Deliberately, I said, “But she didn’t love you.”
“She...she...”
“She never loved you.”
That was cruel, but I tell you, I was feeling pretty goddamn ornery right then.
If there had been a button labeled PUSH TO VAPORIZE LILLIAN BYRD, she would have jumped on it with both feet.
Instead she jerked me sideways, then rammed me against the wall. My head bounced off the masonry.
As she turned away from me, all she said was, “I’ve waited for her all my life.”
I’ve said it was a hot day; the thermometer was reading, I believe, ninety-four. But watching Marian Handistock walk away, I felt a sudden cold wind down my neck.
27
I lugged Genie’s bag over to the practice tee. She wasn’t in sight yet; I stood the bag at the right-hand end of the hitting area, her favorite spot.
“Need anything?” asked the range boss.
“Yeah, a couple of towels, please.”
Even though Genie’s clubs looked perfectly clean, I dampened a towel and went over them, rubbing the faces and wiping the grips. The practice tee wasn’t busy, since most of the golfers were on the course already.
I thought about those golfers, the ones who were out of contention for the win. Their tee times were early and, ignored by the TV cameras, they were out there grinding out a tenth-place, or a thirty-something place, or a last-place finish, working on their stats, hoping for a decent check, glad they at least made the Friday cut. If you’re a journey-woman golfer, one who’s just good enough to stay on the tour, well, you’ve got to deal with dentist bills and oil changes and termites like everybody else, and you’re not thinking all the time about glory: You need the dough.
The right-hand end of the range was Genie’s favorite because, if you swing right-handed, you don’t see the other golfers: Your back is to them, so there’s a feeling of privacy there. Nobody else’s swing gets flashed onto your brain cells while you’re working hard on yours.
I fiddled around. I checked on Todd, I kept an eye out for Truby, and for Dengel.
An extremely natty guy, one of those combed-back Aqua Velva types, came up to me, wanting to talk. He wore a golf shirt with the embroidered logo of one of the big equipment manufacturers over the heart, khaki shorts with a razor crease, and anklets. Men in anklets make me nervous, no matter how good their legs look. But this guy had a very reassuring smile.
“Jeff Evans,” he introduced himself, “Ace-Tek.”
“Lillian Byrd. How do you do?”
“Fantastic! I haven’t seen you around before. Before yesterday, anyway.”
“No, I’m new.”
“Well, I wanted to make a point of wishing you well in the final round!” Jeff tilted his head and squinted at me. “Looks like you got some sun!”
In fact, I’d gotten slightly fried yesterday afternoon, having neglected to replenish my sunscreen after getting on the course with Genie. I only had one summer hat, my Vietnam surplus hat, but I hadn’t thought to pack it. My cheeks and nose were pretty pink.
“Well, I have a little present for you!” said Jeff, reaching into his shoulder bag.
I stiffened, waiting for an assassin’s bullet, but he pulled out a brand-new sun visor and held it out to me. It was a beauty, high quality and bright white, nice terry-cloth sweatband. The main feature, of course, was the logo of Ace-Tek with its famous pouncing rooster. They made clubs for half the men’s pro tour, I guessed, and maybe a third of the women’s. Big company. Genie played Ace-Tek. I’d always considered their logo ridiculous, this rooster jumping on a golf ball. You had to figure they’d tested it thoroughly on focus groups, though.
“Uh, no, thank you,” I said. “I’ll remember my sunscreen today. Thanks just the same.”
“Would you prefer a cap? I’ve got one in here...”
“Really, thank you, but I’ll be fine. Hats give me a headache sometimes.”
He laughed heartily, then leaned closer. “See, Lillian, I’d like to make you an offer. Doing my job here. How does five hundred dollars sound?”
“If it’s in nickels, it sounds like jingle, jingle, jingle.”
His laugh rang sudden and free. “Oh, I like you!” he cried. “Whew! Lillian, here’s the deal: You wear our visor during today’s round, and we give you five hundred bucks. Simple as that.”
“Because people’ll see the logo on TV?”
“Yep!”
“Well...I still have to say no, thank you.”
He clutched his chest. “Lillian! You make my work tough! What’ll it take here?”
I was thinking about a quick five hundred. I’d spent a bundle, coming out to see Truby, then the Chicago trip. I hadn’t had time to wonder how I was going to pay down my credit card bill.
Jeff Evans said, “One thousand dollars, Lillian! Going once, going—”
“All right,” I said. “When do I get the money?”
He whipped out a clipboard and a pen. “Sign right here. This is a one-page contract: very simple, dated today, dealing only with today.” He filled in “$1,000” next to where amount was printed.
I read it in half a minute—it looked all right—and I signed it.
“I’ll catch up with you after the round, and I’ll have the check with me. How does that sound?” Jeff clapped the visor on my head.
“Wow. Okay.” I took it off to adjust the band, and he waited until I put it back on.
“Wear it nice and straight,” he said. He looked me over. “Too bad we can’t do anything about those shoes.”
I looked down at my feet. My black Chuck Taylor sneakers were homely, but damn it to hell, why should anybody care?
“I don’t give a shit,” I said.
“Well, good luck!”
Genie didn’t notice my new visor, nor anything else, save the task ahead of her. She warmed up in her tunnel of concentration, murmuring to herself once in a while. She looked solid, solid as anything. Her swing repeated perfectly and effortlessly, it appeared to me. After practicing her middle and long irons and her woods, she chipped a few balls, pitched a few, and then we moved over to the putting green. She didn’t ask about Todd.
Truby came by, not much less worried and bewildered than she’d been after the explosion yesterday. I went over to her.
“I can’t believe any of this,” she said. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten away from this. I don’t even know what the fuck—God! You’re not telling me what the fuck is going on. I have no idea, and here you are, still involved in this bizarre—”
“Truby, I’m not arguing that this isn’t bizarre. Okay? I need you to be around today, just like yesterday. Please be calm, okay? Life is weird sometimes. We can deal with it.”
We stood for a minute watching Genie practicing her putting stroke with no ball, just making a pendulum swing with the club and her arms.
Truby looked at me again. “Where did you get that?”
“Believe it or not, I’m getting paid to wear it.”
“A pasta strainer would be more attractive.”
“I’m not arguing with that either.”
We watched Genie some more, then Truby hooked her thumbs in her waistband and said, “Not that it’s the slightest bit important right now, but—”
“You got laid.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I have to talk to you. Will you be able to spend any time at all with me after this is over?”
“Yes. Yes, hon, I will. I’ve got a lot to sort out.”
“Yeah, so have I.”
As I followed Genie over to the first tee, I caught sight of Meredith listening intently to a woman wearing a press pass, who was talking low into her ear. She dropped her head, then turned away looking at nothing. I veered over to her.
“Meredith.”
She looked at me. “Peaches died an hour ago.”
I took a deep breath and, looking skyward, sent up an arrow of prayer.
M
eredith said, “Don’t tell Genie.”
“No.”
“I’ll talk to her after. I’m sorry I told you. Now—”
“It’s all right.”
Oh, God. Oh, Peaches.
_____
The crowd was the biggest of the week. Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Fans were trooping along next to their favorites, rustling their programs, lining up to buy pop and beer and hot dogs, ducking in and out of the porta-pots, adjusting their belt packs, murmuring admiration for the strength and composure of the best players in women’s golf.
Gay women were enjoying themselves everywhere. All week I’d noticed this twinning thing going on. For example, one couple who walked by was wearing matching anodized rainbow necklaces, Ray-Ban sunglasses, khaki shorts, and Adidas running shoes. I saw lots of matching jewelry, earrings and such. Rings, of course. It made me happy to see matching rings. However, I thought the rest of the twinning signified lack of imagination.
Marshals and monitors kept everybody neatly behind the ropes; lots of police officers strolled and stood watching, their gold badges winking in the sun.
And at number one, Coco Nash was on the tee, Genie Maychild was on the tee, Lona Chatwin was on the tee, and I was there with the two other caddies, and the starter was peering into the distance watching the last approach shot of the group ahead, and we all had one more minute to gather ourselves.
28
If you’ve been around the game of golf at all, you’ve met that most ubiquitous of bores, the shot-by-shot raconteur. You know, the one who comes into the snack bar, or the kitchen at home, smelling agreeably enough of fresh air and crushed grass, but then he holds you at vocal gunpoint for forty-five minutes.
If it’s a classic, the story starts well in the past: “Well, you know, Claude’s wife had that operation last week, so he called me up and he’s, like, ‘There’s no way I can get out on Sunday,’ so I’m, like, ‘Great.’ So I had to sit on my neck to get somebody, because if you don’t have a foursome they always stick somebody with you, and it’s always some guy nobody else wants to play with for whatever reason, and finally I thought of Larry—remember Larry? He’s Ignacio’s accountant, and he can hit the ball but he’s wild—remember at that charity thing for the Prostate Society? When he got lost in that marsh looking for his ball, remember I told you about that and what his pants looked like for the rest of the day, but he’s a good guy, so I called him up.”
If you’re lucky, you’ve got something monotonous that needs doing while you’re listening to the story, like shelling peas for a big church supper, or sanding down a pair of bookcases.
“So I was like, ‘Okay, I’m using a new ball over this water hazard if it kills me,’ and wouldn’t you know it—there’s this rock about two feet from shore...so my second shot I’m like trying to remember how to aim for a downhill-sidehill lie, and I’m standing there, and finally I just go, ‘Man, hit the goddamn thing,’ and I swear I just looked at that pin and then I swung, and it was, like, perfect. It hit the fringe, and there was a little upslope, so that took something off it, but if that upslope hadn’t been there, I woulda been right at the pin...”
Well. I am not one of those bores—no, not even when the round concerns the play of champions. I will tell you what happened, and I will recount certain shots, but beyond that you’ll want the videotape.
Here is what happened Sunday.
Genie got a solid start, smacking a nice drive on the first, making a good, wide, smooth swing that gave me every confidence in her that day. It was clear to me that she would allow herself to play up to her potential, ready to reach, but not beyond herself.
When both Coco’s and Lona’s tee shots found trouble, I relaxed a fraction and took stock of things.
Coco and I had made eye contact on the tee but hadn’t had a chance to speak. Her eyes were serious, but she took me in with a shade of amusement. Was it my visor? It was as if she were trying to reassure me. Yes, this is really only a game, Lillian, and it is up to you and me not to forget it.
But as we all headed down the fairway, she gave me a sidelong look and a shrug that said, And trouble could come to us today.
I hoped it would be nice for Genie to have Lona Chatwin in the final group; they were friends but not rivals. You’d often see Lona’s name in the top twenty or twenty-five, once in a while in the top ten. She’d won a few times on tour, no majors. After a lackluster Thursday, she’d put together a couple of terrific rounds on Friday and Saturday, and there she was, in contention.
She and Coco began the day two under, and Genie was a stroke ahead at three under. Any one of that trio had the game to win it. And as our round got underway, we saw on the leaderboards that the others had fallen back, had fallen prey to some of the devilish hazards on the Dinah Shore course, and most likely to some of the equally devilish hazards within themselves.
Except for shaking hands with Coco on the first tee and muttering “Good luck,” Genie ignored her. She ignored Lona, too. I sensed this bothered Lona, who was used to being friendly during a round, you know. She liked to chat with her playing partners and the gallery. I believe it was her way of dissipating the tension.
Coco and Lona saved par on the first, despite their poor drives. Genie nearly made birdie with a beautifully judged twenty-footer that missed by an inch.
I told myself I should feel quite safe today: Two police officers were walking along with us behind the ropes, and I knew that Coco Nash’s security detail had to be around close. And there was Truby faithfully tagging along, albeit looking as if she needed a drink. Todd was at my side. I looked overhead: There was the Met Life blimp, Snoopy at the controls, floating benevolently over all. Yes, I should be feeling quite safe indeed.
But I wasn’t.
The job of caddie is one you have to get your head into; inattention can cost your golfer a stroke or worse, say, if you don’t spot her drive carefully and it gets lost in the macaroni back from the fairway. Or if you miscalculate yardage or if you accidentally switch balls on her. Lucky for me, Genie wasn’t counting on me to help her with club selection or reading greens. She knew those greens pretty well.
And she was in such a zone that I guessed she could use a shovel to play every shot and still dominate the course this day.
I was careful and worked hard to anticipate what she’d want, but in moments when I could, I scanned the crowd, which was thick around our group. I decided that if anything happened, I’d jump on top of Genie, shielding her with my body until the cops could get control of the situation.
Genie played the first six holes steadily—pure USGA golf: hitting all the fairways and greens in regulation, giving herself chances for birdies. She even had a putt for eagle on the second hole; it was a twelve-footer that looked good all the way, but it rimmed the cup and she tapped in for her birdie.
After easily navigating the treacherous sixth hole with its serpentine water hazard, she got into trouble on the seventh, the short par four. Maybe she let down a little bit, or maybe something spooked her from inside, but whatever it was she executed the most hideous hook I’d ever seen a professional hit. The ball somehow tore through a line of trees, dribbled through the rough, and out of bounds. We weren’t sure it really was out, because the course marshal assigned to that spot was hurrying back from the porta-pot, so we had to hike down to see for ourselves.
It was close, but it was out, so we trudged back to the tee for Genie to take her stroke-and-distance penalty. As we began the trip back to the tee I caught a glimpse of coach Handy strolling through the bunches of fans on the opposite side of the fairway, walking right in tandem with us, but not looking over at us.
Genie hit another drive, this one perfect and long. After sticking her pitch right next to the pin, she came out of it with only a bogey.
Two birdies had put her at five under, and the bogey brought her back to four under, but Coco and Lona had remained at two under, playing the first seven holes in even par.
I
took advantage of a brief wait on the par three eighth to check discreetly on Todd and, for the second time, exchange the water bottle with a new cold one. He appeared to be fine, sitting quietly in his mobile home, not thumping, not scrabbling. Just calm old Todd. I put my hand inside and stroked him and murmured to him.
When I looked up I saw Coco holding her finish after hitting a six-iron that arced gorgeously against the sky, bounced in front of the flagstick twice, and rolled in for an ace. The crowd erupted. Holy everloving shit! A hole-in-one in the final round of a major championship! Incredible, absolutely incredible. All of us, including Genie, slapped hands with Coco. What a moment. It took the crowd five minutes to begin to calm down. Now Coco was tied with Genie.
Right then, the tournament became the head-to-head everybody had been hoping for. Lona’s putter started to misfire, and she would three-putt that green and the next.
As we made the turn into the back nine, Genie and Coco were still tied at four under, the TV cameras were all over us, the crowd was alternating between hushed reverence and wild cheering, the wind was kicking up, and I realized that my period was starting. You know that feeling. You’re thinking, Hmm, is that a gas pain? Did I eat something funny? Then you remember, Oh, shit, it’s time for cramps, and here they come. Can you blame me for having forgotten my cycle?
I don’t usually get bad cramps, I just bleed like an elephant. Rooting through Genie’s bag on the eleventh tee, I came up with a tampon and raced into a porta-pot to install it—just in time. It was only a regular, though, and I knew it wouldn’t hold me more than an hour, what with the strain of carrying Genie’s bag. I thought about my snow-white caddie jumpsuit, and I thought about color TV.
As we marched down the fairway I muttered to Genie, “Do you usually keep more tampons in here?”
“Oh!” she said. “Uh, I don’t know.” She was in a tunnel.
At the twelfth tee, I hustled over to the ropes, where the crowd pressed up to see their heroines take their mightiest swings.
The Lillian Byrd Crime Series Page 39