Actually, it was a Canadian goose, but the distinction was lost on Laffer.
The committee members pierced him with hard stares. This didn't faze him. His return stare was haughty, condescending, disbelieving. They had never liked him. From the very moment that Merkle sponsored him for admission into the club, they had shown reluctance and even disdain. But he had done brilliant work on Merkle's teeth and Merkle owed him. Merkle had come through. What puzzled Laffer was that the man hadn't spoken two words to him since, and he always seemed to have something else to do when Laffer needed a partner.
"Let's take a little stroll out to the thirteenth." The other members agreed and Laffer felt a shudder of wariness slide up his spine.
The day was bright and clear with little wind. To his surprise, there were few people on the course. Up ahead the committee members walked together, muttering in low tones. Laffer walked alone and a few paces behind, wishing he had brought his clubs. He should be practicing his swing instead of trailing after these dolts.
It was painful to recall. He saw himself that day, confidently approaching his tee shot, dead center on the fairway, peering forward, setting himself for the approach shot, pausing, club back, then arcing, hearing the solid thwack of club on ball. He had thought that his slice was under control, but he watched in horror as the ball curved right like a boomerang, arrowing toward a dense stand of trees. He practically ran to the disaster.
The duck (as he came to think of it) lay unmoving where his ball should have been. Its great curved neck was twisted grotesquely. Frantically, he searched for his ball, and as an afterthought, dragged the duck by the neck with him into the trees and dropped it in the knee high grass. The body was heavy. He searched and searched, growing more irritable at the thought of losing his ball.
As he completed his circle through the trees he heard a thrashing noise. Next to the dead duck stood another, craning its head downward, tentatively poking the body. Suddenly it let out a high pitched keening sound, which rose to wailing and squawking and honking. Laffer stood transfixed. And then it turned, fixing its malevolent eye on him, and charged, wings flapping. He plunged back into the trees, hid for an hour, retrieved his golf bag, and swore all the way back to the clubhouse.
"Doctor Laffer?" They were all standing on the patch of green where it happened. With them was a fat man with a bushy mustache, dressed in a baggy greenskeeper's uniform. He kept tossing something into the air and catching it, but his beady eyes never left Laffer.
"That's him, he's the one killed the goose, blasted him with this ball, look it's still got blood on it, he's the one, he did it, then hid the poor goose in the woods, but I seen it all..."
"This...person is obviously deranged," Laffer said. "I would like to have my ball back, please."
The committee chairman cleared his throat and spoke in a clear, no nonsense manner. "Security will escort you to your locker. You will be allowed an hour to clean it out. They will then escort you off the grounds. Your membership is terminated. And believe me, Doctor Laffer, there will be serious consideration at tonight’s meeting whether or not to press criminal charges."
Laffer turned to see the two security guards approaching. They were very big. "You’ll hear from my lawyer in the morning."
At home, Laffer went directly to his study and phoned his attorney, who was not available. Nevertheless, he slept the sleep of innocence wronged that night.
