Page 15 of Alfie: Part Two

Sure, sure, all the ice cream. Ellie and I were getting donuts, though.

At ten-fifty, I locked my car and wheeled my bag toward the clubhouse, where I spotted Shannon O’Shea waiting right outside. He wasn’t alone, but judging by the other guy’s outfit, he wasn’t joining us.

Green Grove was like a breath of fresh air. The clubhouse was a New England-style house, recently repainted in white and pale blue. They had a modern website, their own app for logging scores, more new money than old, excellent food in the restaurant, and fewer members who required a golf cart. I preferred to walk.

New money rather than old also promised younger members. Fewer seventy- and eighty-year-olds and far more from my generation.

Shannon had a pushcart similar to mine, so I assumed that meant he hadn’t reserved a golf cart.

When he spotted me, he exchanged a few words with the leather jacket, who nodded and stepped to the side on the wide porch.

“West, it’s good to see you again.” Shannon walked down the two steps and extended his hand.

“You too, Shannon.” I wasn’t sure if that was a lie. Either way, I shook his hand firmly. “Do you prefer Shan or Shannon?”

“Both work just fine, but I hear Shan more often.” He smiled politely and gestured to the porch. “I took the liberty of signing you in. Alfie told me you’re a four handicap, so I warmed up at the range already. We’ll see if I can keep up with my lowly eleven.”

“All I hear is, you have a life and I don’t,” I chuckled.

“We’ll see what you think about the life I lead in a moment,” he responded with a smirk. “If you don’t mind, hand over your phone and other devices to Mikey here. I intend to speak very frankly with you out on the course, and I’d like to play it safe.”

I stood straighter automatically and processed the words coming out of the mouth of this…six-foot-four…ish…mobster. We were the same height, shared the same frame too. Was he armed? He wouldn’t possibly murder me on a golf course after signing us both in. Right? Unless he hadn’t actually done that?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I had to trust Alfie. He was setting this up.

I dug out my phone, and the leather jacket—Mikey—came over and accepted it.

“No smartwatch or anything?” Shan asked to make sure.

“God, no. Foul things.”

Shan grinned. “This bodes well. Okay, let’s get going. I need to stop by the restaurant to fill up my mug.” He gestured to his travel mug in the bag’s cupholder.

I followed him into the clubhouse, where we came across a painted driftwood sign that pointed toward the restaurant, the showers and locker rooms, and the course. Nothing else was necessary. No damn spa or cigar lounge.

Low traffic today, though it was a Thursday morning when most people had returned to work after their vacations. Even so, my own club attracted enough retirees to make it difficult to get a tee time early in the day. Except for noon, when the sun stood at its highest.

We reached the restaurant’s coffee and water station, and Shan filled his mug with black coffee.

“Would you tee off first? It’s possible Alfie gushed about your drive too, and I need to see a pro in action.”

I let out a laugh. A pro? So far from it. “I appreciate the flattery.” I wasn’t in the mood for coffee, so I just grabbed three bottles of water. I couldn’t remember if they had a water station out on the course. “Alfie can’t have gushed about anything else. He’s only seen me on the driving range and putting green. The one time I tried to get him interested in golf, he threw my driver into a lake.”

“Oof—and you forgave him?” Shan laughed gruffly. “Alfie and Kellan share some traits, that’s for sure. Zero patience, quick to get defensive.”

Yes, that was my Alfie.

My Alfie. Fuck. Oh, fuck me.

Once we were done, I followed him out to the other side of the house, where a paved path took us down to the course. From here, the view was magnificent. The land was surrounded by forest and fields, no freeway as far as the eye could see, just greenery, ponds, and the bane of my existence: bunkers.

We walked past a screen that showed today’s local forecast, and eighty-three wasn’t too bad after a liquid hot July of over ninety degrees.

The tall pines would provide shade in some places too.

“Have you been a member here for long?” I asked, putting on my cap.

“No, just a couple of years,” he replied. “My previous club lost the plot when they put cheaper sand in the bunkers, removed the water-refilling stations on the course, and banned alcohol outside the restaurant.”

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