Off You Go (10 page)

As they loaded their clubs into the golf
cart, Dewey asked, “What else are you going to do with your time?
You want to go into business together?”

“
You mean make music, or
this private eye stuff?”

“
Why not both?”

T.A. laughed. “I’m doing just fine on my
own.”

“
C’mon. Let’s pick some
bluegrass and solve a few crimes. I’ll be the brains, you be the
muscle.”

T.A. laughed as he stepped into the golf
cart. “Tell you what, let’s make a bet. You beat me today, I’ll
start a band with you. I beat you, you deliver a basket of veggies
to my door every week for a year. As far as the private
investigation stuff, that’s not my bag. You’ll have to follow dudes
to Motel 6 on your own.”

What was it with people
putting down his new profession?
“Fair
enough,” Dewey said. “What should we call ourselves?”

“
You really think you can
beat me?”

Dewey stuck out his hand. “I’ll take the
bet.”

They shook on it. Little did they know how
much that handshake would mean.

Dewey knew he’d beat him—even after seeing
that long drive. Because brains always beat brawn. Almost
always.

After nine holes, Dewey was losing by six
strokes, and it wasn’t looking good, but he hadn’t given up. He
knew T.A.’s temper would come into play soon. At least, he hoped
so.

What he didn’t tell T.A. during the round
was that today, Dewey was one year sober, and tonight, he was going
to call his wife.

Thank you for reading.

Please take a moment to leave a review and
then come visit me at:

boowalker.com

About the Author

Boo Walker
spent his College of Charleston
years and a few after in Nashville as a banjoist
and songwriter for the avant-garde punchgrass band,
The Biscuit Boys
. Some
hand problems knocked him out of the game, and he stumbled into a
position with a short term equity trading firm based out of
Charleston, SC. To feed his ravenous muse, he began writing his
first novel,
Lowcountry
Punch
. Around that time, what started as a
passion in wine became a neurosis.

After six years of the
Wall Street thing, Boo decided it was time to end his sedentary,
computer-driven lifestyle.  He grew out a handlebar mustache
and moved clear across the country into a double-wide trailer
situated on 5 acres of Malbec vines just down the road from
Hedges Family Estate
on
Red Mountain in Washington State.  The Hedges family took him
in and taught him the art of farming and the old world philosophies
of wine.  He now travels the galaxy peddling the family's
juice, and chances are you can find him in an airport somewhere
working on his next novel.