Starring Pete Duel and Ben Murphy
Starring:
Ed Asner as George Bannerman
Gordon Jackson as Andrew Pinkerton
Fraser Hines as Angus MacDonald
J.D. Cannon as Harry Briscoe
Matthew Perry as Pete Brody
Tom Selleck as Jack Keefe
And Introducing: (a very young) Tiger Woods in his first small screen performance
With Special Guest Star:
Sir Molesworth Incisor
ESTABLISHING SHOT - AN IMPOSING BUILDING WITH A SIGN: CHICAGO GOLF CLUB: CAMERA PANS RIGHT TO THE LINKS
The shorter and plumper of two prosperous-looking gentlemen fishes a well-stuffed wallet from an inner pocket. “We agreed on ten dollars a hole? So that makes it…?”
“You lost nine out of nine holes – so ninety dollars,” the voice reveals not only smugness but a trace of Scottish burr.
Ten-dollar bills transfer from one hand to another.
“You’d a touch of bad luck on the fourth,” soothes the be-whiskered winner, insincerely. “For a moment, I really thought your drive might hit the green.” Pause. “For a moment.”
“Thirty, forty… Well, golf’s a tough game.” The loser is making an effort to be gracious in defeat.
“If you can call what we just played golf!”
A scowl creases the jowly face of the disher-out of dollars. “Sixty, seventy…”
“Compared to courses back in Scotland, this is a stroll in the park for old ladies!”
“Eighty, ninety. All square!” This is now one annoyed loser! “If Chicago’s course is too tame …”
Our point of view moves back. As birds twitter and the breeze blows, we lose what our plump friend is saying. Two further men become visible standing respectfully, aside, with ‘sidekicks’ written all over them. Watching the altercation, they exchange a not unfriendly, glum glance. One sidekick, despite a golfing cap of vivid tweed, looks familiar. But, only for a moment; then we zoom in, again, on the protagonists.
“Name the day and I’ll be there!” laughs the taller man, with the impressive side-whiskers. “I always enjoy taking your money, George, whether on business or pleasure.” He gestures to Sidekick-One, “Brody! Let’s go!” The man so addressed immediately trots to his heels and both stride away.
Plump loser continues to fume. Then, in a tone indicating someone downstream in the food chain is about to soak up a burst of fury, “BRISCOE!”
Sidekick-Two, he whom we almost recognized, scurries forward. “Yessir, Mr. Bannerman, sir.”
---
A COUPLE OF MONTHS LATER
Heyes and Curry – grubby, threadbare, dishevelled and generally down-at-heel – tread, wearily, up the street of a typical small town.
“Y’know, Heyes,” grumbles the Kid, “lookin’ for honest work is more like hard work than findin’ the dang stuff!”
“If’n we could only earn enough to get me into a game.” Pause. “What kinda cheapskate saloon don’t have hard boiled eggs on the bar?” The brow under the black hat furrows. “We can’t trade our horses ‘cos we walked here…”
“Limped more like!”
“Coulda been worse, Kid.”
“We were spotted AGAIN, hadta jump off a movin’ train AGAIN an’ arrived in this dump of a town with feet covered in blisters AGAIN. How the Sam Hill could it be worse?”
Heyes muses. How could it have been worse? Ah! “Y’know that mud slick we rolled into, that coulda been dung. Coulda been skunk dung!”
This attempt at finding a silver lining draws nothing from the Kid except a scowl as he watches a stagecoach bowl into town. “Have got enough for a room and dinner – or is it one or the other?” he asks.
Heyes digs deep first into one pant pocket, then the other, then the vest. “If I say, neither – you’re gonna be a real grouch, huh?”
No response. Heyes looks up, notes an arrested expression on his partner’s face. Following the Kid’s eye line, he sees whatever Curry sees. “D’you reckon he’s looking for us?”
“Uh huh.”
“Remind me; is this good news, bad news or just plain annoying news?”
Our point of view pans to that of the boys. We see a familiar suited figure and an even more familiar homburg.
---
THE SALOON – A CORNER TABLE
“I’ve been looking for you boys.” Harry Briscoe fixes Heyes and Curry with his most impressive stare. “On behalf of the Bannerman Agency, I’d like to offer you a job. George Bannerman himself told - go hire the best. I thought of you two right off. After all, what are friends for?”
“We’d listen better if’n we weren’t thirsty,” hints Heyes.
Harry signals one of the saloon gals. “A bottle of the best Kentucky corn whiskey and three glasses, Sweetheart.”
“We’d listen better still if’n we weren’t hungry,” contributes the Kid, ever hopeful.
“Does this place do steak dinners, little lady?”
“Sixteen ounce and all the trimmings, a dollar apiece,” flutters the feathered one.
“Two of ‘em, for my dear friends. And three of your finest cigars. And this,” two dollar bills over and above the cost of steak and cigars, watched like a hawk – make that two hawks – by an envious set of cornflower blue and an avaricious set of chocolate brown eyes, are tucked into a low-cut neckline, “Is for you, pretty little lady!”
Soon afterwards, two hungry ex-outlaws wrap themselves around prime beef and fried potatoes and sip glasses of ‘the good stuff’.
“Our history of working with you hasn’t been so good, Harry,” chews Heyes.
“That affair at the Silver Palace panned out fine.”
“Some truth in there,” acknowledges the blonder of the Hadleyburg benefactors.
A ‘maybe’ shrug from Heyes.
“No harm in listening to an offer, is there, boys?”
“A lotta truth there, too.” The Kid radiates more goodwill with every mouthful.
“What’s your proposition?” accepts Heyes.
“You’ve heard of golf?”
“Uh uh,” negatives the Kid, as another forkful of potato distends his cheek.
“You hit a ball with a stick ‘til it falls in a hole,” says Heyes.
“Er – yeah. You know it’s getting real popular?”
A shake of a frankly uninterested set of fair curls.
“Yeah. A real fancy club opened up twenty miles outta Chicago. Costs ‘bout three month’s of an ordinary working man’s wages to join,” contributes the ex-outlaw with a habit of ingesting any journal he lays hands on.
“You’ve heard of the,” Harry takes a strengthening swallow of whiskey, “…Pinkerton Detective Agency?”
“They never sleep…” splutters through semi-masticated beef. Hey, Curry is still in this game!
“You’ve heard how…?”
“I reckon afore I carry on with this spot quiz, I’d kinda like to know if there’s a prize,” interrupts Heyes.
Harry delivers another impressive stare. (It does not impress). “The prize,” he intones, “…Is the honor of the Bannerman Agency!” (That does not impress, neither). “AND, a job paying thirty dollars a day – with a bonus at the end!” (That does! The boys keep their poker faces pretty well, sure. But a close observer will see a little extra sparkle in both the blue and brown eyes. A REALLY close observer might even see an infinitesimal glimpse of a pink tongue tip moisten the lips of the guy with the dimples.)
“Like the Kid said,” nonchalants Heyes, “…There’s no harm in listening.”
“You’ve heard how there’s – friendly rivalry – between Bannerman and Pinkerton?”
A snort from Curry. “No! I heard they hate each others’ guts!”
“We’re talking of gentlemen,” reproves Harry, with emphasis on the ‘g’ word. “Gentlemen do not hate each others’ guts. They indulge in friendly rivalry.”
A ‘don’t-make-me-no-mind - carry-on’ expression from the Kid.
“Golf is the up’n’coming thing for gentlemen. A coupla months back there was a match between Bannerman and – er - one of his top men and Pinkerton partnering one of HIS detectives. The outcome was…” Harry searches.
“Pinkerton beat the pants off your boss and gloated like a cat who’s found a way into the dairy?” hazards Heyes.
A confirmatory wriggle.
“This top Bannerman man - the other half of the losin’ team,” inarticulates Curry through potato, “…Is he you?”
Another confirmatory wriggle.
“Pinkerton made a few remarks about … Well, he made a few remarks … The west can’t produce a challenging enough course, huh?” Harry tails off with a disgruntled ‘harrumph’.
“And…?” prompts Heyes.
“Next month Pinkerton’s going out to Denver. You know it’s George Bannerman’s hometown and he likes to spend a few weeks there every summer…?”
Two shrugs indicate lack of both knowledge and interest.
“There’s a new golf course, just finished. As a principal investor, Bannerman’s got himself elected club president. A friendly return match is planned.”
“Where do we come in?” grunts Curry, mopping the last traces of gravy from his plate.
“We just need someone to meet and escort a visitor.”
“And, how come with a whole troupe of trained Bannerman men at your beck and call, you’re askin’ us?”
“Because the Pinkerton fellas KNOW every Bannerman man. They’ll be watching out for any tricks! Just like WE have a team watching …” Harry sees two knowing smiles crease two ex-outlaw faces at the word ‘tricks’. “Not that George Bannerman won’t be stickin’ strictly to the rules, you understand? But IF, hypothetical like, this planned match was gonna be a foursome – same as last time, and IF Pinkerton and Bannerman have set the rules so their partners had to be on the payroll – same as last time, Bannerman might wanna hire himself a new detective with certain skills – discreet like.” Glasses are generously refilled. “All you’d hafta do is meet this fella, escort him safe to Denver, stay with him, make sure he don’t get bothered by over-inquisitive Pinkerton men until the match is over.”
