It was not until the second time he shouted that Lori heard the man and got up from her seat to take the call. “I’m Lori Halpin.” The conversation was brief, and after hanging up, Lori went back to the table with her shoulders slumped, which Craig noticed right away.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she replied, “it’s nothing. My uncle can’t have lunch with us today.”
Craig let out an obvious sigh which made Lori awkwardly glance in his direction. Thank God, Red Maitland is not joining us for lunch. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“He said most definitely tomorrow, so it’s fine.”
Robert jumped in the conversation, “Is this the uncle that’s a member here?”
Before she could respond, Hank said, “You have an uncle that is a member here? Holy crap! That’s like hitting the jackpot if you’re a golfer.”
“Tell me about it,” Robert said. “I’ve been asking her for two months to take me here since I found out about it.”
“Can I finish?” Lori playfully said. “Yes, I have an uncle that’s a member here. Yes, I’ve been to Augusta before. Yes, I’ve played golf here. And no, you cannot play here, and no, you cannot ask my uncle to play here.”
“Well,” Hank said, “if you must know, I’ve played here, too. I’m pretty tight with one of the members here. Not a relative, though, so my rounds here are scarce.”
“Spare us the details, Hank,” Archie said sarcastically.
A few black tie waiters came through a small opening in the tent near the rear carrying silver trays of food and then set them atop the tables lining the back wall of the tent.
Robert had enough of the conversation and waiting until waiters had just finished setting up the buffet, he walked quickly to the first tray and began filling his plate with the day’s menu.
“You still wanna eat?” Craig asked Lori.
“Yeah,” she replied, getting up from her chair.
The five of them returned to the table after filling their plates with bow-tie pasta salad, manicotti, fried chicken, and beef burgundy over rice. They ate in relative silence, talking only when asking for the salt and pepper. They all agreed to walk the course together today, which immediately brought on a case of heartburn for Craig.
<><><><><>.
Picking up his pace in order to arrive before the next tee time, Red Maitland walked towards the first tee, all the while checking his watch. When a group of golfers arrived at the first tee, there was a short procedure before they were allowed to tee off. Of course the first thing the golfers did was shake hands with each other and wish one another good luck or sometimes offer some other gesture of appreciation like “Nice round yesterday.” After that, the starter would introduce them to the rules official that would be walking with them and also the young scorekeeper that had volunteered to hold the large placard with their names and scores.
The rules official would give each golfer a pin sheet, which told the golfer where the holes were cut that day on the greens. On each page, a picture or diagram of the green was shown and a “cross” was drawn where the flagstick would be on that particular hole. Numbers at the bottom of the circle told the players how may feet the pin was from the front of the green. The number on the left or right of the “cross” told the player how many feet the pin was cut from the left or the right sides. The golfer would give the sheet to the caddy who would then stick it into his yardage book. The golfers were also given an official scorecard of one of the other golfers. Each golfer kept his own score as well as the score of one of his playing competitors.
Red Maitland walked casually over to the starter and shook hands with the man dressed in a green jacket just like his. He pulled out a single sheet of paper from the manila folder he was holding and handed it to the starter, who put it on top of the other pin sheets he had lying on a small table. Red moved back towards the crowd and waited while the introductions were made for the next tee time.
“Next on the tee,” the starter said, “Chet Walker.” The crowd roared and Red smiled.
<><><><><>
Cursing under his breath, Hank noticed that Chet Walker did indeed make his tee time. He hoped that the slashing of the tires had at least interfered with his practice time. Both he and Archie had arrived at the first tee well ahead of Walker’s arrival, hoping to get a good view. They did. They positioned themselves directly behind the tee box, giving them a perfect view of the 410-yard, par four hole that was slightly elevated and doglegged right towards the green.
They watched in awe as Walker blasted a drive down the middle of the fairway, and they chased after the famous golfer like little kids chasing the ice cream man.
