“Sixty,” Craig was quick to respond.
The kid stopped and said, “Eighty.”
Craig threw up his hands in a false protest but said, “Fine.”
The kid walked Craig around the back of one of the food trailers and took off his apron and hat, and Craig slipped them on. He also borrowed a paper and pencil and wrote something down. Grabbing the cooler, Craig walked swiftly back to the tent and straight past the security guards without a second glance. He looked around and saw Chet Walker and Stan already in the tent. They were sifting through the granola and candy bar table and stuffing his golf bag with afternoon snacks and water bottles.
Craig approached from behind just as Chet trotted away to the bathroom. He tapped Stan on the shoulder, and the tall man turned around. To Craig, he looked to be about forty years old, in great shape and with a great tan. He had small wrinkles under his eyes and on his forehead from years of being out in the sun.
Craig had no time to waste, so he leaned into the caddy, whispered into his ear, and passed him the piece of paper. Stan stood there for a minute, looking directly into Craig’s eyes. Neither man made a move. Stan sensed he wasn’t joking.
Chapter 17
After dropping Robert off and arriving back at the Marriott, Craig was pacing back and forth in his room. When they went to get the cars at Augusta, Craig had invited Lori over to his hotel room after she dropped Robert off at their hotel. She had arrived thirty minutes later, and they agreed to leave the room and find someplace to watch the tournament on TV.
On the PGA Tour, about 150 golfers are invited to play in each tournament each weekend. The four Majors, like the Masters, were different. You had to earn your way into the field. The Masters was the most selective and only invited less than one hundred players. A PGA Tournament consists of four rounds with a cut after the second round in which the field is trimmed approximately in half. The bottom half went home without a paycheck and the top half competed for the prize money on the weekend.
By the time they had arrived at a bar appropriately named the 19th Hole, they saw that Chet Walker was having an up and down back nine and was in danger of missing the cut. He stood on the sixteenth green and was at least fifty feet away from the pin. His score flashed on the screen and it read +1, seven shots behind the leader. It also had “Cut Even Par” in parentheses. This meant that Walker had to finish up with no bogeys and at least one birdie in order to be around for the weekend.
Craig thought about this for a second. Normally the cut was any golfer within ten strokes of the lead plus ties. Why is the cut line only seven shots back? He had a pretty good idea why.
“This is ugly,” Craig said. They sat at a booth near the crowded bar and the waitress had taken their order for two beers.
“There’s no way he misses the cut,” Lori replied. “I bet you he makes this putt.”
Craig looked at her cross-eyed. “He’s going to make a fifty-footer?”
“Watch,” was all she said.
They did watch, and he didn’t come close to making it; the putt stopped ten feet short. A few moments later, Chet buried the next putt in the back of the hole.
“Whew!” Craig exclaimed.
Lori smiled at him and took at sip of her beer that the waitress had brought. “What is it with you and Walker?”
Craig blushed. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question.”
“Well, if I don’t understand the question, I must ask a follow-up question in order to better understand.”
Lori just laughed. “Anyway, I mean, you certainly are a little hard-up for Walker, don’t you think?”
“He’s a client of my company!” Craig said, getting defensive.
“Whoa, whoa. Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I saw you root for this guy the past two days with a lot of passion. Not just a client-agent relationship.”
“It’s not like that, Lori. Sure, I want him to win, but…” Craig trailed off and took a gulp of his beer.
“But what?” she asked.
“Let’s just say I want Walker to win and leave it at that.”
“No, no, no. You’re hiding something. I knew it. I could tell yesterday that something was on your mind. Come on, Craig, let me in.”
Craig knew he was going to tell her at some point, but he didn’t think now was appropriate. He had to wait until at least the end of the tournament. He leaned in close and jokingly said, “No.”
She leaned back in her chair and slammed her beer on the table. Craig grabbed her hand and shushed her.
“What!?” she demanded.
“You’re funny when you get angry,” he replied.
She realized she may have gotten a little too upset and calmed down. “Craig, if you’re hiding something from me, I’m going to—”
He interrupted her and held her hand in his. “You’re going to what? Listen,” he said softly. “I do have something to tell you, but you’re going to have to have some patience.” He looked around the room. “Not here, not now. Okay.”
She wasn’t happy but at least satisfied. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
They touched mugs together and looked back towards the TV to see Walker walking down the fairway after his tee shot on seventeen. He had to birdie seventeen or eighteen to make the cut. Not an easy task.
<><><><><>
The small plane carrying fifty-six passengers touched down at Augusta airport at a little past three in the afternoon. Two of those passengers were Stumps and Brewster, who continued through the airport, renting a car and driving quickly to Augusta National. Before leaving Philly, their boss, Humphrey, had made a few calls and had gotten tickets to the Masters through a ticket broker. At fifteen hundred dollars each, they were securely in Stumps’ fist as they walked through the gates towards the golf course.
Most of the patrons were leaving at this late hour. The popular golfers were finishing their rounds, and they had a long weekend ahead of them. Looking at the small map they were handed as they walked in, they found the area where all of the corporate tents were set up. Augusta was one of the few venues that did not allow tents on the golf course itself; therefore, it limited the number that could actually be on the grounds.
