Category: Fiction Factor

The 100^th birthday party of Marty Marcel was a small affair, but the friends who threw it made certain it was a festive one. There was a big birthday cake, of course, as well as colorful decorations and lively music. And Marty’s pals made sure he had plenty of his favorite drink, Kentucky Straight Bourbon.

Thirty minutes into the event, Marty and his eight buddies – led by Gray – had already polished off a fifth, thanks to a series of toasts.

“Here’s to your health, Marty!”

“Happy hundredth, and here’s to a hundred more!”

“To a great man and a true friend!”

Marty was still quite mobile and in decent health; he had been fortunate in that he never needed a wheelchair to get around. But the gears were surely starting to wear out, and he always had a cane with him – just in case.

“I don’t really need it, but it makes me look distinguished,” he’d say, “and I can fight off all girls who keep chasing me … especially Ethel.”

Earlier in the evening the staff at Pecos Retirement Village had held a celebration for him in the activity room, one that included the other residents. Most were quite fond of Marty and Ethel was his “date,” as she was most anytime there was a reason to get together. She was 92, and Marty joked that it was a “Late December/later December romance.”

However, that low-key shindig was over in less than an hour. By 8 p.m., Ethel had exited with a yawn and the facility was mostly quiet as the inhabitants retired to their apartments.

But at 10 p.m., Marty’s oldest friends scooped him up in a very special “party bus” and started the real bash.

“You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Gray,” he said. “I mean, I do appreciate it, but you didn’t have to come all this way. After all, it’s just another day.”

“It’s not just another day,” said the chief party planner, pouring two fingers of whiskey into Marty’s glass. “It’s your day. And 100 is a pretty big number. You look a little different than you did back when we met you, but otherwise you haven’t changed much.”

Marty smiled and took a sip.

“Lordy, that was so long ago. I was 21 and had missed out on the war, but still felt like I needed to do my part, so I joined up. I have to admit, I was awfully full of myself and thought I was king of the world when I put on that uniform … then I ran into you rascals and realized how small my world was.”

Gray opened another bottle of whiskey.

“We were glad you did … me, especially. I was in rough shape from the crash and none of us had any idea what to expect when you came along. We were afraid after you saw us, you’d start screaming. Or worse, shooting.”

Marty shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have done that. You were all funny looking to me with your big heads and little bodies, but I reckon I was funny looking to you, too. Maybe I should’ve been scared, but I wasn’t. Even when I was a little boy, I figured with all those stars up there, there had to be somebody else besides us.”

Gray – the leader of the group of extraterrestrials – downed another glass and quickly refilled it.

“If you hadn’t told everybody it was just the remains of a weather balloon, who knows what would’ve happened?” Gray said. “Being so close to the Roswell Army Air Field wasn’t exactly an ideal place for us to have an accident. But you helped us, gave us time to make repairs, and we’ll always be grateful. Which reminds me … you’re always welcome to go back with us. As you can see, we have plenty of room here on our craft. And once we get home, we can make your bones stronger and even add on a few more years if you like.”

Marty appreciated the gesture, but decided to pass. For better or worse, Earth was his home.

“Thanks, Gray, but I think I’ll stay put,” he said. “The International Balloon Fiesta is coming up soon in Albuquerque, and the village here is planning a bus trip there. I’ve already promised Ethel I’ll be her arm candy.

“Anyway, let’s have one more drink … and then you better beam me back down.”

Although the sign near the large gates explicitly stated that it would begin at 9 a.m., collectors hoping to get a head start on the estate sale were already lining up at 7:30.

The home of tech billionaire Ignatius Selbaz – well, one of his many homes – was up for grabs, as were all of its contents. Although most of the furniture and other items would likely be far beyond the price range of casual shoppers, there were plenty of curiosity seekers mixed in among the wealthy. While the affluent would walk away with the big ticket objects, surely there were a few bargains to be found.  

This particular sale was taking place in Atherton, California, but there were others scheduled across the globe. A week earlier, the mercurial Selbaz had released a statement that he was “shedding his excess” and there would be more information to come.

As the gates of the Atherton property began to open – nearly 90 minutes ahead of schedule – the hundreds of people gathered trotted toward the front door. Once there, they were greeted by a well-dressed young man with a big smile.

“Hello, everyone! My name’s Will and I’d like to welcome you all to the Ignatius Selbaz Estate Sale, conducted by Hood and Associates International. As you can probably tell by the sign out front, we aren’t supposed to begin the event until 9 a.m., but you all seem so enthusiastic I figured, ‘What the heck?’ So please, come in, browse around, and if you have any questions about pricing, I’ll be glad to answer them.”

A gold-leafed luxury piano was the centerpiece of the entryway, and its price tag was $3.6 million.

“Oh, my word,” marveled one shopper, “this is absolutely exquisite. Knowing Ignatius’ taste – I met him several years ago at a gala – I’m surprised he’s parting with it. I’m Mr. Willem Danforth, by the way … you probably already knew that.”

