“We didn’t do well on Thursday, but Friday we turned things around and here we are.”
The two men stood for an awkward moment as they both watched Jake sink a few more putts.
“Well then, I guess we’ll see you on the first tee in,” Willum said, then glanced at the clock the players used to keep track of their tee times, “about fifteen minutes.”
“Good. See you then,” Marc replied.
Marc watched as Willum trundled off to confer with his pro, then motioned toward the clock. Returning his gaze to Jake, Marc said, “Let’s try a few long putts to get the speed of the greens. They’ll be calling your name in a few minutes.”
As Jake finished up on the practice green, Marc noticed a substantial crowd had gathered down both sides of the first fairway. A narrow clearing had been roped off allowing Marc and Jake to get to the tee box. While they waited their turn, Marc could see the pairing in front of them had hit their second shots and were making their way to the first green, some four hundred and sixty-five yards away.
Marc and Willum reported to the starter and advised him that their players were present and ready to play. A few moments later, the starter announced that it was time for the ten o’clock pairing. He first introduced the former winner of the tournament, Luther Van Zyle of South Africa to the Monarch Golf Tournament and instructed him to tee off. There was polite applause in respect for the former champion. After a couple of practice swings, Van Zyle hit his drive down the middle of the fairway. This was followed by another round of applause from the crowd. After Van Zyle’s ball stopped rolling, the starter announced it was Jake’s turn to tee off.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome the second amateur to make the cut in this year’s Monarch Golf Tournament. From Toronto, Canada, Mr. Jake McKay.” A roar from the gathered assembly erupted as the throng welcomed Jake to the tournament. Marc looked at Jake. He could tell by Jake’s expression he had not expected such an overwhelming introduction.
Marc pulled the driver out of the golf bag and handed it to Jake. “Remember, one swing, one hit, one shot at a time.”
Jake nodded, then pushed his tee into the ground. After a single practice swing, Jake hit his first drive of the day and, like the practice round he had played with Van Zyle before, Jake’s drive flew past Van Zyle’s by about forty yards. A truly impressive golf shot. The crowd again erupted in applause, cheering with shouts of encouragement.
As Marc and Jake made their way down the center of the fairway, toward Jake’s ball, Marc noticed that a sizable crowd had broken from the first tee area to follow Jake’s progress. Marc also noticed that among Jake’s new fans was a group of young girls, who, to the displeasure of Ann Marie, giggled and clapped at every swing Jake made. It didn’t seem to matter if Jake liked the shot or not, they were apparently delighted just to watch him swing the club.
By the time Marc and Jake arrived at the fifth hole, Jake was up three shots over Van Zyle. Although the gallery following the pair of golfers had thinned somewhat, there seemed to be a buzz in the air that this amateur actually had a chance to win the tournament, which would be an historic first. Marc also noted the security, which appeared to have steadily increased since the first day of the tournament.
Jake made another birdie, putting him four up over Van Zyle. As the players walked off the green toward the sixth tee box, Van Zyle looked at Marc. “You have coached your young player quite well.”
Marc was surprised as this was the first time Van Zyle had spoken directly to him. He spoke clearly with just a hint of his homeland Afrikaans language. “Yes, he is quite gifted and shows promise. My job is simply to keep his mind focused on the game.”
“That must be a challenge, especially with his mother and that group of young girls tagging along, and now, with all the extra security people. I understand your foreign minister is supposed to attend the tournament either today or tomorrow, but even with that, the number of officers appears a bit overwhelming.”
Although Marc had been concentrating on Jake’s play he had noticed an excess of uniformed security officers, as well as local sheriff’s deputies, patrolling the course.
Wonder how many undercover officers are mixed in with the crowd?
Marc chided himself for letting his mind wander from the tournament at hand.
The remainder of the round went well for Jake, but not so much for Van Zyle. Jake finished the day at six under par, putting him in a tie for seventh place overall, well ahead of the other amateur. Marc and Jake bade Van Zyle and his caddy, Willum, good luck with the remainder of the tournament, although with only one day of play left, Marc knew Van Zyle had lost too much ground to make any serious money.
While Ann Marie, Laura and Jake headed back to the car, Marc went into the bag storage building to drop off Jake’s clubs.
“I see your boy did pretty well for himself today,” the storage attendant said. Marc saw that the man’s nametag read, “Sammy.” Like many of the club’s caddies and attendants, Sammy was African American. His short white hair was tightly curled, close to his scalp. When he smiled, his white teeth were brilliant against his smooth ebony skin.
“Yes, he did,” Marc said. “But, as you know, the tournament isn’t over until tomorrow afternoon. We still have 18 holes of golf left. I’m sure you’ve been around long enough to know anything can happen.”
“Oh yeah. Been working here for over twenty-five years, and I’ve seen quite a lot. It’s not over till the last golf ball falls in the hole.”
Marc found Sammy’s accent and friendly demeanor homey. He smiled, and with a nod, turned to leave. Then, a thought struck him. He turned back.
“Forget something, sir?” the attendant asked.
“Sammy, just curious. Why do you think there’s so much security about?”
Sammy stopped wiping the leftover soil from Jake’s clubs, looked at Marc and shrugged. “As you probably can guess, tournament rules regarding patrons viewing the tournament are pretty strict. They have to be so’s their actions don’t affect the quality and pace of play.” He then returned his focus to cleaning Jake’s clubs.
“I understand,” Marc said. “It just seems peculiar that, while the field of players has been reduced to about half since the cut, the number of officers patrolling the course appears to have almost doubled, and that’s just those you can see. I suspect there’s quite a few more mingling with the gallery not wearing uniforms.”
“Don’t know nothin bout that, sir. S’pose you’d have to ask one of them that wear the uniform.”
“Tried that. They’re pretty tight-lipped about their purpose.”
Sammy finished wiping Jake’s clubs and laid his cleaning cloth off to one side. He gave the entrance door a furtive glance and leaned in close to Marc. They were still alone in the storage room. “Understand, this didn’t come from me, but I heard tell that the United States Secretary of State will be on the premises tomorrow to watch the last day of the tournament. That’s probably one reason.”
“I’ve heard that, too. What’d you think could be another reason?”
Sammy seemed to think how to answer, “Ya’ll don’t live round here, do ya, sir.”
“No. I live in upstate New York, but right now, we’re staying in Aiken.”
“You ever hear of a place called The Savannah River Site? Around these parts, it’s known as SRS. Some even still calls it the Bomb Plant.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard a little about it. Guess it’s not far from Aiken, or Augusta for that matter,” Marc said.
Sammy’s eyes danced toward the entrance again. “Yes sir, they make bombs, and a whole lot more. They make parts for nuclear bombs. Something they call, Pits.”
“Pits? What’s a Pit?” Marc asked.
“Don’t really know much about them sir, just that they make a nuclear bomb explode, kinda like a triggering device, I guess.”
Marc thought a moment. “What does any of this have to do with the security at the golf tourname
nt?”
Marc noticed Sammy’s furrowed brow begin to glisten.
“I’ve probably said too much already, sir,” Sammy said as he recovered the cleaning cloth from the side of the counter.
“Sammy, we’re just talking here. Most of what you’ve told me, I’ve either read in the newspapers or heard from others,” Marc said, in an attempt to assuage Sammy’s fear of revealing something he thought may be confidential.
Sammy carefully placed the golf bag in a storage bin with Jake’s name stenciled at the top. He retrieved a handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped his brow while his eyes moved between the entrance and Marc still standing at the counter. “Rumor has it there’s a big meeting happening day after tomorrow, right after the tournament.”
“What kind of meeting?” Marc asked.
“The United States Secretary of State, the head of the Energy Department, the CEO at SRS and even somebody from Israel. I overheard a couple of those security guards talk’n about it.”
Marc hesitated as he thought about what he’d just heard, “You’d think the location of important government officials would be kept low-key. Surprised the guards wouldn’t have been more careful,” Marc said.
‘Mister, look at me. I’m just an old black man. I clean golf clubs and shine shoes. It’s all I do. Guess they just didn’t think – or care – that I was listening. Besides, they didn’t actually use their names. They used code names.”
“Code names?” Marc asked.
“Sure. You know. Secret Service code names. Fadeaway is for the United States Secretary of State and Sparky is for the Secretary of Energy. You can find them online.”
Marc grinned. Sammy was obviously wiser than he let on and admired him for his cleverness. “So, you think the reason that security is so high is because these government officials have included a few days of watching the tournament before heading over to the meeting at SRS on Monday?” Marc said, mostly to himself as he tried to make sense of it all.
Sammy had pulled a pair of golf shoes from under the counter and started brushing them with a well-worn shoe brush.
“Sir, I don’t think about nothing. I just do’s my job. Cleans golf clubs, polish golf shoes and stows ‘em for the next day,” Sammy said with a thick, melodious drawl.
Marc was again about to turn and leave when another thought crossed his mind. “Sammy, what do you know about a company called Apex Irrigation?”
Sammy again stopped what he was doing and gave Marc a look. “Apex? What about ‘em?”
“Just curious. I thought I saw one of their trucks on the course a couple days ago.”
“The only thing I knows ‘bout Apex is they work on the irrigation. Takes a lot of water and fertilizer to keep this grass as green as it is, especially for the tournament. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Have they always provided irrigation services to the course?”
Sammy hesitated and looked up. “No sir. They just started working here a couple months past. I guess they got a contract with the course, or something. Why? You think they got something to do with the security?”
“Like I said, just curious,” Marc thought about the previous evening’s trip to the Apex plant in Aiken. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the counter.
Sammy looked at the bill, “what’s that for, sir?”
“For cleaning my boy’s clubs, of course. See you around, Sammy.”
“Thank you sir, and tell your boy Sammy says, ‘Good luck.’”
“Thanks, Sammy, I’ll be sure to tell him.”
Marc was thinking about his conversation with Sammy as he walked past the tables where he had eaten breakfast just a few hours before. In the parking lot, Jake and Ann Marie were standing outside the SUV. Through the tinted windows, he could see Laura sitting in the passenger seat.
“Hey Daddy, thought you got lost,” Ann Marie said.
“No, just dropped Jake’s clubs off at the storage barn.” Marc did not mention his discussion with Sammy.
Chapter Eleven
The traffic was thick, but orderly, as Marc maneuvered the SUV through the lines of vehicles exiting the golf course. Laura sat stoically while Jake and Ann Marie, sitting close to each other in the back seat, chatted about things youngsters talk about. Their unintelligible banter was occasionally marked with giggling. Marc could see in his rear-view mirror that Jake had his arm around Ann Marie.
As they arrived at the outskirts of Aiken, Laura turned in her seat and said, “Jake, you do realize you are in seventh place in one of the most prestigious golf tournaments on the PGA tour.” Her tone was direct.
“Mom, thanks for telling me what I - and everyone else - already knows.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be taking this very seriously. Seems to me, you should be thinking more about your strategy for tomorrow rather than playing footsy with your girlfriend. After all, when will you ever get another chance to win the Monarch Golf Tournament?”
Jake removed his arm from around Ann Marie. “Mom, I appreciate everything you’ve done, and are doing for me, but Marc and I have a strategy and so far, it appears to be working pretty well. Whether or not there will be other girls is my business. I’m very happy with Ann Marie.”
Laura turned in her seat and resumed starring out at the road ahead. “People change their minds all the time, but assuming a place in history is forever.”
“Whatever,” Jake said.
