[Where did these characters come from, and how did they end up in this story? Good questions, and I do not have good answers. All I know is, here they are. SB SM]
August, 2025
“Bumpa t’bumpa,” Burton Trottier says aloud. Then again, “Bumpa t’bumpa.” And again, “Bumpa t’bumpa.”
He pulls up on the window button of his car. The window slides down, and he is slapped in the face by ninety-five-degree heat, amplified by the hot pavement of Interstate 93. His nostrils are snapped to attention by the fumes and aromas unique to a traffic jam on the hottest day, so far, of the summer.
‘Summah,” says Burton to the other motionless cars surrounding him. “Summahtime. sum-sum-summahtime. Summahtime in Doah-chestah, on the Southern Artery.” He is not concerned about anyone hearing him. Only a fool would have his windows open on a day like this. “A scorch-ah. A real scorch-ah.” He caresses the sounds with his lips and tongue. At least Boston still has a local dialect. He takes a last gulp of hot, gaseous air, and presses down on the window button. The tinted glass rises and mutes the playfully painted gas tanks that stand between the highway and the Atlantic.
The gas tanks are a famous local landmark, being so highly visible to both southbound and northbound commuters just south of downtown. The tanks hold the distinction of being the largest copyrighted work of art in the world, at least they were when commissioned by the Boston Gas Company in 1971. The artwork, entitled Rainbow Swash, was created by Corita Kent, who was also known as Sister Mary Corita because she had been a Catholic nun for over thirty years. She painted her design in an eight-inch large-scale model that was ultimately translated onto the 140-foot-tall gas tank by a cadre of 20 painters.
None of this is known to Burton, who inches forward, swaddled in Mercedes comfort, some would say luxury. “Destination in sight,” he says to no one, his eyes raised to distant hills to the south. “Granite Links.”
The gas tanks achieved landmark status overnight due in part to the traffic-watch helicopters that the three major networks supported to report on Boston’s notorious pre-Big Dig snarls. “Backed up from the gas tanks to Neponset Circle” was, literally, a colorful way to describe the daily jam. The Dig generally improved the traffic situation, but not on a hot summer Friday afternoon when everyone wanted to get an early start towards the Cape, as in Cod.
The fame of the gas tanks was fanned when someone noticed that one of the color swatches was an unmistakable rendering of the North Vietnam President, Ho Chi Minh, the sworn enemy of the United States government waging the unpopular war and, by extension, a hero to the counter-culture who were united in opposition. The controversy–veterans against hippies–raged for months, but gradually lessened as the war fortunes declined and political scandal (Watergate) took over the headlines.
The Mercedes creeps ahead just enough for Burton to swing into the exit lane for Neponset Circle. Burton feels that the rest of his life will be smooth sailing. As he hits the road that leads to the links, he remembers back to his college days at BU when he and his friends would drive to North Quincy for forbidden swimming in the former quarries and to smoke dope, although not necessarily in that order. As fond as those memories are, Burton marvels at the improvements, which, to his thinking, offer a master class in urban planning. He winds his way upward until he reaches the most scenic parking lot in New England. The gas tanks and the twin rivers of automobiles are now mere scenic enrichment to a panorama surrounded by verdant splendor.
He parks in the “Reserved for Members” lot and goes into the clubhouse where he dons his togs and gets his clubs. He then heads out to get in a quick nine on the short course reserved for members. He is paired with a guy named Bobby, whom he recognizes but has never formally met. He turns out to be a fine fellow, and like Burton, recently divorced. They good-naturedly swap stories about whose ex is the bigger bitch. At the end of the round, they declare the match a draw, and both leave, feeling victorious.
Burton adjourns to the bar at The Tavern. He is into his second Lee Trevino, which is an Arnold Palmer (iced tea and lemonade) but with an added shot of tequila, a nod to the golfing legend’s Mexican heritage, when he is joined by Arby, the assistant pro at Granite Links. Arby is in his early 30s–Burton is 51–trim and good-looking, a card-carrying PGA professional who gave the tour a serious shot before retreating to a regular paycheck at Granite Links. He’s a popular instructor, particularly popular with the older ladies.
