text: “No way you make this putt, cher.” The big man tossed the words out like coins into a beggar’s cup. Ian shook his head and leveled his eyes back on the ball, playing the big man’s taunts off as nonchalantly as he could, though he knew he was nowhere near a good enough actor to not be noticeably annoyed at this point. After 17 holes of Cutter’s (he still wasn’t sure if that was the big man’s real name or not) incessant peppering, Ian’s patience was worn out. Since the first tee box, he had been heckling the thinner man at every drive, chip and putt. He had even criticized Ian’s handling of the golf cart. Ian had endured it all with a polished smile that was only now showing its cracks. He needed Cutter’s business -- badly. The big man controlled seafood distribution for the better part of the entire Southeast and Ian’s restaurants (a small chain, but a chain nonetheless) was on a knife’s edge of profitability after years of work. This deal could push him out of the red and into the black for the first time, and that was certainly worth 18 holes of blue comments from Big Cutter. Crass and obnoxious as he may be, the big man could *golf*. Ian was no slouch. He still prided himself on making the collegiate team at ASU and had once entertained aspirations of a life on the PGA Tour. Those dreams had obviously remained only dreams, but he still made it out on the course on a regular basis and enjoyed the rarified air of the Scratch Golfer. Even still, Cutter had kept pace through all 17 of the previous holes (even while downing a beer a hole) and now was stood -- one hand on his ample wait, one wrapped around his 18th bottle of Budweiser -- on the final green, smiling smugly as Ian eyed up the decisive putt of the match. “Tell ya what, cher,” Cutter said with a slur that was only barely decipherable. Ian had to admit he was impressed by that, this many beers in. “If yah sink this putt, I’ll sign yah contract right’n this very green. Whaddya say, cher?” Ian straightened. This was it. “Are you serious?” “Deathly.” “Alright,” Ian said. He was skeptical. The big man had been yanking him this way and that for the last four hours. Maybe the beer had finally loosened up his wallet. Still, Ian didn’t trust him. “And what if I miss it?” The big man let out a thunderous laugh that shook Ian’s slight frame. “Not too conf’dent, eh, cher?” Ian curled his lips into a curdled smile. “I didn’t say that. I just want to know what I’m wagering before I lay my chips down.” “Yah a cautious man, cher. Some folks admire that.” Cutter took a mighty swig from his Budweiser, belched, and then wiped his thick lips with a massive forearm. “Not me, though. Yah want a wageah, here’tis: Yah sink it, I’ll sign. Yah miss it,” he smiled his drunken smile down at Ian, “I take the stake in all yah lil eat’ries. How’s dat for a wageah?” Ian’s smile dropped like a dead leaf. “No,” he stated flatly. “I figured ‘twas a bit rich for yah blood. Well, thanks for the round, anyhow.” The big man took another swig from his beer and then turned his back on Ian. He began to waddle off the green. Ian cursed to himself. He couldn’t lose this deal. “Wait,” he called out, angered by how desperate he sounded, even to himself. He thanked God he at least had the luck of not seeing whatever self-satisfied grin must certainly be creeping across the big man’s face at the moment. Ian wrung the grip of his putter. “Deal,” he spat out. “Well, alright, then!” The big man turned, his face lit up like Bourbon Street, and made his way back up the hill to the green. “Hold on,” Ian said, fishing a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “You’re signing this contract right here.” “There’s that conf’dence, cher! I like it!” *Yeah, I’ll show you, you fat prick*, Ian thought. He turned back to his ball and lined up his putt. *No pressure.* He had made big putts before, this one was no different. 12 feet away, the cup sat patiently, waiting for him to realize his dreams -- or bankrupt himself at the behest of some obnoxious seafood magnate’s drunken fancy. *No pressure*. “Get’n with it, cher!” Cutter belched. Ian ignored him. *No pressure.* He gripped his putter tightly, but not too tightly. He shifted his weight on his heels. He eyed the cup, his ball, the putter. *No pressure.* He drew back the club face, held his breath. *No. Pressure.* He brought the putter forward in a smooth motion, his arms locked and straight. The face met the ball and sent it skittering across the green. Ian exhaled. The ball rolled, straight as an arrow, right at the cup. He felt his chest swell. Butterflies swarmed his stomach. He had it. His stroke was pure. The ball rolled on, agonizingly slow, drawing out the moment. Behind him, he heard Cutter swish down the last of his Budweiser. The ball carried on undisturbed, a foot away from the cup... six inches... three... two... one... And then it stopped. Impossibly, it stopped. Ian felt the strength leave his legs. “Hoh hoh!” Cutter burst out. “My goodness, but that was close! My heart nearly stopped, cher!” Ian barely heard. His own heart very well may have stopped. He felt nothing in his chest, only emptiness. *How could I have left it short?* The big man, meanwhile, was hollering. Big, boisterous laughter rolled across the green like a tornado. Ian, who had sunk in on himself and was now hugging his own knees, felt a wide hand slap him, hard, on the back. Whatever breath was left in him whooshed out in a gust. “Well,” the big man was saying between laughs, “a deal’s’a deal.” He laughed again, harder. It sounded like a burlap bag being torn apart. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal!” And now he *really* laughed. It was a hideous sound, like heavy rock music turned all the way up on a speaker that had already been blown out. The big man was laughing so hard he was actually beginning to cough in between guffaws. It was like listening to a dog choke down a bone. In fact, it sounded exactly like choking... Ian managed to bring himself up from his knees. The big man had backed off a step or two. His wide face had gone from red to purple and was moist with perspiration. Round eyes bulged from above cheeks like hamsteaks. The laughter was now replaced by choked barks and the big man was clutching at his chest, clawing. Ian, wide-eyed, rushed forward dumbly, unsure of how he could help but wanting to all the same. It made no difference. The big man let out one final, chopping cough and then collapsed backward. He hit the green like an atom bomb. Ian actually felt the impact through his spikes. *Clink*. Ian turned. His ball was gone. In a daze, he walked across the green. He knew what he would see waiting in the cup, but he leaned over and looked anyway. His ball rested inside, the smiley face he had drawn on in Sharpie staring up at him, celebrating his victory. “Oh my God...,” The words left him in a breathless sigh. Then, without any thought, his arms shot upwards. “Oh my God!” Ian yelled out. “Oh my God! It went in!” He hollered and began to hop up and down, almost delirious with joy as he reveled in the impossibility of his putt dropping. Shame crept up on him suddenly. A man was lying dead behind him. A terrible man, but a man. He knelt, picked up his ball and headed back to Cutter’s body. Again, he knew what he would find before he checked, but he dropped to a knee and worked two fingers beneath the big man’s chins. No pulse. Of course. Still a bit dazed, Ian worked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed in 9-1-1 and brought the device up to his ear. He told the woman on the other end what had happened. She said they were on their way. He hung up. He wanted to feel worse, but he didn’t. Without realizing it, he found that the contract had worked its way back into his hand. He stared at it. Then he looked at Cutter’s blue face. He shrugged. “Well, a deal’s a deal,” he told the dead man as he pushed a pen into his cold hand. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal.