by A. W. Gray
“I don’t care what’s on the list,” said Percy Hardin. “We’ve had a standing one-thirty tee time since time immemorial, and if I have to see the head pro about it I’m going to get the board of governors involved.” He took off his sunglasses, held them by a sidepiece, and brushed the lenses across the front of his pink Remert shirt. Hardin’s eyes were pale blue. The fish-white skin around his eyes contrasted with his tan. Visible beyond him, the clipped Bermuda of Number One fairway stretched one-fifty from the tee, then dipped into a swell. A burly fat man in a white knit shirt posed between the members’ tee markers. He gripped the shaft of his driver as though he was strangling a chicken, then lunged at his teed-up ball as though he was afraid it was going to run away from him. The clubhead made uneven contact; the ball sliced weakly down the right side of the fairway and disappeared into a grove of trees. The fat guy teed up another one and prepared to take a Mulligan. Further away, parked on the concrete path, two electric carts sat one in front of the other. Big leather pro-line bags were strapped to the rear of the carts; the bags held Ping, Titleist, Wilson Staff, and Hogan irons and woods. Colonial members went first class; the only exceptions were their golf swings and their attitudes toward the assistant pros.
Joe Eddie Moore had drawn starter’s duty under protest; the Colonial assistants called the detail their “day in the barrel.” He was seated at a folding table to one side of the tee. Spread out before him was the day’s list of starting times; Hardin and his playing partner leaned over the table as Joe Eddie studied the sheets. Joe Eddie was a tall, lanky youngster of twenty-two. The previous spring he’d led TCU to second place in the Southwest Conference Tournament, and at the moment he was wondering whether having a shot at the tour was worth putting up with pricks like Percy Hardin. Joe Eddie tried a little diplomacy. “The pro’s off today, Mr. Hardin. Normally the club’s closed on Monday, and the only reason we’re out here today is to let you guys get in a few licks before the pro-am. An off-day like this we don’t keep the regular tee times. You were supposed to call in and make a reservation.” He checked his watch. “After two the course is reserved for the pros to take practice rounds.”
“Well nobody told us that,” Hardin said. “How about you, Sam? Anybody tell you that?”
Hardin’s playing partner scratched his pot belly and shifted his weight. “Hell, no. Sounds like a bunch of shit to me, treating the paying members like this.”
“It’s been posted at the register in the pro shop for more than a month,” Joe Eddie said. “But if you fellas will wait a minute, I’ll slip you in between this bunch on the tee and the next group.” And then, Joe Eddie thought, listen to the next group bitch. I should have been a beach bum or something.
“Well, if that’s all you can do,” Hardin said, “that’s all you can do. But I’m taking it up with somebody.” He reached over and tore a corner from one of the time sheets, took a pencil from the pile beside the score cards, and prepared to write. “Exactly what time is it?” Hardin said.
Joe Eddie squinted at his watch. “One-twenty-seven.”
“Okay. Now, what I’m writing down is, that Sam and I were right here on the first tee at one-twenty-seven, and you folks had given away our regular tee time.” Hardin finished his scribbling and pushed the torn paper over in front of the assistant pro. “Sign this. Now when I talk to the board of governors I’ll have proof of what time we were here. You got any problem with that?”
Joe Eddie hesitated, pencil in hand. What the hell, he needed the job. For the time being, anyway. “I don’t guess I do, Mr. Hardin,” he said, and signed his name.
“I don’t guess you’d better,” Hardin said, folding the slip of paper and putting it away, “if you know what’s good for you.”
What an asshole, Joe Eddie Moore thought.
5
On Monday nights, Lackey liked to take Nancy to Big Ed’s down in Haltom City. There he could have a few beers while sitting close to Nancy in a booth, tickle her leg every once in a while, and crane his neck occasionally to watch the baseball game on the TV, which was mounted on a platform high above the bar. Lackey was a nut about baseball and argued all the time with Ronnie Ferias over whether paying Jose Canseco and guys like him all that money was ridiculous. Ronnie always said, “Why pay the guy three million a year when he’d do the same thing for a hundred thousand? What’s the guy going to do, be president of General Motors or something?” But Lackey took the opposite view, thinking that it wasn’t so much what Jose Canseco did as the number of fans that he drew to the ballpark. Tonight Big Ed’s was extra crowded because the Rangers were playing. There was only one empty stool at the bar, and the ceiling exhausts were chugging like crazy to get rid of the smoke. There was action on both pool tables, and rows of quarters were lined up on the rails over the coin slots. The quarters belonged to people who were challenging the winners. Sometimes there’d be an argument over who was next in line for the pool game, and Big Ed would have to lumber over from behind the bar to straighten things out. As usual, the Rangers were stinking it up in front of a national audience.
“That’s three,” Lackey said, settling down after raising up for a look at the TV. “Three errors in five innings. They don’t play that way behind Ryan. They know the schedule way in advance. Looks to me like every time they’re going to be on national television, Valentine would go with Nolan Ryan.”
“Go where?” Nancy said. She shifted in the booth, brushing her olive-complexioned leg against Lackey’s thigh. She wore baggy thigh-length shorts and an oversize green cotton shirt whose tail hung loosely about her hips. Lackey liked that about Nancy, that she dressed neatly but modestly, didn’t go around bars in shorts that showed the cheeks of her ass.
“Pitch the guy. You know, put him on the mound. Looks like on national TV they’d want to put their best foot forward, and lately Nolan Ryan’s the only foot they got.”
“He’s the guy with five million strikeouts or something,” Nancy said. “Nice-looking guy, he’s always on, telling kids to say no to drugs.”
“Five thousand. Three hundred wins. That’s more wins than the Rangers’ll probably get in the next five years.” Lackey took a pull from his Pearl longneck. He was drinking slowly so he wouldn’t get too much of a buzz. The bottle was half full and the beer was getting warm.
Nancy was having plain club soda with a lime wedge. She stirred with a swizzle stick; the liquid swirled in the glass and the ice tinkled. “Well, if he’s that good,” she said, “why doesn’t he pitch every night?”
Up and down the bar, men in jeans and women with beehive hairdos hunkered over their beers and grumbled about the way the Rangers were playing defense. If the Rangers won, they’d all hang around until two o’clock closing time and party. If the Rangers lost, the men were likely to go out cruising in Haltom City, catch a biker or two on the prowl and try to whip the bikers’ asses for them.
“You can’t pitch every night,” Lackey said. “He’d throw his arm out.”
“Out where?” Nancy said.
“He’d ruin his shoulder muscles. Hey, you check on the furniture?”
Nancy lowered her gaze, long dark lashes moving downward as she encircled her glass with both hands. “Yeah, I did. I don’t know, Lackey, going in so much debt.”
“Not with this bathhouse job. I’ll pay cash for it. What, a couch and a couple of chairs?”
“Three thousand dollars,” she said. “And you’re counting your chickens before you’ve even started the job. Plus there’s your tuition we’re going to pay.”
Lackey ran his thumbnail down the side of his bottle, splitting the wet label in half. He guessed that they weren’t supposed to get along on every little thing. “I’ve got twenty-one hours,” he said. “I don’t know I’m going to have time for college.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“Sure. Sure, yeah, I just don’t know that a degree’s going to help me any. Like, „Look, lady, I’m raising the price of your sheetrock „ca
use I’m an educated installer.’” He glanced over to where a guy in a plaid work shirt was hunched over his cue stick, lining up a shot. When it came to college, Lackey never felt as though he and Nancy were talking on the same level. “The army was paying for those courses I took,” he said. “That was okay, but if the money’s coming out of my own pocket I don’t know that it’d be worth it.”
“It’ll mean something someday,” Nancy said. “When you’re talking to businessmen.”
“If you’d go ahead and move in with me, we could start banking your check and have the tuition money by the time we got married.”
“Sure. And wake up some night with a couple of my uncles over there to beat you up. Mama’s already got people driving by my apartment at two or three in the morning to make sure my car’s there and your pickup isn’t.” Nancy spoke with just the barest trace of a Spanish accent, a slight rolling of her r’s that one wouldn’t notice unless they were listening closely. She had a wealth of glossy black hair cut into bangs which overhung her forehead and an elegant neck like Audrey Hepburn’s. Her nose was slim, her lips full, and her light olive complexion didn’t require much makeup. “You don’t want the Cuellars stirred up,” she said. “Make Pancho Villa look like the Cisco Kid’s buddy.”
Until he’d begun going out with Nancy, Lackey had never dated a woman who couldn’t spend the night since he’d joined the army, and having to climb out of bed to take Nancy home was a pain in the ass at times. On the other hand he sort of liked it that she hadn’t done a lot of sleeping around. That Mexican-American families were so conservative took some getting used to; the first time Lackey had taken Nancy over to his own folks’ house, Lackey’s old man had called him aside and asked if that was any good. Lackey said to Nancy, “I talked to a guy today that thought you might be rich.”
“He hasn’t seen my paycheck,” Nancy said.
“He was a banker over at Ridglea. I said, „Cuellar,’ he said, „El Chico?’”
“I wish.”
“I don’t. We’d have to eat tacos every meal.”
“To tell you the truth,” Nancy said, “they could be cousins. One El Chico brother is named Gilbert, mama had a cousin named Gilbert in Tampico and a few years ago she called El Chico’s corporate offices to try and find out if there was a connection. It hurt her feelings that nobody ever called her back. What were you doing at Ridglea Bank?”
“This rich guy, the one with the bathhouse job, that’s his banker. The guy sent me over there to talk about interim financing. They wouldn’t even talk to me, but the rich guy’s wife went ahead and gave me a check. I took it back to Ridglea Bank and cashed it.”
Nancy blinked. “Is she good-looking?”
“Huh? Is who good-looking?”
“The rich lady.”
Lackey thought, How „bout that, huh? Not, „How much of a check?’ or, „When do you start on the job?’ Just, „Is she good-looking?’ Women were something else. “She’s okay,” Lackey said. “Nothing to write home about.” And pictured Nancy after she’d gotten a load of Marissa Hardin, Nancy’s eyes widening as she said, “I thought she was nothing to write home about.” Women never forgot what a guy told them.
“I’ll bet she’s got a tan,” Nancy said. “Laying around by the pool. How old is she?”
“I can’t tell. Maybe thirty-five, about my age.”
“Probably pretty firm,” Nancy said. “Those women over there get a lot of massages and spend half the day at President’s First Lady. At thirty-five I probably won’t look so good.”
“That’s only ten years from now,” Lackey said. “You won’t look any different than you do right now. Forty, forty-five, that’s when it begins to show.” He was picturing the crow’s feet around Marissa Hardin’s eyes and thinking that Nancy was right, that Hardin woman got a lot of exercise. Nancy had the kind of shape that wouldn’t go downhill, even after a couple of babies.
“Are you going to be working around her house with just her there?” Nancy said.
“There’s servants. This gardener guy, I met him, this gardener doesn’t speak any English.”
“Run, you bastard,” a guy at the bar yelled, and a couple of the pool shooters edged up for a look at the TV. Lackey rose halfway up and turned his head. On the screen, against a background of pale green Astroturf, the Oakland shortstop glided to his left, knocked a hot grounder down, scooped the ball up, and tossed a floater toward second. The second-sacker, legs flying, caught the toss barehanded, then vaulted over the sliding runner and pegged a clothesline over to first. The relay got Pete Incaviglia by half a step. Incaviglia trotted to the dugout to retrieve his glove as though he didn’t give a shit; the double play had ended the inning. The guy at the bar said loudly, “Choker,” while the beer drinkers and pool players groaned as one.
Lackey sat down and swigged from his beer. “Lazy bastard. Guy’s got all that talent.”
“Who?” Nancy was looking toward the pool tables.
“Pete Incaviglia,” Lackey said.
“He’s a baseball player,” Nancy said. “I guess her husband’s gone all day.”
“Mrs. Hardin?”
“Of course Mrs. Hardin. What’s her first name?”
“Marissa.” Lackey winced. He’d come up with the name too quickly; he should have pretended to think it over.
“So you’re already using her first name,” Nancy said. “When’s she having you over for a swim?”
“Look, Nancy. It’s the way I’m making my living, doing home improvements. The woman of the house is usually home. Plus my whole crew’s going to be there.”
“Those convicts? You can tell them to take a long lunch.”
“Hey, what is this? I built those cabinets in Mrs. Turner’s kitchen all by myself. You didn’t say anything about that.”
“Mrs. Turner’s got five kids and lives in a two bedroom,” Nancy said. “She’s not laying around by the pool crooking her finger.”
“Well, you go down there every day with all those lawyers. I don’t say anything about that. That guy Brantley, I bet you spend a lot of time with him, taking dictation.”
“Mr. Brantley’s sixty,” Nancy said.
“So? That’s when all those guys start looking for a little young stuff.”
Nancy picked up her glass and sipped through the swizzle straw. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were shooting sparks.
“Well, isn’t it?” Lackey said.
“Isn’t what?”
“Isn’t that about the age when they start to like „em young?”
“Oh, I suppose,” Nancy said. “His wife’s thirty-eight. About the same age as Mrs. Hardin. Excuse me, Marissa.”
“Look.”
“And while we’re on the subject, yes, Mr. Brantley’s got a young wife, and Mr. Brantley happens to live over on the west side. And Mr. Brantley’s wife is sleeping around when he’s out of town. It’s common knowledge. So don’t tell me.” Nancy folded her arms.
“Whose common knowledge?” Lackey said. “Bunch of women talking.”
“And knowing. One of her—lovers I guess you’d say, he’s a young lawyer they just hired this year from the University of Houston. Guy’s about twenty-two.”
“Sounds like he’s more your speed,” Lackey said.
“No. No, my speed’s a guy going over on the west side to work so nobody over here will know what’s going on.”
Lackey’s beer held only a couple of inches in the bottle; he thought about going to the bar and ordering a fresh one, then changed his mind. A couple of times in the service he’d gotten rowdy when he’d had a few too many, and the way this conversation with Nancy was going he didn’t want anything stirring him up. “Well,” he said, “your speed is also a guy trying to make some good money so we can have a few nice things, buy some furniture and maybe take a honeymoon. That’s mainly what I’m up to.” He studied the table, then had a thought that was funny to him, hesitated, then couldn’t resist saying, “Course, I guess she is p
retty good-looking at that. She’ll be easy on the eyes, working over there every day.” And then he waited for Nancy to really let him have it. He wanted to grin but kept a straight face; Nancy would get over it in a little while, and after they’d had a little spat she went really wild when they had sex together.
Just then a guy at the bar—the same guy, Lackey recalled, who’d called Pete Incaviglia a choker—said loudly, “Well how about that?”
Lackey turned his head to see what was going on in the ballgame. But the TV was showing a news break, the front of a home, a bunch of cops standing around, paramedics wheeling a shrouded gurney out and lifting it down the steps. Some kind of stabbing or something. Lackey relaxed, started to look away, then did a double-take as the paramedics wheeled the gurney around a fountain and in between two tall brick spires. The scene shifted to a newswoman interviewing a paunchy silver-haired guy. Lackey blinked. Hell, wasn’t that . . .
Sure, the same guy who’d been riding in the limo that morning, the guy who’d picked up Percy Hardin for the golf. The guy looked really serious answering the newswoman’s questions. Lackey went up to the bar and said to no one in particular, “What’s going on?”
Big Ed leaned a beefy elbow on the counter. “Some guy’s wife getting croaked. The Rangers finally got a man on third, they’re showing this shit. Can you believe it?”
Lackey went back to the booth, slid in beside Nancy and studied the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy said.
“I don’t know for sure,” Lackey said. “We might’ve just lost the bathhouse job. I’ll have to check on it.”
6
There was a problem with three guys nailing up roof board: Only two men could work at a time, one holding the board in place and another driving the nails, while the third guy sat on his ass and watched what the other two were doing. So, Lackey Ferguson thought as he stood on the ground by the ladder, hands on hips, how come there’s not four guys working up there? He adjusted his hard hat and climbed the ladder—one rung near the top felt as though it might buckle under his weight, and Lackey made a mental note to get the ladder repaired or buy a new one—then crawled up the slanted framing to where the three workmen were doing the work of two.