Halfway through the meal, Judy said, “Pat, don’t do anything foolish. You’re inclined that way, you know.”
He smiled. “I know. But I didn’t think you worried about me.”
“I do,” she said. “I always have.”
The food was good and I was almost human again by the time we got to our coffee. I said, “Neil can mail me my check. Why don’t we go back tonight? It’s only eight o’clock, and the worst traffic out of the way.”
Judy nodded. Pat said, “I think I’ll wait until after you leave. I want to see who Chopko follows.”
From anyone else, that remark would have had meaning. But Pat was always full of meaningless remarks.
Judy and I were just going past the La Jolla turnoff when Pat went by in the Jag. He waved and was soon out of sight.
“A crazy, crazy kid,” Judy said. “And he’ll never amount to a damn.”
“I’ll trade with him.”
“No, you wouldn’t. And you know it. You think pretty well of yourself, Dennis Burke.”
“Until that twelfth hole, I did. I’m a beaten man, now. Move in while I’m still vulnerable, lady.”
“Drive on,” she said. “It’s been a bad week-end.”
At a steady fifty-five, the Chev went rumbling on, throwing back a faint tinge of oil from the breather pipe.
In the morning, Mom said, “What time did you get in last night?”
“Before midnight.” I looked up from the paper. “I see you’ve been reading about me. The sport page is folded.”
She nodded. “It must have been a horrible disappointment. What happened?”
“I got out of my shell for a few minutes. Golf is a lonely game, Mom, played by one man against the course. I forgot that long enough to blow a certain victory.”
“The papers certainly raved about you up to then.”
“I’m a local boy and it’s a promotional town.”
“Don’t be modest. Dad says you’re great.”
So was he, I thought, but said, “I don’t know. I mean to find out the hard way.”
The murder was still on the front page, mainly because of Mr. Venier’s ten-thousand-dollar offer. He was quoted as saying, “There are probably members of the club who have information they hesitate to give the police. This should help to bring that information out.”
It was still being called, “The Country Club Murder” and there was a murky but imposing picture of that huge Spanish clubhouse on the bluff. Somehow, the photographer had managed to give it a Charles Addams overtone.
When I came into the pro shop at nine-thirty, Sergeant Morrow was there, talking to Willie.
Willie said, “What happened, Denny? I’ve heard rumors about that twelfth hole, but what really happened?”
Sergeant Morrow said grimly, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Partridge, we’ll stick with the murder.”
“I mind,” Willie said impatiently. “Denny, what happened?”
Morrow said, “If you prefer, Mr. Partridge, I can take you down to the station for questioning. We won’t be interrupted there.”
Willie looked at the sergeant as though he were a member who bought his clubs from a mail-order house. “I don’t prefer. Aren’t you getting a little out of line for a miserable sergeant?”
Morrow’s face was stone and his eyes glass. “Come along. Right now.”
“Sergeant,” I said placatingly, “Mr. Partridge has a temper. The members understand him, but outsiders don’t, at times. I’ve got some information for you.”
Morrow looked between us and said to Willie, “Stay available.” To me he said, “Out on the porch.”
I said, “Willie has been telling people off for years. It doesn’t really mean anything.”
Morrow nodded coolly. “I’ve met the type before, and handled them. What was this information?”
I told him all about Chopko, from the first time we’d talked until I’d punched him in the mouth. I didn’t tell him about Pat’s part in any of it.
When I’d finished, Morrow asked, “The Faulkners were down there with you, too, weren’t they?”
“They didn’t come down with me. They came down later.”
“Why? Friends of yours?”
“I—well, I suppose they are.”
His smile was cynical. “You mix at all levels, don’t you, Burke?”
“Is that illegal, Sergeant? Or were you just being nasty?”
“Being nasty is a part of my job,” he said. “So many murderers are nasty people.”
“I’m not a murderer,” I said. “Anything else, Sergeant?”
