The announcers then moved on to other college players they thought might go high in the draft. Photos of absurdly huge tackles and guards filled the screen and Scarne turned the show off, happy that he had not uncovered anything really damaging about Weatherly and Landon that might have destroyed what might turn out to be two historic professional football careers.
***
The next day was basically a repeat of the first, except that Scarne played better golf. And he had better company, a young couple from Ohio. Both were accomplished, athletic players who carried their own bags. And, more importantly to Scarne, they also knew when to talk and when to shut up.
The Tralee course was about half the distance to Ballybunion and offered even more spectacular views, with the Atlantic Ocean clearly visible from every hole. The ruins of an old castle, which to Scarne’s amazement were not out of bounds (”you play it where it lies, laddie”) came into play on both the 9th and 10th holes. The links course was fairly flat and didn’t offer much protection from the ocean breezes, which were steady in the 15 mile-per-hour range. Scarne never touched his driver and, by keeping his ball low and under the wind, managed to avoid any catastrophic mistakes. He almost broke 80 and felt pretty good about himself.
But he knew he couldn’t take all the credit. As it turned out, Corrick Mahoney was a member at Traleee.
“All the caddies at Tralee are members,” Mahoney explained.
His course management proved crucial on several tough holes, where the drop offs were daunting. A bad shot might wind up on a beach 200 feet below the fairway.
“I’ve never seen a course like this,” Scarne said at one point.
“Aye, it’s impressive,” Mahoney said. “See that stretch of sand down there? That’s where David Lean filmed scenes for Ryan’s Daughter back in 1969. Ever see it?”
“On TV.”
“Before my time, as well. Holds up pretty well, I think. That Sarah Miles was a saucy thing in her day, I bet. And if you think the elevations here are something, wait until we get to Old Head. Some of the drops must be 400 feet, down to rocks. They have signs all over warning about getting too close to the edge.”
“Wonderful.”
Mahoney had helped the Ohio couple with advice on a few holes and they generously slipped him a tip. Scarne repaid the gesture, which was certainly unnecessary, by buying them some pints of Guinness in the clubhouse bar, where Corrick Mahoney seemed to know everyone. It was, in all, a splendid day of golf and Scarne insisted on buying dinner for Mahoney.
“Pick the best seafood restaurant around here,” he said.
“That would be the West End Bar & Restaurant in Fenit. Best Black sole in these parts. Family run for five generations.”
The picturesque village of Fenit, a small fishing port with a busy marina, was just across the straits of Barrow Harbour from Tralee. As Scarne quickly found out from their friendly waitress in the restaurant, the town was purported to be the starting point of Saint Brendan the navigator. Scarne politely acted as if he knew who that was. After the waitress left, Mahoney said, “You don’t have a clue who he was, do you?”
“No.”
“According to legend,” Mahoney said, “Brendan built a boat made of woven branches, covered it with tanned hides and set sail with a bunch of other monks around 900 A.D. They fasted for 40 days and finally landed on an island covered with crystal pillars where demons bombarded them with lumps of fiery slag.”
“You don’t say.”
The caddie laughed.
“That’s what we were taught in catechism class. Me, I think poor Brendan got lost and wound up in Iceland. He was probably referring to glaciers and volcanoes. In any event, he made it back to Kerry and started a monastery and they made him a saint. Or so the legend goes. The tourists like it.”
The Black, or Dover, sole was indeed excellent. The pub had a good selection of American white wines by the glass and Scarne limited himself to a single glass of Sauvignon blanc. He wanted his wits about him if the golf at Old Head proved as formidable as everyone said it was. For his part, Mahoney switched to iced tea.
“The Garda — that’s the coppers — are hard on drinking and driving,” Mahoney explained. “Don’t want to push my luck.”
After their dinner, he dropped Scarne off at the Killarney Park at 10 P.M.
“Pick you up at 9 tomorrow morning, Jake. Old Head is in Cork. Bit of a drive from here.”
There was no TV this night. An exhausted Scarne was asleep by 10:15.
CHAPTER 17 - RAZOR’S EDGE
When Scarne walked out to the driveway the next morning, he was surprised that the always punctual Mahoney was nowhere to be seen. His clubs, however, were standing next to a black Range Rover, where a short, stocky man was studiously cleaning them one-by-one. The man turned at Scarne’s approach.
“Mr. Scarne?”
“Yes.”
“Name is Brian. Brian Clancy. I’m your driver today.”
“Where is Corrick? I had an arrangement with him for my stay.”
“He had a family emergency, sir. Nothing serious, but I thought I’d help him out. We’re mates. He’d do the same for me.”
“I’m headed back to Shannon tomorrow.”
“He’s hoping to be back by then. But even if he’s not, I’ll get you to the airport. Don’t you worry.”
Scarne was disappointed. Mahoney was a lot of fun to be around, not to mention an excellent caddy.
Clancy read the look on Scarne’s face.
“If you’re worried about a caddy, Mr. Scarne, rest easy. I’m sure I can arrange one. Worst case, I can loop for you. Done it lots of times. Save you a bit of cash, too. Corrick will take care of my fee, you know, for the inconvenience to both of us. If you want, I’ll call Old Head and see who’s available. Bit late, though. They may all be booked. It’s kind of isolated out there. Not too many caddies like to make the trip if they don’t have a sure loop.”
“Do you know Old Head?”
“Sure. Everybody knows it.”
Scarne didn’t see the need of trying to get someone to carry his bag on such short notice. Clancy would just be sitting around for three hours doing nothing if he hired a local caddy.
“I’m sure you will do fine, Brian. And thanks for pitching in like this.”
“Like I said, me and Corrick are mates.”
Lifting the rear hatch, Clancy put Scarne’s clubs in the Range Rover.
“It’s going to be in the 70’s, Mr. Scarne. A bit windy, perhaps, but nothing you can’t handle. You’re going to have the experience of a lifetime.”
***
A single road led up through a small village to the Old Head Golf Links, the entrance of which was marked by a large limestone that had a hole through it near its top. A security guard came out of a small booth and spoke to Clancy. Scarne took the time to read a plaque on the stone. It was a “Stone of Accord” and was used by ancient Celts to seal deals. Parties to an accord would put their fingers on either side of the hole, which was the equivalent of a modern handshake. The hole itself was aligned so that the sun shone through it on Mid-Summer’s day, when a fire would be lighted to mark the change of seasons.
Once past the stone and guardhouse, Scarne was mesmerized by the view. Old Head was situated on a spit of raw and beautiful land jutting out over the Atlantic Ocean. The wave-lashed promontory’s unspoiled and rock-strewn cliffs were riddled with caves. A tall lighthouse stood guard at the very end of the course. Scarne had never seen a layout like it.
Clancy parked the Rover and then carried Scarne’s clubs over to the small practice range. Golf balls, neatly arranged in pyramids, were piled at each station.
“Why don’t you warm up a bit while I go see if they’ve paired you up with anyone?” the caddie said.
As Clancy ambled toward the massive stone clubhouse, Scarne took out his 3-wood, which he now regarded with affection. By teeing balls low and putting them back in his stance toward his right foot, he began
hitting low piercing shots into the wind, which was in his face. The wind, as he and all golfers knew, always seemed to be in a player’s face, no matter where they were facing. It was one of the mysteries of the crazy game. Ten minutes later Clancy was back.
“Looks like it’s just going to be us, Mr. Scarne. And, if you’re ready we can go right out. Maybe get some holes in before the wind picks up.”
“Fine by me.”
They walked to the first hole. As he had at Ballybunion and Tralee, Scarne decided to play from the middle tees, which at all three courses shortened the yardage to about 6,400 yards. With the wind, he knew, that would still be a test. He looked at his score card and read the message on the back: “Players, caddies and spectators are warned not to attempt to retrieve balls from the hazards at holes 2, 3, 4, 7, 12, 13, 15, 16, 17 and 18. It is positively dangerous to do so and the club will NOT accept liability for any injuries caused by such pursuits. Caution must be taken when playing from cliff-edge tees.”
Even from the middle tee, the first hole, named “Slí Na Firinne”, was a still-respectable 390-yard par 4.
“Do you know what the name means, Bryan?”
“It’s Gaelic for “The Path of Truth.”
Scarne looked down the nearly flat fairway. Well, he thought as he teed up his ball, at least I won’t fall off a cliff on this hole. His practice with the 3-wood paid off and he easily parred the hole. Perhaps Old Head wasn’t as tough as it was cracked up to be.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he said as the walked to the second hole.
Clancy just smiled.
“Good Lord,” Scarne said when they got to the tee box of No. 2, called “Gun Hole”.
Slightly shorter at 376 yards, the fairway took a sharp dogleg left, around a chasm that fell to the ocean. Nettled by the obvious problems on the left, Scarne blocked his tee shot into the right rough. Fortunately, the rough at Old Head was nowhere as deep or as nasty as the heather at the other two courses and he escaped with a two-putt bogey.
The next hole, “Bream Rock”, was also a nightmare. A par-3 playing at only 160 yards, surrounded by dropoffs, it offered no margin of error left, short or long of the green. Scarne’s nervous 5-iron landed well right of the green and he breathed a sigh of relief when he managed to get down in three.
Two bogies in a row, and he had to work for them!
Scarne looked at his card. The next hole, a 415-yard par 4, was ominously named “The Razor’s Edge”. When he got to the teeing ground, he saw why. There were even signs warning against standing too near the edges of the tee box! The wind had strengthened and it didn’t take too much imagination to believe an incautious (or inebriated) golfer might be blown to his doom on the rocks below. The fairway meandered left and ended at a green below the lighthouse on what had to be the most desolate and isolated section of the course. The cliff nearest the lighthouse was almost vertical. The Atlantic Ocean stretched to the horizon. There wasn’t another golfer in sight.
Before teeing his ball, Scarne looked at the card again. He noted that the 18th hole was appropriately named “The Sanctuary”. He suspected he would earn his after-golf pints by the time he came off that green.
“God hates a coward,” he muttered as he set up.
After a practice swing and a very deep breath, he fired a shot along the left side of the fairway, hoping that the stiff breeze coming off the ocean from that direction would work in his favor. It did, and his ball found the middle of the fairway about 200 yards from the green. That wasn’t so bad, he thought. One more good 3-wood and maybe I can par this sucker, Scarne thought.
As they walked to his ball, Clancy veered off to the left and stood looking down the cliff side.
“What are you doing?”
The caddie was standing right next to another warning sign.
“I thought I heard something, Mr. Scarne. I think there might be someone stuck down there.”
Scarne ran over. He listened, but the only thing could hear was the sound of waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. He looked at Clancy and shook his head.
Clancy pointed downward.
“There!”
Scarne walked to the edge and leaned forward, looking toward the spot Clancy was pointing at. He placed one hand on the warning sign to test its hold on the ground. It seemed solid enough. It allowed him to lean even further out. But he still didn’t see anything. He felt Clancy’s hand on his back, on his belt. He assumed he was holding on for Scarne’s safety.
“Good man,” Scarne said.
“Goodbye, mate,” Clancy whispered, and with a strong shove pushed Scarne off the cliff.
CHAPTER 18 - A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
As Scarne tumbled off the cliff, his hand slipped off the warning sign and for a brief second he was airborne, with nothing between him and the rocks below. Then the hand that had been on the sign hit a rock and his fingers instinctively clenched.
He didn’t have enough purchase to hold on but before he lost his grip his body pivoted and he slammed against the side of the precipice. His other hand scrabbled against the rock face and found a gnarled root that jutted out from a small crevice. The root was about two inches in diameter and may have been there for centuries. It had pushed down through the rocky incline and had weathered the Irish elements for too long to be pulled out by the weight of a mere man. It wasn’t going anywhere, and for the moment, neither was Scarne. As long as he could hold on.
With his feet dangling over thin air, he used his free hand to pull himself toward the rock outcropping that had first slowed his fall and temporarily saved his life. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. Had Clancy slipped and inadvertently shoved him forward?
He grabbed the rock, ignoring the pain from the sharp edge that cut his hand. He looked up. Clancy was peering down at him.
“Get something to help pull me up!”
The caddie disappeared from sight and returned holding Scarne’s longest club, his driver. Despite his predicament, Scarne reflected that the club had finally come in handy. Clancy cautiously eased his way down the slope, keeping one hand on the warning sign. He appeared to be judging the distance to Scarne.
“Hurry up man!”
The driver wasn’t long enough. Clancy was forced to let go of the sign and inched his way closer to Scarne. He dug one of his hands into the dirt at the very edge of the cliff. When he felt secure, he looked at Scarne and smiled. Then he raised the club and brought it savagely down on Scarne’s hand nearest him. Had the titanium club head connected directly, it would surely have broken bones. But it was an awkward blow and it smashed into the side of the hand. It was still powerful enough to dislodge Scarne’s grip on the rock. He was back to where he started, holding onto the root.
“Jesus, Scarne! You’re a hard man to kill.”
Scarne knew that Clancy would next try for his head or the other hand. He was sure he’d never survive a head shot. Even if that didn’t kill him, it would undoubtedly render him unconscious, with the same result. He knew he had only one chance, and it was a slim one. He had to make Clancy go for the hand holding the root. He moved his head from side to side and swung his body. The only thing that was anchored was the hand on the root. Clancy made the obvious choice. Now all Scarne had to do was time it perfectly. Even success might mean death for the both of them, but Scarne’s blood was now up. That would be something, anyway.
Clancy inched closer and raised the club. He brought it down on Scarne’s hand. Except the hand was not attached to the root. As the club descended, Scarne again pivoted and grabbed the rock outcropping. The club slammed into the root and Scarne grabbed it. He gave it a sharp tug. Clancy should have just let it go, but reflexively his hand tightened against the pull for a second before he realized what was happening. It was too late. His forward momentum, while slight, was enough to pull him off the cliff. With a scream he fell toward Scarne, who had already dropped the club and grasped the root again.
As he went past,
the terrified man grabbed Scarne’s belt. Now they dangled from the side of the cliff together. The only thing preventing them from both plunging to their deaths was Scarne’s increasingly tenuous holds on the rock and the root. It was obvious to him that only one of them would made it back to the top. Scarne desperately wanted to ask Clancy why he tried to kill him, but his shoulders and arms, supporting the weight of two men, were on fire. His grip on the root was stronger, so he let go of the rock with his left hand and began to unbuckle his belt. Clancy saw what he was doing.
“No!”
Unbuckled, Scarne’s pants started sliding town. They reached his ankle, where they were stopped by his golf shoes. Now the only thing standing between Clancy, now hanging several feet below Scarne’s feet, and death were those shoes. Scarne gripped the rock again.
“Please! Help me!”
Scarne calmly pointed his toes downward. His pants quickly slid over his shoes and Clancy dropped away.
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhh”
Scarne heard a small “crump” on the rocks at the base of the cliff. Then, using the last of his strength and both handholds, and aided by the rubber cleats on the bottom of his golf shoes, he lifted himself up to where he could grab the warning sign.
Two minutes later, he rolled onto flat ground and promptly vomited.
***
The walk back to the club house might have been the most embarrassing of Scarne’s life. He’d been too exhausted to lug his golf bag, but retrieved his wallet from a side pocket. His cell phone should have been right next to it, but it wasn’t. He suspected it was now at the bottom of the cliff, with Clancy. Hence, his stroll past several foursomes in his underwear and golf shoes. He’d asked one golfer, who had already taken out his own cell phone, probably to call the police about the blood-stained, half-naked vagrant who approached him, to call the starter to send out a golf cart.
“What happened to you?” the man stammered.
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 16