you know it,” Mick retorted.

  It didn’t take a genius to see this petty bickering was going to start back, so I decided to quash it. “Guys, can we please knock it off and enjoy lunch? You can squabble all you want back at Mick’s.”

  Wally grumbled some more, but they reluctantly agreed. Mick occasionally threw out a smart-assed remark, but he stayed mostly civil. Soon enough, the food arrived and everyone dug in.

  “That sandwich looks delicious, Thomas,” Hiram said.

  I mumbled an agreement and took a bite. I noticed he’d had been paying a lot of attention to me throughout the day. He’d go out of his way to compliment me whenever I made a good shot, or even when I made an average shot. Now, he was eyeing me again, causing me to be suspicious. It wasn’t until I’d finished my first beer that I began to get an inkling of what he was up to.

  “Say, Thomas, Wally says you’re a private investigator,” he said as the waitress brought us a fresh round.

  “I am.”

  “A highly successful PI,” Mick said, and punctuated it with a belch.

  The waitress had been clearing away our plates and when she heard Mick, she stared at me oddly before hurrying away. I caught Wally and Hiram exchange a tacit glance. Here it comes, I thought.

  “You know, Thomas, Hiram’s work as a spy is very similar to PI work,” Wally said.

  “Indeed,” Hiram added. “On a higher, more complex level of course, but yes, there are many similarities.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, although I didn’t. Hiram was a gangly man, with the exception of a paunch the size of a basketball sticking out of his shirt. If that wasn’t bad enough, he had long stringy hair that was currently braided into a long tail down the back like he was some kind of hippy, or perhaps a Dick Marcinko wannabe. He was probably in his early fifties, which meant to me if he had in fact worked for the CIA, he did not retire like he claimed, but instead left the agency early, if in fact he had ever worked there at all. He missed my sarcasm and kept talking.

  “Yeah, I was deep undercover and got into some serious ka-ka over the years. The last year was a doozy and I had to get out of the business. I have a bounty on my head in three different countries, but don’t ask me the details.” He punctuated his story with a smug grin and what he would probably call a conspiratorial wink.

  I caught Mick gawking at him like he was looking at someone who walked into his business and asked if he sold water bongs. “So, you’re like James Bond or something,” he said in mock seriousness.

  I agreed with Mick’s skepticism. I had no reason to doubt the man, but yeah, I doubted him. I doubted his credibility and I doubted his sincerity. He was up to something, but I didn’t care. I motioned at the waitress with my empty beer glass and gestured at Mick and myself.

  Hiram gave a deprecating laugh. “Something like that, I suppose. These days, I outsource for The Company,” he said and used air quotes when he said it.

  “Company?” Mick asked. “Like Mary Kay cosmetics? That kind of company?”

  Hiram cocked his head. “Sorry, I’m so used to shop talk it’s become second nature to me. The Company is how we refer to the CIA.”

  “Oh,” Mick drawled.

  “Yeah, my specialty is international espionage, but during the course of my career, I’ve pretty much done it all.” He looked around and made a politician’s gesture with his hand. “Nashville is a nice place. For years, I’ve thought about relocating down here and setting up shop.”

  He then looked up like he had an epiphany and snapped his fingers. “You know, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this sooner.”

  Wally took his cue. “What’s that, Hiram?”

  Mick and I exchanged a glance. I looked back at Hiram, who was staring at me with what I’m sure he believed to be an earnest expression.

  “You know, Thomas, even though the majority of my work these days involves international consultation work, we should explore going into partnership together. With my experience and your local connections, we’d have a formidable PI busi
ness.”

  I didn’t answer. After all, I thought he was full of horseshit, as Mick would say.

  “Once we’ve established ourselves, we could make a fortune,” he added. He then arched an eyebrow. “Thoughts?”

  “I have a thought. What do you have to bring to the table?” Mick asked.

  Hiram looked at Mick and gave a pained smile, as if he were dealing with a feebleminded child.

