The Greatest Course That Never Was

by J. Michael Veron

  As I got in and drove toward Moonlight’s house, I had no idea what lay in store for me.

  Chapter 6

  THE SMALL WHITE frame house needed paint, and a couple of its shutters were missing. The yard needed mowing, too. Its condition was no worse than its neighbors, however. This was obviously a part of Augusta that had seen better times.

  I didn’t see any house number, but this was where my friends at Phil’s Bottle Shop had told me Moonlight’s house would be. It matched the description as well. Still, I wanted to be sure before I approached anyone who had earned the vivid description they had given Moonlight.

  The houses on each side had the numbers immediately before and after the address I had been given. This had to be the place. I pulled over to the curb, stopped my car, and got out. Before starting up the walk to the front porch, I righted a garbage can that had been turned over on its side. Climbing the three steps to the porch, I noticed several days’ worth of newspapers lying near the front door. The mailbox next to the doorbell was overstuffed as well. No lights were on in the house, and there was no sign of activity. Even though there was an ancient-looking Ford Falcon in the driveway, it was apparent to me that whoever lived here had been gone for several days.

  I was inclined to turn around and go back to my car. Still, I thought I should at least ring the bell, so I did. Even outside, I could hear its bright sound within the house. I waited a few moments, but heard nothing to indicate any activity in response. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I detected the curtains moving in the window.

  I began feeling a little uncomfortable, almost creepy. At that moment I realized that, even though this was a Saturday afternoon, I didn’t see anyone else on the entire block. No one mowing their lawn, sitting on the front porch, visiting with neighbors, or engaging in any other typical weekend activity. There were no kids playing ball anywhere.

  Maybe this was a crack house, I thought. Maybe the boys at Phil’s were setting me up for something unpleasant. For the second time that day, I seriously questioned my own judgment at ignoring possible signs of danger while trying to find Moonlight.

  That’s when I heard a sound directly behind the door. Someone was removing the chain from the latch. Then I heard a bolt slide, and the door opened just wide enough for me to realize that the person on the other side was holding a double-barreled shotgun.

  I jumped back quickly. A voice crackled from behind the door. “Who are ya’ an’ whaddya want?” Before I could answer, the voice added impatiently, “C’mon, speak into my microphone.”

  Although the shotgun wasn’t pointed at me, it was close enough to start an adrenaline flow that doubled my heart rate in an instant. I immediately regretted that I had not rehearsed some kind of introduction that would have explained my presence. If this was Moonlight, and he was half as crazy as they said, I should have prepared something to announce my approach.

  I would like to claim that I was too brave to consider backing away, but the truth is that I was frozen where I stood. I couldn’t have moved my legs if I had wanted to. I decided to speak even though I wasn’t sure any sound would come out. “Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble. My name is Charley Hunter. I’m a lawyer. I drove here from Atlanta, and I’m looking for someone they call Moonlight.”

  For a second, I thought it might have been a mistake to disclose my occupation. Lawyers aren’t the most popular people on the planet, and whoever was holding this shotgun might have thought that I was in season.

  When there was no immediate answer, I added nervously, “I don’t mean to bother you, but I was told a fella named Moonlight might live around here. And that’s all I’m here for.”

  After what seemed like an awfully long time, the door slowly began to open a bit more. I prepared to duck or jump if the gun barrel moved abruptly, but it slowly swung in the other direction. Then I saw a figure step from the shadows into the light.

  The first thing I noticed was that he was very old. Short, too. Bald on top, with disorganized wisps of hair sticking out oddly from the sides of a Ben Hogan-style cap. He was dressed in an old, dirty, short-sleeved, plaid cotton shirt and beltless double-knit pants—the kind that golfers wore during the disco era. They were too short and revealed a pair of old running shoes with laces knotted in several places. I now know that you can take in a whole lot really quickly at a time like that.

  The little man finally spoke again. “Who sent ya’ here?” That’s when I noticed a faint accent. I couldn’t tell what it was.

  “Some of your friends over at Phil’s.” I knew they weren’t exactly his friends, but it was no time to split hairs.

  He put the shotgun down. I felt my heart rate slow appreciably.

  “Well, if they sent ya’ here, they must’ve decided ya’ were okay.” His stern expression softened. “Hope I didn’t scare ya’ too much. Ya’ can’t be too sure in this neighborhood.” Then a slight smile appeared. “It wasn’t loaded, anyway.”

  Neither are my bowels anymore, I thought to myself. At the same time, something clicked inside my head, and I recognized the traces of a Scottish accent, its sharp edges dulled by years of life in the States. The little man gave out a funny kind of laugh that was part giggle and part cough. In an apparent reference to my chinos, polo shirt, and Weejuns, he said, “We don’t get too many come through here lookin’ like you. Thought ya’ might be from the government or somethin’.”

  I forced a laugh in an attempt to get us on friendlier terms. “No, sir, I’m not from the Government. In fact, no one has ever mistaken me for that. I don’t know if…”

  “Well, step back a little bit so I can get a better look at ya.’” His tone was less threatening. I stepped away from the door. He had propped his gun against the wall by then and had walked out onto the porch.

  “Now, ya’ better tell me ag’in what you’re doin’ in this neighborhood.”

  I looked him straight in the eyes. “I’ve been getting some anonymous letters in the mail that I can’t figure out. Someone has sent me a couple of obituaries of people who used to work here at Augusta National. They’ve put little notes in with the newspaper clippings saying things that I don’t understand. But it looks like whoever wrote these things wants to talk to me about something. I’m just not sure what it is.”

  He seemed to be studying me intently as I spoke. “What makes ya’ think I’d know anythin’ ’bout that?”

  “Well, one of the notes was signed ‘Moonlight.’ Since all the notes were postmarked from here in Augusta, I drove over and asked some caddies from the club whether they knew anyone named Moonlight.”

  I looked at his face closely, but his expression did not change. “They told me I could find someone named Moonlight here at this address, so here I am.”

  “Here ya’ are,” he repeated. “What’d they tell ya’ ’bout this fella named Moonlight?”

  I wasn’t about to tell him that they said Moonlight was crazy. I shrugged nonchalantly. “They just said they knew someone by that name and thought he lived here.”

  I began to worry whether this little question-and-answer session was going anywhere. Suddenly, he turned sociable. “Look, I can’t invite ya’ in. But lemme fetch a coupla chairs, an’ we can sit here on the porch an’ talk if ya’ want.”

  He disappeared inside and came out holding two rather dilapidated folding chairs. He handed one to me. I took it, opened it, and waited for him to set his down before I located mine. I had no choice but to let him lead me through this dance because he was the only one who could hear the music.

  After we sat down, he asked to see the notes. Fortunately, I had thought to bring them along. I went to my car and got them. He glanced at them quickly.

  “Can I see your driver’s license?”

  I pulled it from my wallet and obediently handed it to him. He looked at it for just a moment and read my name out loud before passing it back to me. He then stuck out his right hand and said, “My name is Seamus McIntyre. I’m pleased
to make your acquaintance.”

  I shook his hand and said, “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. McIntyre.”

  “Just call me Moonlight. Everyone else does.”

  Chapter 7

  WE TALKED FOR over an hour. It was a rather delicate—and sometimes taxing—negotiation. My new acquaintance seemed to be testing me over and over, trying to gauge my credibility. I took it as a challenge.

  He also liked to talk in riddles. At times, his oblique way of communicating made me think that he was every bit as crazy as the guys at Phil’s said he was. At other times, though, I thought I could see a method to what he was doing, as if our dialogue was an examination to see if he could trust me with something larger.

  As we talked, I remembered something that one of my psychology professors in college had once told me. He said that genius was a form of madness. According to him, truly creative people who saw the world and the things in it differently were biological freaks whose brains functioned abnormally. It was just their good fortune that the abnormality made them creative rather than criminal.

