Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  “I’ve grown to respect the game. Being a sports fanatic, I don’t mind watching a little here and there, especially when Chet Walker is playing. He is awesome to watch, isn’t he?”

  “He sure is,” replied Craig. “I can’t wait to see what he does this week. I don’t see anyone beating him. What are your plans the next couple of days?” Craig quickly caught himself. He didn’t want to scare her off. “I mean, as far as watching the tournament.”

  “I’m not sure, since this is my first trip down here. Robert tells me we have to entertain our guests at the corporate tent, but I’m sure I’ll be able to watch some of the tournament. Why?”

  “I was just wondering. It’s my first trip here as well. If we get some free time, I hope to follow Walker a bit.”

  Lori smiled. “Maybe we’ll see each other out there.”

  Craig returned her smile. “Maybe, I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  The evening winded down and the guests started to disperse. The valet brought Hank’s car around and of course, Craig offered to drive. Shockingly, Hank was sober enough, and he drove the short distance home. Craig wondered what was going on in Philadelphia. Talking to Lori all night had been a good distraction from what was really on his mind.

  <><><><><>

  Red Maitland had been waiting patiently all night for word from his scavenger hunters. He sat in his house just two miles from Augusta National Golf Course sipping his Scotch and reading a newspaper. Red’s wife, Betsy, had passed away seven years before, and although he missed her, he enjoyed the quiet times of his elder years. He had lost touch with his immediate family years ago, and he and his wife had never had any children. Red’s family was now Augusta National and he prided himself on having great responsibility during the week of the Masters.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when there was a knock on the door. He had told the two men that he wanted them to personally come by his house. He insisted on no phone calls. The two men came into the house and stood in the foyer. Red anxiously awaited the news they were about to deliver.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Mission accomplished, Mr. Maitland,” the larger of the two men said. Both were dressed in dark clothes and jackets.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” the other man said. He had a slight accent that was unmistakably southern. “It was easier than we thought. The lock was simple to pick, and there was no one inside. Must’ve been out to dinner or something.”

  “And it was the right house?” asked Red.

  “It was the one on the map you gave us. And besides, his name was on the bag.”

  “What about Johnny; did he take care of his end?” Red asked.

  “So he claims. He had the golf bag for about twenty minutes in the van, gave it back to us, and we put it back inside.”

  Red smiled. “Good work men.” He opened up the hall closet and handed them a small leather pouch. The larger man took it and started to open it. “It’s all there,” insisted Red.

  The two men looked at each other and then walked out of the house. Red went back to his study, drained what was left of his scotch and went to bed, satisfied that phase one had been completed.

  THURSDAY

  Round 1

  Chapter 9

  Filled with 247,000 cubic feet of helium, the Monster.com inflatable blimp could be seen for miles in every direction. The first blimp ever to broadcast a sporting event was in the 1960s, when Goodyear sponsored a blimp to cover the Orange Bowl in Miami. Before that, blimps were only used by the military, NASA, and the occasional freelance extremist. Craig stood on his balcony, sipping his hotel coffee and staring at the huge monstrosity as it drifted overhead. He wondered what it would be like to have that view of Augusta National.

  When Craig had arrived home last night, he had quickly called Missy in Philadelphia, but she was still not picking up her phone. Craig hated the fact that she was ignoring him, but he had left her an urgent message to call him by no later than nine the following morning—this morning. He and Hank had planned to leave for the tournament by then, and there were no cell phones permitted on the course.

  Craig looked down to the first floor and extended his head as far as it could go over the railing, trying to get a glimpse of Hank’s room to see if he was awake. The door was still closed, but the blinds were pulled open. He walked back inside, showered, and fifteen minutes later was knocking on Hank’s door. The two men almost looked identical when Hank opened the door. Both were wearing khaki shorts, Hank a golden yellow shirt, Craig a light green shirt. Hank donned his white Coldridge baseball cap, Craig his white Titleist hat. The only major difference between the two was that Hank’s white socks came halfway up his calf, while Craig’s socks barely covered his ankles.

  “Guess we won’t lose each other today,” Hank started.

  “I’ll go change,” answered Craig.

  “Stop it. We’ll be fine. There’s going to 25,000 people there all dressed in shorts and a golf shirt; what’s the difference? Let me just grab a few things before we eat breakfast. Speaking of which, where you wanna go?”

  Craig shrugged his shoulders and watched him walk back through his hotel room. He picked up his keys, a watch, sunglasses, two cigars, and finally his cell phone.

  “Can’t bring that in today, remember?” Craig reminded him, pointing to the phone.

  Hank turned his head before speaking, “Of course I know. I just need to make a few calls before we go. I’ll leave it in the car.”

  Craig shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. “Where is there to go for breakfast around here?”

  “There’s the hotel, which is just bagels and stuff, and there’s an IHOP nearby. But if you really want a southern breakfast, I have to take to you to Ma’s on route 28.”

  “Fine with me,” answered Craig. “Where’s Archie?”

  “He’s sleeping one off. I told him to meet us at the corporate tent around noon.”

  They exited the room and headed towards the rental car. Hank used his keychain and pressed the unlock button. “Not sure if you like grits, but they have the best I ever tasted.”

  Grits? Craig thought. How about bacon and eggs? Just then, Craig’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He had the ringer off so that Hank would not hear it, but it was too late. As the two men sat in the car and closed the door, the only sound that could be heard was the vibration coming from Craig’s pants.

  “You’re telling me not to bring my phone?” Hank asked.

  “I’m leaving it in the car as well,” he answered. Craig turned and stared out the front window of the car.

  Hank looked at him awkwardly. “Well? Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  Craig certainly didn’t want to answer it if it was Missy. Not in front of Hank. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the number and a wave of apprehension swept over him. He recognized the New Jersey area code and knew it was Missy. Why now?

  “It’s just my brother,” Craig said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

  Hank started the car and quickly backed out of the parking lot. “Don’t know when you’re going to do that.”

  “Later today,” Craig insisted. “He was so jealous when he heard I was going to see the Masters, he probably wants to find out where I’ll be so he can look for me on TV.”

  Hank pulled out onto the main highway and turned on the radio. “Let’s go eat.”

  Craig could feel the buzzing stop after he put the phone in his pocket. A few moments passed and another vibration started and stopped very abruptly. Good, she left me a message.

  Fifteen minutes later, the small red car pulled into Ma’s at a little past nine o’clock. The building was next to a Mobil gas station and looked as old as the Civil War. It was only one story and reminded Craig of a large RV that two retirees would take to travel the Grand Canyon. There were windows that stretched from the front to the back, and each had a flip-up awning attached to it. They drove into the dirt lot and
parked between two pick-up trucks, one with a rebel flag bumper sticker. Craig and Hank climbed the rickety wooden steps and opened the screen door. The aroma overcame Craig instantly.

  He couldn’t put his finger on the smells exactly, but he could tell that they were frying everything. Bacon, sausage, steak, eggs, hash browns, and probably even toast. Small tufts of white smoke, either from the food cooking or the cigarettes, drifted aimlessly above the heads of the patrons as they ate their southern fried breakfast. Behind the counter, four overweight men in white t-shirts and paper hats could be seen cooking and yelling things to each other that sometimes even the waitresses couldn’t figure out.

  “Two, O-E, side B, H-B, R-T, come and get it!” one man yelled out.

  “Flap-jacks, double S, ready!” another said.

  Craig couldn’t believe that this place was any good. His favorite meal of the day was breakfast, so he always had high expectations. A waitress walked over to them and said, “Follow me.” She sat them down at a small table against the window which was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. She threw two menus on the table, poured two coffees, and walked away.

  “Nice place, here,” Craig said sarcastically.

  “Doesn’t look like much, I know, but the food will change your mind.”

  “What the hell are the cooks talking about?”

  Hank picked up his menu before speaking. “I asked that a few years back. They mostly talk in initials. B for bacon, S for sausage, whatever.”

  “Hmm. What about O-E?”

  Hank laughed, “Over easy.”

  The waitress returned as pleasant as ever. She stood in front of the table and didn’t say a word, just had a pencil and paper and was awaiting their order. Hank looked up and smiled, but she did not return the pleasantry. She was wearing a black skirt, white shirt, and her dirty blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Hank thought she looked like she was in her fifties, even though she was probably closer to forty.

  Hank was first to order. “I’ll have a three-egg Western, please, with wheat toast.”

  Craig looked up, still deciding, “Umm, I’ll have two eggs over easy with sausage, hash browns, and rye toast.”

  “Coulda just said the number three, honey,” the waitress replied before taking their menus and walking away.

  Hank started laughing. “Ha! Welcome to Georgia, Craig.”

  “I’ll never get used to the South,” replied Craig. He looked around the small restaurant and noticed what looked like a few other Masters spectators. Men and women dressed in golf shirts and shorts. The others were locals, stopping by on their way to work or maybe even on their way home from work. His thoughts turned back towards Missy and the message she left. In the parking lot, he had listened to the voicemail, and all she had said was to call her on her cell phone. But how was he going to do that with Hank watching his every move?

  It didn’t take long for their food to arrive, and both Hank and Craig ate very quickly. “Well?” asked Hank in mid-bite.

  “Not bad, actually. You can’t screw up eggs, though.” Craig thought the eggs were a little runny, but he wasn’t going to make an issue out of it or Hank would throw a fit. Ma’s served the best breakfast in town.

  The waitress returned with more coffee and took Craig’s plate away. He had to call Missy while Hank was still eating and while looking out the window, he thought of his escape route.

  “I’m gonna go grab some money from that gas station,” Craig said.

  Hank looked at him, puzzled. “What, are you gonna rob it?”

  “I’m sure they have an ATM in there.”

  Just then Hank’s phone rang in his pocket. He stopped eating, pulled it out, and nodded to Craig, “Okay.”

  Craig walked out of Ma’s and towards the Mobil on the corner. He turned back and saw Hank listening intently on his cell phone. He reached the front door of the gas station and walked inside. “ATM?” he said to the teenager working the counter. He withdrew some cash, walked towards the back of the store, and dialed Missy.

  “Come on, pick up!” Craig said out loud.

  After the fifth ring, a woman’s voice picked up, “Craig?”

  “Missy? What’s going on? They know that I took the disks? What did you tell them? Where are you?”

  “Craig, slow down. I had to. I hope you’re not mad. They made me do it. Stupid Humphrey was going to fire me. He put me on extended leave, unofficially, but who knows.”

  “Missy, who else knows?”

  “How should I know? I’m really curious to know that myself. I told them that I didn’t see the tapes, but who knows if they believe me. What was on them, anyway?”

  “You don’t wanna know,” replied Craig. “Is Humphrey still there? Is he talking to anyone?”

  “I don’t know, Craig. I’m sorry. I don’t work there right now, remember?”

  “Right. Okay, I gotta run. Please call me if you see or hear anything, okay?”

  “What is going on, Craig?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time. For now, its better that you don’t know. I won’t have my cell phone on the rest of the day, so just leave me a message, okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later,” Missy said and hung up the phone.

  Craig walked back toward Ma’s, frustrated that he didn’t get any information from Missy. As he reached the entrance, Hank walked out. “Let’s go; I paid.”

  “Thanks, I’ll get tomorrow.”

  They got in the car and Hank drove off toward Augusta. He was driving a little faster than he normally did, and Craig gripped the door handle and slid down in his seat. He looked over and saw the speedometer reach sixty miles per hour. Sixty on this one-lane country road was like going a hundred on an interstate.

  “In a rush?” asked Craig.

  Hank didn’t reply but just shook his head and jutted out his chin.

  “Who called?” Craig tried a different question.

  “No one,” replied Hank.

  Craig looked over and saw that Hank’s eyes were squinting, and a tiny smile was coming across his mouth. He glanced at the speedometer as it climbed to seventy.

  Chapter 10

  Many years ago, when the tournament was in its earliest stages, the players in the Masters would be given tee times based on how popular they were. Sometimes the eventual winner would be playing three hours ahead of the last group. These days, the Saturday and Sunday groupings were based on how a player finished the previous day, always keeping the leaders in the last group. Thursday and Friday were random tee times and random groupings usually, three players to a group. If a player had an early tee time on Thursday, he would receive a late tee time on Friday.

  Earlier that morning, Augusta’s first tee time was always given to past champions who were now retired. This year, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Arnold Palmer were given the ceremonious privilege of teeing off first. The three players played nine holes and called it a day.

  When Craig and Hank arrived on the grounds of Augusta, they saw Archie earlier than expected and walked with him to the driving range to see the players warm up. Archie flipped through their introductory packet and found that Chet Walker would be having a late tee time: 1:40 pm. Archie flipped the page to Friday’s times and saw that Walker had an identical time. “That’s strange,” he said out loud.

  “What is?” replied Hank.

  “The tee times are the same each day, Thursday and Friday.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Not sure why they are doing that. Probably better TV coverage for Walker to be in the afternoon.”

  Craig was puzzled. How could they change the rules like that? Most golfers knew that the morning tee times were usually an advantage. The wind always gusted more strongly in the afternoon. Having a hundred-plus golfers play the course before you caused the greens to have more spike marks and ball marks. This was a definite disadvantage to Chet Walker.

  It was still early, but Hank wanted to go to a hospitality tent and start his d
ay socializing and drinking. “Time for a beverage?” he asked Archie.

  “Already? I’m still hurting from yesterday. Let’s watch a few holes first.”

  “You know the best cure for a hangover, don’t you?

  “Yes, Hank, I know,” Archie replied sarcastically. “I’m not starting this early. It’s not even noon yet. I’m walking to the first hole.”

  “Fine, let’s go.”

  They passed hundreds of spectators on their way to the first hole. A group of golfers were seen walking from the tee box down the first fairway. Most of the crowd followed them, and the three men were first up against the ropes to view the next threesome walk towards the tee.

  Each hole had its own distinct name at Augusta, the first being Tea Olive. It was a par-four and was listed at 435 yards. When the course was originally built, Tea Olive was the tenth hole. The two nines were switched in 1934 when the members saw that the twelfth hole still had frost on the green in the morning. This allowed players to tee off earlier and also made for more dramatic finishes because the back nine was challenging, yet more distinct than the front nine. It presented golfers with opportunities for birdie but one missed shot could lead to disaster.

  A young male volunteer came through the crowd and hoisted a three-person scoreboard over his head. This showed each player’s name and his score for the day. Craig looked at the board and saw that Keating, Wilhelm, and Denon were set to tee off. The players shook hands, and Bo Keating stepped forward and put his tee in the ground. A hush came over the small crowd and a man in a beige suit picked up a small microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Bo Keating now driving.” Polite applause came from the spectators and Keating tipped his hat to the crowd. He made a few practice swings and looked down the center of the fairway. Seeing a professional golfer strike a golf ball in person gave one a sense of appreciation as to how good these players really are. The ball came off his club head with a metallic “ping” and soared into the air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour before coming to rest hundreds of yards away.