Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  Even though he tried to keep the ball low, it jumped from his club and climbed into the air, soaring to its target 180 yards away. The ball landed about eight feet beyond the hole, took one hop, and stopped, or at least everyone but Chet thought it stopped. It started to roll backwards as if being pulled by a string. Just grazing the hole, the ball stopped two feet below the hole, leaving Chet an easy uphill putt.

  The crowd erupted into great applause, including Hank and Craig. A small smile appeared on Chet’s face, and he stood back to watch his playing partner, Kip Jackson, hit his shot. His shot was almost as good, stopping five feet from the hole, but the crowd didn’t think so. They gave him polite applause and started to move towards the eleventh hole, knowing that Walker had a tap in birdie.

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  Missy knew she put Craig’s number somewhere. When he left, he gave her his itinerary in case something important came up at work and she needed to contact him. She was back in her small one-bedroom apartment just over the BenFranklinBridge in Blackwood, New Jersey. She hoped she hadn’t left it at work because there was no way she could go back to her office and retrieve it.

  In her small dining area, she put the leather backpack on the table and began fishing through the contents. She finally found the number stuck in her address book on a little yellow Post-It note. Missy grabbed the phone from the kitchen and dialed the number. The connection went right to his voicemail. She cursed the phone and Craig for not having his phone turned on. She didn’t realize that golf tournaments prevented cell phones from being carried onto the course because they disrupted the golfers.

  She paced through her small apartment, not knowing what to do next. It had been a few weeks since she confessed to helping Craig but she never told him. Now, wracked with guilt, Missy had to tell him. She hated the fact that she’d revealed Craig’s name to Mr. Humphrey. What was I to do? She asked herself. It was either give up Craig’s name or possibly be fired. She hoped Craig would understand. She dialed the number once again but this time left him an urgent message to call her cell phone.

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  The concession stand near the fourteenth hole was getting loud and out of control. A tournament official was finally called over after a few of the caddies complained of the noise as they passed by. There were only a handful of people around the tent, and the official wondered where the ruckus was coming from. As the official neared the tent, two men could be seen arguing, laughing, and talking very loudly.

  Archie Armour had arrived that morning and met up with Craig and Hank during the back nine. They had both excused themselves from Craig and let him walk the course alone while the two of them went to a beverage stand and discussed their impending wager.

  “You know this tournament is over before it even starts,” Archie said to Hank, who was standing next to him. Both men had a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other.

  “Stop already,” Hank replied. “This is only the Par 3 Contest. I actually hope Walker wins today. Then I know he has no chance of winning the real tournament.”

  The tournament official walked over to the two men and spoke with a hushed tone of voice, “Gentlemen, how are you today?”

  Archie glanced at Hank with raised eyebrows. “Great, sir. You?”

  “Listen, I know it’s only Wednesday, but I’m going to have to ask you guys to keep it down a little. We’ve gotten a few complaints from the players that they can hear you as they tee off on this hole.”

  “You serious?” asked Hank.

  “Yes, very serious.”

  “The tee box is fifty yards away; how the hell can they hear us?” Hank asked in a rather loud tone.

  “Because you’re talking too loud,” replied the official.

  Hank rolled his eyes at Archie and did not respond. He knew the next words out of his mouth may get them both kicked off the course.

  Archie stepped forward and whispered something in the officials’ ear. The man nodded his head, whispered something back and went on his way. Archie resumed drinking his beer and took a long drag from his cigar.

  “What’d you say,” asked Hank.

  Archie smiled and said, “I told him it was your birthday and these tickets were a gift from me to you. Just keep it down, okay. I don’t want to get kicked out of here our first day.”

  “Snobby bastards,” Hank said. “I’d like to…”

  Archie cut him off, “No, you wouldn’t. Now let’s get back to watching my man Walker dominate this tournament.”

  The two men ordered more beers and walked down the 14th fairway towards the green. Chet Walker could be seen walking away towards the next tee box, holding a one stroke lead.

  Walking the grounds of Augusta, most club members wore their commemorative green jackets, the most famous jackets in golf. Not only was each member given the privilege of wearing one, but each year the Masters champion was given one instead of a trophy. Red Maitland proudly wore his jacket and strolled inside the ropes during the Par 3 Contest. Only members, scorekeepers, rules officials, and caddies were permitted inside the ropes.

  Red found Hank on the fourteenth hole, watching Walker one-putt for another birdie. Red stayed far enough away from the two men but watched them instead of the tournament. Hank had mentioned to him that he was bringing down one of his associates to watch the tournament. Red just hoped that their conversation had been kept from his new friend.

  On the fifteenth hole, he finally made eye contact with Hank, and their exchange was very brief. A minor smile by Red was returned by a quick nod of the head by Hank. Red finished watching the hole and walked back to the clubhouse.

  Chapter 7

  It was as difficult a decision as he had ever made. Mr. Humphrey sat in his office on the forty-third floor of the WachoviaBuilding as his eyes bore holes into the wall in front of him. This was his job, his career and his livelihood that he could be risking. What would Hank think of him knowing that he and his security staff were incompetent? That they allowed a hot little brunette and a young associate to compromise their position and give up valuable company information was unacceptable.

