“You ready?” asked Brewster.
“No,” replied Stumps, “but let’s do it anyway.”
Stumps reached under the seat and pulled out two 9mm pistols from a small steel case and attached a silencer to each of them. He handed one to Brewster and they both exited the vehicle. Building number three was in the back and was sheltered by large oak trees that were just starting to bloom. There was ivy growing up the walls of the place from the ground to the roof. They walked towards the small entrance, and Brewster traced his fingers through the index of names and pushed the button next to the one he was looking for. A small dome light was shining on them in the foyer as they awaited a response.
“Yes,” a voice said after a few moments.
“Hi, sorry to bother you, but the super said that you needed a replacement valve on your washer.” Brewster replied.
“Huh? I didn’t call for anything,” the voice said.
“I know you didn’t. Once a year we replace this valve so it doesn’t leak all over your floor when you use it. I already replaced about fifty today and you are the last building. Should only take a minute.”
A few tense moments went by until the door buzzed and a click was heard, letting them inside. They walked up the two flights of stairs to apartment 3B, and before they could knock, the door opened just a hair, allowing them to walk right in. “Come in,” the woman’s voice said. The two men pulled their 9mms out, nodded to each other, and walked inside. The television was on, but no one seemed to be watching it. Brewster was first through the door and quietly waved his weapon left and right. The kitchen was to his right, and he noticed a woman hovering over the sink washing dishes.
Stumps quickly shut the door and made his way into the kitchen. At the sound of the door closing, the woman turned and stared straight into Brewster’s pistol, not more than four feet in front of her. Before she could let out a scream, a hand was around her mouth and she was forced to walk into the living room. Stumps had his other hand on the weapon and jammed it into her back as he led her to the couch.
“Missy Banner,” Brewster started, “we’ve been a bad girl, haven’t we?” He turned towards her and lowered his gun as he spoke.
Stumps slowly released his hand and whispered, “Scream and you’re dead.”
Missy recognized the men as the security guys who had escorted her out of Coldridge. “What are you two doing here?” she managed to say.
“Oh, just passing by,” Brewster said. “Who’d you tell about the videotape, Missy?”
Missy looked confused until she realized what videotape they were talking about. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for a weapon or a way out. Her apartment didn’t have a balcony and she was on the third floor, too high to jump. “I told you already; Craig Waltrip took the disks and that was it. He did whatever with it and was supposed to return it the next day.”
“Did you see it?” Brewster asked.
“No,” she replied.
He couldn’t tell if she was lying or telling the truth. Missy was dressed in gym shorts and a long t-shirt with no bra. Her dark hair was pulled back in a rubberband, and she had little or no make-up on. Brewster looked her up and down and wondered if they could have a little fun with her before they killed her.
“Tell anyone about the tape?” Stumps said, taking over for the distracted Brewster.
“No.”
“Good,” Brewster said, returning from his erotic fantasy. He raised his gun and stepped forward towards Missy. Even though she may have told the truth, it was too risky to let her live. Brewster whispered the word “Sorry” and pulled the trigger, which sent a bullet screaming towards Missy’s forehead and impacting before she could register even the smallest trace of fear.
Stumps quickly made the place look like a robbery, tossing pillows around, opening drawers, cabinets, and making her bedroom look like a land mine hit it. They were in and out in less than five minutes. They wiped the prints from the buzzer and door handles and pulled out of the apartment complex before the gates closed for the night. Mission accomplished. $10,000 richer.
FRIDAY
Round 2
Pat Hitchens -4
Chet Walker + 3
Chapter 14
As the first signs of morning appeared in the horizon and the only sounds heard were that of birds, Hank walked casually up the long driveway that led to a large colonial home perched at the top of a hill. Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a matchbook and double-checked the address written on it. Hank stayed as long as possible after the first round the previous day and had drunk heavily with the bartender after he had closed down his bar. He had been joined, of course, by Archie, and also one other man, long-time Masters Volunteer Ben Revere. They met Revere a few years ago and he took a liking to the two of them.
It didn’t take much, only $500, but Hank bribed the man for the particular address of a given player, Chet Walker. Revere was in charge of providing all of the players their courtesy cars—this year, Buick Enclaves. He had to make sure that all of the cars were at the appropriate locations at the right times. Most players wanted their cars waiting for them at the airports. Chet Walker had taken a limousine from the airport and had his car waiting for him at his rented home on Logan Street, a mere ten minutes from Augusta National.
Hank had asked for the information when Archie was busy in the bathroom, and he hadn’t revealed this to his friend. As he walked up the driveway on Logan Street, he saw the black Buick just as the man had told him. Hank reached into the zipped knapsack he had brought with him and pulled out the knife he had stolen from the restaurant he and Archie ate at the previous evening. He looked around in all directions, making sure no one was taking a morning stroll down Logan. The house was still dark as he approached the car. Taking one last look around him, he felt what he called a “five-second high”. This happened right before a major deal was struck in his company, or right before the roulette wheel was spun, or even right before a long make-able birdie putt. The anticipation and the excitement created a tingling sensation that started in his toes and went straight through his body to his head.