  “You don’t understand, Mick. I have a distinctive set of skills. I have international connections. I am intimately acquainted with the inner sanctum of the ABC agencies and the off-the-books operations the black ops guys run. This partnership would be a unique, one of a kind operation.” He looked pointedly at me. “The potential here is unlimited. We need to have a sit-down, Thomas, and talk about this. You know, get into each other’s heads. This could be a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  I set my beer down. He thought he was fooling me, but I was onto him. Spy or not, he was a scammer. He was unemployed and looking for a meal wagon to latch onto. I could’ve been acerbic in my response, but I chose pleasant bluntness instead.

  “Frankly, Hiram, I have no need to expand. My current business model is fine.” In fact, it was better than fine. I’d been turning away work and could use one or two extra employees, but there was no way in hell I was going to put him on the payroll.

  Mick looked shocked. “What’s wrong, Dago? Don’t you want to be a secret agent?”

  Hiram ignored Mick and leaned forward on his forearms. “No offense, Thomas, but that’s rather shortsighted. A one-man operation is limited both in scope and profit potential. I can get exclusive contracts with some of the biggest conglomerates in the world.”

  A wicked look flashed across Mick’s face for a split second. “Yeah, Dago, you think too small. You ain’t ever going to make millions the way you’re operating.” He gestured at Hiram with his beer. “The secret agent here could show you a thing or two.”

  Wally seemed to feel the need to add his opinion.

  “You should give Hiram’s proposition serious thought, Thomas. You don’t want him coming into town and setting up his own PI business. The competition would be too much for you.”

  Hiram gave another smile. This smile was pompous rather than patronizing. “Ah, Wally, it wouldn’t be like that. I consider Thomas a friend and wouldn’t tread on his turf. But if a potential client were to come along…”

  He finished his sentence by holding his hands up, like he was implying he would not turn away business that I would have potentially picked up. I would have laughed if he wasn’t so serious. He made a few more attempts to fuel my interest in his plan but eventually gave up. At least, for now. I suspected I had not heard the last of this.

  Soon, the two men made some excuses and scurried off. They somehow forgot they had an outstanding bet to pay off and even worse, they neglected to leave a tip for the waitress. The welshing on the bet I could understand, but people in the food service industry relied on tips; they certainly weren’t doing it for the pleasure of waiting on sweaty old men.

  “Can you believe that?” Mick said while I paid the bill and left a generous tip.

  “Are you surprised?” I asked.

  “No, but it’s still a weasel-shit thing to do.”

  Ah, yes, another category of animal poo. I added it to my mental list.

  I took us on a slow tour of the pro shop, checking things out, but mostly hoping to see Debbie. She was nowhere around though. Satisfied I’d seen enough, I motioned to my fat Irish friend.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said and led Mick toward the parking lot.

  “You know we’ll never get a dime out of them,” he said, seemingly forgetting I had paid for his lunch as well.

  I chuckled. “I don’t know about the secret agent, but Wally’s going to pay up sooner than you think.”

  “Why’s that, Dago?” Mick asked.

  “You know that new driver he’s been bragging about?”

  “Yeah, the Callaway one. What about it?”

  I pointed toward my Cadi. “While you two were arguing on the eighteenth hole, I slipped it out of his bag and put it in mine. Watch this.”

  I pulled out my phone and began typing a text message.

  Hey Dumbass, if you want your driver back, pay up!

  Mick watched as I typed and erupted in a belly laugh.

  “That’s a good one, Dago. Let’s get going. I’m out of cigars,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  As we started to get into my car, a man’s voice called out. “Excuse me!”

  I turned to see a younger man jogging toward us. I guessed him to be in his early twenties, easily fifty pounds overweight, an untrimmed beard, a tattoo on the side of his neck, and wearing a chef’s jacket that had more than a few food stains.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He took a moment to catch his breath before speaking. “Hi, my girlfriend was your waitress. She said you’re a private investigator.”

