William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “Check it out,” John said, gazing with awestruck amazement. “Jack Nicklaus!”

  “Really?” Conner started forward. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him. He still owes me from the eighteenth hole at St. Andrews.”

  John grabbed Conner’s arm and held him back. “The man is a living legend. Give him some respect.”

  “It’s hard to respect a living legend who welshes on a hundred dollar bet.”

  “He did not welsh on the bet. There was a difference of opinion about whether your ball moved the first time you swung.”

  “I never even came close to that ball! It was the wind. You know what those Scottish winds are like!”

  “Yeah. So does Jack Nicklaus.”

  Conner frowned, then relented. There would probably be a better time to try to collect the debt. Like maybe when the Golden Bear was giving a press conference. “I don’t suppose we’re sitting at Table One.”

  John glanced at the seating chart. “Not hardly.” He pointed toward another table in a recess against the south wall, the table furthest from the dais. “Table Twenty-Four. That’s us.”

  “Swell.” Conner made his way toward Table Twenty-Four, John just a few steps behind him. He threaded his way through the labyrinth of tables, pausing to chat with the players he knew, who for the most part were not those wearing green jackets. The green jackets were the exclusive attire of the past champions of the Masters tournament. This was their one night of the year to wear them. And no one was allowed to take them home.

  Halfway across the room, Conner saw Ace Silverstone making his way toward them. He grabbed John’s arm. “Detour.”

  They steered hard aport, trying to give Ace the slip. Unfortunately, the press of so many bodies made escape impossible. Within a few moments, Ace had caught up with them.

  “Conner! John!” Ace called out behind them. “Wait up!”

  As flight was now clearly impossible, Conner turned to face the inevitable.

  “Conner!” Ace repeated, as he caught up to them. “I want a few words with you!”

  Conner braced himself. “Look, Ace . . . we were just having a bit of fun . . .”

  “I want to shake your hand, friend!”

  Conner blinked. “You do?”

  “Damn straight.” Ace grabbed Conner’s hand and pumped it like a well handle. “How did you know exactly what I needed?”

  Conner’s eyes darted to John for help, which was not forthcoming. “I . . . um . . .”

  “Those camera boys had been following me all day, but they hadn’t gotten a thing they liked. They didn’t say it, but I know what they thought—that I was boring. Too conservative. Not camera-worthy. But you changed all that, didn’t you?” He laughed heartily. “Boom!”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I guess I did . . .”

  “They loved that bit. Said they got great footage. They’re going to use it not just this week, but all year long, as one of those video replays before they cut to a commercial. All year long! I’ll get more exposure than I ever could’ve from some single-play feature piece. I really owe you for this one, buddy.” He grabbed Conner’s hand again and resumed pumping.

  “I truly don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say a word, my man. All is forgotten. And anytime you need something, I’m the one you call. Kapeesh?”

  Conner forced his lips into action. “Uh . . . sure. Kapeesh.”

  Ace slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You’ve got a friend for life, buddy boy. Excuse me now, okay? Gotta get back to Table One.”

  Conner and John watched as Ace receded into the crowd. “Well,” John said, “congratulations. You’ve got a friend for life, buddy boy.”

  Conner nodded. “I liked it better when he hated me.”

  Conner felt an arm grab him from behind. He turned to find Barry Bennett standing there, fists on his hips. “Hiya Barry. Are you gonna be my friend for life, too?”

  Barry ignored him. “Pay up, Conner.”

  “Pay . . . ?”

  “The Tiger Woods bet.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “You owe me a hundred smackers. And don’t try to pay me off in golf balls, either. This time I want cold hard cash.”

  “And you’ll have it, Barry. But I’m a bit short at the moment . . .”

  “Don’t give me any excuses, Conner. You owe me!”

  Conner wrapped his arm around the big man’s shoulder. Getting that close made Conner’s eyes water. Barry must’ve been in the locker room earlier; he had something strong and alcoholic on his breath. “Look, Barry, how about if I gave you something even better than cash?”

  “And what would that be?”

  Conner’s eyes twinkled. “A lien against the Golden Bear.”

  Conner and John finally made it back to their own table. Fitz was seated in a chair just across from Conner; John’s wife, Jodie, was facing him.

  Conner made eye contact with Jodie and smiled. “I hope you won’t think me forward if I say that you look radiant tonight.”

  Jodie pressed her hand against one cheek. “Conner Cross. You old flatterer, you.”

  Conner jerked his head toward John. “You know, this clown really doesn’t deserve you.”

  “I know,” Jodie answered. “But someone had to save him from his life of sin and degradation.”

  “When was that?” Conner asked.

  “When he was hanging around with you.”

  Conner smiled. He had known Jodie even longer than he had known John. The three of them had all lived near Watonga. They had spent many a late hour together, chugging beers at Roman Nose State Park, or checking out the flicks at the Liberty Theatre. The Three Musketeers, some of the locals called them. Others favored The Three Stooges. Jodie had originally been Conner’s girl, way back when, and there was a time when he thought . . .

  But it was best to put that out of his mind. She was John’s now, and she had a gigantic diamond ring on her finger to prove it.

  “Jodie,” Conner said, “why don’t you dump this chump and run away with me?”

  She blushed. “I’d like that, Conner. Really. But to tell you the truth—I’ve kinda grown to like Georgia. I’ve even started to speak Georgian. Listen.” She adopted an exaggerated Southern accent—sort of like Scarlett O’Hara on steroids. “Somebody puh-lese bring me mah grits!”

  “That’s all that’s keeping you with this man? A bad accent?” Conner glanced at John; he was barely listening. He was accustomed to Conner and Jodie’s banter; he’d been hearing it for most of his life. “That’s not enough.”

  “Well, there’s also the tiny matter of money. I hate to admit it, Conner, but I’ve become a wee bit fond of being rich.”

  “What am I, chopped liver? I’ll get you anything—”

  “You still living in that trailer park, Conner?”

  Conner stopped a beat. “Well . . .”

  “Still gambling away most of your spare dough?”

  “Only when I feel lucky.”

  “Still trying to pick up every chick who wanders into the bar?”

  “Well . . .” He squirmed. “Certainly not every chick.”

  She patted her husband’s hand. “I think I’ll stick with my Johnny.”

  After the salad course was served, Derwood Scott rose to the podium. Conner tried not to snarl. “I can’t believe that pissant stuck me with a three-stroke penalty.”

  “It was only two,” Fitz hissed back. “You brought the third one on yourself. Actually, you brought them all on yourself.”

  Conner frowned. “Have I told you to go soak your head?”

  “Not in the last half hour.”

  “Then go soak your head.”

  Derwood began the proceedings, which of course started with the introduction of every man in the audience wearing a green jacket. Champions running as far back as the 1950s rose and recaptured a brief moment of the limelight. After the roll of champions was completed, Derwood started thanking all the “little people” wh
o made this tournament possible.

  “Where does he think he is?” Conner whispered. “The Oscars?”

  The thank yous continued for at least ten more minutes. Then Derwood began a panegyric on the “special ambience” of the Masters tournament. “There are many golf tournaments,” he proclaimed, “but there is only one Masters. Here, beneath the shady reaches of the spreading magnolias, men from all walks of life can come together to remember a simpler time, a better time, and to engage in the sport of gentlemen throughout the world.”

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Conner said, sotto voce. John jabbed him in the stomach.

  “What is this thing, this grand endeavor we call golf?” Derwood continued. “Yes, it’s a game, but somehow, in the hands of the men in this room, it becomes something much more. It’s an exhibition of excellence, a playing field where men of good cheer can come together in the name of brotherhood.”

  “Brotherhood?” Conner said, not quite as quietly as before. “Hell, I’m just trying to make a few bucks.” Fitz and Jodie and John all gave him harsh looks.

  While Derwood droned on, the waiters began serving dinner. When Conner’s plate was placed before him, he eyed the mashed potatoes, peas, and asparagus spears encircling a modest pink clump.

  “What is this?” Conner said, staring at his plate. “Spam?”

  John gave him another shaddup already glare. “It isn’t Spam. It’s baked ham.”

  “Looks like Spam to me,” Conner said, oblivious to the distraction he was creating. “You know where Spam comes from?”

  John tried to ignore him. “Shhh.”

  “It was invented by a guy up in Winnetka. Roy was his name, I think.”

  John stopped, obviously torn between his desire to tell Conner to hush and the irresistible impulse to correct another Conneresque line of bull. “It was invented during World War II as a way of preserving and shipping meat for soldiers.”

  “No,” Conner insisted, “I read a magazine article about this. It was definitely a guy called Roy. Roy Spam, I believe.”

  John rolled his eyes. “Spam is short for spiced ham. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I most certainly do. It was invented by Roy Spam.”

  “I’m sure. And you probably think he made it from Silly Putty.”

  “I’m telling you, I read about this in some scholarly journal.”

  “Like what? The National Enquirer?”

  With each rejoinder, their voices grew louder. Eventually, there were more people listening to the Spam debate than listening to Derwood.

  “I’m telling you, this is something I know.”

  “Right,” John said. “I remember in the third grade, you knew that babies came from overeating.”

  “It was Roy Spam!”

  “Baloney!”

  Conner scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and flung it across the table at John.

  John’s eyes went wide. “You sorry little—“ He grabbed his own spoon and retaliated, sending a clump of potatoes back across the table. Conner fired again, and soon the mashed potatoes were criss-crossing the field of battle. When he ran out of potatoes, John flung his Spam/ham. A big saucy piece slapped Conner on the side of his face.

  Enraged, Conner began flinging peas. A few of them veered off and hit Jodie, who then picked up her own spoon and began slinging away. Before long, all of Table Twenty-Four had joined in the warfare. A full-fledged food fight ensued.

  At this point, Derwood was no longer able to ignore the disruption in the back of the room. “Excuse me,” he said, pounding his gavel. “If I could have your attention.”

  Derwood didn’t get anyone’s attention. Conner was under the table, ducking his head to avoid food fire from both directions.