A small smile formed on his lips as he plunged the knife into the rear tire on the passenger’s side. His back was towards the house as he twisted the knife into the tire, emitting a slow hissing sound as the air inside escaped. He crept slowly towards the front of the car and repeated the process on the front tire. Hank pulled the knife out and admired his handiwork. Putting the knife back in the knapsack, he walked quickly down the driveway and jogged towards his car, which was parked two houses away. It may not make him late for his tee time, he thought, but it may at least cause Chet Walker some stress when he and his caddy tried to drive to the course that morning.
<><><><><>
Craig awoke to the sound of light rain falling against the window of his hotel. He rolled over and looked at the clock on his nightstand: eight fifty-nine. He grabbed the remote control, flipped on ESPN and put his arms behind his head. He was just in time to see the beginning of SportsCenter and watched as the host went through the top story of the day: The Masters.
Of course ESPN began with Chet Walker struggling to finish with a 75, three strokes over par and seven strokes behind the leader, Pat Hitchens. The highlights showed his missed approach shot on seven and ten, the double-bogey on twelve, and the pitching wedge on eighteen that almost hit a spectator. Luckily he salvaged par with a nice up and down. Craig turned up the volume, but it didn’t hide the ringing beside his head. The phone.
“Hello?” Craig said, trying to mask his exhaustion.
“’Bout time you woke up.” It was Lori.
“Hey there. Nice to hear your voice this early in the morning.”
“Just wanted to make sure you were awake and ready to go to the course. I wanted to thank you for dinner last night. It was great to get away,” she added.
“I, again, should be thanking you. You were the one who removed me from the grand party that Hank and Robert went to.”
“I’m in the car with Robert,” she whispered. “We’re heading to the course right now. What are your plans?”
“I guess I’ll wake up Hank and we’ll meet you there.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she pleaded.
“You didn’t. I’m sorry if I sound tired, but I am,” Craig said.
“We’ll see you guys soon,” Lori said.
“Okay.”
The minute Craig hung up the phone, it rang instantly. “Yes, dear,” he said.
“Dear? I didn’t know we were that close yet, Craig. Maybe I should call my wife and let her know that she has some competition.”
“Oh!” Craig sat up straight in his bed. “Sorry, Hank. Mornin’.”
“Good morning to you, Craig,” his boss said. “Have fun last night?”
“Yeah. How long have you been awake?”
Hank made an inaudible sound as he shuffled through his room, picking up some of his clothes that were strewn about the floor. He ignored the question and said, “Craig, ready to get goin?”
At this point, Craig had gotten himself out of bed and dragged the corded phone towards the bathroom before it jerked him back towards the bed. “I’m ready when you are. Just give me fifteen minutes.”
“We have a long day ahead of us, Craig.”
“Umm, I know. I’ll be down soon.”
Craig placed the phone back on its cradle and proceeded to the bathroom where he took a quick shower and dressed. He made sure that he brought four different pairs of shorts and four separate shirts that matched for each round. Today he wore navy blue shorts and a white button-down that had two thin stripes of baby blue across the chest. He checked his cell phone for messages—none —then gathered his key and money clip, and walked out the door to meet his boss. At least Missy didn’t call with any more problems.
<><><><><>
Stumps Gobili had a rough sleep that night, one of his worst since his mom died of cancer seven years ago. He had never killed anyone before. Even though he didn’t pull the trigger, he still felt like he was part of the murder. Brewster should feel even worse, he thought, but he knew he wouldn’t. Brewster was stronger than him, both mentally and physically. Poor Missy Banner.
He dragged himself out of bed and made a pot of coffee while he showered, and then he packed a small bag with two days’ worth of clothes. On second thought, he threw in a third shirt and a third pair of boxer shorts, just in case. Stumps was not married and didn’t have a girlfriend, so he had no one to say goodbye to. His father had never remarried and lived an hour away in South Jersey, near the beach. They spoke often enough, but there was no reason to tell him that he’d be away for a few days.
He grabbed a to-go coffee mug, filled it, and waited by the door while switching on the TV. Before the TV could even come to life, Stumps heard a car pull into the driveway and saw that it was Brewster’s SUV. He walked outside, locked the door, and after throwing his overnight bag into the back of the car, he jumped in the front seat and said hello.
“Boy, you sound miserable,” Brewster began.
Stumps shrugged. “Rough night’s sleep.”
“Come on,” Brewster said. “It’s over. We’re on our way to a weekend in southern Georgia. It’s going to be a blast.”
Stumps looked disgusted. “How can you say that? You just killed a woman. Great weekend? You know Humphrey probably wants us to go kill Waltrip, too.”
“No he doesn’t. I talked to him this morning, and he just wants us to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t go crazy. He wants us to talk to Hank and find out if the kid has done anything yet.”
