It’s Sunday and kids play cricket in the cul-de-sac. The place is this neat little townhouse in an estate filled with identical houses – an insulated bubble of white-bread suburbia. I pull into the driveway and walk to the door. The number on the door matches the one in my phone – 55. Kids laugh and yell out back. Stacks of boxes fill the front room, like they just moved in or Vicky Versa. I knock.
‘Gimme a minute.’
After a minute a lady answers the door looking like she just woke up. ‘How can I help?’ she asks.
‘I’m here about the golf clubs.’
‘Great,’ she perks up, ‘one sec.’
She power walks down the hall and lugs a golf bag full of clubs back with her.
‘Feel free to take a look,’ she says, scanning the road behind me for witnesses. ‘But be quick.’
‘What are you asking?’
I pull the clubs out one by one. She fidgets more with each club. Her eyes flit left and right like a whippet at Wimbledon. I pull a driver out and run my hand along the cold steel shaft and over the carbon-fibre head.
‘The same stuff they used to build the space station,’ I say and swing a perfect drive on the garden path, nailing a phantom ball three-hundred yards to the green.
These are brand new, professional quality clubs – at least a few grands’ worth. I carefully inspect the clubs, the cart, and her. She’s plain Jane pretty, but over making any effort. Squiggly greys leap out of her bun at odd angles and her big, nervous eyes make her look like a shell-shocked squirrel.
‘One hundred,’ she repeats, ‘cash and you’ve got to be out of here in under a minute.’
Tyres screech in the distance as I hand her two crisp fifties out of my wallet and carry the clubs to my car. A dusty ute rounds the corner, fangs down the road and swerves across the lawn.
‘Go,’ she yells and runs inside.