“Of course, Mr. Danforth. Mr. Selbaz feels that now is the time for him to lighten his load and he doesn’t even know how to play the piano,” Will said with a chuckle. “Are you interested in buying, sir?”

“I’m interested, but frankly, $3.6 million is a bit too unreasonable for that piece. After all, I already have a Bösendorfer and Schimmel.”

Will took out his phone.

“Let me make a quick call, Mr. Danforth … please bear with me.”

He turned away, talking rapidly (though in a whisper), then turned back to the potential customer.

“I just spoke to Mr. Selbaz and he said for you – and you only – the price is $2 million.”

“Sold!” Danforth exclaimed, the exuberance in his voice causing other buyers to look in his direction. “This will be a perfect piece for my trophy room!”

As the day wore on, Will became quite popular among those gathered. While none of them would be caught dead using the word “discount,” the fact that he was willing to negotiate on pricing proved that even the very rich are on the lookout for a bargain.

Throughout the remainder of the sale paintings that were listed at $500,000 were slashed to $250,000, and everything from gold to jewelry was marked down.

By 6 p.m. the house was completely cleared, and Hood and Associates International had secured a grand total of $51.3 million (including the $38 million price tag of the house itself).

Will stepped outside and loosened his tie. He made another call, and there was no need to whisper this time.

“Hey, it’s me. Oh yeah … we did really, really well. That money is gonna feed, clothe and house a whole lotta people. Have you heard from Marian, John and Tuck yet? Oh, I have no doubt they crushed it. I guess once we get the final tally we can go ahead and put Selbaz and the others on the island with the rest of the people we robbed.

“Anyway, there’s this Danforth guy we should probably put on the list … I’ll send you his info and we can discuss it once I get to Nottingham. Talk to you soon, Robin.”

The 18^th fairway of the old Ashtown Hollow Country Club golf course was more like a meadow now, with tall fescues, yarrow and Black-eyed Susans growing wild. The paved cart path was still there near the thick woods lining the hole, although time and weather had caused it to crack and crumble.

Still, one could find plenty of clues to its golf past; there were many stray balls and even a few lost clubs to be discovered by anyone with the time and inclination to search for them.

The course had been closed for 10 years, and what was left had been hastily renamed Ashtown Hollow Park. It was envisioned as part wildlife habitat, part family gathering spot, but little had been done to facilitate the latter.

“Looks like the green – or what used to be the green – is about 200 yards up ahead,” Seth said. “What do you think we’ll find this time … more of the same?”

Chip chuckled at the thought.

“You know there’ll be some new photos and fresh flowers,” Chip said. “Maybe some used up candles, too. Photos, flowers and candles are staples of makeshift memorials.”

When the country club folded, the reason given was that the company behind it was pulling funding to “pursue new growth opportunities.” But Seth and Chip – and anyone who lived near the course – knew that was just a convenient cover story.

A decade earlier, a foursome had been brutally murdered on the 18^th green, hacked to death by someone wielding a machete. The crime took place at twilight – when most players had already gone to the clubhouse for libations – and there were no witnesses. It was assumed the killer had been hiding in the woods and lying in wait for the unsuspecting golfers.

The greenskeeper at Ashtown Hollow was questioned but released after just a few hours, and police were unable to identify any persons of interest.

News of the massacre quickly spread, and a once lively golf course devolved into a morbid curiosity and ghoul magnet. Instead of requesting tee times, people would phone the clubhouse in hopes of securing directions to the 18^th green to see where the “Phantom of the Green” struck.

But with the killer still on the loose, golfers soon abandoned Ashtown Hollow and scattered to other courses. They were replaced by sleuths and thrill seekers who made annual pilgrimages to the scene of the crime.

“Where are Tam and Grady?” Seth asked. “I thought they were right behind us.”

“They’re always draggin’ ass,” Chip said. “They’ll be along soon enough, I’m sure.”

Once Seth and Chip reached the green, they noticed plenty of new tributes, along with a picture of the greenskeeper who never escaped the shadow of suspicion.

“Ugh … I wish these true crime junkies would leave that poor guy alone,” Chip snapped. “Dude was on a tractor near the driving range when everything went down. Typical, though. If you’re gonna go to the trouble of giving a killer a nickname like the ‘Phantom of the Green,’ you gotta pin it on somebody.”

Seth and Chip surveyed the updated shrine, and soon were joined by Tam – proudly announcing he’d found the remnants of a 1-iron – and Grady. There were so many remembrances now, the green looked like a graveyard on decoration day.

“It’ll be dark soon,” Tam said. “And you have to figure we’ll have lots of company today … I hear they’ve organized a walking tour. Being it’s the tenth anniversary of the massacre, the amateur investigators will be showing up in full force … gotta keep the legend alive.”

Grady looked out toward the woods.

“You know,” he said, “this really would be the perfect time for the murderer to show up. If he ever wanted to come back, tonight would be the night … the lure of returning 10 years later is surely too strong to ignore.”

Seth nodded in agreement.

“I hope he does,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to scare the life out of the bastard who killed us.”