“I could watch him all day,” Archie said.
“Hey he’s my client,” Hank replied.
Archie laughed at the comment. “What, I can’t appreciate a good golfer when I see one? Jealous that I’m gonna win the bet, eh?”
Hank laughed out loud. “Jealous? You’re boy is seven shots outta the lead. He’ll be lucky just to make the cut.”
“Stop,” Archie said sarcastically. “The last time he missed the cut was his first year on tour at the British Open. It was at Carnoustie, I think. The wind was blowing so hard, the greens were like lightening; Jack Nicklaus himself would’ve missed that cut.”
They quickly stopped bickering and watched Walker hit a nice smooth pitching wedge onto the green, but still, right of the flag.
“See, he’s back, baby,” Archie said.
Hank couldn’t help thinking that he had to come up with something better than slashing the man’s tires.
<><><><><>
“I can’t believe we couldn’t find a straight flight into Augusta,” Stumps said to Brewster as they strolled through the Charlotte airport trying to find their connecting gate.
“Augusta’s not O’Hare or LAX, Stumps.”
“I know. I just wanna get this over with.”
After their plane had touched down, they had to wait thirty minutes for a gate to open up, and by that time, both men were annoyed and tired. They hadn’t slept on the short flight but had refueled themselves with some Starbucks coffee. Stumps was the first to find their connecting gate, and they sat down and watched the board that read: Augusta 11:15 am.
Fidgeting in his seat, Brewster walked over to the newsstand and bought a USA Today to kill time. He looked for a Philadelphia Inquirer but couldn’t find one. He doubted that Missy’s body had been found and reported this quickly, but he wouldn’t mind knowing if it had.
Within minutes, the loudspeaker chirped to life over the airport’s intercom system. “Attention ladies and gentlemen. United Flight 389 to Augusta, Georgia, will be delayed. Please await further notice.”
“What?” Stumps shouted.
Almost instantly the board above the small counter housing two United Airlines employees changed to read: Augusta Delayed. Stumps got out of his seat and walked over to the counter.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
The two women were dressed neatly in their navy United suits and both turned to see a heated man clenching his fists on their counter. They had dealt with many angry customers in the past, and this man was clearly not going to faze them.
“Sir, we’ll let you know as soon as we allow boarding,” the blonde said.
Stumps looked at her nametag and said, “Beth, why is the flight delayed?”
Beth looked down at her computer while saying, “I’m sorry, but the plane taking you to Augusta was delayed in Boston and it has not arrived yet.”
“Use another plane!” Stumps insisted.
Beth looked at her co-worker, Sheri, and rolled her eyes before saying, “Sir, we’ll let you know the minute we can.”
Stumps pounded the counter with his fist and walked back to Brewster, who was sitting patiently and reading the newspaper. He didn’t say anything to him and sat back in his chair. Against their wishes, they were stuck in Charlotte, North Carolina.
Chapter 16
Against their wishes, Craig and Lori separated from their bosses and had caught up to Chet Walker on the seventh hole and watched him make a shaky par by two putting from forty feet. After watching the Masters over the years, the eighth hole was one of Craig’s favorites on the front nine. It was a par-five that stretched over 550 yards and played slightly uphill from right to left. Standing on the tee box, a golfer couldn’t see the green beyond the tall pines on the left. There is only one bunker on the hole which is on the right side of the fairway, swallowing up tee shots that try to get into better position for their second shot.
Chet Walker boomed another one down the middle of the fairway and the spectators once again cheered. Walker had made up no ground on the leader, and he seemed to struggle again on his approach shots. He would often miss right but his distance control was dead on. Chasing after his tee shot, the five of them walked along the fairway among the hundreds of spectators.
They arrived at a good position along the ropes and watched as Walker ripped his second shot towards the green. He had choked down on a three wood and almost seemed to stop his swing shorter than normal. This produced a lower trajectory that sent the ball screaming towards the green. It landed almost fifty yards short but had so much topspin that it bounced several times before finally coming to rest on the front of the green, twenty feet from the hole.