A glance is exchanged between the partners. Reluctance.
“Simple enough job,” tempts Harry.
Heyes speaks, “Y’see, Harry, for some reason, we aren’t keen on being around over-inquisitive Pinkerton men.”
“We’re not even keen on not very inquisitive Bannerman men,” deadpans the Kid. “No offense meant.”
“None taken,” replies Harry. “That’s the beauty of it. Who’d ever expect two notorious outlaws… No offense…”
“Oh, none taken,” echoes Heyes.
“…To put themselves in the middle of a pack of detectives? You’d be – what’s it called? Hidden in plain sight!”
Musing from Heyes. There IS something in there.
“No one looked twice at you on the Brimstone train, huh?” Harry is on a roll.
More musing from Heyes. Definitely some truth in that one.
“Thirty dollars a day. A bonus at the end if the Bannerman Agency wins. You can’t deny that’s tempting?”
Apparently, the former leader of the Devil’s Hole Gang cannot.
“Heyes – we could get spotted!”
“It’ll be all expenses paid. And this…” Harry digs a brochure from his pocket, “Is where you’d stay.” The page is smoothed flat in front of Curry.
“Denver Mile High Golf Club De Luxe Hotel,” he reads.
“Those beds look pretty comfortable, huh, Kid? Goose-down, every one.”
The fingertip of a tired and weary Kid Curry touches the illustration, wistfully.
“Fancy plumbing. Huge tubs. Hot water laid on day and night. BIG fluffy towels.”
Cornflower blue eyes, bright amidst dirt-engrained skin, blink, longingly.
“And this…” A page is turned. “Is the menu. All expenses paid.”
Reading. A gulp. “I guess we could disguise ourselves,” capitulates Kid Curry. Idea! “Hey! I could grow another moustache!”
---
A WEEK LATER – A BUSY CITY RAILWAY STATION
A week ago our boys had been a sorry sight. Now, they exude a faint whiff of prosperity. They also exude a touch of – unfamiliarity. It would be a lie to say they are in disguise. But, they are not in their usual outfits.
“It suits you,” Kid nods at the smart taupe number sitting atop Heyes’ head. “Y’know what I think…?”
“I am NOT ditching the old hat!” interrupts Heyes.
“A ditch is where that antique belo…”
“For the last dang time, MY hat stays! THIS,” he touches the jaunty brim, “…Is a temporary precaution!”
“Pity. I could get used to you in a light hat.” Pause. “Any hat in one piece, really.”
“Yeah, well. I could get used to you without a stray caterpillar draped across your face. I guess we’ll both have to make do until this job’s over, huh?”
“Hey!” An upper lip is stroked, defensively.
“You shoulda gone for eye-glasses, like me.”
“Nah. I gotta consider the effect on the ladies!”
---
Meanwhile, on another part of the platform, unnoticed by our boys, a pair of keen gray eyes rest, thoughtfully, on the blond and dark-haired young men. A well-manicured hand fingers the silver chain draped across a fancy, embroidered vest. Pinkerton agent Pete Brody (who we saw before as Sidekick-One), is describing the entertainment provided by Golden Garter establishment. Something in his partner’s face makes him break off. “What is it?”
“See those two fellas?” Fancy-Vest nods to the smiling pair in the distance.
“Uh huh?”
“I know who they are.”
“Who?”
“They’re…This is it!” The cause of the self-interruption is the awaited train chugging into the station. “Listen, Brody, you can do this job alone, huh?”
“Sure, but…”
“I’ll fill you in later. Right now,” the intelligent gray eyes take on a purposeful gleam, “… I need to tail that pair!”
---
Heyes and Curry watch newly disgorged passengers join the already milling crowd.
“What d’you reckon he looks like?” asks Curry.
“Scottish.”
Two heads stretch up, bobbing and weaving. The fair brow under the brand new dove-grey brim furrows. “And – what’s a Scotsman look like?”
“I dunno. He’s been traveling near two months. I guess he’ll look tired.”
“Got him!” triumphs the Kid.
“How’d’ya know?”
“There’s a golf club stickin’ outta his bag.” Pause. “And he looks Scottish.”
“Okay. Let’s go. For the next week, Kid, our only task is stopping this man getting grilled by any Pinkerton fellas and keeping him happy.” As they edge through the throng towards their quarry, the final vowel sound of ‘happy’ dies away on his lips. One look at the gloom enveloping Angus McDonald is enough. There is no way any sentence whose import includes keeping this man happy can rationally contain the word ‘only’. “Mr. McDonald?” checks Heyes, “Angus McDonald?”
