"I'm a golfer, I'm the home pro at the Chippequa National Links. That's what it says on the hat," the golfer said. "This is a driver, a club," he said, brandishing it.
"We kin see that," the older man said. He stretched a hand out casually for the pistol.
The golfer brought the club down. "All I'm looking for is a phone," he went on, "and to borrow a dime for a collect call."
The older man raised his hand: "You reckon to hit a ball with that stick—that's the purpose, keerect?"
"Yes, that's right. You hit the ball with this...ah...stick."
"You bring a ball along with you? Mebbe you can show us the ball?"
"Well, no," the golfer said.
The three stared at him. The one with the suspenders said slowly: "What was you fixin' to do with that 'ere club, if you please, if not to hit a ball with it?"
"I stepped out to practice my swing," the golfer said, restlessly.
"Any reason 't all why you pick Mullins, Louisiana?"