“We could go check on Waltrip.” Brewster leaned back to try and see over the top railing. He had to walk out in the parking lot before finally seeing that Craig’s room was completely dark. He walked back to Hank’ door and pulled out a small leather pouch from the backpack he was carrying.
“What is that?” asked Stumps.
Brewster ignored him and removed what looked to be a small screwdriver.
“Are you nuts?”
“Just watch out for me,” Brewster asked.
There was no need. Brewster had the door open inside of thirty seconds, and he and Stumps walked into Hank’s hotel room. They quietly shut the door behind them and crept inside. The shower was still going. The room was in disarray. Clothes were scattered about the floor and chairs, and a half bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the desk by the TV. Brewster went over, picked up a glass, and poured himself a glass of the whiskey. Stumps gave him an obvious look of disapproval, and they both sat down on the chairs by the front door.
After a few minutes, the showering stopped and they heard Hank step from the shower, fiddle with something on the sink, and then walk from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Hank demanded.
Brewster took a sip of his drink before saying, “We came to help you out with a little situation.”
“Help yourself to my ass, why don’t ya. Humphrey said he wouldn’t send anyone down until at least Saturday night.”
“Well, we’re early. What can I tell ya?”
Hank’s cell phone rang and he picked it up, not recognizing the number. “Yeah.”
“Mr. Fredericks?” a man asked.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“It’s Ty Hill.”
Hank recognized the name of the football player he was getting into Mississippi State. “Yes, Tyrone, how you doing?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Fredericks. Listen, I’m sorry to call so early but my mama wanted me to call right away. I can’t accept the fake scores, Mr. Fredericks. It wouldn’t be right.”
Hank was floored. “Now wait a minute, Ty, we had a deal. You’ll be in the NFL in three years!”
“I’m still going to the NFL, Mr. Fredericks, but I’m doing it the right way by starting at Community College.”
“Tyrone, you’re making a mistake. Please reconsider.”
“Sorry, Mr. Fredericks, it’s just my mama and all and she convinced me to do the right thing.”
Hank hung up the phone and tossed it on the bed. He put his hands through his hair and thought of the consequences of that call. Now we lost his best prospect. Coldridge would lose thousands and possibly millions of dollars. There’s no way he could let Walker win now. He couldn’t possibly pay him his bonus.
Hank opened a drawer and started putting on some clothes. He recognized the men from the office but had never been formerly introduced. “You know I should call Humphrey right now and tell him about you two breaking into my room.”
Brewster smiled. “Now that’d be a big waste of time, wouldn’t it?”
“You know who you’re talking to?” Hank started to raise his voice. “I run this ship! Don’t think for a second that I can’t have your asses thrown out of that Coldridge as soon as I get back.”
“Actually, Hank, you should know who you’re talking to.” Brewster set down his glass and got up from the chair. “We already took care of one problem for you, and we’re here to take care of another one. Your name is all over that Banner chick. They bring us down, you’re going down, too. So sit your fat ass down and tell us what’s going on with Waltrip.”
Hank stopped getting dressed and grabbed the bottle of Jack before sitting on the edge of the bed. He had no idea about what happened to the Banner chick and he didn’t want to ask either. “There’s not much to tell,” he began. “How much do you know?”
“We know jack shit,” Brewster replied.
“Well, according to your boss, Waltrip found out a little secret of mine and needs to be watched before ruining the entire plan. If he tries something,” he stopped in mid-sentence and took a long pull from the bottle. “Well, he must be dealt with.”
Stumps finally opened his mouth and asked, “Where is he?”
Hank shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me. I’m sure he’s out with this chick he just met, but I haven’t a clue as to where. If you hang out here long enough, he may come back to his room before going out with her.”
Brewster sat back down and said, “Okay, if he comes back here we tail him all night and see what he’s up to. He still has to sleep here, right?”
“Probably. I don’t think he and this chick are that cozy yet.”
“Fine, worst case is that we catch up to him later tonight.”
Stumps flipped over another glass that was sitting on the table and asked, “You got any ice for that JD?”
“Down the hall,” Hank replied.
“Good, because it could be a long night.”
Chapter 19
There was hardly any room to park on Logan Street as Lori and Craig arrived in her car. After the nineteenth hole, they stopped briefly at her hotel so she could change and then had driven off together. Craig had no desire to go back to his hotel and see Hank. Lori had left Robert a note telling him they had gone out to dinner and would be back later. On the way over, Craig explained to Lori how he gave a note to the caddy to call him and that it was urgent. He left out the why part.
Craig was very nervous as he thought about the night ahead of him. Would they believe him? Is he in danger? What about Lori and Uncle Red? How far up does this thing go? Lori parked the car a few houses away from the large colonial, and they started walking towards the house. As they approached the long driveway, two men were standing outside leaning against the large concrete pillars that bordered the driveway.
One of the men met them before they reached them and put his hand out to stop them. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Ah, yeah, we were invited here,” Craig said.
Lori looked at Craig and wondered what all the fuss was about. He shrugged his shoulders and waited for the man to say something.
