⛳ Par for the course

The Ivory Bluffs Police Station thrusts into the clear blue sky, white and ramrod straight, gleaming under the Arizona sun. I always stand a little taller walking up these steps. At home, I’m just another schlub—mowing the lawn, folding the laundry, sweating over the grill. But here, I don’t carry groceries. I carry a gun and a badge. 

I check in with the guys coming off the night shift, see what the city’s troublemakers have been up to since the sun went down. Sounds like nothing special, just a couple of regulars drying out in the drunk tank, so we talk football instead. Fucking Cardinals, they shit the bed again last night. What’s a guy gotta do to get a winning season?

Suffering through a play-by-play of my team’s defeat leaves me cranky by the time I reach my desk, so I stare daggers at DiAngelo, my partner. She’s new to Ivory Bluffs PD, transferred from somewhere in California. One of the “Sans,” I think—who knows which, and frankly, who cares. They stuck her with me since the Pinkos at Internal Affairs put my real partner on paid leave for “brutality.” DiAngelo’s a real ballbuster, a bit of a bleeding heart, and probably a lesbian.

“Mornin’,” I grumble.

“Good morning,” she says curtly, eyes never leaving her computer screen. She doesn’t watch football, doesn’t even have cable. We never have anything to talk about, no common thread. These damned Gen Z’ers, they probably just sit around all day watching TikToks about dancing trans people. 

As soon as my chair creaks beneath the weight of my rock-hard ass, my desk phone rings. “Sergeant Pound speaking.” I listen to the crackling voice on the other end and slam the phone back in its cradle. “Saddle up, DiAngelo—it’s go time. We just caught a murder.”

We pile into the cruiser and tear out, sirens blaring. DiAngelo sure isn’t one for chitchat. She’s silent the whole drive, sipping from her thermos. I suspect it’s some sort of oat milk and uterine tea concoction.

I know we’ve arrived once we pass the Barry Goldwater Golf Course, a green aberration in the endless red wastes. The victim’s house is on Squaw Creek Lane, right off the seventh hole. It’s a wealthy neighborhood: grand houses, manicured gardens, and Range Rover SUVs. Folks around here are soft, too rich for their own good. They sure ain’t used to dead bodies—no doubt they’re already bitching up a storm. Chief’ll be ridin’ me on this one.

Two patrol cars are already on the scene. “What do we got, Officer?” I ask one of the uniforms.

The officer gestures at a man splayed out on the front lawn of a three-story McMansion. “Victim is Sheldon McGillicuddy, age fifty-seven. He’s the homeowner. No witnesses.”

I saunter over to the corpse. McGillicuddy is starfished on the grass, wearing sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and a bathrobe. “Christ almighty,” I say, lowering my aviators. “What do you make of this, DiAngelo?”

She bends over for a closer look, and I inspect her toned posterior. Not bad. Must be all that Zumba or Jazzercise or whatever the kids are doing these days.

“There’s bruising on his right temple,” she says. “Looks like blunt force trauma.”

I squint through the morning rays. “Good eye, Detective. These rich-types are always hiring illegals to pretty up their yards. I’m thinking some bad hombre looking for a quick score beaned him with a shovel.”

She frowns. “The contusion looks too small for that.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re always defending the illegals,” I say. “Is DiAngelo a Mexican name or something?”

She mumbles something about Italy, but I don’t have time for her globalist claptrap. “Officer!” I shout, waving at the uniform. “Secure a ten-block radius and stop anyone who looks like they came from one of those Mexican countries.”

“All due respect, Sergeant, I think that’s premature,” DiAngelo says. “We should search the scene first.”

“By all means, Detective, let’s waste our time while cartel gangsters run rampant through our town!”

DiAngelo ignores me and scans the area. She zeroes in on something a few yards from the body and drops to one knee, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. She plucks a small, white object from the grass and holds it aloft. 

“It’s a golf ball,” she announces.

“I can see that.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious what happened here.”

“Agreed,” I say, placing my hands on my hips. “Not Mexicans after all.”

“Right.”

“Must be the Indians.”

DiAngelo’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Yeah. This golf course was built on some old burial ground. The Indians have been whining about it for ages. They must have murdered our friend here and left the golf ball as a message.” I click my tongue. “Sick bastards.”

“No, Sergeant,” DiAngelo says, a distinctly snowflake exasperation bleeding into her voice. She points behind the house where the rolling hills of the fairway peek above a privacy fence. “I think a stray ball hit Mr. McGillicuddy while he was coming out to get his newspaper.”

I’m barely listening. “Interesting,” I murmur as I study the verdant grass. “On second thought, it must have been those environmentalists who’re always blabbing on about the golf course for suckin’ up all the water.” I hail the uniform again. “Officer! What was the name of that Black fella y’all arrested at the golf protests last month?”

“Hopkins,” he says. “He’s that Commie professor down at the university, always riling up the students.”

“Put out a fresh warrant for his arrest. I got some questions for him.”

We hang around while CSI performs their dog-and-pony show. DiAngelo wanders off, leaning against our car, arms folded. Stewing, no doubt, over my natural instincts and lightning-quick deductions. She’s yet to crack a case since her transfer.

My phone rings. “Pound.”

“Sergeant, it’s Mayor Hardman. I just wanted to thank you for the swift arrest in this case. Mr. McGillicuddy was a close friend and a major donor to my campaign. If you ever need a favor, just let me know.”

“Well, sir, any chance you could get my partner reinstated? Detective Payne.”

There’s a pause on the line. “Payne... is he the one who tased that nursing mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“And maybe get DiAngelo reassigned to traffic? She’s a bit emotional. Doesn’t seem like detective material.”

“Consider it done.”

I hang up and light a well-deserved cigar. Another notch in my belt, another scumbag off the streets. A smile spreads across my lips as I exhale a steady stream of smoke. It just goes to show, even in today’s America, hard work still pays off.