  “Excuse me!” Derwood said, pounding even louder than before. “Please come to order.”

  From Conner’s vantage point, half the room appeared to be in culinary combat. Young and old alike crouched beneath their tables, flinging asparagus spears and mushy peas halfway across the room. Someone found the Jell-o dish that was going to be served for dessert, and then the battle really got messy.

  Conner looked back at John, who had an asparagus spear in each nostril. “Now this is an exhibition of excellence.”

  John nodded. “In the name of brotherhood.”

  “Naturally.” Conner removed the ladle from the gravy boat. “Now watch this.”

  “People!” Derwood shouted, desperately trying to regain control. “We can’t do this! This is the Masters. The Masters! We must—”

  He had more that he wanted to say, but what it was no one ever knew, because he stopped talking for good after the fistful of gravy splatted him in the face.

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to the chairman’s office. Given the way Derwood had stomped out of the champions’ dinner, some attempt at reciprocity seemed inevitable. The only questions in Conner’s brain were when and how. When turned out to be that very night. How turned out to be a command performance in the vice-principal’s office.

  It was impossible for Conner to predict what would happen next, because the Masters—and its powers-that-be—were like no other. The Masters was neither connected with, nor accountable to, any professional association or organized league. It was administered by a private fraternity—virtually a secret society—of well-heeled, conservative duffers. They did not discuss the inner workings of the Club; what had been described as the Augusta National omerta was always maintained. And at the Masters, their word was the law.

  Two tournament officials escorted Conner back to the clubhouse. Without even allowing him to pause at the bar, they led him downstairs, past the public areas into the inner catacombs of the building. Conner trailed them down a long hallway where the staff offices were located. The hallway seemed enormous; Conner wondered why they hadn’t installed an airport people-mover. Only as they approached the end of the dimly lit corridor did Conner realize there were doors there. Two dark mahogany, magnificently carved doors.

  As they approached, the doors swung open, as if moved by a higher power.

  “Please come in.”

  Following the instructions of the voice from within, Conner and his two escorts stepped inside.

  The office was magnificent, every corner filled with golf memorabilia and curios. One entire wall appeared to be covered with photos and awards relating to Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts (always referred to by Club members as Bob Jones and Mr. Roberts), the founders of the Augusta National who oversaw the construction of the golf course (designed by Dr. Alister MacKenzie, M.D.) and carved it out of 365 acres that were once an indigo plantation. The walls were all rich, dark wood, floor-to-ceiling. The furniture reflected the dark motif, right down to the plush upholstered chairs. But the most magnificent piece was the desk—as immense as some conference tables. Behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with his fingers steepled, was a distinguished white-haired gentleman Conner knew all too well: Artemus Tenniel—chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club.

  Conner nodded politely. “Evening, Artemus.”

  Conner could see the man burn at the casual use of his first name, which of course was exactly why Conner had done it. “You will address your remarks to Mr. Spenser.”

  “Ah. Forgive me.” Apparently being summoned by the chairman was akin to having an audience with the queen. You could only speak when spoken to, and then only through an intermediary.

  Conner pivoted slightly, enough to take in the middle-aged, middleweight figure of Andrew Spenser, the Masters tournament director. And cowering behind him, his associate Derwood Scott.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Spenser said, in a slow, deep Southern accent. He paced around the room, slowly encircling Conner. “You are Conner Cross. A three-year member of the PGA tour.”

  “Guilty.”

  Spenser continued his slow circles, as if
he were trying to recreate the torture and brainwash scene from The Manchurian Candidate. “What do you think the Masters tournament is?”

  “A chance to make some really big buckos?”

  “No. The Masters tournament is about much more than big . . . buckos.” He gave a mock shiver. “The Masters tournament is a celebration of mankind’s finest qualities. When the tournament was established in 1937, it was perceived as the pinnacle of—”

  “I’ve read the brochure,” Conner said.

  “The Masters tournament represents the best of all mankind—”

  “If it represents the best of all mankind, how come the Masters didn’t have any African-American players until 1975? How come the Augusta National didn’t have any black members until 1990?”

  Spenser studiously ignored him. “Over the years, this tournament has come to represent much more than simply a sports competition. At the Masters, we try to establish an exemplar for athleticism, ethics . . . and behavior.”

  Conner had the distinct feeling that behavior was the exemplar they were going to be discussing tonight. “Aren’t you guys taking this all a wee bit too seriously? I mean, we’re talking about a golf tournament here, not the end of Western civilization.”

  Spenser drew in his chin. “What we are trying to do is set a standard—”

  “No, what we are trying to do is knock a silly white ball into a tiny hole in the ground. It ain’t international diplomacy.”

  Spenser raised a knobbly finger. “Your behavior has been inexcusable.”

  “I was strafed with Spam. I had to defend myself.”

  “Tonight’s debacle at the champions’ dinner was only the culmination of many violations that have come to our attention.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Destruction of tournament property.”

  “I said I’d pay for the tee marker.”

  “Use of foul and offensive language.”

  “You try talking to Derwood without—”