Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Nice try, Ballantrae. But I’m not a sucker either. This is your home course and I’m at a disadvantage. We’ll play even, how about it?”

  The United States Golf Association handicap system was supposed to level the playing field among amateur golfers but there was always a little room for horse trading. It was a ritual repeated thousands of time a day among honest golfers and thieves, and everyone in between.

  “Sure, why not?’

  Scarne nodded at the false generosity. Ballantrae had undoubtedly checked Scarne’s handicap on the computerized stroke system most courses used. And why not? Scarne had checked him out, too. Ballantrae was telling the truth. So even given the home field advantage, it should be a pretty square match, made even more interesting by the presence of a beautiful woman, who was now staring at Scarne with a curious look on her face.

  “So, Jake,” Ballantrae said smoothly, “what’s your poison?”

  Scarne, thoughts elsewhere, said distractedly, “Your regular game is fine.”

  Ballantrae smiled like a barracuda.

  “This is the big leagues, my friend. I don’t usually play anything less than a $5,000 Nassau, front, back and overall. Hard to get my juices flowing for anything less. Lost a bundle to Lee over there last week. Anxious to get it back. You game?”

  A Nassau is the most traditional of golf wagers. Ballantrae was proposing three separate matches over the 18 holes. The front and back nine holes would each represent a $5,000 match, based on who won the most number of holes on the respective nine. And the entire 18 holes, the overall, would be a third $5,000 bet. Scarne was no longer distracted.

  “Victor, Jake is your guest,” Alana said, an edge to her voice. “And he’s here on business.”

  “I know. I know. Truth is, he’s down here to give me the business. Just returning the favor. Hey, if that’s too rich for his blood, I’ll understand. We can play for drinks for all I care. I don’t need the man’s money.”

  This last was said so dismissively that the men at the adjoining table, who had been talking animatedly, quieted. Scarne was being put down cruelly, in public. The fact that Ballantrae threw such a huge bet in his face in front of a beautiful woman was churlish. Ballantrae didn’t expect him to take the bet.

  Scarne heard himself saying, “I don’t like Nassaus. You obviously want to clean my clock. Let’s make it an even $20,000 for a straight 18-hole match. If you’re as good as you think, you’ll close me out six and five and we can go home early.” It was his fee from Sheldon Shields. Easy come, easy go.

  The conversation at the next table had stopped completely. The four men were now openly staring at Scarne and Ballantrae. There was obviously something else going on between them. Probably the woman. A nice afternoon had turned sinister.

  Ballantrae’s laugh was short and harsh.

  “How do I know you are good for the 20 grand?”

  As soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake. His hustler roots were showing. A gentleman would rather lose money rather than question another man’s honor in public.

  “Victor!” Alana’s voice was like a whip.

  One of the men at Rodriguez’s table said, “Jesus.”

  Ballantrae tried to recover. He looked at Alana.

  “Hey. I’m kidding. I’m not worried about it. What’s the matter, can’t anyone take a joke. I know he’s good for it.” But he couldn’t leave it at that. “He can always expense it to Sheldon Shields. Right, Jake.”

  Scarne took a deep breath and smiled. His voice was icy.

  “I’ll call my secretary and have her wire the money into one of your accounts. You’ll know it’s there before we even tee off.”

  “Jake, that’s not necessary. Let’s drop it. We’ll just play for fun, OK?”

  Scarne continued as if he hadn’t heard.

  “The bet stands, Victor. And just so you know, I’m playing with my own money on this. I don’t risk other people’s money to satisfy my own pride.”

  The inference was obvious. Ballantrae stood abruptly.

  “I have to use the little boy’s room. Then I’m going to take a few swings on the range. I’ll have your bag put on Alana’s cart. You can ride together and talk about what a pain in the ass I am.”

  “We’re only playing 18 holes, Victor,” Alana Loeb said sweetly. “That’s hardly enough time to do the topic justice.”

  Ballantrae laughed again and slapped Scarne on the shoulder and walked away, stopping at other tables to trade a jibe with the men and peck a few women on the cheek. Once again the consummate charmer.

  Scarne looked over at Alana Loeb, who had a bemused look on her face.