  Moonlight sometimes twitched as he talked, which made me wonder where he fit into that analysis. He liked to bounce around a lot, and his conversation had no straight lines. Getting from point A to point B wasn’t a simple thing. There were a lot of hairpin turns to be negotiated along the way.

  After I had asked him for perhaps the fifth time whether he was the one who sent me the mysterious notes and clippings, he finally admitted that he was. Of course, I asked him why, but it was obvious that he wasn’t quite ready to tell me. He appeared to enjoy fending off my questions. For a brief moment, I wondered whether he was just an old man in need of attention, but that wouldn’t have explained why he picked me to be his pen pal.

  In what I took to be a breakthrough in our standoff, he abruptly stood up and asked me if I wanted a beer. I knew better than to reject the offer, as it was a gesture indicating we had made some kind of progress. He disappeared into the darkened house and returned a minute later with two bottles of Rolling Rock.

  As he handed me a bottle, I commented that it was not a brand I had seen often.

  He laughed. “Second most famous thing to come outta Latrobe, Pennsylvania.”

  He looked expectantly at me. I quickly responded, “The first being Arnold Palmer.”

  He cackled delightedly. “Very good, young man. So far you’re all they said you’d be.”

  Of course, I had to ask who “they” were. Once again, he withdrew as if he was afraid to say too much. “Never ya’ mind who ‘they’ might be. Just know that they’re people who are good enough for me to trust.”

  I fell silent for a time, thinking that might draw him out. However, he seemed just as comfortable sipping his beer and quietly taking in the afternoon sun.

  Eventually, I became a little exasperated by it all. “For goodness sake, Moonlight, if you didn’t want me to know what this was all about, why did you send me all that stuff in the mail?”

  He drained the last of his beer and put the bottle down beside his chair. Looking at me, he said in an even tone, “A fair question.” He paused for a while, perhaps to let the drama build.

  “Beau Stedman was a friend a’ mine. Ya’ did a good thing for him. He was very grateful to ya’.” He paused briefly. “So am I.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. I was happy to be reminded of the great pleasure Beau took from finally being recognized for his accomplishments.

  “I thought I might be able to trust ya’. Anyone who did for Beau Stedman what ya’ did has to be a good man. But my secret is a sacred pledge. I didn’t think I’d ever want to tell anybody, but I just can’t let the secret die with me. There’s no one else to carry it on.”

  I didn’t want to say anything for fear of spooking him. I just sat there, almost afraid to breathe.

  “Like many a’ the great ones, Mr. Jones was a very private man. He saw an’ understood things that other men knew little about. It set him apart, if ya’ know what I mean.”

  I nodded, although I really didn’t understand what he was trying to say. After a moment, he continued. “Mr. Jones didn’t much like bein’ famous. It attracted a lotta people who tried to take things from him. His privacy, for one thing. His time with his family an’ his friends, too. People just wouldn’t leave him alone.”

  Moonlight was looking off in the distance now, almost as if he were in a trance. He was quiet again for a time, but finally spoke.

  “Golf was always the main thing, ya’ know? It wasn’t the money or the trophies. He never talked ’bout any a’ that much. For him it was the game an’ the other players.” He paused before adding, almost as an afterthought, “He really liked the players ’cause they seemed to understand him better than anyone else.”

  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t quite figure out where Moonlight was headed with this soliloquy. He kept making sharp turns in the conversation that I neither predicted nor expected, much less fully understood.

  “The tough part for him was gettin’ sick. He didn’t like hero worship, but he damned sure didn’t want pity, either. Hell, he wouldn’t even let his friends talk ’bout his problem.”

  Finally, he turned back to me as if coming out of the trance. Fixing me with a hard look, he said, “That’s where the secret comes in. First, though, I’ve gotta know that I can trust ya’ with it.”

  It was hard to imagine that this strange old coot was privy to a secret of any great importance. Still, it didn’t hurt to humor him, so I just said, “I sure hope so, Moonlight.”

  He seemed disappointed by my lukewarm response. “I won’t tell ya’ the story—an’ I got proof of it all—unless I know you’ll ‘do right’ by it.”

  I must have had a queer expression, because he laughed and said, “I know they think I’m crazy. They tol’ ya’ I was crazy, didn’t they?”

  I shook my head from side to side, but before I could say anything, he said, “Oh, don’t deny it. I don’t mind, really. It’s my own damned fault. I once let the secret slip out an’ then had to deny everythin.’” Without telling me what the “secret” was, he explained that it gave him a reputation for spinning yarns and indulging in fantasies.

  “That’s alright,” he said after awhile. “It’s a small price to pay for what I did.”

  I thought about the notes and asked him quietly, “Does this have something to do with another course at Augusta National?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then why did you write something about another course in that note?”

  I saw the beginning of a wry smile appear. “In this law business you’ve gone into, do they warn ya’ ’bout jumpin’ to conclusions?”

  Another hairpin turn. Now we were talking about my new profession. “Well, they tell you to look at the evidence to learn the facts.”

  “You’ve gotta be careful doin’ that, don’t ya’?”

  “Well, sure,” I said defensively.

  “Then go look at your note ag’in. I didn’t say anythin’ ’bout another course at Augusta National.”

  I pulled the note back out. He was being evasive—not to mention sarcastic—but I had to admit he was right. The note simply asked, “What if the National had another course?”

  Moonlight seemed just as pleased as my law professors had been to have caught me in a mistake. I had just failed one of his tests.

  In another abrupt change of subject, he said, “You’ve never even asked me why they call me Moonlight. Don’t ya’ wanna know?”

  Again, he had me on the defensive. “Sure, I want to know,” I offered apologetically.

  “Never lost a ball. They said I could find ’em even in the moonlight.”

  As I sat there watching Moonlight do his verbal bob and weave, I suspected that I would encounter few witnesses during my career who would be tougher to follow than Moonlight McIntyre. There was so much more I wanted to ask him, particularly about how he came to know Stedman and Jones. Based on what I knew,
I assumed that he had cad-died at Augusta National for many years and met them there, but Moonlight was cautioning me not to make assumptions like that. However, I didn’t want to distract him from the topic at hand, so I continued to ask him about the notes.

  “You said you’d seen something in the moonlight. What did that mean?”

  He continued with his riddles. “What did the rest a’ the note say?”

  I pulled them out again and found the note. “It says that Jones did what Greeley said.”

  He fixed his eyes on me. “Okay, what did Greeley say?”

  “Well, if you’re referring to Horace Greeley, he is supposed to have said ‘Go west, young man.’”

  “An’ what does that tell ya’?” he demanded.

  At this point I almost wanted to hit him. “I suppose it means that Jones went west at some point. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He laughed that thin cackle that I was becoming familiar with. “An’ where do ya’ think that fits with the rest a’ what I said in the notes?”

  Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the heat of the day, and maybe he had just confused me past the point of understanding. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t keep track of the floating pieces of the puzzle. I looked back down at the notes, but my eyes wouldn’t even focus on them.

  Then it hit me. “Are you telling me that Augusta National had another course out west? Is that your secret?”

  Moonlight smiled. He seemed to be thinking of what to say next. Finally, he said in a low but friendly voice, “Charley, I didn’t think you’d ever get it. I was beginnin’ to wonder if ya’ were as smart as Beau said ya’ were.”

  If Augusta National had a golf course somewhere out west, I’d never heard about it. Why would the club have another course? And why didn’t anyone know about it? Where was it? Was it still in use?

  Just as quickly, I caught myself. There was no reason to put any stock in such a far-fetched story. It was precisely this kind of nonsense that no doubt earned Moonlight the distinction of being the “craziest white man” the regulars at Phil’s Bottle Shop ever knew.