Tuesday's Caddie

by Jack Waddell

  "What's that?"

  "Well, Mr. Kellogg raises mostly Arabians, you know? But lately he's been boarding for some thoroughbred owners who've started to train there. You see they're running down in Tijuana at that new Agua Caliente track. A couple of the owners from up north have come down to get closer to the action. And I been watchin' 'em."

  Conor struck a match and lit a cigarette. Squinting through the smoke he asked, "So what is that to mean?"

  "Means I'm on to something. Listen, Connie, one of the owners is Sid Harvey. Snuffy Jones is the trainer. Knew those two up at Tanforan. And what I know is this: they're juicin' one of their horses."

  "Juice?"

  "You know, boost 'em. Give 'em some dope."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Been watching the workouts. They got a horse named Copper Cal – a big ol' bay. Strong but slow. Couldn't run his way past a trolley sittin' at a stop. Well, the other day I put a watch on him. Ran a mile and a quarter in two minutes eight. That's Man o' War speed. He can't be doing such a thing without help."

  "So?"

  "So they're gonna run him soon down at Caliente. I figure they're just waiting for a big enough stakes race so they can clean up."

  "I'm still not to be understanding."

  "I need your help, Connie. See, I can't be laying a bet with a bookie up here 'cause word'll get around. And I can't be going down there myself to place a bet. People could spot me and connect me with the con. I gotta stay clean. I want to get work down there… move Mary and all to San Diego. Start over there with the racing I like."

  "Mary mentioned that to me, she did."

  "Yeah, well, I figure this is the best way to get a stake so we can make the move. I'm to be hoping you can help us out. Get yourself down there and put my money down when he's running. Of course you can put your own money down. I don't care. No way he's going off at less than ten to one. It could be a big payday for us. What do you say?"

  Conor looked down and took another drag on his cigarette. Then he took a long pull on his gin. He looked up. "How much are you to be putting down?"

  "I got a hundred saved."

  "Is Mary to be knowing of this?"

  "No. And I don't want her to. I want to surprise her when the boat comes in."

  "I don't know, Michael. Sounds to be risky. He could come up lame, break down, get beat by another nag with even more dope in him. And I've got something coming up in a couple weeks that I can't be missing. When do you think they'll enter him?"

  "A week, ten days the way they're working him."

  "I don't know."

  "Come on Connie. I'm not asking you to put up your own money, Just get down there for the race and make my bet. I'll pay the train fare and whatever you need. I really gotta have somebody I trust. It's gonna be a lot of money you're to be bringing back."

  Conor stubbed out his cigarette and took another drink as he considered the request. "All right. I'll think about it. Let me know when the horse is running. If I can make it I will. But don't be counting on me yet. I have a lot in front of me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's to be a big stakes golf tournament over at Biarritz. I've been put on a team. I owe it to someone to be ready. And you know I am having to work every day I can."

  "Golf!" Michael snorted. "You still to be playing that foolish game?"

  Conor laughed. "Aye, I am. And I'd rather take my chances with a ball and a club than stake anything on a doped up nag."

  "Ha! Well, cousin, I have to tell you that horse is a lot better looking than you and that's where my money is to be going."

  Conor smiled and shook his head. "Suit yourself. How about another drink before we're to order up some food?"

  "That's the best thing you're to be saying this whole night."

  (back to top)

  Chapter 12

  Money

  Tuesday, May 6, 1930

  The only thing warm about Conor's walk to the golf course this morning lay in his thoughts. An overnight shower had left the air damp and chilly with a foggy mist steaming from the ground. The streetlights were still lit making the wet gravel shoulder sparkle in the yellow patches beneath them. Hunched against the cold, footsteps crunching in a steady rhythm against the stones, he reflected on all that could be and all that could not.

  He had enjoyed his practice round with Billy the day before. Had they different lives they could be a great friends. But as it was they relished each other's company and golfing skill. That they were so evenly matched made their game full of banter and talk of strategies for different holes. They talked about their chances in the Calcutta and agreed there were but a handful of teams that could compete with them. Graves hadn't yet discussed what it would mean to either should they finish high enough to cash in, but both knew it meant money, perhaps substantial money, especially if they could win. And, for Conor, the money might mean he could find a way to be more than a caddie again.

  He desperately wanted to be more than a caddie. Annie Burke had come to consume his dreams. He wanted her more than he could bear. She wasn't just the kind of woman he wanted, she was the woman he wanted. He couldn’t stop trying to conjure a dream that could bring them together, a dream he could make come true. The dreams would all begin with what he knew to be real. What he felt for her was real. The way his heart leapt at her glance was real. What he saw in her eyes and had felt in her touch was real. From those realities would spring the fantasies. He would find a way to make money. He would become more than a poor Irish immigrant. She would leave her husband. He would woo her and win her. They would be together at last, she in his arms.

  That was the way all his dreams ended, she in his arms. And that thought warmed him all the rest of the way to Biarritz Country Club.

  * * *

  Conor was the first caddie into the yard. He left his room earlier than normal anticipating the day and hoping he could get in a loop before the round with Meg Burke and Annie. He always needed money, but now more than ever. Money was the ticket to his dreams. He sat on the bench lost in his thoughts for some time before Gino swung open the top of the Dutch door and saw him there.

  "Hey, Mick," he called, "Come over here a second, wanna talk to you."

  Conor rose and walked to the door. "Morning, Cap'n," he offered. "You have something for me this early?"

  "No, something else." He waved Conor closer. "Listen, I got another goddamn phone call for you after you left. It was Robert Graves. He told me what he has you and Billy Compton up to."

  "Lord!" Conor let out, surprised the secret had been shared.

  "Yeah, well, I think it's great. I'd love to see one of my monkeys from the yard put it to some of those rich bastards. So I'm gonna level with you. Graves wants me to take care of you. He wants you playing more than lugging bags. So you're on the payroll as of today – five dollars a day. But you gotta show up late in the day every day and play a few holes – you know, practice – until it gets dark. I'll help sneak you out. And you gotta play Mondays with Billy. Of course, this is all just to the Calcutta you understand."

  Conor was stunned. He would have more cash than he'd had in months. He'd be playing every day. "Really, Cap'n?" he asked. "He said that?"

  "I wouldn't be saying it now if he didn't, would I? So I want you to get outta here. Go get some breakfast or something and don't show up 'til five or so. I don't want you around here where members can see you and ask for you. Capisce?"

  Conor suddenly panicked. "But, Cap'n! I have a loop this afternoon. You know? Mrs. Graves, Mrs. Burke? They're to be expecting me."

  "I'll get 'em somebody else. Don't worry about it. I just told you, you don’t have to caddie right now."

  "No, really, I must. And ‘tis Mrs. Graves. I can’t be showing disrespect to the family, not after what they’re to be doing for me,” Conor said pleading hard now.

  Gino considered the request carefully. He too was on Grave’s payroll through the Calcutta. He had specific instructions. Conor was t
o play and practice, not caddie. Still, it was Mrs. Graves. And she had put in a request for Conor last week.

  “All right, all right. What time are they playing today? I don’t have my tee sheet yet.”

  “Three o’clock,” Conor replied quickly.

  “All right, then, here’s what you do,” Gino ordered. “Bring your clubs and stow them here. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em. But don’t show up ‘til the last minute. And if Mrs. Graves asks, you’re going to be going somewhere to practice after the round. Got it?”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll do that.”

  “Yes you will. ‘Cause I want you to practice something after that round. Play as many holes as you can. Or whatever. But I want you out here working on whatever it is you do to get ready to play this stupid game.”

  “No, no. I’ll do that. I can honest be about that. I will practice.”

  “Good. In fact, go ahead and tell her you’re going to be practicing tonight. Just don’t tell her it’s here.”

  “I understand. I will do as you say, Cap’n.” With that Conor turned and started toward the gate. Then he heard Gino’s voice behind him.

  “Mick, wait a minute. Come back here.”

  Conor stopped, turned and returned to the door.

  “Here, take this.” Gino extended his hand, his forefinger creasing a ten-dollar bill lengthwise into a vee. “This is for yesterday and today per our Mr. Graves.”

  “Thank you!” Conor exclaimed. “’Tis to good use I can be putting this!”

  Just then the gate opened and Blackie and Whitey entered, or tried to. Arm-in-arm they had trouble negotiating the portal seeing as how they’d come straight from a night of doing whatever it was they did to begin the day as drunk as they were. There was a ruffling and contorting of their bodies and some mumblings and curses before they made it through the gate and then staggered to the bench where they collapsed and almost instantly fell asleep still arm-in-arm.

  Gino shook his head. “I’m not paid enough,” he muttered. “Mick, come closer here.”

  Conor leaned across the shelf of the door to better hear Gino’s whisper.

  “One more thing. I want you playing as long in the day as you can. And so does Mr. Graves. But if it gets too long, there’s a place to stay here so you don’t have to make the hike home. You know about the Bogey House?”

  “No, what’s that?” Conor asked, unsure where Gino was going.

  “It’s a bungalow up the lane just beyond the greenkeeper’s barn – off to the right as you walk up to Valley Spring Road. Members use it for various things, most of them no good. If you decide to stay there look in the window next to the door. If there’s one candle or two burning in the window walk on by. Those candles mean there’s somebody inside. If you do find it empty, light one candle in the window. Nobody will bother you.”

  “What do two candles mean?”

  “Means there’s somebody inside that would be okay with somebody else joining them. So don’t you be lighting two. The key's under the mat. There's usually some food in the kitchen, too, in case you need to eat something. Just don't make yourself a pig. Lay off the booze. And get out of there before daybreak. I don’t want no members finding a caddie staying in there. Would mean my job more as likely. Plus the green crew starts rolling in around five. So you got that, Irish? Just one candle?”

  “Aye. I do. And I’m much obliged, Cap’n.”

  “Good. Now get outta here.”

  Conor turned to leave. When he got to the gate he ran into Dogface just coming through. “Where you goin’?” Dogface demanded as Conor moved to get past him.

  Conor just shook his head and moved by. Dogface looked to Gino. “What’s that about?” he wondered as Conor closed the gate behind him.

  “Nothing to you. Now go sit down.”

  * * *

  Annie was having a difficult morning. She began by working on the screenplay, skipping past the love scene to write the one about the characters’ recriminations the next day. She didn’t like what she wrote so she stopped and cast about for something else to occupy her mind.

  A short stack of unopened mail on the corner of her desk caught her eye and she started going through it. There was a letter from her mother telling her about all the news in Davenport, how her father was feeling better after a bout with a miserable spring cold, and wondering if Annie was ever going to find time to come back for a visit. There was a letter from her Aunt Louise in Chicago wondering how Annie was doing out there in California and hoping how she could one day make the trip out to see her. There also were a couple of department store bills and a bank statement.

  The bank statement was disturbing. Franklin had not deposited the funds last month that he was supposed to and the balances in Annie’s checking and savings accounts were low. She would have to talk to Franklin about that. Of course, talking about anything with Franklin was distasteful lately but money was always the most distasteful topic of all. She couldn’t quite understand why he found it so difficult to give her the money they’d agreed on. The advance on the screenplay had been substantial and she knew there had been several subsequent performance payments as she’d completed and submitted portions of the screenplay.

  She folded the statement and put it next to the typewriter so she would remember to bring it up the next time Franklin showed up at the house. That thought was somewhat disturbing as well. Franklin had been absent more than usual of late and when he did come to the house he stayed only long enough to exchange dirty clothes for clean and have a drink or two. That wasn’t all bad as far as Annie was concerned because she had no real desire to have anything to do with him. But still she wondered what he was doing with his girlfriend, his “L,” or even if he had moved on to someone else. Her circumstances were tenuous at best and all were tied to this man she had come to abhor.

  Annie poured herself some coffee from the service the maid had left on the table by the window then moved to the divan and sat down. The atlas was still opened to the map of Ireland. She sipped her coffee and gazed at the map. Her thoughts drifted to her afternoon round of golf with Meg Graves. She reminded herself again that she would have to be extremely careful this time. Then she let herself wander among her thoughts of Conor.

  * * *

  Conor had been at a loss with what to do with himself that day. He had walked out of the hills and back into Glendale where his boarding house was because he would have to fetch his clubs. He decided he had shopping to do with the money Graves had given him so he made his way to South Central Avenue and walked into a haberdashery with a gold leaf sign above the window appropriately proclaiming the store to be Gold's Tailoring. Once inside a clerk wearing a green eyeshade, glasses halfway down his nose, and a tape measure around his neck came out from behind a counter casting an appraising eye at Conor’s worn tweed jacket and frayed shirt collar.

  “May I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “Aye, I’m to be needing some clothes,” Conor replied. “Some shirts, some trousers perhaps, and maybe a couple o’ ties.”

  “I should say. That would be obvious,” the clerk fairly sneered hearing the accent and giving Conor again the once over. “And what makes you think you have the funds necessary to make such a purchase?”

  Conor bristled, then angered. He’d been treated like this before at two other stores he'd tried. “Aye, I know I do. But none for you.” With that he spun around and strode out the store as the clerk smirked behind him. He was tired of being poor, looking poor and being treated like trash. He resolved again to make something of himself, make enough money to buy the whole store if he wished. He would do that.

  He stopped when he got out to the sidewalk and looked around. He saw a barbershop. He would get a proper haircut and a shave. Annie might notice that.

  (back to top)

  Chapter 13

  Third Round

  Tuesday, May 6, 1930

  It had taken Annie an inordinate amount of time to get ready for her round of golf. She w
ent into her closet three different times pulling out clothes, laying them on the bed, shuffling the blouses with the skirts then standing back to appraise the different combinations. Finally she settled on a shear white rayon blouse with small yellow tulips embroidered around the collar and cuffs. With a camisole beneath it she wouldn't have to wear a brassiere, something she found hot and restrictive playing golf. The skirt was yellow linen. She liked the way it hugged her hips and bottom before flaring slightly to the hem below the knee. She also liked the idea of showing a little leg today.

  Makeup was also a production, and that was very unusual given she typically wore very little of it. Sitting at her vanity she tweezed her eyebrows, curled her unusually long lashes and applied a touch of mascara. She followed with a dusting of face powder and the slightest hint of rouge on her cheeks. The first lipstick she applied was Chinese red. She eyed it critically in the mirror and then blotted it off with a tissue. Two tries later she settled on a coral pink.

  She decided not to wear a hat today. She would keep the top down on her car on the way to the course. It was to be warm that day and she wanted to catch any breeze through her hair. She parted it in the middle with a comb then brushed it down straight to the base of her neck. Then she used clips on either side to pin it back behind her ears. She smiled to herself thinking she was starting to look a little like the hood ornament on her car, just with shorter hair.

  Finally she clipped on a pair of small pearl earrings set in a delicate gold filigree pattern that seemed to echo the tiny embroidered tulips on her blouse. She looked into the mirror turning her head slowly from side to side. She smiled. She was ready.

  * * *

  Conor slipped into the caddie yard carrying his clubs at exactly two thirty. Pissquick and Stovepipe looked up from their card game, their eyes following him as he walked to the far corner and propped the bag up next to the umbrella.

  "What the hell are those for?" Pissquick demanded recognizing Conor's bag. "This ain't Monday ya know."

  Before Conor could answer Gino's voice boomed from the door. "And you shut the hell up! Ain't none of your concern. But if you must know Mick here is movin' and needs a place to keep them for a couple weeks. Ain't that right, Mick?"