  “Men,” he shrugged.

  “Boys,” she said.

  CHAPTER 25 – THE WHEELS COME OFF

  On the way to the course Scarne stopped in the golf shop to buy some new balls and a fresh glove. Like most golfers he was particular about the balls he played. In his case, Pinnacles. Even though deep in his heart he knew it didn’t make a damn bit of difference at his skill level. As the cashier rang up the sale, Lee Rodriguez walked over to him.

  “Watch your ass out there,” the great golfer whispered. “He cheats.”

  As he walked to the starter shack, Scarne reflected on his consummate idiocy. He was about to play a $20,000 match with a man who probably had tried to cheat Lee Rodriguez. Scarne was by nature a gambler who reveled in pressure. Dudley Mack frequently accused him of making bad situations worse, just to see how he could get out of them. Oh, well. Ballantrae was right. If a golf game for $20,000 with a beautiful woman watching can’t get a man’s juices flowing, what could? I can take this jerk, he thought.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  He looked up to see Alana Loeb standing by their cart.

  “Oh, nothing,” he replied.

  She called one of the attendants over.

  “Switch the bags, please. I’m driving.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just assumed…”

  “I know you did,” she said curtly.

  She turned to Scarne.

  “I hope you don’t mind. But I know the course and you don’t.”

  After the boy had switched the bags, she walked after him. Scarne thought she was going to further berate him. Instead she reached into her pocket. He tried to resist the tip, but she said something and rubbed the back of his neck. He laughed and took the money. When she rejoined Scarne, she said, “He’s just a kid. He’ll learn.”

  She busied herself with her bag, pulling a glove out of a side pocket and taking the head covers off her woods. Her movements were clean and efficient. She knows how to handle men, Scarne thought. Icy one moment, warm and caring the next. The dichotomy would be irresistible to any male with a pulse.

  At the practice range, Alana began stretching, totally oblivious to the stares of the men nearby. She bent from the waist and put her hands flat on the ground, then did a series of leg and arm stretches. She stood on one leg and pulled her foot to her delectable backside, then alternated with the other leg. She put a short iron behind her neck and did several body twists. She tilted backwards and not for the first time Scarne noted her high, tight breasts. Selecting a wedge, she gave the club a slight waggle and hit a high arching shot toward a red flag on the range that was about 100 yards out. She had an athletic golf swing that nevertheless looked effortless. He noted that her hips were moving toward the target just ahead of her downswing. Classic Hogan. Then like a well-oiled machine, she worked her way down to her low irons. He looked in her golf bag. No hybrid or “rescue” clubs. The woman was a player.

  Scarne was already pretty loose and didn’t want to overdo it, having spent much of the previous afternoon at a range at a Miami municipal course using rented clubs. Unlike the muni, where he’d pummeled 200 beat-up practice balls, each stand at Pelican Trace was supplied with a large pyramid of brand-new Titlists. Concentrating on the wedge, 7-iron and driver, and reveling in the feel of his own clubs, Scarne grew more confident by the mom
ent.

  Alana had switched to her driver. It was soon clear why she played with men. Despite a tendency to push her ball to the right, she was very long and would kill any male weekend player if she hit from the woman’s tees. Scarne objectively noted that her power came from her excellent tempo. Less objectively, he noted Alana’s taut buttocks, legs and flat stomach. She caught the look and smiled.

  “See any flaws ... in my swing?”

  “You’re perfect.”

  Ballantrae strode over. His gaze shifted between them.

  “You ready? Let’s play some golf.”

  ***

  The first hole was a dogleg left par 5, playing 517 yards. Lakes lined both sides of the fairway. The golf carts were equipped with a GPS screen that showed the position of a cart on an electronic replica of each hole. Hazards, traps, trees, water and slopes were all depicted. A digital readout gave the exact distance to the center of the green. Ballantrae pushed the button to start his GPS and turned to Scarne.

  “And it took them 10 years to find Bin Laden.”

  The men flipped a coin to see who had first honors in their match and Scarne won. But they agreed to let Alana lead off on every hole. She chose a driver and split the fairway about 220 yards out.

