Marc stared at his computer screen as he tried to comprehend the irony of how Aiken had developed into both an equine center as well as a producer of nuclear bomb components. Upon further investigation, Marc found the answer. Senator Strom Thurmond, the once powerful politician from South Carolina had served 47 years in the U.S. Senate and was instrumental in bringing the “Bomb Plant” to Aiken at the dawn of the cold war between the USA and the former USSR.
Marc was pleasantly diverted from his research by the familiar tones of “Take Five” coming from his cell phone. A glance at the screen showed it was his daughter.
“What’s up, Anny?”
“Just checking to see if you’re ready for the trip to South Carolina?”
“Yeah, I think so. My sports jacket’s hanging in the closet and my carry-on bag is full. The forecast for Augusta looks pretty good. Warm, with a chance of showers early in the week, so I’m thinking something casual, khakis and short-sleeved shirts mostly, although I might take an umbrella, just in case.”
“Dad, please tell me you’re not wearing that Hawaiian shirt to the graduation.”
“Uh, which one was that?”
“You only have one, the one with the big breasted hula girls and palm trees. You’ve had it forever. It’s gross.”
“Of course not,” he replied, glancing at the open closet with the offending shirt hanging front and center.
Ann Marie hesitated. “Wear something sporty, but nice. We’ll be over to pick you up in Mrs. McKay’s SUV at ten-thirty, tomorrow morning. Graduation is at eleven followed by a reception for the graduates and guests at the college. Then we’ll leave for the Burlington Airport.”
“Can I bring a camera?”
Marc heard his daughter exhale. “Daddy, of course you can bring your camera. As a matter of fact, you should. We’ll need it to take photos of Jake at the graduation as well as when he plays at the golf course. I understand you can take photos during the practice rounds, just not on tournament days.”
“Great. Any other restrictions I should know about?”
Marc heard the sound of another sigh. “See you tomorrow, Dad.”
“I’ll be ready,” Marc said to the dial tone.
The following day, the weather was sunny with a few passing clouds. Perfect for a graduation, or a surveillance assignment. Marc preferred the latter. In anticipation of the sojourn south, Marc had asked a neighbor to look in on his cats, Brandy and Rye, while he was away. He took care to fill their kibble bowls as well as the gallon-sized kitty watering fountain.
As Ann-Marie had warned, Laura McKay’s black SUV pulled into the driveway a minute before the scheduled departure time. After saying good-bye to his feline friends, he grabbed his carry-on and headed out the door. Laura was behind the wheel and Jake was in the back seat next to Ann Marie.
The rear hatch door opened and he placed his bag on top of the pile already there, then climbed into the front passenger seat. Laura McKay looked ever the business professional, smartly dressed in a red blazer over a white blouse and black slacks. “Good Morning, Mr. LaRose,” she said with a practiced smile.
“Morning, Ms. McKay,”
“Please, I’ll do Marc, if you’ll do Laura,” she said.
“Fair enough.”
Jake wore his graduation gown and held the cap on his lap. After a few pleasantries, the short drive to the college campus passed with a few comments about the weather and other useless conversation that strangers often rely on to help them get better acquainted.
Laura seemed aloof as Jake, accompanied by other members of the graduating class, filed into the commencement hall. Ann Marie, sitting between Marc and Laura, was obviously excited as she waved and shouted. Marc noticed Jake wore several colored cords around his neck. He assumed they were academic honors of some sort. Obviously, the kid was smart.
The commencement speaker was a woman that Marc had never heard of. He vaguely remembered that she was introduced by the college’s president as the director of some collegiate association that he’d also never heard of, and really didn’t care to hear of again. Just as he felt himself nodding off, he was brought back to consciousness by the sound of polite applause. The speaker had apparently ended her presentation.
Then it was time for the college president to hand out the diplomas. Despite the 400 graduates, the presentation went relatively quickly. Ann Marie was visibly excited as Jake’s name was announced. Marc had brought a camera with a zoom lens attached and snapped a few photos as Jake accepted his diploma.
After a serve-yourself luncheon, the group piled back into Laura’s SUV for the ferry ride across Lake Champlain to the Burlington Airport. Without mentioning it, Marc had secreted his H&K handgun in his suitcase that was checked through to their final destination.
After a short stopover in Philadelphia, they caught the connecting flight bound for Columbia, South Carolina. Upon boarding, however, they discovered that the seating arrangements had been changed. Marc’s seat in the first-class section had been re-assigned.
As Laura McKay was about to protest, Marc intervened. “It’s no problem. Business class will do just fine.” Marc felt he needed a little down time to be by himself. He grabbed his carry-on and followed the flight attendant back a few rows to his new seat with a window view. The seat next to his was empty. A few moments later a gentleman shoved his carry-on into the overhead bin and plopped down next to Marc. Up ahead, Marc could see Ann Marie sitting with another female passenger in the first class section.
As the plane taxied away from the terminal in preparation for takeoff, Marc’s seatmate introduced himself as Hank from Rock Hill, South Carolina, and soon the pair engaged in friendly conversation.
“Is this your first trip to the south?” Hank asked.
“Yes, it is.”
Marc explained the purpose of the trip and that his daughter and her boyfriend were accompanying him. He motioned toward the first-class section.
“That’s nice of you. Pony up first-class seats for them while you suffer back here in business,” Hank said with a toothy grin.
Marc didn’t feel he needed to explain, and responded, “Sometimes you do what you gotta do.”
As they chatted through take-off, Marc let it slip that he and his daughter were ultimately headed for the golf tournament in Augusta.
“Oh, lucky you. If you don’t mind my asking, did you get your tickets through the lottery system?”
“No, actually, my daughter’s boyfriend won an amateur event last year and was awarded tickets for us to attend.”
Hank seemed genuinely impressed. “You don’t know how fortunate you are. There is so much demand for tournament tickets that the golf club has developed a complicated system of allotting tickets through some sort of computer algorithm.”
“How’s that?” Marc asked.
“The way I understand it, if you, as a regular fan received tickets last year, chances are you probably would not get them again, at least for a while. Maybe never.”
“Wonder why that is? I mean, it’s a golf tournament, not an audience with the Pope,” Marc said.
“Demand,” Hank replied. “The Savannah River Golf Links is the place to see the world’s best golfers, and to be seen. The regular cost of a weekend day pass is around a hundred bucks, but a scalper could sell the same ticket for over a thousand. Scalping tickets for the tournament is big business and the tournament committee has become very selective about who receives them.”
“I didn’t know that,” Marc said.
As Hank was about to say something, the plane’s captain announced they had reached their cruising altitude and that it was safe for passengers to move about the cabin.
“Oh, yeah,” Hank continued. “I’ve even heard there are categories of eligibility that must be satisfied just to be considered to receive a pass to get through the gates at the tournament.”
“Really?” Marc prodded.
“They’ve designed it so that practically everyone attendin
g the tournament is from outside the Augusta area. Think about it. These people need a place to stay and eat while they’re not actually attending the tournament. They have money to spend and these people are not going to stay at just any dump. They’re willing and able to spend money on nice hotels and good restaurants. What’s good for Savannah River Golf Links is good for Augusta.”
“Interesting,” Marc said.
“And that’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. You have the mega-corporate types, you know, the really big businesses. They bring in prospective clients and guests to schmooze, rewarding them with the prize perk of a golf pass, keeping the client happy. Plus, the business can write it off as an expense.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” Marc said.
“And then there are the great unwashed,” Hank said making air quotes. “You know, the stars of stage and screen, politicians, past presidents or secretaries of state, whoever. They provide snippets of excitement for the cameras to pan-in on as they scan the throngs watching from the sidelines. Of course, to fill the galleries, they allocate a good block of tickets to regular folk. But as I pointed out, these are mostly out-of-towners, like yourselves, to help prop up the local economy.”
Marc thought about what Hank had said. “So, it sounds like there is a symbiotic relationship between the golf tournament and the city.”
“It’s worked well for all these years, and believe me, neither the city nor the golf course wants anything to change, except maybe to increase the income the tournament provides.”
“Sounds like we should be very grateful that our boy made the cut, allowing us to attend.”
“Enjoy the tournament, and if something comes up, or you decide not to go, give me a call.” Sam reached into his shirt pocket and handed him a business card. “Sammy’s Used Cars” was printed across the top of the card. He then reclined his seat back as far as it would go. “I could probably get a thousand dollars for a day ticket. I’d even split it with you,” he said with an oily smile.
When Marc looked over again, Hank had closed his eyes.
A small bag of pretzels and a half hour later, Marc felt the plane begin its descent to the Columbia Airport. After deplaning, a one-hour drive brought the foursome to the city of Aiken.
As they unloaded their suitcases from the SUV Laura had rented, she announced, “I could only get two rooms for our stay here, so I thought that if Ann Marie and I stayed in one room, Mr. LaRose and Jake could stay in the other.” Her comment appeared to be directed at Jake and Ann Marie.
They traded glances.
“I guess that would be appropriate,” Marc said. “But I wish you’d at least allow me to pay our half of the room rental. After all, you’ve provided the tournament tickets plus the airfare.”
“Nonsense. It was Jake’s and my idea to come to the tournament in the first place. No, the rooms are pre-paid. If you’d like to pick up the tab for dinner tonight, that would be fine,” Laura said.
Marc knew there was no use in arguing with Laura McKay.
Chapter Five
The following morning was the tournament’s first practice day. That’s when amateurs, like Jake, as well as all who qualified went to sharpen their skills on the rolling hills and undulating greens of the Savannah River Golf Links. Marc had watched the tournament for years on television, but having never attended, was excited to see first-hand what all the excitement was about.
While the great majority who came to the tournament had to park outside the gates, the passes that Jake had acquired for being the low amateur allowed his small entourage to pass through the heavily guarded entrance. Once inside, they were directed to the player’s parking lot, secreted well away from the clubhouse and out of sight of the gallery and TV cameras.
When Laura parked their SUV, two golf carts appeared and the four of them, along with Jake’s golf clubs were transported to the main clubhouse. Jake was informed by one of the club’s marshals that his clubs would be taken to the visitor’s bag room where his caddy could retrieve them. Marc noticed the confused look on Jake’s face.
“What’s the problem?” Marc asked.
“I hadn’t thought much about a caddy. I’ve usually carried my own clubs, except when I played in the amateur championship at Pinehurst. Then, I used one of the club’s caddies.”
The grey-haired marshal raised his bushy eyebrows and his mouth turned up in a grin. “We hear that a lot from the amateurs. You could use one of our club’s caddies. Of course, should you win the tournament, you’d have to share your winnings with your caddy. Oops, I forgot, amateurs aren’t allowed to accept prize money. No matter, an amateur has never won the Monarch Golf Tournament.”
Jake’s expression was one of uncertainty.
“I’ll caddy for you,” Marc said.
The marshal looked over at Marc as if seeing him for the first time. “You sure you can handle this? Looping three practice and four tournament rounds, providing your boy here makes the cut, can be pretty strenuous,” he said, nodding toward Jake. “Plus you’ll need an intimate knowledge of the rules of golf to advise your player on what and what not to do.”
Marc knew the term looping was golf caddy speak for carrying a golfer’s bag of clubs around the course. “Not a problem. I haven’t carried for a while, but I’m sure I can handle it,” Marc said with more assuredness than he felt.
“Mr.LaRose, er, Marc. I think we should discuss this,” Laura said.
Marc saw the concern on her face. “I’ve played golf for well over twenty years and even caddied as a kid. Although I’ve never been involved at this level, I’m quite sure I can handle it. Besides, it would be a good opportunity for me and my future son-in-law to get to know each other.”
This comment not only brought a wide smile to Ann Marie’s face, it also seemed to mollify some of Laura’s doubts, although he knew she was still not thoroughly convinced.
“Alright. Let me see how things go with the practice rounds, then we’ll take it from there,” she said.
The marshal glanced at his watch, then up at Jake. “Son, your tee time is set for a little over an hour from now. If you, and your, uh, caddy, will follow me, I’ll show you to the locker room where you can change and get ready. That should give you about forty-five minutes on the practice range before you’ll be called to the first tee.”
Ann Marie gave Jake a hug. “Better run along, Jake. We’ll look for you on the range.”
Marc grabbed Jake’s clubs and the two of them left, following the marshal to the player’s locker room. Jake was shown his locker, while Marc was directed to a separate caddy’s locker room where he was furnished with a tournament bib and a copy of the course yardage book.
Fifteen minutes later, Marc and Jake headed out onto the practice range, Marc carrying Jake’s clubs along with a mesh bag full of range balls. There were just two other players on the range.
Marc admired the lush practice range. “The conditions here are certainly a long way from the driving range at Day’s Marina up in Plattsburgh, plus we practically have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Yeah, that’s probably because many of the pros played in a tournament last week and haven’t arrived yet,” Jake said.
While Jake went through a stretching routine, Marc opened the mesh bag allowing several balls to roll out onto the thick carpet of grass.
Armed with a short wedge, Jake chipped a few balls. Then he grabbed a nine iron out of the bag and proceeded to launch a dozen balls toward a flag positioned about 170 yards away with consistent precision.
“You keep that up and that marshal will have to eat his words about an amateur never winning this thing.”
“My problem is, hitting balls on the practice range, then hitting them on the course where they count, are two different things. It’s the pressure. Gets to me every time. Especially being an amateur,” Jake said.
“Just think of how you got here. Take this one shot at a time.”
As Marc was saying this, he n
oticed a golf course tractor pulling what appeared to be a large tank of liquid slowly making its way from the direction of the maintenance barn along the first fairway. It eventually disappeared over the rise as it continued in the direction of the eighteenth green, not far from the clubhouse.
Probably a tank full of liquid fertilizer, Marc figured.
A sudden metallic ‘thwack’ brought Marc’s attention back to the moment as Jake had switched from hitting irons to his driver. Marc caught sight of Jake’s ball as it bounced then settled in the middle of the range, well beyond the 300-yard marker.
There was the low murmur of approval from the small crowd of golf patrons sitting on the bleachers along with Laura and Ann Marie.
“Yeah, you keep hitting them like that and you’ll have a good chance of making some history.”
“Thanks for the encouragement, Mr. LaRose. I’m going to need it.’
At their appointed time, Marc and Jake were on the first tee box. It was a 430-yard par four that doglegged uphill and turned off to their left. Except for Jake’s mom and Ann Marie plus a few passing spectators, they were alone. As this was a practice round, the club had allowed ample time for the players to hit multiple shots on each hole. Jake hit two balls, both landing near the middle of the fairway. A smattering of applause from the small gallery caused Jake to smile.
“Nice start,” Marc said, as they trudged off to where Jake’s shots had landed. Using a wedge, Jake hit approach shots, both balls finding the middle of the green. Despite the super-fast putting conditions, Jake managed most of the following holes with little trouble. Marc made notes of the approximate pin placements planned for the first two days of the tournament, and Jake took several practice putts from different locations on each green. He knew that if Jake made it past the second day below par he would have a good chance of making the cut, allowing him to finish the final two days of the tournament.
Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery Page 3