Stumps looked out the window, unsure of what to say next. The traffic was kind of light for a Friday morning. Minutes later they were approaching the sign for airport departures.
“Besides,” Brewster smiled, “Humphrey gave me his Amex this morning. The whole weekend is on him.”
“What about our money?”
“He said we’d get it when we get back.”
“We better.”
Brewster smiled, “And…he said if we have to do Waltrip, there’s another five each in it for us.”
Stumps looked at him, about to say “Are you crazy?”, but he decided against it. He wasn’t killing anyone.
<><><><><>
The earlier rain was just a passing shower and had come to a stop as the clouds parted and the late morning sun broke through. Each day, the Masters would attract more and more patrons than the day before, culminating on Sunday for the final round. Only a select number of tickets were sold, and the Masters Committee made sure that there were never too many people. Craig, Hank and Archie had to park about a mile away and took a school bus to the grounds.
They made their way through the security gate, leaving their cell phones in the car, and proceeded to the tent to find Lori and Robert. There was very little conversation between them and Craig was anxious to find the others to break the silence. Arriving at the tent, Hank and Archie shuffled up to the bar and each ordered himself a Bloody Mary before noticing Robert and Lori sitting at a table in the corner. Craig ignored his boss and went straight to the table.
“There you are,” Lori began.
“Sleep well, Craig?” Robert asked in his scruffy voice. Craig was surprised to see Robert without a beer in hand, but with coffee instead.
“Huh, yeah,” Craig managed to answer, wondering what Robert was implying.
Hank grabbed his drink from the bartender and joined them at the table. “Hey guys, what’s happening?”
“Where’ve you been?” asked Robert.
“Had to wait for sleeping beauty,” Hank replied, nodding his head at Craig.
Craig had to say something. “Oh, come on—a guy can’t sleep in on vacation?”
The other three just laughed, and Lori got up from the table and went around to Craig, lightly putting a finger on his back. “Anyone want something from the bar?” she asked.
Robert gave her a thumbs up and Hank shook his head. Craig stood up and walked over to the bar with her as she ordered three beers. He was the one to make the first move and kissed her on the forehead.
Smiling, Lori said, “Well good day to you, too. I didn’t expect you to show such a public display of affection.”
“Kissing you on the forehead is not much of a display,” Craig joked. “It’s the best I can do right now.” Craig looked around the room before saying, “When are we gonna get out of here and go watch some golf? By ourselves.”
She took the beers from the bar and headed back towards the table. “Not until after lunch. Remember? My uncle is going to meet us here for lunch.”
Shit! Uncle Red is coming here. He’ll see Hank, then me. I’m screwed.
Chapter 15
Dwight Eisenhower, the 34th president of the United States, was a longtime friend of Cliff Roberts, founder of Augusta. Eisenhower played golf, practiced golf, and preached about golf every time he went to Augusta during his presidency and also after he left the Oval Office. He was not a good player and was an even worse putter. His opponents would concede putts more often than not just so they wouldn’t have to witness the uncomfortable display. One thing Eisenhower brought to Augusta which they had never seen before was Secret Service agents. They would walk with the president, perch themselves on rooftops, hide in the trees. Augusta even went ahead and built a chain-link fence around the perimeter just to protect their famous guest.
Chet Walker did not need Secret Service agents, but he did need some help after waking up to two of his tires being slashed. Other sports required round the clock bodyguards to protect players from fans, crowds, and most of all, women. Not golf. Sure, golf was popular, but it paled in comparison to baseball and football.
He thought about hiring private security, but he knew the folks at Augusta would take care of everything for him. Stan, his caddy, had called someone from Players Hospitality who immediately rushed over to his house with another Buick—this time, a red Enclave
. Chet approached the main gate of Augusta and went straight to the president’s office.
“Chet, nice to see you,” the President of Augusta National, Blaine Dugan, said as he looked up to see a disturbed Walker enter the room. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Dugan, hi, I need some help. In short, can you arrange for some security to watch over my house and car the rest of the week? I’d do it myself, but I kind of have other things on my mind.” Chet was standing at the door marveling at all of the great photos around the room. In a matter of seconds, he had already counted four pictures of Blaine Dugan and a president, Bill Clinton being the most recent.
Dugan got out of his chair and walked around to Chet. “Jeez, what’s wrong, Chet?”
“It’s nothing really,” Chet answered. “I’d just like to know I have someone looking out for me, that’s all.”
“Sure, sure, no problem. I understand. I’ll make some calls. You go back out there and win this thing, would ya?”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
With that, it was done. At Augusta, you ask for something and it’s taken care of. Chet had found that out a few years ago when he had asked Dugan if he could bring his grandfather out to play a round. The man was old and sick and had dreamed of playing Augusta all his life. Chet had barely played and had instead watched his grandfather hack around the course with a mile-wide smile all day. He died a month later.
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“Phone call for Ms. Halpin?” the bartender hollered across the tent.
Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta Page 9