He and Burton exchange Hail-fellow-well-met, and he orders a “Sister-in-law.”
Burton cocks his head. “What the hell is a ‘Sister-in-law?’”
Arby is ready for the question. “You know when you skull a shot, but by dumb luck it ends up on the green? It’s like fucking your wife’s sister. It feels good to be on top, but you know it’s not right.” Burton laughs fraternally, a bit too heartily. Arby then explains that the cocktail is two parts gin, one part sweet vermouth, and a couple of cocktail onions.
“It tastes good, but it shouldn’t,” says Arby after a brief salute and a sip.
“I get it,” says Burton. “Buy you a drink?”
What Happens in Vegas …
October, 2025
The clink of ice against crystal is the soundtrack of their burgeoning partnership. Over the next few months, the Granite Hills Golf Club becomes the laboratory for an improbable alchemy between Burton’s capital and Arby’s street-level golf savvy. Usually, they retreat to The Tavern, a refuge of dark wood and green felt that feels like a sanctuary from the humid Boston summer, or they hash out logistics while riding in a cart between the ninth and tenth holes.
Their visions, however, remain miles apart.
“The Fore River Shipyard, Burt. Think about the bones of those buildings,” Arby says one afternoon, leaning over a map of Quincy with a highlighter in hand. “High ceilings, industrial grit, plenty of parking. We keep the overhead low, the beer cold, and the bays cheap. It’s a blue-collar paradise. We’re talking the heart of the South Shore, the Irish Riviera.”
Burton watches a golfer on the nearby range shank a drive into the dirt. He doesn’t like the word cheap. “Arby, you’re thinking like a pro shop manager. I’m thinking like a developer. Fore River is out of the way. If we want this to scale, we need the white-collar guys who are stuck in the Financial District until 7:00 PM. I want the guy who just lost a million-dollar trade to come downstairs, grab a craft scotch, and hit a bucket of balls at Pebble Beach on a simulator before he catches the commuter rail.”
“The rent in the Financial District will kill us before we swing a club,” Arby counters.
“The rent is the price of the pedigree,” Burton says firmly. It is the tone that ends discussions. He is the one writing the checks, a fact that hangs in the air like the humidity. Gradually, the gravitational pull of Burton’s wallet draws Arby toward the center. By the time the leaves begin to turn, Arby stops talking about the shipyard and starts talking about foot traffic on State Street.
A week before their scheduled departure for Nevada, Burton stands before a mahogany door in a luxury high-rise overlooking the water. He presses the buzzer.
A sharp, authoritative bark erupts from behind the wood. Within seconds, the frantic scratching of claws precedes the door swinging open.
“Easy, Beau! Down!”
Jody stands there, looking effortless in a pair of charcoal yoga leggings and a quarter-zip pullover. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy knot that somehow looks curated. At barely thirty, she possesses a sharp, athletic beauty that Burton still finds disarming, even if it no longer feels like home.
“Hey, big guy,” Burton grunts, dropping to one knee as General Beauregard, a golden retriever with a coat like burnished copper, nearly tackles him. The dog’s barks dissolve into high-pitched yips of pure, unadulterated joy. He licks Burton’s ear with a fervor usually reserved for peanut butter.
“He still remembers his daddy, I see,” Jody says. She leans against the door frame, watching the reunion.
Burton stands up, brushing dog hair from his slacks, and leans in to give Jody a brief, antiseptic peck on the cheek. It is a gesture of habit rather than heat. She accepts it with a thin smile. There’s no malice, but nor is there lingering affection.
“To what do I owe the honor?” she asks, stepping back to let him into the penthouse. The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows is staggering; Boston Harbor is a sheet of hammered silver under the autumn sun.
“I’m heading out of town for a few days,” Burton says, his eyes wandering to the familiar furniture they picked out together. “Just thought you should know. In case of … well, anything.”
“Where to? Another ‘business’ retreat?”
“Las Vegas. The National Indoor Golf Convention. I’m taking Arby. We have a sit-down with the lead equipment providers and the guys who hold the licenses for the software.”
Jody’s brow furrows. “Arby… wait. The guy from the club? The one with the overly white teeth and the car that’s too loud?”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s kind of a charming snake, isn’t he?”
Burton lets out a short, dry laugh. “You have no idea. He spends half his time at the club bragging about which member’s wife he’s ‘giving private lessons’ to. But he knows the industry. He’s the credibility; I’m the infrastructure.”
He begins to pace the living room, the excitement of the project bubbling over. “The vision is locked in, Jody. Arby wanted a warehouse in the sticks, but I’m going for the juggernaut. A flagship in the Financial District. We’re going to call it The Missing Link.”
Jody blinks. “The Missing Link?”
“Exactly. Because golfers ‘miss’ the ‘links’ when the weather turns. It’s catchy, right? It’s a brand. We do it right downtown, make it a spectacle, and then we roll it out regionally. Newton, Wellesley, maybe even Providence.”
Jody watches him for a long moment, her expression shifting from curiosity to a familiar, weary frustration. “Burton,” she sighs, “why don’t you just stick to what you actually know? You’re a builder. You know real estate, and God knows you know how to brew and sell beer. This? It sounds like a midlife crisis with a high price tag.”
She catches herself, looking away toward the harbor. “Just shut up, Jody,” she mutters under her breath. “That’s why you’re not married to him anymore.”
Burton goes stiff. “You sound just like my father. ‘Stick to what you know.’ That’s been the mantra my entire life. The Court Street project was his dream, his baby. I slaved away there every summer until I graduated, then went full-time just to keep his legacy afloat, or at least until we had to sell it off to pay for the divorce.”
She stops and shakes her head. “Shutting up now.”
“Even with the brewery, I was just tweaking another man’s dream,” Burton says, his voice dropping an octave. “Water under the bridge, or maybe I should say ‘spilt beer’ … anyway, I want something all my own. I want my own success, from the ground up. Not a renovation. A creation.”
Jody turns back, her eyes softening but her voice remaining sharp. “I’m not telling you something you don’t already know, but starting the brewery was your idea, and naming it Sweet Thyme was your idea, and building the branding around phrases about time was your idea. You were the one who knew the brewery would build the traffic that made the entire project click. I came along for the ride, and now I’m driving the bus.”
The tension in the room shifts, the ghost of their shared history cooling the air. Jody sits on the edge of the sofa, patting the cushion for General Beau to jump up.
“Your dad,” she says, her voice finally finding a note of genuine affection. “One thing I truly miss about not being married to you is Henry and Grace. And those Sundays at The Stead. They’re my models for how to grow old, still holding hands, still arguing over Wordle. I miss that house.”
Burton nods slowly, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “I feel the same way about the house in Wellfleet. I miss the quiet.” He looks at the dog. “And, of course, I miss General Beauregard.”
“He misses you too,” she says quietly. “Just try not to lose your shirt in Vegas, okay? For the dog’s sake.”
The heat of the Nevada desert hits them like a physical weight the moment they step out of Harry Reid International. Burton adjusts his blazer, feeling instantly overdressed, while Arby looks like he was born for this environment, sporting a silk-blend polo and shades that probably cost more than a set of irons.
“Smell that, Burt? That’s the smell of opportunity and poor life choices,” Arby grins, checking his gold watch.
The Las Vegas Convention Center is a sensory assault, a sprawling labyrinth of neon, synthetic turf, and high-definition screens. Promotional models in form-fitting golf attire hand out flyers, and the air is thick with the smell of floor wax and espresso.
Arby is in his element. He can’t walk ten feet without letting out a “Hey! Jimmy!” or a “Tommy, you old dog!” There is a lot of vigorous handshaking, the kind of back-slapping that looks painful to an outsider, and a dizzying amount of name-dropping.
“See that guy?” Arby whispers to Burton, nodding toward a silver-haired man in a Titleist cap. “Lead designer for TaylorMade’s vintage line. We did a Pro-Am in Pebble back in ’04. He owes me a favor.”
Burton watches with a mixture of disdain and begrudging respect. Arby is a “charming snake,” as Jody put it, but in this pit of vipers, he is the king cobra.
When they reach the booth for Opti-Swing International, the primary equipment provider they have been courting, the atmosphere changes. The staff sees Arby’s PGA credentials and Burton’s deliberate, high-end posture and immediately shifts into “VIP” mode. They are ushered into a glass-walled private suite overlooking the floor.
That evening, the company takes them to a steakhouse at the Wynn that is so opulent it feels like a cathedral dedicated to beef. The wine flows, bottles of Screaming Eagle that cost as much as a used sedan. The executives from Opti-Swing speak to them as if the contracts are already signed, their tone assuming a partnership is inevitable.
Arby holds court. He tells stories about the Pro Tour—about the time a certain legendary golfer got his cart stuck in a pond in Georgia, and the night a famous caddy ended up in a Mexican jail, and the time Arnie calmly sank a putt on the 16th at Pebble Beach while an irate husband was waiting to club him as soon as he walked off the green. He is hilarious, self-deprecating, and magnetic.
Burton sits back, sipping a dry martini, watching the executives laugh. He realizes then that Jody was right—Arby is a snake—but he is his snake. Arby provides the “locker room” credibility that a guy who spends his life in boardrooms can never manufacture. He is the grease on the wheels.
Toward the end of the night, as the cigars are clipped, Burton takes the lead. He reiterates the roles: Arby will handle the “soul” of the place—the pros, the tournaments, the vibe. Burton will handle the “structure”—the real estate, the scaling, the branding.
“We’re starting in Boston,” Burton tells the table, his voice commanding the room. “But The Missing Link isn’t a local shop. It’s a blueprint for urban golf. We’re going to dominate the Eastern Seaboard. And after that? Who knows? Chicago, Denver, London. We’re building a kingdom.”
Later, the two of them stand at the hotel’s rooftop bar, looking out over the neon sprawl of the Strip. The air is cool now, buzzing with the distant hum of millions of people chasing a win.
“To The Missing Link,” Arby says, raising a glass of twenty-year-old scotch.
“To success,” Burton replies. They drink.
“I’m going to stay down here for a bit,” Arby says, his eyes scanning the crowd for a group of women laughing by the lounge. “See what ‘happens in Vegas’ that everyone’s so keen on keeping secret.”
Burton looks at his partner—the tan, the grin, the predatory glint in his eye. “Don’t do anything that requires a lawyer, Arby.”
“No promises, Burt. No promises.”
Burton turns and walks toward the elevators. He feels a strange mix of triumph and isolation. He has the money, he has the plan, and he has the snake. He is finally building something of his own. But as he looks at his reflection in the gold-tinted elevator doors, he finds himself wondering if General Beauregard is sleeping on the sofa or in Jody’s bed tonight.
He closes his eyes, and for a fleeting second, he isn’t in Vegas. He is in the quiet salt air of Wellfleet, where the only thing he has to prove is that he can hit the fairway.
The Grand Opening
The Financial District is usually a ghost town by 5:00 PM on a Friday, especially in late March before the summer season is open on the Cape, but tonight, there is a buzz in the lobby of the Fidelity building. Outside, on State Street, there is a gaggle of black SUVs and men in tailored wool coats. To the right of the elevator bank is a heavy plate-glass door with a minimalist neon sign above: THE MISSING LINK. On the door is the sand-blasted image of the company logo– a gorilla with a golf club, caught in full follow-through extension of a perfect drive.
The same image appears on the left breast of the green golf shirts worn by the men and women behind the buffet tables and makeshift bar just outside the doorway. The same shirt is worn by the man in full gorilla costume, dressed in a kilt and tam o’shanter, carrying a set of antique golf clubs and looking as if he is about to tee off at St. Andrews. The image carries through on the custom-brewed Tee Thyme Lager from the Sweet Thyme Brewing Company (originally founded by Burton).
Burton and Arby were also wearing green logo shirts layered under their sports jackets. Everyone else is in business attire, gathering in conversation groups, each person juggling a drink and small plate of hors d’oeuvres. A young woman (in a green shirt, of course) carries a tray extending from her waist, supported by shoulder straps, looking at first glance like a cigarette girl of yore, but her tray is filled with shaved ice and oysters. The signage on the front of the tray identifies her as “Oyster Girl,” and she wanders from group to group, opening with the line “Wanna get shucked?”
Through the glass doors, the transformation is total. Burton has spared no expense, stripping the space back to its concrete and steel bones, then layering it with dark wood veneers, soft faux leathers, and theatrical lighting. There is a faint aroma of expensive hops from the in-house taps of specialty-brewed Tee Thyme Lager, mingled with the unmistakable scent of freshly mown grass.
Eight state-of-the-art simulator bays line the perimeter, their floor-to-ceiling screens glowing with the hyper-realistic depictions of fairways from St. Andrews to Pebble Beach. The “thwack” of high-velocity impact … driver meets Titleist … punctuates the low hum of jazz and networking.
Burton stands in the lobby, holding a bottle of Tee Thyme, explaining to the surrounding grey-hairs how the grass aroma is hooked into the HVAC system. “And it’s not just any grass,” he says. “It’s Kentucky Bluegrass, which would never be used on a real golf course, but it has the perfect smell of springtime.”
He looks every bit the conqueror. He has navigated the zoning boards, outbid a chain store for the lease, and micro-managed the interior designers until they’d captured the “masculine elegance” that he repeatedly demanded.
“Look at them, Burt,” Arby says, materializing at his elbow. He, too, is in top form, wearing a blazer that cost more than a pedigree poodle and sporting a tan that suggests he’d spent the winter doing “field research” in Scottsdale. “The Deputy Mayor is in Bay 4 trying to slice his way out of a sand trap, and the CEO of State Street is at the bar. “Those tall, black dudes … Celtics.”
Arby has been as busy as Burton, spending the last two months working the phones and the locker rooms of private clubs from Brookline to Duxbury to Manchester-by-the-Sea, ensuring that every “influencer” in the local golf scene feels like they have a personal stake in the success of the venture. “Indoor golf,” he intones, “will be a boon for ALL golf. A rising tide lifts all boats … whatever the fuck that means.” He closes with a laugh and a quick “Catch ya later, Buddy.”
“We’re off to the races. But now … I’m going to go show the Commissioner of Police why his backswing is a disaster. It’s all about the ‘links,’ right?”
Arby weaves through the crowd like one of the Celtics heading for the hoop. Burton senses a new presence behind him. He knows before he turns. It’s Jody. She’s not dressed for either golf or business. She’s out of place in a room dominated by golf guys, but the sight of her brings Burton a breath of relief.
“Thank you for being here,” he says, giving her a hug.
“I had to see if the reality matched the brochure,” she said, her eyes scanning the room. She motions to the simulators, the open high-end bar, and the crowd of power-players. She leans in closer, her voice dropping. “It’s impressive, Burton. Truly. You did it … you. I just want to wish you every success.”
“Ta-da!” says Burton. “Let me get you a glass of champagne and introduce you to a few people.”
“No,” she returns quickly, “I just came to say congratulations.”
“C’mon, just one drink.”
“No, gotta go.”
“Keeping someone waiting?”
“You know what they say about ‘one door closing and another opening … General Beauregard says hi,” then a slight wave, and she squirms away like a just-released trout. “Thanks for the Tee Thyme,” he says after her.
Before he has a moment to reflect, he is approached by another grey-haired man in a suit. He is accompanied by a young Asian woman, also dressed in conservative business attire. She is in her mid-twenties and attractive in a wholesome, girl-next-door way.
“Congratulations, Burton.” He shakes Burton’s hand. “I’m Jack McKenzie of Howland/McKenzie on the 14th floor, and this is Quinn.” Burton shakes both their hands. “This is really impressive, and I’m sure you’ll do very well. I know you’ll be seeing me down here. I want to play some of those foreign courses that I’ll probably never get to.”
“We’ve got them all,” says Burton.
“Do you have a simulation for Bluffs Grand Ho Tram Strip?” asks Quinn.
Burton pauses, then does a slight double-take. “The what?”
“The Bluffs Grand Ho Tram Strip … it’s the most famous golf course in Vietnam.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It was designed by Greg Norman,” says Quinn. “It’s always on the list of top 100 courses worldwide.”
“Are you a golfer?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s actually a nice segue into why I wanted to introduce myself and Quinn,” says McKenzie. “We’re a private equity firm, and for the last three months Quinn has been interning with us. She’s in the final term of an MBA program at Northeastern. The internship ends next week, and she’s done a bang-up job. In fact, I’d hire her full-time in a nanosecond, but–between us girls–” he lowers his voice theatrically– “We don’t hire anyone who doesn’t have at least some grey hair and a dick. Quinn, why don’t you tell him what comes next?” He pantomimes handing her a microphone.
“Sure, Mac. My final assignment is to write a full business plan, preferably for a start-up or fledgling company. I’d like to do mine on The Missing Link.”
“We have a business plan,” says Burton, “but it’s all up here.” He points to his head. She’s ready with a comeback.
“It can be helpful to have a written plan, if only to hand out to suppliers, regulators, or even nosy relatives. And this will take very little of your time, I promise.”
“Is your compensation solely in academic credit, or will you need to be paid?”
“I will be willing to do this in exchange for golf lessons.”
At that moment, Arby happens to be passing by on his way to the bar. “Arby, I’ve just had an offer that I can’t refuse. Meet Quinn. Quinn … Arby, our resident pro. You’re going to be giving her golf lessons. Quinn, what’s the name of that course?”
“The Bluffs Grand Ho Tram Strip Golf Course.”
“Right. Ever heard of it?”
Arby’s face is blank.
“It’s the most famous golf course in Vietnam, although some might make a case for the Ba Na Hills Golf Club in Da Nang,” says Quinn.
“I hear the courses there are particularly challenging,” says Arby, who is looking at Quinn in a way that goes beyond a teacher/student relationship. “Because instead of sand traps, they use land mines.”
McKenzie laughs, but Burton shakes his head and shakes his head, albeit with a smile. “Terrible joke,” he says. He reaches into his top shirt pocket and pulls out a business card that he hands to Quinn. “Call me next week. Arby, show her around.”
McKenzie says, “Thank you for being open to this. The girl is super smart and super ambitious.” He then lowers his voice to a confidential tone. “Helluva’n athlete. You wouldn’t think it from looking at her, but she is one of the best female hockey players anywhere. Led Northeastern to two Bean Pot Trophies. Her nickname was the Rice Rocket. Unfortunately, not much of a market for pro women’s hockey players.”
“Huh,” says Burton, accepting McKenzie’s offered hand and an additional thank you. As another person circles towards him, he pulls out his phone and says, “Hey, Siri, what’s the Bean Pot Trophy?”
In the quiet, pre-dawn hours of a Tuesday, the air in the office was thick with the scent of dark-roasted coffee and the low hum of the European-style Nespresso machine. Burton stands by the window, watching the streetlights flicker out over the Neponset River. It is 9:00 AM. On the dot, a figure appears at the glass front door. It is Quinn, arriving with the same relentless sense of timing she had shown at the grand opening.
“You’re early,” Burton says, pulling the door open.
“The early bird gets the market share,” Quinn replies, stepping inside. She doesn’t wait for a greeting. Before Burton can even take a sip of his espresso, she opens her leather-bound portfolio. “I’ve been reviewing the eight-week timeline. For the business plan to be viable by the end of the quarter, we need to address the overhead projections for the simulator maintenance immediately. I have a list of specific questions regarding your long-term growth goals—”
Burton holds up a hand, palm flat, a silent command, leaning back against his mahogany desk. “This is my office, Quinn. It’s 9:01. I’m still on my first cup of coffee, and before we spend the next eight weeks dissecting my finances, I have a few questions of my own. Starting with the most basic one.” He looks her in the eye. “Is your name really Quinn?”
She freezes, her pen hovering over a spreadsheet. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant thud-thud of Arby in the next room, driving range balls in a simulator bay in preparation for an anticipated 10:00 AM rush.
She sits down, not because he asks, but because the weight of the truth requires it. “I was born in Milton General Hospital. My parents are Vietnamese refugees. My father was a high-ranking government official—a man of status and power—until the early days of the fall of Saigon in ’73. He was evacuated while the world was ending around him.”
She looks toward the window, but her eyes are seeing a different coastline. “My grandmother… she didn’t have a government escort. Her village was overrun in ’74. She and her sisters fled into the jungle. It was a nightmare that lasted months, a horrible experience that only ended when she was pulled onto a boat in the Gulf of Tonkin. It was so crowded people were standing shoulder-to-shoulder just to keep from falling into the sea.”
Burton sets his coffee down, the business plan forgotten.
“She ended up in a detention center in Indonesia, where she found out she was pregnant and gave birth to my mother,” Quinn continued. “Eventually she found her way to distant relatives in the San Francisco Bay Area. That’s where she raised my mother until she was a teenager, and a marriage was arranged with my father, who lived in Dorchester. No longer a government official, he now made spring rolls and dumplings.”
“I lived in a three-decker on Dot Ave,” she said with a faint, bittersweet smile. “Thirty-nine people in one house! I spoke only Vietnamese until the first day of public school. Within a week, the kids in first grade had mangled ‘Kwin-Sae’ into ‘Kwin-Zee.’ They thought it was funny because of the town just across the river. So, I became ‘Quincy.'”
“I turned it into ‘Quinn.’ A name that sounds like it belongs in a boardroom. But I didn’t spend my time in boardrooms back then. I was playing street hockey with the boys in Dorchester until I learned to skate at the rink in Southie. I worked hard enough to pass the test for Boston Latin, mostly so I could play on a real ice hockey team.”
“Which is where you picked up the moniker ‘Rice Rocket,'” Burton interrupts, his voice hushed.
Quinn’s expression hardened instantly. “I hate that name. It’s racist, it’s demeaning to Asians, and it’s dismissive of women. I didn’t play to be a mascot; I played to win.”
“I get it,” Burton says, his tone shifting to one of genuine apology. He leaned forward. “Then tell me this: Why golf? Why now?”
“Because of my MBA,” she says, her professional mask sliding back into place. “I’m heading toward a world that is still, at its core, a men’s club. That club is closed to people like me unless I can meet them on their own field. I don’t need to be a pro, Burton. I just need to be able to hold my own in their game so they stop looking at my heritage and start looking at my data.” She does not add, “like you just did.”
Burton looks at her and sees, ironically, a reflection of his own drive to achieve something on her own. He changes course. “What do you do for fun, Quinn? Besides calculating the social cost of sports?”
“No time for fun,” she snaps. “My father eventually saved enough to open a Pho restaurant in Dorchester. It did well enough that he opened a full-service place in North Quincy to serve the community there. But five years ago … he was murdered. A robbery. Thugs looking for the late-night deposit. Now, my mother and I run the restaurant every night while I try to build this career during the day.”
Burton feels a cold phantom pain in his chest. “I lost my mother suddenly,” he says quietly. “I was young. I grew up working for my Dad, trying to fill a hole that wouldn’t close. I understand the ‘no time for fun’ policy.”
He stands up and checks the clock. It is nearly 10:00. The atmosphere in the room has changed; the “nickel tour” is over, and a partnership has begun.
“Every Tuesday,” Burton says. “9:00 AM. We’ll build that plan of yours before the world wakes up.”
Quinn nods, gathers her papers, and stands. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to. “Not my plan,” she says. “Your plan.” As she walks out the office door, Arby is waiting, a 7-iron in hand.
“Ready for your first lesson?” he asks.
Quinn adjusts her grip on her bag. “I was born ready.”
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