  “I am,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking about hiring someone like you, and if you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you about it.”

  “Sure, what kind of issue are you having?” I asked.

  “My little brother is missing and I’m pretty sure he’s been murdered.”

  Chapter 4

  He wiped his hand and stuck it out. “My name’s Joseph, Joseph Belew. I’m a sous chef here.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’m Thomas Ironcutter and this is my golf partner, Mick.”

  Handshakes were exchanged and then the young man stared like he didn’t know what to do next. I knew this was not going to be a short conversation, so I pointed at some benches at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me about your brother.”

  He eagerly nodded. Once seated, I got the ball rolling.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your brother?” I suggested.

  “Yeah, um, wait a sec.” He pulled out his cellphone and showed me a picture. “That’s him, Jason Belew. Well, Jason LeClaire Belew. Both of us have the same middle name. That was our mother’s maiden name.”

  I looked at the photo. It was a selfie of the two of them grinning like kids. His little brother was actually an inch taller than Joseph, more muscle, a lot less fat.

  “Yeah, he’s bigger than me, but I’m still the older brother,” Joseph said.

  “What are the circumstances of his disappearance?” I said.

  “Jason has it in his head he wants to be a professional martial arts fighter. Back in February, he went to watch a tournament in Manchester, Tennessee with a couple of his friends and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “What’d his friends say?” I asked.

  Joseph shrugged. “Not much. They only said they went down there together, met some girls, and they lost track of him.”

  “Did you file a police report?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir, me and my mother did, but they don’t seem to be doing anything. I had to leave four messages before anyone would even call me back.” He shook his head. “Four messages. Ridiculous. That’s why I think I need to hire a private investigator.”

  “Have you talked to his friends, his girlfriend, any of that?”

  He began nodding before I’d even finished the question. “I have.” He then looked a little uncomfortable. “My brother’s gay and he recently came out, but he doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “How’d that go?” I asked.

  “Alright, I guess,” he said with a slight shrug. “Mom was fine with it, and most of his friends were cool with it too.”

  “Most?”

  “Yeah, there were a couple of guys at the dojo he trains at who were assholes about it, but Jason didn’t let it bother him.”

  I let him talk. His expression would alternate between happiness and pride when describing his brother to somberness when he talked about the last time he had
seen him. I paid diligent attention and made mental notes. I also thought about Joseph. The man was a sous chef on a sous chef’s salary and I sincerely doubted he could afford me. I decided I was going to let him down gently. When he had run out of things to say, I cleared my throat.

  “First, let me say, I sincerely hope your brother is okay and that he simply felt the need to get away for a while.”

  “I don’t think so, Mister Ironcutter. Jason and I were close. If he needed to get away, as you say, he would have called or texted me. We didn’t have any secrets between us.”

  “Okay, I understand.” I paused for a moment. “It’s good that you’ve contacted the police. Unlike what you see on TV, they have a lot of resources at their disposal that private investigators don’t. Also, they don’t cost you anything. I, however, am not free.”

  “How much do you charge?” he asked.

  “A thousand a week, plus reasonable expenses.”

  Upon hearing this, his long face took a nose dive into the depths of Gloomville. I’d seen this happen before. I was used to it by now. Joseph stared at his feet and a single tear fell to the ground. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  “Some people think that’s too much, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not one of these rich country club members; you’re a working man who doesn’t have money to throw around.”

  “No, sir,” he said.

  “I know I’m not cheap and I make no apologies for it. I also have to tell you, I’ve been burned in the past, so I always require payment up front.”

  “I understand,” Joseph replied.

  “Alright, give this some thought. If you hire me, you’ll be spending hard-earned money and I cannot guarantee positive results.”

  I ended the conversation by giving him a business card and repeated my admonition to think it over.

  “What were those things in his ears?” Mick asked as we rode.

  “They call them gauges, I think.”

  “They look stupid,” Mick said. “It’s like he’s saying, look at me, I’m stupid and I eat Tide pods.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle.