William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “I tried to tell you,” Fitz said quietly. “God knows I tried. But would you listen? Nooooo . . .”

  Conner pivoted. “Fitz, I’m warning you—”

  He was interrupted by the rapid advance of a short man with a whistle around his neck. “Excuse me,” the man said, puffing intermittently on his whistle. He was a bit overweight and appeared to have worked up a sweat just crossing the tee. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Excuse me,” Conner shot back. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Derwood Scott. I’m the associate tournament director.”

  Conner mouthed a silent oh. Fitz looked as if he’d like to disappear into the rough.

  “Mr. Cross, you are in violation of four different tournament regulations.”

  “Only four? Jeez, I wasn’t even trying.”

  John cleared his throat and tried to look serious. “And which four offenses would those be, sir?”

  “One, his embarrassing attire. Two, his indecorous language. Three, his shockingly unprofessional conduct. Four, his destruction of club property.”

  John nodded. “That does add up to four, doesn’t it? All right, officer—take him away.”

  “This is not a joke!” The more insistent Derwood became, the higher his pitch became. Soon only dogs would hear him. “This is the Augusta National! We will not brook with insubordination!”

  “Look,” Conner said, “why don’t we just forget this happened?”

  “I don’t think so!” Derwood snapped. “First of all, you will be charged for replacement of the tee marker you destroyed.”

  “Fine, that’s fair . . .”

  “Second, you will receive a formal reprimand for your indecorous behavior.”

  “Okay. Consider my wrist slapped.”

  “Third, because you moved an immovable obstruction—the tee marker—you must take a two-stroke penalty.”

  Conner’s face became fixed and stony. “What’s that?”

  “You heard me. Two strokes.” He snapped his fingers at Fitz. “Write it down.”

  Conner stared at the associate tournament director with dead eyes. “Let me remind you, Derwood, that I know where you live.”

  “What’s that, some kind of threat?”

  Conner took a step closer to him. “Yeah, some kind. The deadly kind.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, you tin cup ruffian.”

  Conner kept walking until he was practically hovering over Derwood. “I could change that.”

  “Two strokes,” Derwood repeated firmly. “Plus a third for that shot you lobbed into the storage shed.”

  “Three shots?” Conner growled, his eyes wide and crazed. “I haven’t left the tee yet!” His curled fingers reached for Derwood’s throat.

  “All right, all right,” Fitz said, cutting in between them. “Let’s break this up. We’ll take the penalty strokes.”

  Conner looked as if he might have a stroke. “But—”

  “What do we care? It’s just a practice round.”

  “But it’ll be reported—”

  Fitz put his arms around Derwood’s shoulder and steered him away from Conner. “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding. You know how it is sometimes. The pressure of playing the world’s greatest golf course. No offense was intended, I assure you.”

  Derwood frowned. “Nonetheless, he—”

  “By the way,” Fitz continued, “may I say that you look particularly distinguished in that snappy green sweater? What is that, cashmere?”

  “Uh . . . no. Camel hair.”

  “Well, it looks magnificent on you. Truly magnificent.”

  Derwood looked down at his sweater. “Really? You like it?”

  “It’s brilliant. Brings out the green in your eyes.”

  “I thought my eyes were blue.”

  Fitz squinted. “Huh. Must be the light.” He guided Derwood off the course. “Anyway, thanks so much for dropping by . . .”

  Derwood stopped. “He’ll still have to pay for the tee marker.”

  “Of course he will.”

  “And I’ll have to report this to the tournament director.”

  Fitz drew in his breath. “If you must.”

  Derwood headed back toward the clubhouse. “And tell him to watch the language.”

  Fitz sighed. “I do every day.”

  After Derwood had disappeared, Fitz rejoined Conner at the first tee. “I told you—”

  “Don’t say it,” Conner said, as he lined up his next shot. “Just don’t say it.”

  Fitz folded his arms and sniffed. “This never happened to Arnold Palmer.”

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  “Silly Putty?” Freddy E. Granger said, blinking. “I thought it was a blue glutinous liquid. You know, like the stuff they put in the bottom of Magic 8-Balls.”

  “You’re all dead wrong,” Harley Tuttle responded. “It’s BBs, tightly packed and held together with a thin polymer plastic.”

  “I thought they were filled with spider eggs,’ Barry Bennett said, looking puzzled.

  “No, no,” John corrected him. “That’s Bubblicious Bubble Gum.”

  “Can’t you clowns keep your urban legends straight?” Freddy shot back. “That’s McDonald’s Quarter Pounders. But only if you get the cheese. I read all about it on the Internet.”

  “Speaking of spider eggs,” Barry said, “have you seen that weird stars-and-moon logo on the back of Procter and Gamble products? I think it’s satanic.”

  Conner’s eyes rolled skyward. “And you guys wonder why you don’t get product endorsements.”

  After the practice round, Conner and John and Fitz had strolled down world-famous Magnolia Lane to the white-columned Augusta National clubhouse. The grounds were in their most beautiful season. Conner felt bombarded by flowering flashes of pink and white set against the unbroken green backdrop. The warm April wind whispered through the pines, just enough to cool, never so much as to disrupt the game. Conner recalled that the Augusta National had been constructed on an ornamental-tree nursery. When everything bloomed, it was impossible to forget.

  Almost all the pros in the tournament were inside at the bar—big names and up-and-comers alike. It was the communal gathering place, the perfect spot to swap stories, tell lies, or drown sorrows.

  Conner pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and plopped a bill on the bar. “Twenty bucks says it’s Silly Putty.”

  His challenge was met by a chorus of “You’re crazy!” and “I’m in!”. Conner dutifully recorded the bets on the back of his scorecard.

  He didn’t have any better use for it. He’d played a miserable practice round, as Fitz ardently kept reminding him. He’d gotten off to a bad start—the brouhaha with Derwood Scott—but usually he could ig-nore that sort of distraction. Today, his game had gone from worse to worst. Which was bad news in the extreme. Because a score like today’s wouldn’t get him past the Friday night cut. Hell, a score like today’s wouldn’t have earned him a PGA card.

  This couldn’t come at a more improvident time. At the moment, he was sixty-seventh on the money list—hardly a stellar showing. He’d managed to scrape together a living by playing every weekend and occasionally placing, but after three years on the tour, he still hadn’t won a tournament, major or minor. Granted, he was only twenty-seven. But golf was not an endeavor in which years of experience were seen as an asset. Golf, like most sports, favored the young. These should be Conner’s prime years. Should be—but weren’t.

  “Can I get a piece of this action?” Harley Tuttle asked quietly.

  Conner nodded. Harley was having a great debut year on the tour, but seemed reserved about engaging in the social life. Conner was trying to break him in. “Got it. John, have you met Harley Tuttle yet?”

  “Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.” John shook the man’s hand. “But I’ve been taking a little sabbatical from tournament life this year. How long have you been on the tour?”

  “Just si
nce the start of the year.”

  “Harley’s a bit on the shy side,” Conner explained.

  Harley shrugged awkwardly. “Like my daddy always said, Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

  John grinned, then leaned close and whispered in Harley’s ear. “Always bet against Conner. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to a sure thing.”

  “All right, this window is closed,” Conner said, after he collected all the bets. He reviewed his notes with a practiced eye. He was used to this sort of thing. Golf pros, he had learned, love to bet. “Freddy is in for ten. Barry is in for ten. Harley is in for twenty, and”—he glanced up at his best friend—“John-boy is in for a whopping hundred smackers. You must have a passion for pain, pal.”

  “It’s easy money,” John replied, not batting an eye. “Silly Putty. What a ridiculous idea.”

  “Say, Fitz,” Freddy Granger said, shouting across the bar. He had a pronounced Southern accent—a reminder that he was not just a visitor, but a resident of Augusta. “You’ve been around for a while.”

  “That would be a nice way of putting it,” Fitz said, not looking up from his beer.

  “What do you think they put inside golf balls?”

  “As I’ve already told these two coma victims,” he answered, gesturing toward Conner and John, “it’s rubber. Plain ordinary rubber.”

  “Rubber?” The five golf pros stared at one another. “Rubber?”

  They spoke as one body. “Naaaah.” The verdict was echoed by the assembly: “Can’t be!” and “No way, Jose!”

  Fitz shook his head. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

  “Hey,” John said. “Change of topic. Top ten things in golf that sound dirty but aren’t.”

  Freddy leapt to the occasion. “Nuts—my shaft is bent.”

  Barry joined in. “Look at the size of his putter!”

  “Or,” Freddy offered, “how ’bout: nice stroke, but your follow-through leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “I bet you’ve heard that a lot,” Conner suggested.

  “You boys are amateurs,” John said. “Try: keep your head down and spread your legs a little more.”

  Conner jabbed him in the ribs. “You are so vulgar.”

  “Oh, yeah? I haven’t heard anything from you yet.”

  Conner pondered a moment. “How about . . . mind if I join your threesome?”

  Everyone at the bar burst out laughing.

  “Listen up,” Barry said, with the authority of a seasoned pro. “Let’s get back to the serious betting. Fifty bucks says they serve roast beef at the champions dinner tomorrow night.” As they all knew, by tradition, the defending champion got to dictate the menu—and pick up the tab.

  “No way,” Freddy answered. “Chicken. Has to be chicken.” Dollar bills flew like feathers in the wind.

  “How ’bout this,” John said. “Let’s bet on what corporate client Tiger Woods will do a commercial for this week.”

  “Nike,” Harley said. “Gotta be Nike.”

  “He wears Nike,” Barry said, shaking his head. “I say Ping.”

  “Ping can’t afford him,” Conner opined. “What about American Express?”

  “Wheaties,” Freddy suggested.

  “Budweiser,” John rejoined.

  “Naaah,” Conner said. “Might sully Eldrick’s squeaky-clean image.” That brought a fresh explosion of laughter from all around the table.

  Freddy joined in the fun. “I got fifty bucks that says Tom Kite three-putts the eighteenth hole.”

  Conner liked Freddy, in part because he didn’t take himself as seriously as most of the men on the tour, and in part because he was one of few players who ranked even lower on the money list than Conner did. “That’s cold, man.”

  “But intriguing,” John said. “How could we verify? He’s not likely to tell us.”

  “We can see it from here,” Freddy said, pointing out the northern bay window toward the eighteenth green.

  “I got a better proposition,” John said, winking. “I got three hundred bucks that says Conner will not win this tournament. And I’m giving five hundred-to-one odds.”

  The room fell silent. No one took the action.

  “Funny,” Conner said through thin lips. “Very funny.”

  “I was just trying to inspire you,” John said, slugging his friend’s shoulder amiably. “I think it’s about time an Oklahoma boy made good at this tournament. Maybe this will be the year.”

  “Maybe so,” Conner echoed, but his heart wasn’t in it. Certainly if he continued playing like he had today, it wouldn’t be him. And John had not been playing well all year.

  Conner watched as John rose from the table and began circulating around the room. John was extremely friendly and well-liked. He was a social marvel. He never forgot a face, and he could instantaneously recall anyone’s name, their wife’s name, and the names of their kids. Conner was lucky if he could recognize himself in the mirror each morning.

  Conner pushed himself away from the bar and joined Fitz at the far table where he was sitting alone. “So,” Conner said, inviting himself into an available chair, “am I wasting my life?”

  Fitz barely looked up. “Are you referring to your occupation or your wardrobe?”

  “Occupation,” Conner replied, taking a long swig from his Corona. “Golf.”

  Fitz shrugged. “You’re better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the people on earth who play the game.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I can’t hold my own against the top players.”

  “Correction,” Fitz said emphatically. “You could hold your own. You choose not to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know as well as I do. Your pure golf skills are as good as anyone’s on the tour. Better than most. I don’t know of another player who can drive as long and as hard and as accurately as you can. Hell, you could hit a dime at two hundred yards. These wide-open fairways should give you an edge, just like they did for Tiger Woods in ’97 and ’01. You’ve got tons of promise; that’s why I agreed to take you on in the first place. Your major problem”—he tapped the side of his head—“is up here.”

  “My major problem is my putting game,” Conner scoffed.

  “Because”—Fitz said, not missing a beat—“that’s when the mental game takes precedence. It isn’t brute force that matters on the putting green. It isn’t strategy; it isn’t style. It’s the mind.” Fitz returned to his drink. “So, naturally, your game falls apart.”

  Conner made a snorting noise. “You’re just sore because I don’t blindly follow your instructions like some golf robot.”

  “Listen to me, Conner. I’ve been around a long time. I go back to the golden years, before television and big money changed everything. I was around for golf’s greatest year—1960—when Hogan, Nicklaus, and Palmer made golf the phenomenon it is today. I’ve caddied for some of the biggest names in the business. Men who understood the importance of courtesy and honor and decorum.”

  Conner fell back in his chair. “Here we go again . . .”

  “Don’t check out on me yet, Conner. I’ve got something to say and I want you to hear it. This is important.”

  “I know, I know,” Conner said, waving his hands. “I need to adjust my swing.”

  “You don’t need to adjust your swing,” Fitz shot back. “You need to adjust your attitude.”

  Conner turned away. “Aw, go soak your head.” He pushed out of his chair.

  “Don’t run away,” Fitz said. “Every time I try to tell you something, you either deflect it with some wiseass remark or run away.”

  “I’m not running away,” Conner insisted. “I’m running toward.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of an attractive brunette sitting alone at the bar.

  Fitz’s eyes drooped wearily. “Does this relate to golf?”

  Conner winked. “Definitely. I’m going to show her some of my best strokes.”

>   Fitz could only sigh.

  Sussy’s Bar and Grill was located about thirty miles from the Augusta National Golf Club, following a series of dirt and gravel roads that no Georgia boy in his right mind would travel unless he was in his Jeep Cherokee or, better yet, his mag-wheel pickup. The neon sign in the window with three letters missing (SUS Y’S BA & G ILL) claimed there was a grill on site, but if any food other than beer nuts and pretzels had ever been served there, it was so long ago that no one living had any memory of it. The place was popular with locals; unfortunately, out here in the middle of nowhere, there weren’t many locals.

  Tonight there were patrons, though—two of them, huddling in a back booth facing one another. The bartender, the only other man on the premises, had never seen them before. And they apparently didn’t want to attract any attention. Why else would they choose the most out-of-sight booth in the darkest corner of the bar? They weren’t looking for fellowship, and they weren’t trying to pick up tail. They wanted to be left alone. So, like any good bartender, he gave them what they wanted.

  One of the men was much taller than the other; he seemed to be in command of the discussion. When the two customers finally waved the bartender over to refill their Scotches—neat—he overheard enough to gather that the tall man was making the other fellow some sort of proposition. But exactly what was being proposed he couldn’t say. And he didn’t ask, either. Because whatever it was, it was clear they didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

  The bartender returned to his station and pretended to be toweling off glasses. It was only about ten minutes later, when he made a necessary visit to the men’s room, that he heard more. Turned out the men’s room was the perfect place to eavesdrop on that booth; the sound came in through the air vent just above the sink. He still didn’t hear enough to know what they were talking about. But he heard enough to pique his curiosity.

  “What if we get caught?” the shorter of the men said. His voice had a tendency to squeak when he was nervous. And at the moment, he sounded very nervous.