Gunselle smashed a lofty drive off the ninth tee at Harding Park, brown hair bouncing in sunshine as she posed for the trailing foursome. An ear splitting wolf-whistle escaped a birdbrain’s lips. She turned to stare at him with one raised eyebrow.

“Hey. I was just admiring your follow-through,” said the birdbrain. His pals shared raucous laughter.

“You look grand in motion,” said Dr. Smith, Gunselle’s playing partner, as she approached the tee box.

“Thanks, Doc. I like it better when you say it.”

“You were showing off, though. And now you’re in the trees.” Dr. Smith launched her ball onto the middle of the fairway, her graying ponytail vibrating with competence.

“Am I?” said Gunselle. The trees were just where she had planned to place her ball. Pulling a pair of binoculars from a pocket on her caddy bag, she surveyed the action on fifteen. Sure enough, her target had sliced his ball into the same dogleg thicket. He’d done it every time she’d studied him on the course.

“Come on ladies,” said the birdbrain. “We let you go first because you’re so pretty. But why can’t you two move a little faster? Or let us play through at some point. We don’t like pushing you from behind.” More laughter filled the air.

This birdbrain might be next, thought Gunselle, as she puffed on the binocular lenses. She pulled up the hem of her white blouse and slowly polished the glass, showing a lot of her pale belly in the process, garnering a handful of oohs and ahhs. After taking another look, watching her target slog down the fairway toward the cluster of towering cypress trees, she picked up her bag and trotted off to the same destination, swinging a six-iron in her hand.

 The heavyset man pushed leaves around with his club. He kicked his ball into a clearing just as he noticed her. A magical moment passed when their eyes met.

“Becker!” said Gunselle. “You Nazi bastard. Funny meeting you here.”

“Good Heavens. Miss Davis. I never thought I’d see you again after I shitcanned your shapely ass.”

“After I put you and your gang of rotten spies out of business.”

“After you tried to ruin me with baseless accusations. The cops never dug up a shred of evidence on me. You might still be working at Douglas Aircraft if you’d kept your mouth shut.”

“Your henchmen pissed on my head while my hands were tied behind my back.”

“Look. That was five years ago. The war is over. Let it rest.”

“I never let things rest. You should know that.”

“Yes. Right. Persistent delivery girl always finishes her job. Speaking of jobs. What do you drive these days? One of those Good Humor ice cream carts?” He chuckled.

“I have a different profession now,” muttered Gunselle, swinging the club into his teeth. The collapsing dentition gave a hollow quality to her swing. Less satisfying than the hard, cracking whacks at the back of his head after he fell onto his face in the weeds. Stepping over him, she addressed his ball, punching it with a lovely sweep just past the trunk of a tree and onto the middle of the ninth green.

When Gunselle approached Dr. Smith near the hole, the older woman pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt, licked it, and wiped a couple of dark spots from Gunselle’s cheek.

“Do I need to go over there?” she asked. Dr. Smith was Gunselle’s confidant, but a doctor all the same.

“Nope.” Gunselle moved her club a few times level with the surface of the trim grass. Lining things up for good, she delivered the ball twenty feet to the middle of the cup.

“Nice putt,” said Dr. Smith.

“That’s three,” said Gunselle, bending down to retrieve her ball from the hole. “How am I doing?”

“One under after nine,” said Dr. Smith, scribbling on the scorecard.

“Perfect. Let’s skedaddle,” said Gunselle, eyeing the clubhouse parking lot. 

Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Brushfire, The Phoenix, Outcast Press, Roi Faineant Press, Cirque, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, Pulp Modern and Tough. He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula Montana. You can find him on ‘X’ @RussellThayer10