“Mphm.”
“I’m Joshua Smith,” Heyes sets his smile to full beam and holds out his hand. “This is my partner Thaddeus Jones. Welcome. We’re here to escort you on to Denver.”
Silence – though the offered hand is taken.
“How are you enjoying America?”
Increase (if that were possible) of gloom.
“I sure envy you crossing the Atlantic. Some journey, huh?”
“Mphm.”
“Well,” Heyes smile begins to look strained, “…I guess you’re keen to get to the hotel, Mr. McDonald?”
Nothing from the new arrival confirms Heyes’ guess one way or the other.
“Uh huh.” Pause. The dimples are really working to stay in place. “Well, enough of the small talk, huh?”
An infinitesimal twitch of a tawny eyebrow indicates the first agreement Heyes has elicited.
“If you’re ready, Mr. McDonald, Thaddeus and me’ll take your bags.”
They go. At a discrete distance, Fancy-Vest, looking worryingly competent, follows.
---
WEDNESDAY
ESTABLISHING SHOT - DENVER MILE HIGH GOLF CLUBHOUSE - LUXURIOUS – BUT DEFINITELY JUST FINISHED WITH CARPENTRY AND DECORATION STILL BEING COMPLETED.
OUR POINT OF VIEW MOVES INSIDE – A PRIVATE OFFICE
“The reason I summoned you to America, Mr. McDonald, inviting you to name your own terms,” George Bannerman, chest thrust out, is at his most impressive, “…Is because I’m informed you’re the greatest living exponent of the game of golf.”
“Aye. I am.”
Pause. George Bannerman seems to feel Angus McDonald might have more to add. Heyes and Curry exchange a glance. Clearly, they would lay money on McDonald NEVER having more to add.
“Six weeks ago I hired you, officially, onto the Bannerman payroll and, on Saturday you will partner me in a match against…” He fails to spit out the name. “A business rival,” he compromises. Pause for a non-existent response. “In the days leading to the match you will give me golf lessons. I suggest we begin now. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones, who are charged with ensuring your stay is as pleasant as possible, will caddy. Is that agreeable?”
“Mphm.” The dour face works.
“You object to Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones?”
The faces of both partners register the concern of well-fed men accommodated in luxury on full expenses wanting to keep a cushy job. They have done their level best to make nice! What is the problem?
“Yon Jones – he’s canny enow.”
Pause while this is processed by Bannerman. “Good, good. Well done, Jones.”
“Nae tae mooch clack. Ye ken?”
“Continue to restrain the clack, Jones. And Smith?”
Tawny eyebrows knit, “Mphm!”
“Smith, from now on, model yourself on Jones. You hear? Less clack!”
An offended ex-outlaw pushes his spectacles up the delightful curve of his nose and opens his mouth to defend the Heyesian level of clack.
“You heard Mr. Bannerman,” forestalls the Kid. A smug finger is laid on smug lips to signify silence.
---
ON THE GOLF COURSE
“Ye pour gonuph! Whitkin o’ a staunce is tha’?”
George Bannerman, accustomed to awed respect from employees, bristles at the criticism.
“WHAT did you call m…?”
“Och! Luik!”
McDonald tees up, he eyes the ball, his club rises, a moment of stillness, descent. The ball sings through the air like a bullet, travels the two hundred and eighty yards of the first hole and lands within six inches of the peg.
Silence. Then an awed George Bannerman breathes, “That was marvelous!”
The dour face frowns. “Tae mooch tae th’reeght.” Pause. “Nae – ye try!”
A no longer bristling, but obsequiously humble, George Bannerman does his best to emulate the Scotsman’s stance.
“Keep yer heid still.”
“Yessir.”
“Keep yer ee on the ball.”
“Uh huh.”
“Dinna press.”
---
STILL ON THE GOLF COURSE – THE FIFTH HOLE
The boys watch their new boss hunch over his club, the rhythmic waggling of his substantial buttocks picking up speed, until, in a dervish-whirl of circling hickory-wood, he makes a frenzied attack in the manner of a man killing snakes.
“How long d’you think this lesson’s gonna take, Kid?”
A shrug.
“If we stay until Bannerman can play, it’ll be, oh,” Heyes purses his lips, “…Thirty years. We’d serve less time if’n we handed ourselves in, huh?”
Pause.
“Still, what do we care? We’re getting thirty dollars a day to stroll around on soft turf watching out for non-existent Pinkerton detectives. Not too hard on the back, huh?”
“Shush,” breathes the Kid.
Heyes subsides. They watch a badly sliced ball ricochet off a tree and plop, wetly, into a water hazard.