As they arrived at the tents, Stumps took the row on the left and Brewster took the right. They could not guarantee that Hank would be in a tent, but Humphrey suggested that they look there first. After a few minutes, they met each other at the end of the row and both men shrugged their shoulders.
“Not here,” said Stumps.
Brewster continued to look in all directions. “I’m not walking eighteen holes to find him. Let’s wait by the front gate and see if we can catch him coming out.”
A series of small, dark concrete pillars lined the driveway into Augusta, and Brewster sat on one while lighting a cigarette. Stumps walked back and forth through the dry grass and wondered where Hank was.
<><><><><>
Hank was so giddy with excitement he couldn’t help himself. One more hole! He didn’t let Archie know that this was what he was thinking, but Archie could tell. The two men walked alongside the fairway of the eighteenth hole while Chet Walker and his playing partners moved towards their tee shots. Hank wasn’t even bothering to look at the scoreboard to find the players he bet on; all he cared about at the moment was seeing if Chet Walker could make the cut. One more hole!
Unfortunately for Hank, Walker crushed his drive and stood a mere one hundred yards from the green. Walker approached the ball and waited for Stan to give him the yardage and the pin position. They both had puzzling looks on their faces as they looked at the green and then back to their pin sheet. The eighteenth green was slightly elevated so a golfer could only see the top half of the flag. It was difficult to determine how far forward or back the pin was located.
Stan dropped the golf bag and quickly jogged towards the green, stopping about thirty yards away. The quiet crowd suddenly came to life. People were whi
spering, wondering what the caddy was doing.
“What’s going on?” Archie asked.
Hank shrugged his shoulders. “Got me. He’s just delaying the inevitable.” He felt like yelling at Walker to just hit the ball.
“He has time. Probably just wants to make sure of the pin position.”
“That’s why they give the golfers pin sheets,” Hank said. “Then they don’t have to waste their time running off towards the green.”
Stan came back to Walker and explained the situation to him. Chet looked at him awkwardly but pulled out his sand wedge and went through his pre-shot routine: two practice swings behind the ball, two looks at the ball, let it fly.
“Shit,” Hank murmured. He noticed that as soon as Walker finished his swing, he started walking towards the green, talking to the ball.
“Be right!” Stan yelled.
Chet started trotting towards the green and at one point jumping in the air to see where the ball was going to land, but he never saw where it came to rest. He didn’t have to. The large gallery surrounding the eighteenth green erupted in loud applause. Walker turned back to Stan and gave him a fist bump with his hand. The crowd continued their applause as Chet and Stan walked onto the green and they noticed the ball less than six feet from the cup.
“Shit!” Hank said again, this time loud enough for a few heads to turn.
Archie said nothing. He’d have plenty of time to gloat if and when Walker won the bet for him. Besides, there was still a putt to be made.
The reigning US Amateur Champion, Tim Woolite, who was paired with Walker, had struggled in his first appearance at the Masters. He was the first to putt out and finished his debut at plus nine, shooting scores of 77-76. British Amateur Champ Ian Goodspeed was having a much easier time with the course. He was two shots ahead of the cut and had a good chance to finish as low amateur.
Chet Walker didn’t bother to look at the putt from six or seven different angles. He had played this course many times and knew the subtle breaks on most of the greens. Funny thing was, this putt was not going to break. Well, it did break slightly from left to right, but Chet was going to hit it firm enough to go right through the break.
And he did just that. The moment it came off of the putter head, it looked as if the ball would go six feet past the hole. But it didn’t. The ball hit the back of the cup, jumped up in the air, and dove deep inside the cup. Chet looked up at the sky and pumped his fist just slightly, almost like a carpenter hammering nails. Taking off his hat and wiping his brow, he showed signs of exhaustion as he pulled his ball out of the cup and walked off the green towards the scoring trailer.
Hank hung his head in disgust as Archie cracked a smile. No words were needed. The bet was on.
Walker took one last look at the large electronic scoreboard and saw that he was six shots behind the leader. That didn’t matter right now. He made the cut. He was going to be around for the weekend.
Chapter 18
If one was to start driving west from Augusta and tackle over 2000 miles, they would end up in a little town called Las Vegas, Nevada. Home to comedians, magicians, showgirls, and concerts, Las Vegas was America’s playground. Free from home, work, children, and even husbands or wives. The common theme that attracted most people to Las Vegas was gambling.
Atlantic City, New Jersey, had gambling, so did Indian casinos, riverboats in some cities, and even race tracks, but no other city in the country had sports books. Find a sports book in Vegas and you could bet on anything: football, baseball, hockey, basketball, NASCAR, horse racing, dog racing, and even golf.
The sports book at Grand Valley Casino was in the older part of Vegas, away from the strip. The casino had been one of the first to offer sports wagering back in the 1960s. Only in the past ten or fifteen years had it become so popular that they had to hire outside consultants to manage the betting lines for each sport. Max Jatter and Rudy Campo were the two men responsible for the betting lines that each sport would have each week. This past week, they had been focused on the Masters.