  “I told you she could play,” Ballantrae said.

  Scarne glanced at his own GPS, pulled his 3-wood and hit a high fade just short of a fairway bunker also about 220 yards out, but in the first cut of rough.

  “Nice shot,” Ballantrae said politely. “But I’m not afraid to use a driver.”

  He lashed a towering shot that ran through the fairway and bounded into the lake bordering the right side. “Fuck!” He looked at Scarne and smiled. “Jake, do you know how to make 30 old ladies say “fuck” at the same time?”

  Scarne shook his head.

  “Have one old lady yell out “bingo!”

  On the way to their balls, Alana said, “Victor can be disarming. He’d rather hit it far than straight. Great short game. He’ll probably make par from there. But don’t expect his good humor to last.”

  Ballantrae did make par after dropping outside the hazard with a one-stroke penalty. He hit a beautiful fairway wood onto the green and two putted. Scarne, who laid up to 90 yards with his second, also managed a rather sloppy par. Alana badly misjudged her birdie putt and hit it three feet past the cup. She refused the conceded putt and missed the come-backer for a bogie 6. She snatched the ball up, eyes flashing. She looked at the men, who knew better than to say anything.

  “Bingo,” she said.

  The men laughed. But Scarne was annoyed with himself. Halving the first hole when your opponent hits into the drink was an inauspicious start.

  ***

  They had reached the tee at the seventh hole next to a small pond.

  “All even after six,” Ballantrae said. “Good match.”

  Scarne was content. After blowing the first hole, he righted the ship. He strategically conceded a few short putts to Ballantrae, not wanting him to get in a rhythm making them. A short putt at a crucial time late in the match might be daunting. Despite the underlying tension, Scarne was enjoying himself. Alana Loeb was a wonderful golfer and often embarrassed both men with her precise shot-making, particularly around the green. Suddenly Ballantrae’s golf bag started playing Ravel’s Bolero. He reached in and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Jesus! It never ends.”

  He walked off behind a towering ficus tree.

  “I thought they didn’t allow cell phones on the course.”

  “There are rules for Victor and rules for everyone else,” Alana said.

  She put her hands behind her head and leaned back, tilting her face toward Scarne. The day had warmed and he could see a glisten of perspiration on her arms and legs. In the close quarters of the cart, he caught an intoxicating whiff of soap, sweat and sex. She stretched her long legs out over the front of the cart. A greenish black bird with a sinewy neck broke the surface of the pond with a large fish speared in its beak.

  “Phalacrocorax auritus,” she said. “Double Crested Cormorant.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She laughed and pointed.

  “That huge bird over there is a Great Blue Heron. Ardea herodias.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Sorry. I’m showing off.”

  She proceeded to describe, in scientific detail, the beautiful plants and animals that surrounded them: brightly colored lilies, hibiscus, milkweed, sycamores, pines, palmettos, palms, anoles, geckos, herons, alligators, egrets, ibis and spoonbills.

  “And that’s only what we can see,” she said.

  Scarne asked her where she had picked up all her knowledge.

  “I’ve always loved nature,” she said. “Very close to it as a child. Almost a Green Mansions upbringing. And when I came to Florida I studied botany and biology at the University of Miami. Did you know that there are 4,000 species of flowering plants in Florida? Even after I switched to business and law, I kept up, with electives. Nature is so raw. Some of the most beautiful trees and plants are the most malignant. See that pinkish-red flowering shrub over there? Ricinus communis, which sounds political but isn’t. It’s a castor bean plant. Chew on its seeds and you would die a quick but very painful death.”

  “I’ll never look at a bean salad the same way.”

  She laughed and squeezed his knee playfully. He felt an electric jolt at her touch. He hoped it didn’t show.

  “Well, it all is certainly beautiful,” Scarne said. “What are these flowers, Rose-of-Sharon?” He pointed to some large pink-purple flowers just to the right of their cart.

  “Very good. Many people confuse them with morning glories, which are vines and not all that common around here. Rose-of-Sharon is a bush.” She paused. “We used to call them pecker plants in school.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Look at the unopened buds behind some of the flowers.”