“Playing three,” calls George Bannerman.
“Can’t see us getting a cold beer anytime soon.”
“Playing four…”
“Can’t see us getting that Bannerman-Win bonus, neither.”
Soft ‘shush’ from Curry.
“Playing five…”
“Though, on the day, McDonald’ll take every other stroke.”
“Playing six…”
“He’ll be able to dig Bannerman outta whatever mess he’s…”
“SMITH! Were you or were you not instructed to keep still and hold your tongue?!” explodes an irascible George Bannerman. “How the Sam Hill am I supposed to concentrate if all I can see is your big mouth flapping in the wind?”
Heyes opens said mouth to reply.
“Shut up! Give Jones both bags and go wait at the last hole! You’re putting me off!”
Once again the lips containing the silver tongue part to deliver a response.
“Thirty dollars a day,” grunts the Kid, sotto voce. “Silence is golden, huh?”
Dark-brown eyes acknowledge the wisdom of that.
Far to the left, on the seventh hole, the owner of a pair of intelligent grey eyes, now wearing not a fancy vest, but a green jersey, watches Heyes stride across the turf. At his side, Pinkerton agent Tom Brody smiles.
---
Heyes sits on a handy hummock in the rough behind the ninth hole. A slim book is being perused. He looks up, frowns, then quickly glances over first one shoulder then the other. Nothing. Not unless you count a couple of fellas, one in a green jersey, innocently practising chip shots on the eighth.
“I feel I’m being watched.” He turns a page. “And, y’know what they say; next to talking to yourself, that’s one o’ the first signs of…” Heyes’ head turns, rapidly, over his left shoulder. He IS being watched. A cheeky face, heavy on buck-teeth and whiskers, stares at him. “Hello, fella!” laughs Heyes. “I guess you’re not gonna turn me in, huh?”
The gopher disappears in a flurry of paws and flying soil.
“Fore!!!”
A golf ball lands on the fairway, bounces and trickles to an easy few feet from the green. It is followed by cries of delight. Then, by panting and the sounds of a heavy man trying to run. Finally, by the excited figure of George Bannerman and the completely unexcited figures of Angus McDonald and Kid Curry.
“I’ll be on in two!” a beaming Bannerman pants. He turns to his companions. “Did you see it?”
“Fine shot, sir,” says Curry.
“Did you SEE it, Mr. McDonald?”
“Mphm.”
“Did YOU see it, Smith?”
“Fine shot, sir!” Heyes WAS told to model himself on the blue-eyed fella.
“I’m going to do a hole in par! My first ever! Jones, my mashie.”
Lining up. Club quivering in a too tight grip.
“Looser, mon!” instructs McDonald.
Bannerman tries to relax. Eyes flicking from flag to ball and back.
“Keep yer ee on the ball.”
Thwack!
“Fine shot, sir!” repeats Heyes.
The ball arcs onto the green. A bounce. Rolling towards the pin. Breath being held. Still rolling. Then… “You opened your big mouth and jinxed it!” fumes a justifiably frustrated golfer, as the ball, still with a fair momentum hits – something – and veers sharply to a patch of rough. “Smith, you’re fired!”
Heyes blinks.
“Jones…” hollers the infuriated voice.
“I ain’t fired, am I?” Kid Curry is a loyal friend, sure. But, two ex-outlaws can live comfortably on a single thirty dollar a day salary.
“No! Go and see what spoiled my shot.”
Curry breaks into a smooth trot. “It’s some kinda mound – soil’s all kicked up…”
“It’s a gopher hole,” contributes Heyes.
Three sets of eyes rake the turf around the ninth hole. A mound; and another; signs of scraping; a pile of something which might be black olives, but is neither so Mediterranean, nor so palatable.
“Gopher, you say?” grunts a still fuming Bannerman. “You know about gophers, Smith?”
“I know you got one here.” A calculating look appears. “I bet the fancy courses Pinkerton’s used to aren’t troubled with vermin.” Pause. “Still, I guess he’ll make allowances. He’ll realize Denver can’t be expected to match…” Heyes stops, tactfully.
The mound is scowled at by Bannerman. “Do you know how to get rid of it?”
“I might,” equivocates Heyes. “’Course – I’d hafta be rehired…”
“You’re rehired!”
“…And, my price has gone up to fifty dollars a day.”
“I’ll make you a deal. Fifty dollars each and every day I see no sign of gophers! AND the same bonus as before IF I win Saturday. BUT, I see so much as a whisker or pawful of soil thrown up between dawn and dusk – that day you get nothing.”
Musing from the dimpled one. “You hired yourself a gopher-exterminator, Mr. Bannerman.”