“What a shot!” Lori exclaimed.
They followed the throng of spectators and hiked up the hill towards the green. The eighth green was long and narrow and closely resembled an aerial view of the eighth hole itself. There were mounds or moguls on either side of the green that offered plenty of funny bounces over the years by approach shots. The mounds had once been removed in 1956 to improve the sight lines for spectators. Most golfers said that this ruined the hole, which caused Byron Nelson to supervise the restoration of the mounds in 1979.
Without saying a word, they watched Chet Walker line up his twenty-footer for eagle. It was downhill and broke about a foot from his left to right. He knew it was in before it even left his putter. That’s how good Chet Walker was. He knew it was in by the feel of the putter hitting the ball. As the crowd erupted, Walker threw both hands into the air and walked quickly to the next tee box, high-fiving his caddy Stan on the way.
The sign on the tee box said No. 9, 430 yards, par 4, Carolina Cherry. Archie and Hank had just re-fueled on beer and hot sausages on the eighth hole and were starting to feel slightly lubricated. Archie was gloating after the eagle on the eighth and not only was his player starting to climb up the leader board, but Archie was also winning their side bets.
On the eighth green, Hank had given him three-to-one odds against Chet making that putt. Archie bet him fifty dollars and Hank lost one-fifty. On the sixth hole, Walker found a green-side bunker and Hank gave him two-to-one he couldn’t get the ball up and down. He did. Hank lost one hundred.
“Okay, your bet,” Hank said as they watched the players about to tee off on nine.
Archie thought for a few seconds, “Longest drive. I’ll take Walker.”
“Really going out on a limb, huh, Archie.”
“You know this hole,” Archie insisted. “Walker isn’t going to hit a driver. It’s a perfect three wood for him. I’ll give ya two-to-one.”
“Fine, but it must be in the fairway.”
Archie smiled and watched Walker tee off first. From the tee box it looked like you had to thread a needle to find the fairway. The narrow fairway was bordered by humungous trees. What one couldn’t see was the large landing area which opened up after about three hundred yards. The fairway sloped down sharply and allowed weak tee shots to find the bottom of the hill.
Walker did indeed use a three wood but he still out-drove anyone who used a driver. He swung hard at the ball and sent it flying off towards the right side. He was waiting for it to draw back towards the center, but it never did. It was lost in the trees to the right, and Walker slammed his club back in his bag.
Hank wanted to start laughing right there. Archie could feel it coming and instinctively put his hand over his friend’s mouth as they watched the other two golfers hit their tee shots. As soon as the crowd followed after the golfers, Hank took a sip of his beer and slapped Archie on the back.
“Never count your chickens before they’re hatched, my friend. I’ll take my hundred, thank you.”
Sloping severely from back to front, the ninth green demanded a precise approach shot with little or no backspin. Most of the golfers had only wedges or nine irons into the green, so the accuracy was not a problem. Using the shorter irons imparted a lot a backspin, and the balls would zip off the green, traveling fifty yards back down the fairway. Standing over his ball and looking at the green, a golfer could not see the bottom of the flagstick because the green was so elevated. This was the least of Chet Walker’s problems.
Missing the fairway well right, Chet’s ball had become nestled just inches from a large tree root in the ground. He approached his ball and took a few practice swings to ensure he was clear of the trunk and the overhanging limbs. His ball would have to travel through a ten-foot gap between two trees ahead of him and stay low enough to avoid their branches. The green was just over a hundred yards away, and Craig had a perfect view of the situation.
“He could be dead in the water after this hole,” Lori whispered to Craig. They were standing only a few yards from Walker and his caddy, Stan. Craig wished he could just reach out and talk to them right now, but he knew there were too many people around, including Hank.
“I hope he doesn’t hurt himself on that root,” Craig answered.
