Written by Stephen F. Moloney
Maggie Lawson pulled her car into the side of the road and turned off the engine.
“This can’t be it” she said, utter disbelief colouring her voice as she alternated between peering out through her dust-covered windshield and down at the broken screen on her cellphone telling her she’d just reached her destination.
Needing to investigate further than what her current position was allowing her, Maggie opened up her door and stepped out of the car. Having been driving for the bones of nearly three hours straight since she’d left the motel where she spent the night, Maggie afforded herself a brief moment to stretch out her achingly stiff back and shoulders. As she uncoiled her spine, she could feel the back of her t-shirt was damp with sweat – after driving through the back roads of Louisiana in the middle of July without a reliably working air conditioner, however, she didn’t really expect any different.
With her back and shoulders as loose as she was going to get them, Maggie turned her attention back onto her investigation and walked slowly towards the pair of ten-foot tall gates standing before her. Consisting of a wrought iron frame filled in with thick wooden slats, the formidable-looking gates only became more intimidating when she eventually came to a stop a few feet away from them and took in just how tall they really were.
This didn’t make any sense.
When she had typed ‘Crescent Creek Golf Club, Louisiana’ into the navigation app on her phone, only one result had popped up – and, apparently, she was now standing outside it. Yet, as far as Maggie could tell, there was absolutely zero proof she could see that would back that assertion up. There were just the two gates she was already looking at, both of which were firmly locked; the even taller red brick walls said gates were set into and which stretched off in both directions along the road that Maggie had been driving along to get there; and … that was it.
There was no sign; no plaque; no anything. For all intents and purposes, despite her phone’s insistence to the contrary, it just appeared as though Maggie had been brought to some old abandoned entrance that had long since fallen out of use – forgotten and left to be reclaimed by the thick covering of ivy which had already begun to swallow up the half crumbling walls. Maggie, however, had not become one of the most respected journalists in the game of golf by giving up at the first sign of adversity – and especially not when that adversity came at the end of a three-day long road trip which had seen her breakdown twice as she drove all the way from New York to Louisiana. No, sir.
So, with the laser-like focus she was known for having when it came to the art of ‘sleuthing’, Maggie – after pushing her sunglasses up to the top of her head in order to get a clearer look at what exactly she was dealing with – began to carefully run her eyes over the entirety of the two gates; scrutinising every nook and cranny like a detective surveying a crime scene – searching for something … anything of promise. And, after initially appearing as though her search would come up frustratingly fruitless, she eventually spotted what she was looking for.
Though the majority of the wooden slats which made up the interior of the gates were, indeed, all joined flush together – thus making it impossible to see what lay beyond them – Maggie had spied a spot, just in from the right-hand most side of one of the gates, where the narrowest of narrow gaps had formed between two of the slats.
“Jackpot …” she whispered.
With her ‘journalistic nose’ now thoroughly itching, Maggie moved to the side of the gate where she’d made her discovery and crouched down to go about peering through the gap. Just as she did this, though, she suddenly heard something which stopped her dead in her tracks. A car. Or maybe it was a truck. Whatever it was, it was coming in her direction – and fast. Getting quickly back to her feet, and attempting to look as casual as possible, Maggie walked back out past her car towards the road. Sure enough, off in the distance, a truck – a pickup of description – was speeding up the road towards where she was standing.
Thinking that it would just be a matter of waiting for the truck to roar past her so that she could get back to trying to figure out what – if any – secrets lay on the other side of the gates, Maggie opened up the trunk of her car, pulled out a bottle of water from the cooler she’d loaded up with drinks earlier that morning and endeavoured to look as nonchalant and ‘un-sleuthy’ as she could manage. After taking a long, satisfying drink from her bottle – because, as it turned out, she was actually a lot thirstier than what she realised – and taking a seat on the load lip of her trunk, Maggie glanced back down the road to check on what progress the truck had made in the time she’d been delivering her ‘academy award calibre’ performance. It was now only about a hundred or so yards away from where she was standing, but much to her annoyance she could see that it was both slowing down and had its turn signal flashing towards the side of the road where she was sitting.