---
LATER
“This is a dumb idea,” grumbles Curry, striding along the street beside a smiling Heyes. “You’re gonna get Bannerman all riled up – he’ll fire us both!”
Silence from the cheerful one. Frustrated scowl from the Kid. “Did ya hear me, Heyes?”
“Uh huh.”
“I said this is dumb.”
“I heard. I just decided – why argue? Why spoil a beautiful day? You’re entitled to your opinion, Kid.” Perfectly timed pause. “You’re opinion’s wrong, but that don’t stop you being entitled to it.”
“There ain’t no way ANY store’s gonna sell ya a gopher-trap. There ain’t no such thing as a …”
“You buy mice traps for mice. You buy bear traps for bears. You buy fish tr…”
“All right, Heyes. I got the idea.”
“You got a better plan?”
“Sure I got a better plan!”
“I’m listening.”
“We lie low in the grass, wait, then…”
“Just DON’T say…” hurriedly interrupts the brown-haired one.
“…we shoot the dang critter!” both blond and brown finish in unison.
“Being quick with a gun isn’t the answer to everything, Kid.”
“It’s a better answer’n tryin’ to buy some non-existent gopher trap.”
“I thought we decided you keep your gun in your holster so Bannerman don’t start wondering why a curly-haired fella real quick on the draw sounds familiar.”
Curry gives an accepting shrug. Heyes wheels around and walks into a store with a cornucopia of odd items piled in the windows and outside its open doors. If any place sells a gopher trap – it is here.
---
FIVE MINUTES LATER
“So,” smugs Heyes, “…We got us gopher traps.” He resists the urge to add ‘told you so’. He does not need to – it is written all over his self-satisfied face.
“Those things won’t work,” grunts Curry, nodding at the cage-like contraptions dangling from Heyes’ hands. “That fella KNEW they won’t work. He was givin’ you the ‘he’ll be back!’ look.”
“Have a little faith, Kid. All you gotta do is grub up some worms to bait ‘em with…”
“That’s all I,” Curry puts emphasis on the personal pronoun, “…Gotta do, huh?”
“Then you can dig them into the ground…”
“Pfffttt!”
“One baits, one digs,” offers Heyes. He pulls the trusty coin from his vest pocket, “Call it.”
---
WEDNESDAY EVENING – THE RESTAURANT OF THE HOTEL
Heyes, Curry and Angus McDonald are dining. The food looks delicious, the wine plentiful. A string quartet adds a civilised air. In a corner, we recognize Pinkerton Agent Brody and the man we have come to know as Fancy-Vest. Heyes and Curry bicker, good-naturedly, while enjoying the good things life is suddenly offering them.
“It’ll work!”
“Would you walk into a cage for a handful of bugs?”
“I’m telling you…”
A sigh from a morose Scot. The boys break off. Excellent food is being pushed around a plate.
“You don’t like your – er – beef-en-whaddever?” asks the Kid.
“Mphm.” More pushing of frenchified morsels in circles. “It’s canny enow.”
“How d’you think the lesson went today?” tries Heyes.
“Mphm.”
Curry becomes aware that the men at the far table are taking an interest. His eyes catch those of his partner and direct them to the watchers. Brody and Fancy-Vest push back their chairs and head over, friendly smiles in place.
“Remember, Mr. McDonald,” warns Heyes, in an undertone, “be real careful not to forget yourself chatting with strangers…” He tails off at the expressions on the silent Scottish and the disbelieving Curry faces. “You’re right. Just be yourself.”
“Gentlemen, let me introduce myself,” beams Fancy-Vest, holding out a hand, “…Jack Keefe; and this is Pete Brody.”
“Joshua Smith,” contributes Heyes, “…And this is Thaddeus Jones.” The Kid gives a tiny salute with a busy fork; the blue eyes remain wary.
“Smith and,” pause for a gently disbelieving smile, “…Jones? Uh huh?”
The partners exchange a glance with a hint of concern. The seemingly oh-so-friendly hand of Fancy-Vest (or, should we now call him Jack Keefe?) moves on. It is held out to the morose Scot.
A pause. “Ongoose McDoonal’.”
“We saw you on the links today,” Jack Keefe’s smile widens, “…May we tell you how much we admired your skill?”
“Mphm.”
Jack Keefe indicates he and Brody would like to join the table. “May we?” Curry shifts his chair to make room. His eyes stay watchful.
“Brody here’s a fine golfer too,” declares Keefe, “…Has a handicap of seven.” Pause, hoping for a response. “Of course, his skill is nothing compared to what we saw from you, sir.”
“It certainly ain’t,” puts in Brody, genuine admiration in his voice.