“Names, please,” he said.
“Craig Waltrip and Lori Halpin,” Craig said.
The man turned away from them and spoke into a cell phone for a few moments. He said to his partner, “Let them in.”
Craig and Lori walked past the men up the long semi-circular driveway to the front door of the huge home.
“This is so exciting!” Lori said softly.
Craig smiled and replied, “I know, just keep it cool, okay? They didn’t ask us here for autographs or pictures or anything.”
“I’m not stupid, Craig, but I wish you would tell me why we’re here.”
Just then the door opened, and Craig instantly recognized Stan the caddie. He looked different without the famous white overalls and hat. He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Thanks for coming,” he said. Stan opened the door wide and let Lori and Craig walk into the foyer.
“I’m Stan Drummond. Chet is waiting inside.”
He led them through a narrow hallway filled with black and white photographs of the family that owned the home. Most golfers rented homes instead of hotels. It was much more convenient than a hotel room, especially since they were there for at least a week. Lori looked in all directions, taking in the large ten-foot ceilings, the perfectly stained wooden floors, and the crown molding that was everywhere. They followed Stan through another small hallway and made their way down a dozen stairs into a large sitting room. Leather chairs and sofas accompanied the large-screen TV that hung from the wall. Sitting on one of the recliners was Chet Walker.
Chet quickly grabbed a remote control, pressed a button, and got up from his chair to meet his new guests. He also was dressed differently, in faded jeans, t-shirt, and baseball hat.
“Hey,” Chet said, extending his hand. “I’m Chet; nice to meet you.”
Craig could bar
ely speak as he shook Chet’s hand. Lori jumped in quickly as she took her turn shaking the famous golfer’s hand. “It’s really nice meeting you, Mr. Walker.”
“Please, my name is Chet.”
Craig regained his composure as they moved into the room and he and Lori sat down on the couch, Chet and Stan on separate chairs.
“Great place you have,” Craig said.
“Yeah, we rent the same one each year from the Huxley’s.”
“Sorry if we interrupted you,” Lori said, nodding her head towards the TV, which was paused.
“It’s fine, I was just watching the tape from today’s round. Anyway, Stan tells me you may have something to tell me.”
Craig leaned forward and placed his arms on his knees. He looked over at Lori, who was staring at him, waiting for him to reply. Before he could open his mouth, Stan jumped in. “I must say, Craig, I find it hard to believe. This is one of the most prestigious tournaments in the history of the game. Do you know what’s involved to make sure that the Masters is run as smoothly as possible? I’ve been caddying here for almost fifteen years and have never heard of such an accusation.”
“Calm down, Stan,” Chet said. “Let the man speak. Go ahead, Craig.”
Craig looked at Lori once more then turned to Chet before saying, “I think the Masters is fixed.”
“What?” was all Lori could manage.
Stan looked confused and said, “You didn’t know?”
“I had no idea,” Lori replied. “Craig said he had something to tell me, but I had no idea it was this.”
“I wanted to be sure,” Craig said.
“So let’s hear it, Craig,” Chet said. “Besides how shitty I played these past two days, what makes you think the Masters is fixed?”
Craig sat there and knew he had no proof. He needed to get in touch with Missy and have her send him the videotape somehow. He had called her all day, and she had not picked up the phone. How was he going to convince the world’s greatest golfer without any proof?
“Do you have anything to drink?” Lori asked.
“I’m sorry,” Stan said as he got out of his chair. “What can I get you?”
“A water or Diet Coke please, please.”
“I don’t have the proof with me,” Craig said, “but let’s just say that I witnessed a meeting between two people who planned to fix this year’s Masters.”
“Who?” Chet asked.
Craig avoided mentioning Red and said, “My boss.”
Lori put her hand over her mouth. Stan returned with a couple of beers and sodas, and Craig downed half of the beer to help his dry mouth.
“What would your boss have to do with fixing the Masters?” Stan asked.
“I work for Coldridge Group, your agent.” Craig quickly filled him in on the contract and his bonus and the fact that a man from Augusta came to visit his boss.
“Who was the man from Augusta?” Stan asked. “I know half the members.”
Craig shrugged his shoulders and without looking at Lori said, “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Chet began, “let’s say I do believe you that someone planned to fix the tournament this year so I didn’t win. How are they doing it? The lame attempt to slash my tires? I may have missed an hour of practice time, but that didn’t mess up my round.”
“Wait a minute.” Stan suddenly got up from his chair and went to the corner of the room where all of Chet’s golf equipment was. He opened a pouch on the side of Chet’s golf bag and removed a small pamphlet and brought it over to the group. Picking up the remote control and pressing the play button, he asked Chet, “What hole you on?”
“Fourteen, I think,” Chet responded, looking very confused.
The four of them watched the TV as Stan flipped through the pages of the little book. The screen showed an overhead view of the fourteenth green and Stan hit the pause button. “Where is that flag?” he asked.
Chet stood up from his chair, sensing where this was going. “What the hell is going on?”