Once she’d taken a second to curse her acting skills and how some people can be so irritatingly nosy – and, no, she didn’t see the irony – Maggie did her best to paint a smile across her face and stood up from where she’d been sitting in anticipation of the truck’s arrival. When it eventually pulled in off the road, the truck – which had several bags of fertiliser and heavy-duty landscaping equipment squeezed into the back of it – parked up on the opposite side of the entrance to where Maggie had parked her car. The driver, a man Maggie reckoned was in his late forties/early fifties, turned off the engine and popped open his door. Its hinges groaned for some grease.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the man, a kind smile creasing his heavily tanned face as he adjusted the well worn in ‘New Orleans Saints’ baseball hat sitting atop his head.
“Well, that depends …” answered Maggie confidently, her eyes never leaving the man as he began to walk in the direction of the gates. “Can you tell me where Crescent Creek Golf Club is?”.
“You’re looking at it” replied the man, gesturing towards the gates as he reached into the back pocket of his battered looking jeans and pulled out a single, old-fashioned-looking key. “Though, if you’re lookin’ to actually play some golf, I’m afraid you’re fresh outta luck …”
The man came to a stop in front of the gates and stuck the key he’d freed from his jeans into a keyhole on one of the gates. He looked over at Maggie.
“Cause this place closed nearly ten years ago.”
With that the man turned the key in the lock, causing a loud click to sound out from the opposite side of the gate. Just as he began to push the now unlocked – though still cumbersome to move – gate back inside the walls of the entrance, Maggie, moving closer to the gates to ensure the man would hear her, spoke up.
“No, no, I’m not looking to play any golf today, unfortunately,” she said, realising she really had no other choice but to admit why she was actually there. “Though I am looking to talk about golf – see, my name is Maggie Lawson, I’m a journalist and -…”
“Oh, so you’re a journalist!” said the man, his friendly demeanour instantly evaporating as he reappeared from inside the wall where he’d been securing the gate in place. “I should have guessed! Why can’t y’all just leave him alone?! I mean, he’s made it perfectly clear that he don’t want to talk to nobody – yet, y’all just keep on buggin’ him!”
Recognising that the man clearly knew who she was looking to speak to – and, more importantly, that he might even be a friend of his – Maggie, just like she had done whilst examining the gates, spied a potential opening.
“So I take it you’re a friend of Mr. Thackett?” she probed, attempting to keep the man engaged, despite how obviously irritated he was by her presence. “Mister …?”
“Mr. Duggart, Bill Duggart,” replied the man curtly as he pulled the drop-bolt keeping the second gate closed up out of the ground and began to push that back as well. “And, yeah, I guess you could say that”.
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Duggart” said Maggie, taking another step closer towards the now wide-open entrance. “You don’t sound all that sure? Would you say it’s more of a … professional relationship you have with Mr. Thackett?”
Having pushed the second gate, like he had done with the first, all the way back and secured it in place as she was speaking, Mr. Duggart – who was looking slightly stiff from being hunched over whilst dealing with the second gate – came walking back out through the entrance and looked at Maggie. Instead of looking agitated, however, he now actually appeared almost tired – as if he was fed up with this scenario he’d played out over and over again with the numerous different people who’d rocked up to the gates of Crescent Creek over the years looking for an interview.
“Look, Miss …” he sighed, his brain searching for Maggie’s name. “Sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
“Maggie … Maggie Lawson.”
“Miss Lawson” continued Mr. Duggart. “You seem like a very nice young woman, and I’ve no doubt you’re an incredibly accomplished writer, but, the fact of the matter is, Ray don’t talk to nobody ‘bout that boy – no one … not even me. So unless you think you’re the one to somehow change his mind after all this time? I think you’re best off just headin’ on home – sorry.”
With his piece said, Mr. Duggart walked back towards his truck and pulled open the door, again drawing a pained groan from its hinges. Just as he went about hopping back inside behind the wheel, though, he heard Maggie speak.
“Can you call him?” she asked confidently. “Mr. Thackett, I mean”.
Having thought their interaction was well and truly over, Mr. Duggart turned around and looked back over at where Maggie was standing.
“And why exactly would I do that?” he asked, quietly taken aback by her unyielding confidence.
“Because the answer to your question is ‘yes’ … I am the one to change his mind.”
After all the run-ins he’d had with the various different journalists and writers who’d showed up at the gates into Crescent Creek Golf Club over the years, all of whom he’d asked the exact same question as the one he’d posed to her, Maggie was the first person Mr. Duggart actually believed when she answered ‘yes’. So, without saying a word, he reached into his truck and pulled out his cellphone. He scrolled through it for a moment and then held it up to his ear – he was obviously calling Mr. Thackett.
“So, what should I say when he answers?” asked Mr. Duggart, looking over at Maggie. “Cause there ain’t a chance he’s gonna talk to you himself.”
“Just tell him Frank Lawson’s daughter is here.” answered Maggie.
“Frank Lawson” repeated Mr. Duggart, making sure he had the name down correctly. “Alright, I’ll tell him tha-… uh, hello?!”
From Mr. Duggart’s surprised reaction, Maggie could tell that Mr. Thackett had finally answered his phone.
“Uh, yeah, Ray … yeah, sorry, I was just a little distracted there … yeah, it’s Bill” said Mr. Duggart, quickly trying to regain his composure after being caught somewhat off-guard. “No, no, everythin’s just fine, there’s no problem …”
In the silence that followed as Mr. Duggart listened to what Mr. Thackett was saying, Maggie couldn’t help but notice that she was feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long time – she was nervous … and it felt strange. Having been a full-time journalist for six years, ‘getting nervous’ just wasn’t something that happened to Maggie anymore. She’d covered every single Major championship; every single cup from Ryder to Solheim; and interviewed every one of the top stars from both the men’s and women’s game.
Yet, as she stood at the side of that backroad in the middle of the veritable steam room that was the state of Louisiana, listening to the faint, indiscernible sound of Ray Thackett’s voice sneaking out through the speaker on Mr. Duggart’s cellphone, Maggie’s heart was positively beating out of her chest.
“Well, as it turns out …” said Mr. Duggart, glancing over at Maggie once Mr. Thackett had finished speaking. “I’ve met another one of them writers out here at the gates who wants to speak to you.”
Even from where she was standing, Maggie could hear Mr. Thackett’s garbled, though undeniably annoyed, retort to hearing that particular piece of information.
“Yeah, well, I told her that, Ray” continued Mr. Duggart, once Mr. Thackett was forced to take a breath mid-tirade. “Really I did, but … well, she asked me to tell you that she’s the daughter of a ‘Frank Lawson’? If that means anything?”
Maggie held her breath. She could hear that Mr. Thackett had fallen silent on the other end of the line, and, for the second time in a matter of mere seconds, she began to feel something else that she hadn’t experienced in a long time – doubt. She wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake in coming to Louisiana. She wondered if taking her usual blunt approach of ‘tackle everything head on and ask questions later’ had backfired. Worst of all, though, she wondered if her father would disapprove of putting Mr. Thackett in the position that she just had – and that did not feel good.
After a few torturous seconds had passed, however – ‘seconds’ which had felt more like hours – Maggie finally heard the sound of a, seemingly reserved, Ray speaking quietly through Mr. Duggart’s cellphone. From the expression on Mr. Duggart’s face as he listened, Maggie could tell that he had obviously never heard Mr. Thackett sound the way he was currently hearing.
“Yeah, you got it” said Mr. Duggart, suddenly sounding quite serious. “I’ll do that right away … alright … ok, talk to you soon.”
Though, outwardly, she was trying to maintain her best poker face, inwardly Maggie’s mind was now going a mile a minute. What exactly had Mr. Thackett asked Mr. Duggart to do? Just ask her to leave? Or perhaps call the cops? Just as she was playing out in her head how a potential conversation might go between herself and her boss back in New York if she called asking if ‘bail money’ would fall under her usual ‘travel expenses’, Maggie’s attention was suddenly drawn back to Mr. Duggart, who’d just hung up his cellphone and was now looking over at her.
“Well … turns out you were right, Ms. Lawson” he said, sounding somewhat surprised that his gut feeling about Maggie had actually been correct. “He wants to see you.”