“Mphm. It wonna be.” The assertion from McDonald is not conceited; rather, a simple statement of fact.
Silence. Keefe’s face indicates he hoped conversation might flow a tad freer. “Forgive my curiosity, Mr. McDonald, am I right in thinking you are Scottish?”
McDonald hesitates. If we did not know before that part of his brief is to be discrete, we do now.
Heyes shifts in his seat. Given the accent, denying McDonald has a dose of Celtic blood would be plain dumb. “Mr. McDonald’s originally from Inverlochty,” he confirms. ‘Originally’ is said to suggest the passage of years rather than weeks.
Jack Keefe signals a waiter. A bottle and five glasses arrive. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of the finest scotch this hotel has to offer. Will you gentlemen join me in a toast to bonny Scotland?”
An accepting, for him almost eager, twitch from McDonald. Heyes and Curry are still wary, but not unwilling to take a drink. Glasses are charged. A toast is raised. And…
Disgust twists tawny eyebrows. “Whitkin o’ sweeel is tha’?” McDonald gets to his feet and with a final ‘Mphm’, strides off. Through the dining room door we see him head up the curving stairs.
Keefe has lost a little of his suavity, “But, this is FINE whiskey. Twenty dollars a bottle!”
“Sure is,” Heyes cordially empties his glass and refills it at once, “…But I reckon our friend might be kinda picky over what gets called Scotch.” He points to the word ‘Tennessee’ on the label.
Annoyed, Keefe stands, followed by Brody.
“Not leaving are you?” A mock-injured look. “You’ll make Thaddeus and me think you only came over to talk to McDonald.”
“You’ll make us wonder why that is,” adds Curry.
“Uh huh?” The grey eyes take on a searching look. “I think you boys already know why. Don’t you?”
Two innocent faces gaze back. Two heads shake.
Keefe grins, “Y’know, I like you two. I almost even believe you. But, you already told one lie so poker-faced, I can’t be sure.”
“We don’t take offence easy, Mr. Keefe, being such peaceable fellas,” Heyes keeps his voice affable. “But, you oughta bear in mind, some folk get riled up being accused of lying.”
“Not you two,” replies Keefe, equally affable. “Because I’m right. YOU said your name was Joshua Smith and HIS name was Thaddeus Jones. That’s a lie. Your name is NOT Smith and yours,” the suave smile turns to Curry, “is NOT Jones.”
A mute conversation between the ex-outlaws.
“Having said, THAT, gentlemen, I’ll bid you good evening.” Picking up his bottle, an unruffled Keefe leaves the dining room followed by Brody; we see them exit the hotel.
A pause. “D’you reckon he knows who we are?” asks the Kid.
“I reckon not.”
Questioning look from Curry.
“Same reason as that time with Sam Finrock,” responds Heyes. “If he knew who we were – he’d hand us in, not warn us off.”
“But he does know your name isn’t Smith and my name isn’t Jones?”
“Uh huh. AND, he’s real keen to get McDonald talking.”
A nod from Curry.
“And,” goes on the dimpled one, “…Part of our job is to make sure no one gets too much outta McDonald before Saturday?”
“Nope.” A smug look from the Kid, “That’s only MY job – you got fired, remember?”
Chagrin from Heyes. “I didn’t see you doing much to stop him.”
“I didn’t see him gettin’ much outta McDonald.” Kid finishes his whiskey, “You let me worry about McDonald, Heyes. You got a gopher to tackle.”
---
THURSDAY MORNING
Hannibal Heyes blinks awake as dawn light filters into the well-appointed hotel room. Throwing back the covers, he steps out and, while one hand delivers a dang good scratch to the seat of his long johns, the other pulls back the curtain. He stares at the ninth hole. In the distance, a whiskered face stares back. It disappears – then pops up three foot to the left – gone! There he is – over on the right! No - gone again! The furry head appears and disappears faster than the brown eyes can take it in, amidst the mounds of earth spoiling the smoothness of green turf. A pair of bare feet, their owner also delivering a good scratch to a long johned rear, pads to stand beside Heyes.
“Told you it wouldn’t work.”
---
LATER THE SAME MORNING – BACK IN THE STORE
“Now Mr. Smith, I sold you these traps in good faith…”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Davis,” Heyes is the picture of sweet reason. “But the word ‘trap’ suggests a device in which you catch critters. We’ve not caught a thing.”
“Maybe you need to try different bait?”
“Oh, no,” puts in the Kid, from his position leaning, arms folded, against the wall. “The gopher liked the bait just fine. Ate the lot – pushed the traps outta the way.”
“All I got for my ten dollars is a stronger, fatter gopher making bigger mounds,” says Heyes.
The storekeeper gives a sympathetic smile. Heyes does not want a sympathetic smile.
“I didn’t pay ten dollars to get a fatter gopher, Mr. Davis.”
“You sure didn’t, Mr. Smith.”
“I don’t want a fatter gopher.”
“No, indeed.”
“What I want is NO gopher.”
“Uh huh. That’s what you want.”
“Now, I’ve given you back your gopher traps…”
“You have indeed,” smiles the genial salesman, tapping the articles in question. “Clean as a whistle.
“I’d like my ten dollars back, Mr. Davis.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr. Smith.” Perfect amiability.
“Am I gonna get my money back, Mr. Davis?”
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” sad shake of the head. “If only that were possible …”
“Seems possible to me,” remarks the Kid.
“It’d breach the store’s strict ‘no refunds’ policy,” reproves Mr. Davis.
“The policy which you set?” checks Heyes.
“A man needs to stick by his principles. If a man has no principles what has he got?”
A pair of chocolate-brown and a pair of cornflower-blue eyes converse.
“We’re not asking you to alter your philosophy of life, Mr. Davis,” says Heyes, “…just forget one little transaction.”
“I can give you store credit. Now, that’s a fair offer. You’ve ten dollars to spend – what’d you fellas like?”
“Y’know what we’d like! Something to get rid of gophers!”
“Ah!” Inspiration. “I know what you need!” Rummaging under the counter. “These!”
The ex-outlaws blink at the articles laid on the countertop.
“Fireworks,” deadpans Heyes. “You reckon we should cheer ourselves up by celebrating the Fourth a touch early, huh?”
“These ain’t fireworks. These,” Davies touches them, reverently, “…Are ‘Gopher Smoke’. The latest word in rodent control!”
---
FIVE MINUTES LATER – BACK IN THE STREET
“How could ya fall for that, Heyes? Not only fall for it – part with another ten dollars?! MY ten dollars – ‘cos, since you opened your big mouth and went into the vermin business, there’s only me earnin’!”
“We needed the extra, Kid. It’s gonna work. It’s based on strict scientific principles. We place these in the gopher holes. Once lit, they give off smoke. This smoke, which is heavier than air, lies in the burrows and kills the …”
“I was there, Heyes. I did hear this guff!”
“The trouble with you, Kid, is you have no appreciation for chemistry! There’s a formula for everything, y’know!”
The Kid stares for an incredulous moment at his partner. “The trouble is, Heyes, since we went straight you’ve forgotten the basic rules of havin’ a silver tongue. You’re supposed to use it for dishin’ it out, not lappin’ it up!”
---
MID-DAY
In a bunker, McDonald is positioning Bannerman’s hands on a club. In the far distance, we see Heyes on the ninth hole. The slim figure squats to push something into the earth, straightens, shuffles a few feet, squats, pushes, straightens.
Kid Curry, stands to one side of the bunker, bag of clubs slung over one broad shoulder. He is not watching the golf lesson, nor his partner’s battle of wits with the gopher. He is staring at Keefe and Brody two hundred yards away. Jack Keefe keeps McDonald under surveillance while Brody practises his own game. Keefe touches his cap in mock-salute to Curry. This ‘I know that you know that I know that you know I’m watching’ attitude puzzles the Kid. His brow furrows.
---
LATE AFTERNOON
Curry, on his knees, hat tossed to one side, jean-clad backside pointing skywards, ear pressed against the turf, screws up his face with the effort of listening.
Hannibal Heyes, identical position, asks, “Can you hear anything, Kid?”
“If’n the gopher’s dead – won’t we hear nothin’?”
“I guess.” Heyes shuffles left. “I hear something. C’mere and listen.”
The Kid rolls his eyes but moves beside his partner. He flattens his ear to the earth.
“D’ya hear it, Kid?” prompts Heyes. A shrug. Well, as close to a shrug as Curry can manage in his current position. “Could it be – y’know – coughing? Choking?”
“Hey! I DO hear somethin’” breathes the Kid. “I don’t reckon it’s coughin’ though.” His head comes up, “…It’s laughin’ Heyes. He’s clappin’ his paws together and dancin’ for joy ‘cos the firecrackers came early this year!”
Heyes straightens up. “Kid!” he reproaches.
“C’mon, Heyes,” an arm goes round the drooping shoulders, “…He ain’t gonna pop up while we’re stompin’ around. Leave him nice an’ quiet and we’ll know if it worked after supper, huh?”
Heyes’ neck swivels as the partners walk away. Did he see a mocking head pop up out of the corner of his eye?
Continued in Part 2
