The two new arrivals were pretty much like Frank had expected. Except he’d pictured them in blazers and ties—an east coast preppie look Frank had apparently brought forward from his formative years. Made him wonder if he was ten years behind the times.
Or longer.
The two average-sized guys were wearing shorts and rock band T-shirts. Dark-haired guy: Eagles. Blond dude: Rolling Stones.
Gone were the days when you dressed up to get on an airliner.
Both guys’ hair was fashionably long and similarly styled. They were also tan and good-looking.
Frank came up as they were unloading the Lincoln. “Anything I can carry?” he asked, showing a friendly smile.
Larry Richards was standing by the open trunk of the Lincoln. “Bryce—Clayton,” he said, “this is my old friend from Minnesota I told you about, Frank Ford. My Beemer was in the shop, so I made him drive me down here.” He grinned.
The guy with the dark hair, Bryce Parker, put out his hand and Frank shook it. “Welcome to Sonora North, Frank, or as Larry has so astutely christened it, Rancho Deluxe. I trust your stay has been enjoyable so far.”
“Very good, yes,” Frank said.
“So you’re a chauffeur then?” The blond dude, Clayton Cook, said, coming over to shake Frank’s hand before lifting a large snappy leather suitcase out of the trunk.
Frank showed him a mixture of grimace and smile. Couldn’t tell if the guy was serious or giving him a dig. “No, not really. A bartender by trade, actually. Right now I’m on my way to California, so I stopped in Denver to see my old friend Larry here. Turned out he needed a little assistance and I was happy to oblige.” He paused and looked at Larry. “And now here I am, footloose and fancy free.”
“Ah, a mixologist,” Cook said. “Some of my closest confidantes are bartenders.”
“Which is why your dirty laundry is always hanging in public view, Clayton,” Parker said, a sly grin on his face.
“It’s just that my troubles are so compelling, Bryce,” Cook said. “And yours, on the other hand, are so mundane and banal that nobody even cares to know them.”
“Stability and consistency are positive traits, Clay,” Parker said. “Something you’ll probably never understand.”
“Maybe when I’m an old man like you, Bryce. And now that you mention it, Frank, I could definitely use a hand with the golf clubs.” He nodded toward the open trunk of the Lincoln.
“Sure, no problem, glad to be of service,” Frank said, then lifted out the black leather golf bag, putting some muscle into it. Thing was as big as the ones the pros on TV used. He put the strap on his shoulder and started toward the house. “Just like the old days at Lakeview Country Club, eh, Larry?”
Taking a suitcase from the trunk, Parker at his side holding another one, Richards’ face got a little pink. “Yeah, Frank, thank God those days are over. I spent enough time in the woods looking for balls to last me a lifetime.”
“Maybe that’s where you lost your own balls, Larry,” Parker said, still grinning.
Frank turned and saw Larry stiffen; Richards’ face turning a shade of crimson.
“Just kidding, Larry,” Parker said, as he and Cook laughed.
Then Cook went into the house and Parker turned to Richards. “C’mon, Larry, lighten up,” Parker said. “Just giving you some shit. Let’s go inside and get out of this heat.”
(To be continued)
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