“Yes,” he said. “You watch the shop while I talk to that old sour-puss again. I’ve a hunch he knows more than he’s telling me.”
I told Willie that the sergeant wanted to talk to him and went into the rear shop to work. Yesterday had been Sunday, and there would be a raft of clubs to clean. They were lined, six bags deep, along three walls.
Half an hour later, Willie came in. “Now will you tell me about that twelfth hole?”
I continued to clean clubs as I told him all about it.
When I’d finished, he sighed. “I think it was unintentional. I’ve always had a lot of regard for Clare Dunning.”
“I hope it was,” I said. “But why should this private detective, this Chopko, eat with the Dunnings? Doesn’t that look suspicious?”
“Maybe the detective knew Clare. He used to work out at Fox Hills, you know.”
“That’s right. And Chopko told me he played there. That could very well be it.”
Willie smiled. “Pretty good, eh? Maybe I’ll take a crack at that ten thousand. Nobody could do worse than that stupid Morrow.”
“Willie,” I said patiently, “I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but I think you’re making a mistake with Sergeant Morrow. He seems to be a highly intelligent man doing a dirty job.”
“All right,” he said impatiently, “all right. Denny, you looked mighty great before that big eleven crashed you. I told you a long time ago you had a future in this game.” He nodded at the clubs on the bench. “And cleaning those isn’t it. But one thing you must always remember—when you’re playing golf in competition, nothing else matters. Not plagues nor earthquakes nor murders nor naked women. Unless you can get that attitude, you can’t play it for the big money.”
“I know it,” I answered. “I’ve always known it. Give me time, Willie. It takes time to build a shell.”
“And money,” he said. “And that’s what licked me. See you later.” He went into the bar.
And money, yes. At a minimum of fifteen dollars a day for living on the road, nine hundred dollars would carry me for sixty days. That would be no test. A year or two, playing all of them I could make, that might be a test. But not sixty days.
I’d won a hundred and eighty-five dollars at San Diego, but that had been in a meet conflicting with a much bigger one. So the real traveling hotshots hadn’t been there, and I’d looked good. This was the first win Clare Dunning had had in a long time and he made the circuit religiously.
At one o’clock, I went in to eat. There were only a few tables vacant, so I sat at the bar.
Henry said, “Hear you had a fight in Dago, Denny.”
“Up until the twelfth hole on the last round,” I said. “How’s the clam chowder, Henry?”
“The clam chowder is all right if you like it. I didn’t mean that fight.”
I looked at him. “Which one did you mean?”
“That one Pat Faulkner finished for you.”
“Who told you about that, Henry?”
He smiled. “Don’t use that tone, boy. You’re not a member. I forget who told me.”
“Seriously,” I said, “I’d like to know who told you. It might be revealing.”
He smiled again. “After the ten thousand, like the rest of us, are you?”
I shook my head. “All right, Henry. I’ll take the clam chowder. And some rye bread. You keep your little secrets and keep your litt
le nose out of mine.”
His smile was dimmer. “Come on, let’s not get hot; we have to work together. And maybe we can work together outside of here, too, eh?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Remember, I like lots of butter.”
He winked. “Coming right up.”
Willie and Henry were now on the trail. And Pat Faulkner. And who else? Who had hired Chopko? I guessed that all of them, including Chopko, were high handicap players in this game. Sergeant Morrow was the man who played to scratch.
I’d read somewhere that Homicide men always worked in pairs. I wondered if Morrow’s partner was staying in the background or if possibly he didn’t have a partner. And Pat could be wrong about Chopko; maybe he wasn’t a private detective.
Henry brought my chowder and bread and five pats of butter. He said quietly. “I’ve heard ’em all in their cups. More feuds than a man would guess in this place.”
I nodded and tried to look interested. I went to work on the chowder.
“And this Venier was some stud,” Henry went on. “Plenty of murders are committed by husbands.”
“Sure thing,” I agreed. “Who told you about the fight, Henry?”
“After work, we’ll talk,” he said. “I want to get what you have, first.”
From the other end of the bar, a member rapped for service. I didn’t look down that way to see who it was. Henry went over, mumbling.
I was topping the lunch off with a bottle of beer, when a voice behind me said, “Could I see you privately a moment, Denny?”
I turned to say, “Of course, Mr. Faulkner. There’s an empty table over there in the corner.”
When we were seated, he managed a small smile. “I can imagine it’s been a—a distressing week for you.”
I nodded. “It has, sir.”
“I’ll try to be frank and friendly, too. I understand you are in love with my daughter.”
I nodded.
He sighed. “And she, I guess, has always been in love with you.” He paused, to study me. “You’re an SC graduate, aren’t you, Denny?”
“Yes, sir. Business administration.”
He nodded. “I wish it had been engineering. I could use an engineer more easily. However, any bright young man who is used to work can do—”
I raised a hand. “Just a moment, Mr. Faulkner; we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. At least, we’re getting ahead of me. Did you plan to offer me a job?”
He nodded. “Do you plan to refuse it? I’m sure you don’t intend to clean clubs all your life. You’ve more ambition than that, Denny. What did you plan to be?”
I smiled at him. “The best golfer in the world, if I can make it. Or as good as possible.”
“I see,” he said, and studied me thoughtfully. “That would mean tournament golf. That would mean traveling the year around.”
I nodded.
“And are you capable of financing yourself for a long period of that?”
I shook my head.
He took a breath. “All right. I’ll finance three years of it. If you aren’t making fifteen thousand a year at it by then, you’ll come home and go to work for me at that figure.”
I shook my head. “Thank you, though. I can be rented, but I can’t be bought, Mr. Faulkner.”
His face stiffened. “Bought?”
“You were going to be frank, you said. I’ll be frank. You don’t want Judy traveling the trail in that beat-up Chev, living in crummy rooms and eating cheap meals. You want her to travel in style for three years and then come home to you.”
His gaze held mine as he nodded. “Is that wrong?”
“No, sir, it certainly isn’t. If I had a daughter, I’d want that much for her if I could afford it. Neither of us is wrong, Mr. Faulkner; we’re just on opposite sides of the fence.” I smiled. “And opposite sides of the tracks.”
“State your position,” he said evenly.
“I have none, sir. I love Judy and she loves me. I am going to be a tournament golfer. She can come along or she can wait until later to get married or she can refuse to come along or wait, and marry someone else. Nothing has been decided yet.”
He looked troubled. “You sounded—so cold, Denny. I can’t believe you love Judy—”
“I guess she can’t either, sir. But I do.”
He looked off into space and back at me. “Will you promise me one thing, Denny? Will you promise me you two won’t elope? You’ll talk to me before you get married?”
“I promise,” I said, and stood up. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Monday is always a heavy day.”
He nodded, and rose. “You understand, Denny, that I don’t dislike you. I’ve always thought a lot of you.”
“I understand, sir,” I said. “And if I were in your position, I’d be a lot less reasonable than you’ve been with a young upstart like Denny Burke.”
He smiled weakly. “Well, I had a little father-in-law trouble myself, when I was your age.” He held out his hand.
I shook his hand and went back to work. Reasonable and friendly and frank he had been, but I was sure he wouldn’t consider me the number-one choice for a son-in-law. And in his intelligent way, he would undoubtedly do something about that.
So, was that disastrous? I had lived all of my life minus one week without Judy Faulkner. Was she indispensable?
If she wasn’t, she was getting more so every minute.
At three o’clock, Doctor Evans and his wife came into the shop. Looking at her, I realized Pat was right; she was a lot younger than I’d originally guessed. She was an imitation blonde with a very fine figure and lovely eyes in a too taut face. She had been his office girl, I remember now.
Doctor Evans said, “I thought you were going to do it, down there at San Diego, Denny.”
I nodded. “So did I. The competition was rough, though.”
Mrs. Evans said, “You—didn’t go to the—to Mr. Venier’s funeral, did you, Denny?”
I looked at her steadily, “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
The doctor looked at her and back at me. His face was blank. “Is Willie around? My wife would like to arrange for some lessons.”
Mrs. Evans said, “Perhaps Denny—?”
“I don’t teach, ma’am,” I said. “I think Willie is in the lobby office.” I picked up the phone and he was. I told the doctor. “He’s coming right down.”
Mrs. Evans said, “If you don’t teach, just what is your official position here, Denny?”
Doctor Evans looked annoyed.
I said, “Today, I’ve been cleaning clubs. I manage to keep busy, Mrs. Evans.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said. “I’m sure your days are full. And nights, too, no doubt?”
She had been drinking, I realized now. I said nothing.
Doctor Evans said very evenly, “Valerie, that’s enough.”
She looked at him scornfully. She looked at me hatefully. She said, “To hell with lessons from sour-puss Willie Partridge.” She turned and walked out, into the bar.
The face of Doctor Evans was perfectly blank. He said, “Women shouldn’t drink. And men shouldn’t marry. Apologize to Willie for me, will you, Denny?” He went into the bar.
Some women shouldn’t drink, I thought. Willie came in and looked around.
I said, “They’re in the bar. Mrs. Evans decided she didn’t want any lessons from sour-puss Willie Partridge.”
He shook his head. “Drunk, again?”
“I guess, Willie.”
“Was she insolent?”
I took a breath. “Well, maybe. It didn’t bother me much.”
He came over to look into my face. “One thing you haven’t learned yet. Those people out there are just members. We’re golfers, and that’s the true aristocracy. So you take no insolence, understand?”
“That’s your bit,” I said. “I don’t mind being servile. I’ve no animosities in me.”
“Huh!” he said. “Don’t try to fool me, boy. If I was going to pick a quick susp
ect for the murder of Bud Venier, you’d be my choice. And if I knew you’d done it, I’d give you a raise. I’m going in to talk to the Evans.”
At four o’clock, Henry came in to tell me he was through for the day, and where could he meet me tonight?
“You can come to my house,” I said, “or I can come to yours. But I don’t have anything that would help you, Henry.”
He looked at me suspiciously a moment. Then he said, “I’ll call you. You’ll be home after six-thirty, won’t you?”
I nodded, and he left.
Not a word from nor a sign of Pat and Judy all day. Had C.R. lowered the boom? A rich father has a powerful weapon; he can always cut off their allowances if they don’t obey. And then they’d have to work for a living, the ultimate penalty.
At six, I had put in a full day. And tomorrow was ladies’ day. Yackety, yackety, yackety, yack—Oh, Myrtle, you should have seen me! I was doing so well! Even tens, until I got to that nasty, unfair seventeenth hole…
From his desk, Willie said, “You’re too young to begin talking to yourself, Denny.”
“I know. See you tomorrow, Willie.”
And how many tomorrows after that? Nine hundred dollars could carry me for sixty days. C. R. Faulkner could carry me for life. To hell with C. R. Faulkner. To hell with Henry and Chopko and Mrs. Evans and all the members of the Canyon Country Club except the young Faulkners.
And to hell with them, too, if they were afraid of their papa.
The Chev groaned, coughed, spat and died. The starter ground and ground and ground and nothing happened. I was out of gas.
Inside me, rage bubbled and ugly words formed. I had an impulse to put my fist through the windshield, the right fist that had put me out of the running at San Diego.
I sat quietly for a few moments, and then I began to chuckle and then to laugh. I walked over to the equipment shelter and got a gallon of gas, courtesy of the management.
You poor mistreated boy, I chided myself. You underprivileged child who led at San Diego for three rounds and are currently being courted by a beautiful girl with a millionaire father. I’m surprised you haven’t committed suicide.
In the stall next to the Chev, Charles was just getting into his new Ford Victoria. He said, “I’d like to talk to you one of these days, Denny.”
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