  Humphrey knew that Hank had the overwhelming support of the entire executive board, even though Humphrey had been there when the firm opened and Hank was still a teenager. If Hank recommended that he be terminated, the board would not think twice about it. They were firm believers in corporate security, and anything or anyone that did not live up to their standards would surely be dismissed. But what if I don’t say a word and Craig Waltrip ruins the plan? Fredericks would most definitely find out and have him terminated, or worse.

  With a wife and two kids, Humphrey could not afford to be let go at this age. He built this vault of security, and one man was not going to bring it down. Humphrey was not going to let Craig destroy the week that Fredericks had in mind. He’d have to handle it himself.

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  Hank rarely ever played fair, except on the golf course. Since his days playing at his father’s country club when he was in his teens, Hank never cheated at golf. No mulligans, no gimmes, no foot wedges, always re-tee after hitting out of bounds, carry no more than fourteen clubs, and so forth. He was taught that no matter what score you take on a hole, you write it down. Hank’s highest score on a hole was a fifteen just two years ago. It was a 182-yard par three over water. He hit six balls straight into the lake, never once picking up and moving on. His playing partner, Archie, relished every splash.

  Gambling, on the other hand, was different for Hank. Whatever advantage you could get over your opponent or the house, legal or illegal, had to be done. Hank didn’t cheat at casinos anymore since he was kicked out a few years back for using fake dice on the craps table. He tried counting cards but didn’t have enough patience.

  Hank knew he had to get an advantage over Archie in their bet or he would lose. Chet Walker was likely going to win, and Hank could not let that happen. He hoped the plan he and Red put together would work. After the Par 3 Contest was finished, the
y caught up to Craig and Hank introduced him to Archie. They saw that Walker had lost by two strokes and the men walked down to the merchandise tent to get their fill of souvenirs.

  “Why are we going here?” Hank asked. “It’s not like this is our first trip to Augusta.”

  “There’s no other place in the world to get Masters stuff, you know that?” Archie responded. “You can’t buy anything with the Masters logo outside of Augusta. Except eBay, and I don’t trust those geeks. I have to buy a few things while I’m here.”

  “I’d like to check it out too, Hank,” Craig said.

  “Fine. I’m not wading through those lines. I’m going over to the practice green.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there when I’m finished.”

  The two men split up and Hank walked the short distance to the putting green where PGA players could be seen working with the flat stick. Of course Walker was there, Stan right behind him, stroking six-footers into the back of the cup.

  “Guy sure is good, eh?” an elderly man standing against the ropes asked Hank.

  “Ah, yeah.” Hank clearly did not want to be bothered. Wish I could bend his putter into the shape of a banana.

  “You know when Bobby Jones stopped playing the Masters in 1948, I thought there’d never be another golfer like him that would dominate this golf course,” the old man began. He seemed to be looking into the distance as he spoke. “Then, of course, Arnie and Jack came along who combined for ten green jackets. Now this Walker kid seems to play this game like I’ve never seen before. He may win ten green jackets himself by the time he retires.”

  I don’t care if he wins fifteen, just not this year. Hank felt obligated to reply, “He sure is something.”

  Hank walked around the putting green to get a closer look at Walker. He watched him stroke six-foot putts with ease. Swinging the putter head like a pendulum, he made five in a row before moving back to about twelve feet. One after another, the balls rattled into the back of the hole.

  Hank turned around when he felt a tap on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” said Archie, carrying a plastic bag filled with souvenirs.

  “What’d you get this year?” asked Hank.

  “Just some shirts and a Masters flag for my dad,” Craig said.

  Archie looked at the green and saw Walker putting. “Must be nice to drop putts like that.”

  “Practice, practice, practice. That’s all this kid does.”

  “Yep. Must be nice.”

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  Back at the Marriot, Craig escorted Hank into his room and watched him collapse into bed. After a long morning and about eight or nine beers, Craig convinced Hank to take a nap before the dinner party that was to be held later that night. Craig was also very tired, but he had an agenda on his mind. He slipped into his room, grabbed the phonebook, and started flipping through the pages.

  He didn’t know where to start as he found the listings for the local hotels. He started calling each of them and one by one, they denied his requests. Towards the end of the list, Craig finally found a woman who was able to provide him some information.

  “Sir, I don’t think you’ll find any players staying at these hotels you’re calling,” she said.

  “Why is that?” Craig asked.

  “First of all, most of the golfers rent houses from local residents. His caddie and family members can stay with him and he has all the comforts of his own home. Secondly, any golfer that stays in a hotel will use a pseudonym when he checks in. That way, he doesn’t receive annoying calls from people like you. No offense.”

  “Oh,” replied a dejected Craig.

  “I have no idea where you’ll find the player you’re looking for, but I’d stop wasting your time calling all of the hotels in the area.”

  “Thanks,” Craig said and hung up the phone.

  He paced around his hotel room for a few minutes before going into the small bathroom and splashing water on his face. Exhaustion was setting in, and Craig knew he still had a long night ahead of him. He flipped on the small two-cup coffee pot and made some coffee. Craig walked over to his luggage and began to unpack his clothes. Opening up his carry-on briefcase, Craig found his cell phone and turned it on. It took a few minutes to receive a signal, and Craig saw he had a message.

  He could barely hear what sounded like an urgent message from a woman. Craig walked outside and found that he had a better signal on the balcony. He pressed the replay button and listened to the message once more. It was from Missy and it was indeed urgent. Craig looked out at the setting sun and could not believe Missy betrayed him. He walked inside and knew that time was running out.

  Chapter 8

  After showering, Craig went down the flight of stairs to Hank’s room and knocked on the door. The sun was just out of sight, and the auburn sky was quickly turning into a star-filled canvas. The temperature had dropped into the low sixties and Craig had changed into long black pants and a blue button-down shirt. He tried calling Hank before he took a shower but received no answer. He was probably still sleeping off the afternoon buzz.

  Hank opened the door and looked out at Craig, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “6:30. Isn’t the corporate dinner in an hour?”

  “Shit,” replied Hank. He looked at his wrist but noticed there was no watch. “Give me twenty minutes and come back down.” Hank closed the door and Craig went back to his room.

  Craig grabbed his cell phone and tried calling Missy again but to no avail. She was probably avoiding him, he thought. Craig knew that Missy probably had no choice but to tell Humphrey. He was sure she was pressured into it just to save her job. Craig wondered if he’d still have a job when he returned to Philadelphia.

  The Continental Ballroom was located in the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Augusta. It was a short drive, Archie rode shotgun and Hank downed a Diet Coke to rid himself of his hangover. Craig knew that it was only a matter of time before Hank started to hit the sauce again, and Craig would be the one driving home later that night.

  Augusta National held a corporate dinner for all of the sponsors and volunteers the night before the tournament began. As they entered the large ballroom, Craig could not believe how many people were there. There had to be at least two hundred people milling about. With everything that was on his mind, Craig was not looking forward to socializing with the numerous people that Hank would introduce him to. They walked over to the bar and ordered a beer for Craig and Archie and a bourbon and Diet Coke for Hank.

  “Hey, Hank, Archie!” a large man said as he put his arm around Hank’s shoulders.

  “Robert, how are you?” Hank replied.

  “Great, great.” The man was over six feet tall and weighed at least 250 pounds. His double chin was covered by a red goatee, and his head was completely bald.

  “RobertUnderhill, this young man is Craig Waltrip, my protégé.”

  The man extended his huge hand and Craig was swallowed up in the man’s handshake. “Nice to meet you,” Craig said.

  “Whatever this man says,” Robert began, nodding his head at Hank, “do the opposite and you’ll be fine.”

  Both men managed a slight chuckle as Hank responded, “Don’t listen to him, Craig. What table are you at?” he said to Robert.

  “Twenty-two, I think. Did you check in at the front? I had both of you moved to sit at my table.”

  “Okay, good. Craig, Robert here is the Director of Advertising at Anheuser-Busch. Needless to say, Robert has provided me with plenty of samples from their famous brewery.”

  “We’ve had some good times sharing those samples, haven’t we?” replied Robert.

  There was a tap on Robert’s shoulder, and a petite woman politely interrupted the threesome. Both Hank and Craig turned to see a beautiful young woman with short blonde hair and dark green eyes. She wore a slim-fitting black dress that was casual, yet still professional.

  “Hey, Robert, where’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Lori, I guess you’re
happy to finally be here?” Robert turned to Hank. “Lori’s plane was delayed for two hours in St. Louis.”

  “Hi,” she said. She looked at Robert as if waiting to be introduced.

  “I’m sorry,” Robert said. “Craig Waltrip, Hank Fredericks, this is Lori Halpin, my protégé.”

  “Nice to meet you,” replied both men in unison.

  “Let’s go find our table. Lori, what can I get you to drink?” asked Robert.

  “Beer, please,” she replied.

  Craig thought to himself that maybe this night wouldn’t turn out to be as bad as he had thought. The evening was a never-ending mirage of introductions, handshakes, and ass-kissing. In between, they gorged themselves on shrimp cocktail, a mixed greens salad with hot bacon dressing, crab cakes, and prime rib. Craig turned down the dessert, a white chocolate cheesecake with raspberry sauce. Lori Halpin turned out to be a very pleasant distraction from the boring speeches that seemed to come every five minutes.

  Anheuser-Busch, or AB as Lori had referred it, had hired her almost three years ago after she was a television news writer for a Fox affiliate in St. Louis. She said she was happy at AB and seemed to get along with her boss, Robert.

  “Are you a golfer?” asked Craig.

  “Not really,” she replied. “My father used to take me to the driving range when I was little, but I never really understood how someone could spend five hours chasing a little white ball around.”

  “Most people don’t understand, but it is obsessive.”