Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  Conner eyed Freddy carefully. He seemed uneasy, almost jumpy. But he supposed the man had been unnerved by John’s death. Weren’t they all.

  “Anyway,” Freddy said, pushing himself to his feet. “I meant what I said. You need anything, just call me.”

  “Appreciate that, Freddy.”

  “See you Friday night, if not before.”

  Conner nodded, but he thought it unlikely in the extreme that he would want to attend a gala wedding anytime in the near future.

  A few minutes later, the empty space at Conner’s table was taken by yet another pro, Harley Tuttle. Conner glanced up from his martini. “I hope you’re not here to complain about that Tom Kite bet.”

  Harley half-smiled. “Nah. Forgot all about it. I-just wanted to offer my condolences.”

  “Thanks, Harley.”

  “I didn’t know John well, of course. Hadn’t met him till you introduced us. And now I suppose I never will.”

  “You would’ve liked him,” Conner said. “Everyone did.”

  “That’s what I hear. That’s what I hear.” Harley nervously fingered the edge of the tablecloth. Conner could tell there was something on his mind. “Conner… how long have you known John’s wife? Jodie, is it?”

  “As long as I’ve known John. Longer, actually.”

  “Really? Wow. Well, look. I don’t know the woman at all, but I know she must be going through a rough patch.”

  “She is,” Conner said. “But Jodie’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

  “That’s good. Would you tell her something for me?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “She probably doesn’t need it but-well, I know how complicated things were when I lost my mother. And expensive. And John hadn’t been playing so well lately and-oh, hell. Just tell her if there’s anything she needs, all she has to do is ask. And I mean anything, including money. Just let me know.”

  “Okay.”

  Harley would be the one to call, too. He’d only started on the tour this year, but he’d already lined up an impressive list of finishes. He hadn’t won a tournament yet, but he’d placed in the top five in every single tournament this year except Pebble Beach, which he didn’t play. Conner would’ve preferred to hate the man, but unfortunately, he was just too damn nice. “I’ll pass the word along.”

  “Thanks, Conner. And the same goes for you. I can imagine how you must feel. Like my daddy used to say, ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.”

  “I thought that was Joni Mitchell.”

  Harley gave him a shy smile. “All the greats stole from my daddy.” He wandered off, and Conner was relieved. He knew these people were trying to be kind. But he didn’t want to be on at the moment. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to stew in his juices and wallow in his martinis. He wanted to remember John the way he was, not the way he’d found him in that sand trap.

  A flood of memories surged through Conner’s brain. Growing up poor as dirt, wondering what it might be like to get out of town, make some real money. Junior high, high school. Golf at Watonga’s Dusty Duffer. Everything John had done for him. All the times he cared, when it seemed no one else did.

  Conner’s reverie was interrupted, not just once, but repeatedly, by boisterous activity behind him. What insensitive jerk-? Conner forced his muddy brain out of the past and focused on the source of the disturbance.

  It was Barry Bennett, that stupid blowhard. He’d obviously been drinking again. He was standing at the bar, talking to no one in particular, but doing it in a voice everyone could hear.

  “Sure, I’m sssorry he’s dead,” Barry said, slurring the words so badly they were nearly incomprehensible. “But I haven’t got amnesia. I hated that ssson-of-a-bitch.”

  Conner whirled around, staring at the man with wide-eyed amazement. He was actually trashing John. John hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours, and the creep was dissing him in public. He’d always thought Barry was an asshole, but this was beyond the pale.

  “Course I kept quiet about it,” Barry droned on. “I was a good boy. But I didn’t forget. Hell no. I didn’t forget. And I never will.” He hiccuped. “Ssson-of-a-bitch.”

  Conner felt his bile rising. Barry’s behavior was inexcusable, and Conner wasn’t going to sit still for it. He’d ram those words down that sorry drunk’s throat-

  “Kind of a jerk, isn’t he?”

  Conner peered across the table and saw a kid wearing a green flak jacket, soiled T-shirt, and torn blue jeans. His first question was how someone looking like that ever managed to be admitted onto the Augusta National grounds. His second question was why someone who looked like that was talking to him.

  “Bennett has a problem with alcohol,” the kid said. “Everyone on the tour knows it.”

  Conner cocked an eyebrow. Was that a fact?

  The kid brushed his long straggly black hair out of his face. “You’re Conner Cross, aren’t you? I recognize you from your pictures. Everyone knows you were John McCree’s best friend. And here I am, face-to-face with you. Wow.”

  Conner’s eyes narrowed. He was getting the distinct impression this kid was not part of the Augusta National staff. “Who are you?”

  The kid slapped himself on the forehead. “Didn’t I say? Oh, wow. Duh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ed Frohike. President of the John McCree Fan Club.”

  The light began to dawn in Conner’s eyes. A golf groupie. “I see…”

  “I came here to meet John. I’ve corresponded with him by e-mail-even talked to him on the phone. But I never met him. So I blew my life savings-everything I made working at Taco Bell for six months-to come out here and meet him. But before I could-”

  “I’m sorry, kid. That’s rough.”

  “Yeah. Tougher on you, though. I mean, you actually knew him. Knew him well.”

  “Yeah. That I did. That I did.” He glanced back at Ed. “So how’d you get in here, kid? The Augusta National prides itself on its security.”

  Ed grinned, like a kid caught dipping a girl’s pigtails in the inkwell. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “In theory.”

  Ed leaned across the table and whispered. “I snuck in underground. Through the sewer system tunnels. Came up through a manhole just off the eighteenth fairway. Late at night.”

  “I didn’t know there were tunnels under the course.”

  “Only part of it. Apparently the Augusta National makes some heavy demands on the water system. Keeping all those greens green, you know.”

  “And how did you find out about that?”

  Ed waved him away. “Oh, man, I know everything.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He shifted to his reciting voice. “Conner C. Cross, from Watonga, Oklahoma. Six foot one, two hundred and five pounds. Third year in the PGA. Best power drive on the tour. Worst putting game on the tour.”

  Conner gave him a withering look. “I guess you do know everything.”

  “Everything about golf, anyway. I eat and breathe golf.”

  “Really. What’s your handicap?”

  “Oh, I don’t play the game. I… merely worship it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I mean. I’m into it, big time. It’s my favorite thing. I follow all the players, all the tournaments. Heck, I’ve even got your trading card.”

  “Really? I’m sure that’s in great demand!” Conner said with heavy irony.

  “It’s… um… well… you know. It’s… hotter than a Freddy Granger.” Ed looked away. “But I always thought John was the greatest, you know? That’s why I started the fan club. He was just so cool, so suave and sophisticated. Like, just the opposite of you.”

  “I can see where that would be in his favor.”

  “No-I didn’t mean-I mean-”

  “Calm down, Ed. Take a breath.”

  “I just meant that he was so classy. Had a style all his own. You’ve got a style, too.”

  “That would be one way of putting it.�
�

  Ed’s eyes darted around the room. “I can’t believe I’m actually at the Masters! This is so awesome! I started going crazy the second I stepped onto the course.” His chest deflated. “But then I heard what happened to John. Man, what a bummer. I went to so much trouble to meet him. All that planning, all that money and time. And then-this.”

  Conner peered into the kid’s eyes. “It’s tough.”

  “I was so close!” Out of nowhere, Ed’s fists rose up and pounded down on the table. “I saw him, you know. Tuesday night. But he was heading somewhere in a hurry and I didn’t want to bother him. I thought-no, Ed, wait. You’ve got all week.” He slumped down in his chair. “Except I didn’t have all week. That was my last chance. And I blew it.”

  “Are you saying you saw John alive Tuesday night?”

  “Right. Around nine-thirty.”

  Nine-thirty! That would be after he left the cabin, after Jodie last saw him alive. “Do you have any idea where he was going?”

  “Sure. It was obvious. I saw him pass through the door.”

  Conner’s eyebrows knitted together. “The door? What door?”

  Ed’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you know? He was going to see Andrew Spenser.”

  10

  Once again, Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to appear in the chairman’s office. He’d been expecting it since he saw Derwood stomp off earlier that morning, and it probably would’ve come sooner, had the tournament officials not had some rather more pressing business. When the call came, he didn’t resist. It was just as well-he’d finished his last martini. And this time, he had questions he wanted to pose to Mr. Spenser.

  Conner knew the way to Tenniel’s office now, so he took the lead, letting the Augusta National Nazis trail nervously in his wake. He walked briskly down the dimly lit corridor till he reached Tenniel’s office, then flung the double doors open and stepped inside.

  Derwood was there, as he expected, hovering in the background like a vulture waiting for his daily dose of carrion. Tenniel sat behind his desk, impassive as ever.

  Spenser stepped forward from the recesses of the office. It appeared that, once again, he was going to take the leading role in Conner’s Trip to the Woodshed, Part Two.

  “First of all,” Spenser said, “let me express our deepest sympathies to you. We know what a loss you’ve suffered. Believe me when I say you have our most sincere condolences.” Spenser held out his arms, as if he actually thought for a moment he was going to embrace Conner. Conner did a quick sidestep to avoid that possibility. “We know you and John were close, and we understand that you must be suffering the most profound grief.”

  Conner remained unmoved. “Why do I feel you’re coming to a but?”

  Spenser’s stoic resolve wavered, if only for an instant. “We know these are troubling times, and if we can assist you in any way, please do not hesitate to tell us.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Conner said impatiently. “If that was all you had to say, you could’ve sent a Hallmark. What’s the real purpose of this meeting?”

  Spenser cleared his throat. “We realize that this tragedy may affect your… powers of judgment, and that a certain lack of rationality may be inevitable…”

  “Lack of rationality?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard that we intend to continue with this tournament. That decision being made, it is crucial that we maintain our standards…”

  “Spenser, just cut to the chase.”

  Spenser drew himself up. “We have wondered if it wouldn’t be best if you dropped out of the tournament. No one could fault you for that. No one would suspect that there was any… controversy. People will simply assume that you are overcome with grief due to the loss of your friend.”

  Conner felt his teeth locking together. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You want to use John’s death as an excuse to get me the hell out of Dodge.”

  “I was only considering your welfare. Surely you’re not in any condition to play a major golf tournament. Proceeding with this could only lead to… severe embarrassment.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve seen the scores from the par three, Mr. Cross. Your performance was hardly… Masters caliber, and we can’t realistically expect it to improve after all you’ve been through today. I think the wisest course would be for you to excuse yourself from the competition.”

  Conner had so many emotions racing through him he couldn’t identify them all. A few hours ago, before he talked to Jodie, he was certain he would drop out of the tournament, exactly as Spenser wished. But now, after hearing Spenser use John’s death as a tawdry excuse to get what he wanted, he’d sooner die first. Besides, he made Jodie a promise. “No.”

  Artemus Tenniel leaned forward, his hands clasped on his desk. “You don’t have to answer now. Give it some thought. Sleep on it.”

  “I’m not dropping out.”

  “Don’t force us to become antagonistic,” Spenser said. “I’m sure it’s clear to you by now that… we don’t want you here. You’re just… not the Masters type.”

  “The Masters type? What is that?”

  “We have remarked previously on your unacceptable behavior.”

  “Now wait just a minute. I did as you asked. I dressed in your silly Sears clothes.”

  From the back corner, Derwood made a loud throat-clearing noise. He jerked his head toward Conner’s.

  Spenser took the cue. “There’s still the matter of your, um, hair style.”

  “I read the PGA rules and the Augusta National regulations. None of them prohibit a shaved head.”

  “It’s hardly orthodox.”

  “Says who? Lots of the pros are bald.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “You can’t toss me out. I didn’t break a rule.”

  “The haircut is simply one example. Your attitude is what we find offensive.”

  “What are you-the attitude police? What makes you think you can tell me what attitude to have? If I haven’t broken a rule, you haven’t got anything on me.”

  “We’ve given you a graceful out. Show some sense for a change. Take it.”

  “I will not quit the tournament. And you won’t throw me out, either.”

  “You think we can’t?” Tenniel said, a tiny edge to his voice. “You think you’re invulnerable? That’s what Frank Stranahan thought, too, back in 1947. We ousted him for arguing with a greenskeeper.”

  Conner raised a finger. “If you try to shaft me after my best friend was murdered in your sand trap, I will raise a stink like you’ve never seen in your life!”

  “Think of what you’re saying!” Spenser implored. “You would dishonor John’s memory.”

  “Is that a fact?” Conner shot back. “Speaking of John’s memory, why was he in your office just before he was killed?”

  Spenser looked as if someone had slugged him with a tire iron. “Why-John-what?”

  “You heard me. He was in your office, late at night. He was meeting you, wasn’t he?”

  “I-He-”

  “Spit it out, Spenser. Why did you meet John? Were the two of you having a disagreement, perhaps? Maybe you were trying to push John around, too? And maybe he didn’t like it?”

  Spenser took a step backward. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You deny it?”

  “I certainly do. John McCree was not in my office last night. Neither was I, for that matter.” Spenser’s eyes darted from one end of the room to the other, as if checking to make sure his colleagues believed him. “It’s all a lie. Something this scoundrel cooked up to confuse the issues.”

  Conner stared back at the man, puzzled. Fanboy Ed had definitely said he saw John go into Spenser’s office. Either Spenser was lying, or Ed was.

  And what possible reason could Ed have to lie?

  11

  Thursday

  Thursday was the first day of the actual
Masters tournament. Conner was always amazed at the amount of rigmarole that attended the opening. From all the buzz and excitement, all the attention and interest, one might think the president was about to declare war, or aliens had just landed on the seventh green.

  As always, the press was present in force. Reporters were everywhere, looking for inside tips, news, and gossip about the players and the game. Conner spotted three different CBS minicams. The official network commentators were safely tucked away in their high-rise booth, specially constructed for tournament coverage. There were even a couple of helicopters buzzing around overhead, providing aerial photography.

  And of what? A golf tournament. Conner shook his head in amazement. If the police department could summon this much talent and energy for its investigation, John’s murder would’ve been solved yesterday.

  It was a beautiful morning; the azaleas were in bloom and the air was thick with the scent of tea olive. The greens were bright and vibrant-trimmed to perfection. Even the roughs were-well, not very rough. Just “second cut” once a year. This really was, Conner grudgingly admitted, the best-kept golf course on earth. If a leaf fell on the fairway, he suspected, an alarm sounded in the groundskeeper’s bunker and a golf cart was dispatched to remove the offending item.

  Conner showed up early for the opening ceremony; he wasn’t going to give anyone an excuse to toss him out on some obscure technicality. Before the tournament began, all the pros gathered to watch the first tee-off, which was traditionally shared by the three senior members invited to play. Since all former Masters champions are invited back, regardless of their current standing, that meant that the three oldest former champions shared the stage. Each of the three seniors knocked off one token swing, then retired to the clubhouse to watch the real contenders.

  After that ceremony was completed, an assistant tournament director assigned numbers to each of the players. Last year’s champion was always 1; Jack Nicklaus was always 86, commemorating the year he won the last and most extraordinary of his six Masters titles.