There were many ways to place a bet on a golf tournament. One could pick a player and hope that he won the event, beating the other 100 plus players. This wager had the highest odds because of the slim chance one particular player had of winning. Chet Walker’s odds to win the Masters were a paltry 4-1 before the event started. After thirty-six holes, though, you could grab him for 15-1.
You could also wager on individual matches. For instance, if Walker was paired with Woolite and Goodspeed that day, you could place a bet on any one player beating the other two. However, the easiest way to bet was to take the entire field that didn’t have odds, to win the tournament; in this case, take seventy golfers against Chet Walker and the fifteen other golfers. These odds were also listed at 4-1.
Jatter and Campo had just finished watching the second round of the golf tournament when Campo finally broke the silence. “Yes!” he said, pumping his fist in the air.
“Mothereffer had to make the effing putt,” Jatter replied. “No way we’re losing this money!”
The two men still had not told their boss and owner of GrandValley, Irwin Roscowitz, that someone had laid one million dollars against Chet Walker to win the Masters. They may not tell their boss. If Walker won the Masters, they may just pocket the million dollars for themselves.
<><><><><>
The nineteenth hole was starting to fill up with Masters patrons stopping off for a quick bite before heading home after a long day. The crowd inside applauded loudly when Chet made the birdie on eighteen, assuring a spot for the weekend. He still trailed well behind the leader, but at least had some momentum for the third round.
Lori and Craig had polished off a couple of beers and some nachos. The beer was going straight to Lori’s head, and she had already asked Craig to come back to her place and order in some take-out later that night. Craig was more under control and shrugged off the question without answering. He slowed both of their drinking by ordering some water and some more food to help absorb the alcohol.
“Can we have the potato skins?” Craig asked the waitress.
“And two more beers,” Lori quickly said before the waitress disappeared.
Craig was about to cancel the order but instead took Lori’s hand in his. “Thanks for hanging out with me this week, Lori.”
“It’s been a lot of fun. What do you feel like doing tonight?” she asked, hopeful he would respond to her earlier question.
“Not sure,” Craig said. “Maybe just go home and go to bed; we have a long weekend ahead of us.”
Lori pulled back her hands.
“Stop,” Craig said, “I’m just kidding you. Tonight is my treat. I’ll take you to dinner.”
“After all these snacks, I’m not even sure I’ll be hungry later on.”
Craig thought for a moment. He kept glancing at his watch. “We can just go out for a small bite if you want.”
“Craig,” Lori said. “What’s up? You keep looking at your watch like you have someplace to be.”
“It’s nothing,” he assured her.
Just then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He managed to grab it out of the hotel before he left. He picked it up. “Hello?” A couple of seconds of silence ticked by followed by another, “Hello?” He turned to Lori, “I can’t hear in this place.” He got up out his seat with the phone to his ear and headed towards the men’s room but did not go in; instead, he stood in the alcove, talking on the phone.
Lori just sat in the booth watching the golf tournament on one of the many TVs that were above the bar. The waitress came over with their beers and potato skins covered in cheese and bacon. Lori didn’t wait for Craig and hungrily dove into the skins.
Craig came back to the table moments later and sat softly in the booth across from her. He said nothing while tapping his fingers on the greasy table. He lifted his beer and took a long swallow, consuming half of it in one gulp.
Lori, still chewing, managed to say, “What?”
He paused a moment, smiled and said, “Wanna go to Chet Walker’s house tonight?”
Lori almost choked on the potato skin.
<><><><><>
“We’ve waited long enough,” Brewster said. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Stumps asked.
Brewster ignored him at first and began walking away from the front entrance to Augusta. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost six o’clock. Instinctively, he reached for his cell phone but realized he had been forced to leave it in the rental car in the parking lot.
“He must’ve already left. We need to call Humphrey and tell him he wasn’t here. Then we’ll go straight to his hotel.”
Stumps agreed, and the two security men from Coldridge did just that. The roads were packed, and it took them almost forty-five minutes to reach the Marriott on the outskirts of town. They had gotten the name and room number of the place Hank was staying from Humphrey. They called him on the way and he told them that Hank must still have his cell phone turned off because he couldn’t reach him today either. Brewster parked the rented Ford Escape towards the front of the hotel, and he and Stumps walked the short distance to room 115.
The hotel was very quiet for a Friday evening outside of Augusta. There were no car doors slamming, kids laughing, luggage being rolled into rooms, or keys jingling. Brewster slowed his walk to almost a snail’s pace as he reached Hank’s door and lightly tapped on the outside. He tried peeking through the window, but the curtains blocked all visibility. After a few moments, he was about to knock again and Stumps stopped him, grabbing his wrist.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Listen.”
Brewster looked around the parking lot and saw that no one was nearby, so he turned his head and put his ear to the door. The shower was on.
“Shit,” Brewster said.
“Let’s just go back to the car and wait.”
Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta Page 11