  Scarne got out and walked over. The pink-to-purple buds did indeed look like small and recently circumcised male organs. He got back into the cart.

  “Well, that explains the botany courses. But let’s talk about something more edifying than peckers.”

  Just then Ballantrae walked up to them.

  “Too late,” Alana said, and burst out laughing. So did Scarne.

  ***

  The seventh was a short par 4, just 298 yards long, with trees along the entire right side of the fairway and bunkers flanking a landing area 230 yards out. The green was small and narrow and sloped towards a large pond on its left. Ballantrae elected to go with a driver.

  “I drove this sucker once,” he said as he waggled his club.

  Not this time. He pushed his ball into a thick clump of the trees well right of the green. Scarne considered his options. He wanted to leave himself a full shot in so he pulled his 4-iron and hit a beautiful straight shot (where did that come from?) right between the fairway bunkers 120 yards from the pin. From there, a perfect wedge left him a relatively simple uphill 12-footer. He could do no worse than a four, which should win the hole easily.

  Ballantrae’s ball had flown into a heavily wooded area. Scarne and Alana drove over to help him look for his ball.

  “It’s like Guadalcanal in here,” Scarne commented as he hacked his way in with a club. Ballantrae would surely have to take a penalty drop, even if he was lucky enough to find his ball.

  But when they found Ballantrae he was ready to swing, with a clear shot to the green from an open space in the thicket that had obviously been cleared by a maintenance crew. The ground was sandy but it was the only spot within 30 yards where a golfer would even have a backswing. And the ball was sitting up on a little mound. Ballantrae’s shot was anticlimactic. He hit a sharp low pitch between the bunkers that stopped in the fringe just short of the green, but only eight feet from the hole. He could certainly putt from there. As they walked to the green, Ballantrae stated the obvious.

  “Got a great break. Must hav
e hit a tree and kicked straight left.”

  “Did I say Guadalcanal,” Scarne said to Alana. “I meant Lourdes.”

  Alana was away and two putted for a par. Scarne’s straightforward 12-footer now looked about twice that length. He left it a miserable and unforgivable 18 inches short.

  “Never up, never in,” Ballantrae said. “There’s a little chicken left on that bone.” He didn’t concede the putt, almost a tap in. Scarne made it.

  “Nice par,” Ballantrae said. Then he made a point of marking his own ball and showing it to Scarne. It had a scuff mark consistent with a ricochet off a tree. “I’m gonna replace it to putt, if it’s OK with you.”

  Scarne nodded and the ball went back into Ballantrae’s bag. He wondered how many times that same ball had played the part.

  Ballantrae hit a strong putt. Scarne knew it was good from the start.

  “Great three,” Scarne said, without inflection.

  But he was seething. He had the hole won easily but for Ballantrae’s miraculous recovery. The hell with it. Down one with 11 holes to play was nothing. Scarne promptly lost the next hole, a tough par 4 on which Ballantrae’s bogie held up when Scarne found a fairway bunker and took a double bogie 6. And he missed a sweaty-palmed six-foot downhill sliding putt to lose the Par 3 ninth!

  In the blink of an eye Scarne was now three down and the wheels were coming off.

  ***

  The two men in the maintenance truck watched the threesome pull away. They were only able to get close to Ballantrae’s group on holes where there was water in play. Fortunately, in Florida, that wasn’t a problem. The state is basically one big aquifer draining into the Gulf of Mexico or Atlantic Ocean. Developers advertise the beauty of the lakes on their golf course communities but the truth is water naturally collects in the holes they gouge. The builders provide a little landscaping, maybe add some fish and plants, but basically let nature take over. The men were dressed in coveralls and occasionally got out of the truck to inexpertly throw a net in the water. They were ostensibly clearing the ponds of tilapia, a fast-breeding invasive fish. Although a staple in many restaurants, tilapias were a nuisance to golf courses, where their nests –they were prodigious and protective egg layers – eroded the banks of ponds, occasionally collapsing greens and fairways. The men in the truck weren’t after tilapia. In fact, when they accidentally caught a few, they surreptitiously threw them back. They were after bigger, and less smelly, game.