Walker grabbed a club from the bag and the caddy held up two fingers to the on-course commentator, signifying a seven iron. He crouched low and took a final look at the green ahead. He took a few more practice swings and seemed to stop his swing after it crossed where the ball would be. One last look at the hole. Two small waggles. Whack! Chet’s club smacked into the ball, then the root. He immediately let go of the club with his right hand and shook the stinging sensation away.
Craig and Lori ducked down to see the ball screaming towards the green only thirty feet off the ground. The ball took one large hop into the front of the green, which took a lot of the speed off. It finally finished on the back of the green and the crowd erupted. Lori was jumping up and down, but Craig’s focus was on Chet. He looked over and saw Stan holding Chet’s right hand and checking for damage. There didn’t seem to any, and the two of them headed towards the green, smiling.
“Awesome shot!” Lori said.
“Amazing, huh?” Archie responded. “Only Walker could pull a shot like that off. You okay, Robert?” He looked back at Robert as they walked the short distance to the ninth green.
He looked at them while holding a hand on his stomach. “Yeah, I’m fine. Had to be something I ate. Probably that shitty restaurant we went to last night.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my choice,” Hank said “I don’t choose to go to these damn corporate functions.”
Craig had to get away from these three if he was going to accomplish anything today. “Why don’t I take the bus back to our car and pick you up and take you back to the hotel?”
Robert agreed. “That’s a good idea, Craig, but how are you going to park near Augusta? You know there’s no parking.”
Craig thought for a moment before Lori interrupted. “No, it’s not that bad. He can drive the car down the street and you can just walk down Magnolia and meet him. Better yet, let’s take my car and leave your car for Hank and Archie.”
Robert shrugged his shoulders, “Okay.”
Craig was not happy that Lori was coming with him, but at least he was away from his boss. They arrived at the green and stood on their tiptoes just to see the players lining up their putts. Looking in all directions, Craig spotted a sign behind the ninth green: Players & Caddies Only. Without telling Lori, he walked closer until he realized it was a large tent converted into a ha
lfway house for players. He walked to the front of the tent, where two large security men stood detail, and looked inside.
There were four tables on each side of the tent. On the left side, Craig saw bananas, apples, grapes, oranges, granola bars, Snickers bars, Hershey bars, Reese’s cups, peanuts, pretzels, and a variety of other snacks. On the left, the tables had large coolers housing water, juices, Gatorades, and sodas. The PGA players had a much better halfway house than the local muni.
Craig heard the crowd gasp, then politely applaud over at the ninth hole and realized he was running out of time. He walked to the side of the tent where servers could be seen carrying trays of food back and forth from the tent. He quickly pulled out his Philadelphia Eagles money clip and peeled off three twenty dollar bills. Another groan at the ninth meant another missed putt.
“Hey, pal,” Craig said to a man in his early twenties carrying a cooler towards the tent. The guy stopped walking and awkwardly glanced at Craig. He was dressed the same as everyone else inside the tent; khaki pants, white shirt, white baseball hat and all-white sneakers. He had on an apron covered with today’s stains that stretched from his chest to his knees. Craig approached him and held out his hand. “Bill Darden, how you doing?”
The young man had both hands on the cooler and didn’t put it down to shake Craig’s hand. He managed a “Hi,” wondering what he wanted.
“Listen,” Craig said, “I’ll be brief. Any chance you could loan me that apron and hat of yours for five minutes? I’ll finish carrying that cooler in for ya.”
The cooler was getting heavy and the young man set it down and put his hands on his hips. “You crazy? I could get fired for that. Why?”
“I just wanna see some of the golfers up close, that’s all. I promise I’ll be back in five minutes.”
The kid turned his head and looked for his boss. “What’s in it for me?”
“Forty bucks,” Craig answered.
He picked up the cooler and said, “Hell, that ain’t worth my job, man.”
Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta Page 10