As Marc was about to make a turn on a street leading back towards their hotel, the mother/son banter was suddenly interrupted as a dark colored sedan cut in front of the SUV, compelling Marc to slam on the brakes and veer to the right. Marc missed the car, but only because of his defensive driving skills. Out of frustration, he laid on the horn, but the offending vehicle quickly drove out of sight. ‘“Sorry about the horn, but I must say, people in the south seem to employ a unique driving technique. “Out of my way, y’all, I’m coming through.”’
“Could’ve had something to do with the cell phone that guy was holding to his ear,” Jake said.
“Southern hospitality. A hackneyed phrase that seems to have outlived modern reality,” Marc muttered.
“Not sure, but it looked like that car was carrying an out-of-state license plate,” Laura said. “I’m not familiar with license plates in the states, but I don’t think it was a South Carolina or a Georgia license plate.”
“Couldn’t tell, I was too busy just trying to avoid a crash without running off the road to notice,” Marc said.
By the time Marc found a parking space on a side street near the hotel, the incident with the reckless driver had taken a place on the back burner of his mind. “I know it’s still early, but anybody thought about dinner tonight?” he asked.
As the four climbed out of the SUV, Laura replied as if she’d been thinking about Marc’s question in advance. “You know, I think it’s time for a girl’s night out. It would give Ann Marie and me a chance to get to know each other a little better. This way the boys can discuss how they might want to handle their final day at the tournament.”
Marc was pleasantly surprised by Laura’s suggestion. The thought of not having to spend another evening sparring with her was a relief. He noticed, however, the look on Ann Marie’s face which told him she had other plans.
“I’m game,” Marc said. “How about it, Ann Marie?”
“Um, I don’t know. Why don’t we…”
But before Ann Marie could finish her thought, Jake jumped in, “Sounds fine, Mom. There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with Marc and no sense in boring you and Ann Marie talking about golf strategy. We can all meet up in the hotel lobby after dinner.”
“Great, it’s settled then. Jake and I will find something close by and the girls can take the car if they want to,” Marc said.
Ann Marie was noticeably silent.
“Without the men hanging around, this would be a swell time for us girls to get better acquainted, right, Ann Marie?” Laura sa
id with a practiced smile.
Ann Marie managed a nod. It was apparent she hadn’t quite recovered from Laura’s “footsy” quip. With a forced smile, she turned toward the hotel.
Marc handed Laura the car keys. “Call my cell when you think you’ll return to the hotel and we’ll meet you for a nightcap.”
“Fine, but remember, no alcohol for Jake. He needs to be at the top of his game tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mother,” Jake’s response was accompanied with an eye-roll.
Marc glanced at his watch, then at Jake. “Let’s meet in the lobby around five thirty. That should give us plenty of time to shower and change.”
“Sounds good, let’s do it,” Jake said.
Ann Marie and Marc stood outside and watched Jake and Laura disappear through the hotel’s front door.
“Thanks, Dad,” Ann Marie said. Her tone had a disapproving quality. Marc knew she was unhappy with the arrangements he had made for the evening.
“I’m sorry, but Laura is right. Jake and I need to talk about tomorrow. If you’re as serious about this boy as I think you are, then this would be a good time to bond with his mother.”
“Bond? Really?”
Marc sighed, “I know, she can be difficult, but she is Jake’s mother. At this point in her life, besides her business interests, he’s about all she has. I think beneath that crusty exterior, she deeply cares about her son, and I think she likes you as well.”
Ann Marie appeared to give her father’s comment some thought. “Guess you’re more optimistic than I am.”
Hope springs eternal, Marc mused and headed toward his room.
After showering, Marc changed into a casual set of evening clothes. Jake was watching a replay of the tournament highlights on the room’s TV.
“So, did you make the news tonight?” Marc asked.
“Naw, they’ve been concentrating on the top pairings.”
“Big names at the top of the leaderboard always make for a good story. Why don’t you go ahead and take your shower, Jake? I’ll watch and see if they mention your name.”
Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery Page 8