William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

“Disorderly conduct.”

  “Well, maybe a little . . .”

  “Violation of the tournament dress code.”

  “The tournament hasn’t even started yet!”

  “Need we remind you, Mr. Cross, that a strict code of dress and conduct applies to the entire PGA tour?” This came from someone behind him. Conner turned to face a man who was altogether too familiar to him.

  “Richard Peregino,” Conner said, exhaling. “The PGA morals cop.”

  “Vice president of Decorum and Image, thank you.”

  “But it isn’t even a PGA tournament!”

  “As the on-site representative of the PGA,” Peregino continued, “I must tell you that we take these charges very seriously.” Peregino wore a suit that was too small, too old, and was tacky even when it was new. Perched in the midst of this high-class office, he was like a walking-talking What’s Wrong With This Picture? “We’ve had you under close observation for some time now because we’ve suspected you of improper conduct.”

  “Is that why you’ve been watching me everywhere I go? And here I thought you had a crush on me.”

  Peregino’s jaw tightened. “You know perfectly well that the PGA demands that its members uphold high moral and ethical standards. Our regulations prohibit illegal or offensive behavior, improper or insufficient attire, sexual misconduct, profanity. We carefully screen all entrants to prevent any rogue bull from tarnishing the PGA image.”

  “Someone must’ve been snoozing when I got my card,” Conner muttered.

  “That mistake can be easily corrected,” Peregino replied, drawing himself up to his full height, which was still about six inches lower than Conner’s. “And believe me, if your conduct doesn’t change, it will be. You won’t finish the tour.”

  “You won’t finish this tournament,” Spenser chimed in. “Here in Augusta, we have rules. And if those rules are not observed, you will be excused from the competition.”

  “Wait a minute,” Conner protested. “I was personally invited to participate. You can’t toss me out now.”

  “I can and I will,” Spenser shot back. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. One more disruption or violation, and you will be escorted off the property.”

  Conner remembered what Fitz had told him earlier about Haas and the others. When the Augusta National wanted someone gone, he was gone. Which would definitely put a crimp in Conner’s plan to win big and pay off his trailer home.

  Conner paused a moment before speaking. “I’ll try to behave myself.”

  Spenser preened triumphantly. “See that you do.”

  Derwood stepped out of the shadows. “And your attire?”

  “Whatever.”

  That wasn’t good enough for Derwood. “I will be at the first tee tomorrow morning to personally inspect your clothing. If you’re not dressed in compliance with our standards, I won’t let you on the course.”

  Conner frowned. “Does this mean that Easter bunny suit I was planning to wear is out of the question?”

  His remark was met by a room full of stony expressions.

  “Damn,” Conner muttered. “I’m gonna lose my deposit.”

  Later that night, a different conversation took place in another office in the clubhouse. The office was dark except for the illuminated glow radiating from a single desktop Tiffany lamp. The low lighting silhouetted the two figures standing on opposite sides of a desk. The expressions on their faces and the tone of their voices revealed that the discussion was anything but amicable.

  “I want an explanation for this!”

  “I’m afraid . . . I have none to give.” The man standing behind the desk had a slight catch in his voice. “Perhaps if you could give me some time . . .”

  “Your time is up.”

  “If you could just give me a week. A day, even.”

  “I want an explanation now. Because if this means what I think it means—”

  “Please.” The man behind the desk began to fidget with a paperweight. “I promise you. It’s not what it seems.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It—It—It’s just a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, I think I understand. I think I understand perfectly.”

  “But—don’t—“ His head fell into his hands. “If you could just give me some more time.”

  “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning.”

  “But that’s not nearly enough—”

  “Tomorrow morning. And if you can’t clear this up by then, I’ll go public.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Then you can make your explanations to everyone.” He turned and started toward the door.

  “Please wait—“ But it was too late. Before the man behind the desk could finish his sentence, his companion had left the office.

  He collapsed into his chair. How had he gotten himself into this mess? It had all seemed so innocent at first, so harmless. And now—

  But there was no point in wallowing in those ruminations. He had to do something. To do something quick. But what?

  There was no way he could rectify this mess before morning. If the other man was as good as his threats, he would be ruined. Absolutely ruined.

  His only hope was that the other man didn’t go public, that he kept his mouth shut. Not just tomorrow morning, but forever. Something had to happen. Something had to change his mind. Or something had to make it impossible for him to tell what he knew.

  An idea flickered in the corner of his brain. A wild idea—a crazy one.

  But just possibly the only one he had left.

  He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to fight back the throbbing inside his head. He had no hope unless John McCree kept his mouth shut. Permanently.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  Conner gazed out at the vast stretch of darkness surrounding him. The sky blanketed the horizon, creating an inky satin backdrop interrupted only by dim moonlight reflected by the white-columned clubhouse. Looked as though the stars could use a little help tonight, he thought to himself. Glad to oblige. He swung his club back, and the glistening white ball soared out across the driving range, adding, however briefly, another reflective speck to the sky.

  The ball etched a perfect parabola before cascading down in front of the 300 marker—exactly where Conner wanted it. It was a beautiful stroke. The only problems were (1) strokes on the driving range don’t count toward your score and (2) there was no one around to appreciate it. Why the hell couldn’t he have done that today on the course?

  There was no point in berating himself with that question. If he knew the answer, he would have acted on it long before now. He had barely snuck onto the tour three years ago, had a so-so first year, and had gone downhill since. Sure, he was still playing well enough to keep his card, even well enough to make a few bucks here and there. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was falling short of his potential. He couldn’t shake it because Fitz kept hammering it into his brain at every opportunity.

  He checked his watch. Where was John, anyway? Conner had expected him to show up more than an hour ago. It was a tradition with them, knocking the balls around in the moonlight the night before a tournament began. They were the only ones he knew who did it, although everyone on the tour had some tradition, some good luck ritual. Perhaps because golf skills were so unpredictable, because the causes for the constant fluctuations in quality of performance were so elusive, golf pros tended to be a superstitious lot. On the night before a tournament began . . . Freddy Granger washed his lucky red socks . . . Ace Silverstone read from the Bible . . . Barry Bennett got drunk . . . Tiger Woods called home. As far as Conner knew, he and John were the only players who actually practiced, which was considered a radical idea in some quarters.

  Truth was, knocking the balls down the driving range was not so much about practicing as relaxing. In the still of the night, hidden away under the cover of darkness, Conner and John shared some of their closest moments. It wa
s one of the rare times when the superficialities disappeared and the two men could talk like they did when they were kids. It was these quiet moments, much more than the public carousing and debauchery, that kept their close-knit friendship going.

  Or used to, anyway. Where the hell was he? This was totally unlike John. He was theoretically the reliable one. If Conner was late to arrive, no one would think anything of it, except perhaps to put in a call to the local hospitals and whorehouses. But when John was late, that was something else.

  Conner heard a rustling on the patio directly behind him. Someone was moving his way. About time. “What happened? Jodie demand a quickie? Or did your—”

  He stopped abruptly. The silhouette moving toward him was too short, too wide. Whoever it was, it wasn’t John.

  “How’s it hangin’, Conner?”

  How’s it hangin’? Wait a minute . . .

  Conner strained his eyes, peering through the darkness. Freddy Granger.

  “I’m fine, Freddy. Just trying to get in some practice strokes.”

  Freddy nodded. “I heard about your score today. I don’t blame you.”

  Conner tried to remind himself that he actually liked Freddy. “So what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in your room chanting your mantra? Or maybe in the locker room, hexing the other players’ clubs?”

  “I’ve made a discovery,” Freddy announced, in his thick Southern drawl.

  “A discovery? What kind of discovery?”

  Freddy’s eyebrows danced up and down. “The best kind.”

  “Meaning—?”

  “The raunchy kind.”

  Conner felt his lips involuntarily curving into a grin. He was reminded of why he liked Freddy: he didn’t take himself too seriously, which was a refreshing change after being lectured about how golf was the cornerstone of Western civilization. And Freddy was an actual member of this “bastion of tradition,” as was John, for that matter. Apparently it was possible to join the Augusta National and still not think of yourself as the “exemplar of excellence.”

  Conner slid his club into his golf bag. “Well, lead on.”

  Freddy led Conner off the driving range. A few minutes later, they were inside the clubhouse, heading down the central staircase toward the men’s locker room.

  “I don’t want to disillusion you,” Conner said as he followed along, “but I’ve seen the locker room before. Smelled it, too.”

  “I’ll bet you haven’t seen this.” Freddy led him past the lockers, past the stalls, past the showers, almost to the door that exited near the first tee. They jogged sharply to the left, where Conner saw a group of pros pressed against the tile-covered wall. Barry Bennett was there, as well as a few of the other PGA stalwarts. The wall was bare; as far as Conner could tell, they were all staring at nothing but blue bathroom tile.

  “Didn’t there used to be a mirror there?” Conner asked.

  “Yup,” Freddy agreed. “Carefully placed by some reprobate to hide the treasure that lay beyond. Till I had the sense to move it.”

  “And you discovered—mildewed tile?”

  “No. A peephole.”

  Conner’s lips parted. Suddenly, all those pros pressing their faces against the wall took on an entirely new perspective.

  “We think it was drilled for a phone line or something,” Freddy explained. “But you can see straight through to the ladies’ locker room!”

  Conner rolled his eyes. “What a pack of juvenile delinquents you guys are. Get a life already!”

  “When did you become such a stick-in-the-mud?” Freddy asked. “I thought you were the ‘gonzo player of the PGA.’ ”

  “This isn’t gonzo. This is Porky’s II.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you disapprove. I’ll note that on the record.” Freddy winked. “Wanna take a look?”

  “Well, if you insist.” Conner pushed the other pros aside and pressed his left eye against the tiny hole in the wall. “I’m having a hard time seeing anything . . .” He blinked and refocused, trying to let his eye relax. “Wait. I’m getting something. It’s . . . It’s . . .” He drew in his breath. “It’s the puke green doors to the women’s stalls! Be still my heart!”

  Freddy jerked him away from the wall. “If you’re gonna be sarcastic, just leave.”

  “Sarcastic? I’m serious. I saw the inside of the girl’s bathroom! Now I can die happy.”

  “Yeah,” Freddy shot back, “you’re playin’ the wiseass now. But wait till some women show up. Then you’ll be beggin’ for a chance to peer through my peephole.”

  “It’s going to be a long wait.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  Conner patted Freddy on the shoulder. “No women in the Masters tournament, remember? I think they give that locker room to the caddies.”

  Freddy was crushed.

  John paced around the green of the eighteenth hole. A damn fool place to be in the middle of the night. Conner must think he fell off the edge of the earth by now. He should have just said no and left it at that. Hadn’t he had enough aggravation for one night? And there was still that puzzling sight from yesterday to ponder. The last thing he needed was to be marching around the golf course after hours. Still, the note said it was urgent . . .

  He turned around in a small circle, scanning the horizon, all 360 degrees. Why did it have to be such a dark night? The moon was mostly hidden behind the clouds. That could be a bad sign. Rain could really mess up a golf tournament, especially one as tightly scheduled as the Masters.

  The thought brought a chuckle to his lips. What was he thinking? They couldn’t have rain at the Masters. The board of directors would never allow it. There were undoubtedly several regulations expressly forbidding it.

  He heard a soft footfall several yards behind him. Or thought he did . . .

  He whirled around. Was something moving? Or was it just the clouds behind the trees, creating the illusion of movement? It was so difficult to tell.

  John suddenly realized he didn’t like being here and didn’t want to be here any longer. He should have known better than to come. The whole thing was starting to give him the creeps. He was going inside. Right now.

  He started marching down the fairway. Maybe it still wasn’t too late to catch up to Conner, although odds were by now he’d picked up some floozy and fed her that song-and-dance about how he’d “waited all his life for a woman who could make him forget golf and dedicate his life to medical science . . .”

  “Leaving so soon?”

  John froze in his tracks. The voice came from somewhere behind him.

  “Seems a shame. We haven’t even had a chance to chat.”

  Slowly, John turned to face the person speaking to him. Why was he suddenly so damn scared? There was a trembling in his knees that he didn’t seem to be able to stop. It had been a mistake coming out here. A stupid, stupid mistake—

  “So it’s you,” John said, when he saw who had joined him.

  “Indeed it is. And we have the fairway to ourselves.”

  “How lovely.” John pursed his lips, trying to mask his growing panic behind a shroud of anger. “What’s the point of all this, anyway? Why did you drag me out here?”

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “I suspect we have nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” John replied. He strained his eyes, trying to get a better look. The person standing only a few feet away from him was holding something. Something that glistened faintly. “But I don’t think talking would accomplish anything.”

  “Surely we can come to . . . some sort of arrangement.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is there nothing that would tempt you?”

  “Not in the way that you mean.” John drew up his shoulders. “Look, if it’s just the same to you, I’d like to get out of here—”

  “Please don’t rush. I’ve only just arrived. And it’s such a long walk back to the clubh
ouse.”

  “All the more reason to start now.”

  “Please—give me one more chance.”

  John didn’t have to pretend any longer. His fear really was starting to be replaced by anger. This had gone on too long already. “One more chance for what?”

  “To help you understand. To see things from my perspective.”

  “That, my friend, is never going to happen.”

  “You’re certain about that?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  A sigh. “Then I guess there really is nothing more to say.”

  John started to turn away. “Glad you’re starting to see things my way.”

  “But there is one more thing I must do.”

  The glistening shape rose up so quickly John didn’t know what was happening. He heard a sudden slicing sound, like someone was swinging a scythe through the air just beside his head.

  And after that, John heard nothing at all.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Wednesday

  After ten minutes of frustration and futility, Fitz tired of pounding on the door.

  “I’m coming in! Like it or not!” Fortunately, Conner had failed to lock the door to his cabin. Fitz shoved the door open and pushed inside.

  He was not particularly surprised to find that Conner’s cabin was a mess. Conner had, after all, been lodged here for over twenty-four hours. Coffee tables were overturned; chairs were upended. The floor was littered with dirty clothes, open pizza boxes, spilled beer cans.

  Fitz kicked the pile of clothes nearest him. It capsized, spilling out a shirt, three socks, a belt, soiled boxers, a muddy golf shoe, and a bra.

  A bra?

  Fitz picked up the frilly black lace undergarment and let it dangle from his fingertip. He was beginning to understand why Conner hadn’t shown up in the locker room to collect his clubs.

  Fitz stomped over to the closed bedroom door and pounded. “Conner! Are you there?”

  A strained, barely audible voice responded on the other side of the door. “No.”

  “Conner, get out here!”