“Where is it, Chet?” Stan asked again.
“It’s back left only about six paces from the back fringe.”
Stan walked over to him and handed him the small booklet. Chet’s eyes grew wide with anticipation as he opened to the page Stan handed him.
“What is it?” Lori asked.
Craig didn’t have to ask; his fears were confirmed.
“It’s not where it says it is, that’s for sure,” Chet said. “This description of the fourteenth hole says that Friday’s pin position is fifteen paces from the back fringe and seven paces from the left. Look at the TV; there’s no way that’s fifteen paces.”
Lori didn’t see what the big deal was. “Maybe it was a misprint or something. Besides, they were only off by a couple of feet.”
Craig quickly jumped in, hoping to downplay Lori’s comments. “Lori, Augusta National and the Masters do not make mistakes like this. Furthermore, nine feet could be a huge mistake when you’re hitting your approach shot. Am I right, Chet?”
“Yes,” he responded, still dumbfounded.
“But why couldn’t you see where the flag was when you played the hole?” Lori asked.
Stan jumped in. “There are a couple of reasons. First of all, you trust the yardage books. You shouldn’t have to be on top of the hole to know where the flag is. Secondly, the fourteenth has a raised front edge of the green. We were in the fairway and you still could only see the top half of the flag. There’s no way to judge how far back the pin is set. Damnit, I knew something was up today.”
All of them remained quiet for a few moments as Chet stared at the TV and watched the fourteenth hole, over and over. “Let’s check another hole,” he said.
“It won’t be fifteen or sixteen; those pins are too visible from the fairway. Check out seventeen and eighteen. I’m going to call Jumps and ask him to check out his yardage book,” Stan replied, referring to one of the other caddies he knew on tour.
“Don’t tell him ours is wrong yet. We have to figure this thing out ourselves.”
Stan handed Craig the remote and asked him to fast-forward through the tape until he was on top of the seventeenth green. After a few moments he stopped the tape, and Lori looked at Chet as he examined the seventeenth green on paper and on TV.
“Wrong again,” he said. “See for yourself.” He handed Craig the book, and both he and Lori scrutinized the pin position.
“Damn,” Craig said, “the book says the pin should be in the middle of the green, on the right-hand side. Clearly, it’s in the front of the green.”
“No wonder you weren’t so hot with your approach shots,” Lori said.
Both Chet and Craig turned towards Lori, who said, “What? I’m sorry, I just—”
“No, you’re right,” Chet said. “This was a major reason I couldn’t get the ball close today. At least I have one excuse.”
Stan returned to the room and stood with his hands on his hips. “Jumps said his book is okay, the fourteenth is right. That means ours is the only one that’s different. You find any others?”
“Seventeen is wrong,” Chet said.
“Shit!” Stan said. “What the hell is going on, Craig?”
Craig was taken back by the accusation. “Huh? I told you everything I know. How they’re doing this, I have no idea.”
Chet snapped his fingers and said, “The cut line. They shortened it from ten strokes to seven. Son of a bitch.”
Stan walked over to him and starting pointing his finger. “It’s your fuckin’ company that started this, Craig. You were the one who knew about this week’s ago and never told anyone. How do we know you’re not involved?”
“Why would we come here if I was involved? I’ve been a nervous wreck this whole week. I’ve tried to get in touch with you since I arrived in Augusta. Getting close to you is like getting close to the Pope.”
“We’re here now to help,” Lori said, “so stop it, both of you. Now what do you want us to do?”
This was not the job Craig was hoping for. He already knew the man that was fixing the Masters. It was Uncle Red.
<><><><><>
It was a somber ride home from Chet Walker’s palatial estate. Craig had a lot on his mind. Not only was he feeling guilty for knowing the tournament was fixed, but he also was beginning to have feelings for Lori. How was her uncle involved? How was he eventually going to break the news to Lori?
Craig dropped Lori off at her hotel, turned down her request to stay at her place for the night, and instead gave her a brief kiss and took off for home. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed Chet’s private number, which he had given him before they left.
“Chet, hi,” he began. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to make sure of something.”
“Yeah, what?” responded Chet.
“When you told me not to say anything about this to anyone, you were speaking to the group, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason, I just wanted to make sure that everyone, including you and Stan, kept this hush-hush.”
“We’re not saying a word. I want actual proof before I bust this thing wide open.”
“Okay, thanks.” Craig hung up the phone, having confidence that Chet or Stan was not going to tell anyone at Augusta.
Craig pulled his car up to the hotel around midnight and noticed that Hank’s light was not on. The parking lot was more crowded, and he had to park about a dozen spaces away from his room. He grabbed his coat from the backseat and opened the door. No sooner did he have one foot in the room than two hands grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the ground. Lying on his side, he tried to roll over, but someone’s foot came crashing into his ribs, sending a sharp pain that ricocheted from bone to bone. His head was still facing the ground when another foot came stomping on his back, sending his face into the concrete. He heard what sounded like two people shuffling their feet towards him.
Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta Page 12