Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  ***

  Scarne managed to win one hole out of the next four, halving the others. Ballantrae had gone into a shell, playing conservatively. It was a good strategy. Scarne knew he was being forced to be aggressive; he couldn’t afford to lose any more holes. He coldly evaluated the front nine and comforted himself with the rationale that he had not played that badly. The match could turn on a dime with a bit of luck for himself and a missed putt or two by Ballantrae. That he would leave to the gods. But Scarne would be ready to pounce. He had been lulled by the beauty of the day and allure of his companion. Now he was counting on his rival’s complacency. Blusterers and cheats believe their own press. Ballantrae was probably feeling pretty good about the way he was playing. But Scarne knew his opponent’s score had been inflated by conceded putts and chicanery.

  Still, two down with five to play! The thought that he might have to write out a $20,000 check to the big oaf – and Scarne could imagine Ballantrae telling Alana to take it – brought acid to his throat.

  CHAPTER 26 – PUBLIC HUMILIATION

  The 14th at Pelican Trace was a par 5, and a mirror image of the opening hole. Alana’s drive landed only a few yards short of a fairway bunker about 220 yards out. She would have to lay up. Ballantrae was next. He hit an almost perfect drive. But almost is the most feared word in golf. His ball landed hard in the middle of the fairway and caught the down slope, running through the dogleg and obviously into the lake beyond. It was a bad break.

  “Pity,” Scare said, without any.

  Scarne pulled his driver. He had used it sparingly on the front. But he wasn’t going to hold back anything now. He placed his ball on the right side of the tee and hit his drive down the left, at the lake in the distance. His natural fade pushed his Pinnacle away from danger into the middle of the fairway.

  “Where the hell did that come from,” Ballantrae said.

  “Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while,” Scarne replied cheerfully.

  Driving to their balls, Alana said, “You’ve figured Victor out by now. He’ll do anything to win. But I hope you don’t think I’m a party to all this.”

  Scarne looked at her.

  “We both know this isn’t about 20 grand. He’s playing to impress you.”

  “What are you playing for, Jake?”

  For the briefest of moments, she looked vulnerable. He smiled.

  “Go hit. The son of a bitch has his ball on the back of a turtle by now.”

  She recovered her composure almost immediately, pulled a club from her bag and hit an excellent lay up. They drove in silence over to Ballantrae. His ball was sitting tall on a severe slope leading into the water. There was no way it could have stopped short of the pond. Bond reflected that playing with Alana had one disadvantage. It meant that Ballantrae usually got to his ball first, and unobserved. It was undoubtedly part of his plan.

  Ballantrae hit an excellent shot off a sloping lie to the back of the green, 30 from the pin. Scarne had only 165 yards to the flag. His six-iron landed 10 feet below the hole. Both he and Ballantrae were on in two. Alana hit a lovely wedge to within eight feet. Ballantrae lagged his first putt to two feet, a virtual gimmee. Scarne watched his own eagle putt slide past the hole by a few inches.

  “Pick it up, Ballantrae said, looking at Scarne for a reciprocal courtesy.

  “Alana’s away,” Scarne said. He’d make Ballantrae putt, hoping that all those short ones conceded earlier would come back to haunt him.

  Alana two-putted and then Ballantrae stood over his birdie putt.

  “For Christ sake,” he muttered, “I’d concede this to Helen Keller.”

  But the hole probably looked like a thimble to a now-nervous Ballantrae. Muscles tensing, he missed badly. Scarne was now only one down.

  “Too bad, Helen,” he said as Ballantrae angrily swatted his ball away.

  As he was teeing up on No. 15, Scarne knew he had shaken Ballantrae’s confidence. He couldn’t afford to let up. Using driver again, Scarne hit another long fade just into the short rough on the right. He only had about 120 yards to the green. Ballantrae angrily sliced his drive well into the woods. He found his ball (or at least said he did, Scarne thought cynically) but lacking a chain saw was able only to pitch it back sideways to the fairway. He made a creditable bogey 5 from there; Scarne an easy par. They were even.

  Scarne had a bad scare on the next hole, a relatively straightforward Par 4. Both men found the fairway; Scarne with driver, and Ballantrae with a 3-wood. My, how things have changed, Scarne thought. Ballantrae was away. He fanned a 7-wood into the right bunker. Scarne pulled out his 5-iron and lasered a shot 20 feet past the hole. Alana, who had uncharacteristically hit her ball in the rough, had come up short of the green with her second, but hit a nice chip to a foot. It was an obvious concession, so she picked up.

  “In case you guys haven’t noticed, I’m having a hell of a round,” she said.

  Her good humor had returned. What a woman, Scarne thought. Ballantrae paid her no mind. Once again his short game came through. Scarne’s heart almost stopped as his blast out of the trap almost flew into the cup on the fly before stopping two feet from the flag. Now Scarne needed to make his putt. It was severely downhill. If he missed the cup, chances were he’d roll well past and be lucky to get a par coming back. From birdie to bogie was the bane of every golfer’s existence. He took a deep breath. His putt looked center cut. But at the last second it slid a bit left and started heading to China. Miraculously it just caught the lip and pirouetted 360 degrees before dropping in the front edge. Ballantrae swore under his breath.

  “Sometimes you have to use the whole hole,” Scarne said.

  Inwardly, his heart was racing. That was as close as they come.

  Ballantrae still had his chance to tie the birdie. This time he took his time over the two-footer and rattled it in. They were still even.

  The next hole was a devilish Par 3. It was only 148 yards long, but it was fronted by a large pond that extended almost all the way back to the tee box. Its tiny green sloped back to the pond and was surrounded by several deep bunkers. Golf instructors are fond of telling their students to ignore the water. To imagine it’s not even there and play their regular shots. That usually has the effect of turning a pond into the earthly equivalent of a black hole. Scarne knew that Ballantrae, with his great short game, had a distinct advantage.

  The hole’s dangers were soon evident, as Alana’s good-looking shot – straight at the pin – was caught by a gust of wind and came up short. It rolled off the front of the severely slanted green back into the water. She teed up another ball and promptly hit that one into the water as well.

  “The hell with it,” she said. “You two finish the hole.”

  Scarne normally hit his 7-iron about 150 yards. After seeing what happened to Alana, he decided to take an extra club. Hit his 6-iron dead flush, and straight. It was a beautiful looking shot. He was momentarily elated. Then to his horror the wind died. He was going to be long. He watched miserably as his ball flew over the pin and sailed into the sand trap at the back of the green.

  Golfers are never supposed to wish ill luck on an opponent. But the thought of losing to the boorish, cheating bastard overcame Scarne’s innate sense of sportsmanship. He prayed fervently that Ballantrae would dunk his ball. For his part, Ballantrae began to show his nerves again. He backed off twice before settling in over the ball. Scarne was sure he would flub the shot. So he watched in disbelief and despair as Ballantrae’s shot arched toward the green, landed just past the cup and spun back about six feet below the hole. It was a gritty play and for all his disappointment Scarne felt obliged to say “great shot.” Ballantrae’s returning crocodile grin went right through his heart.

  They rode to the green together past a truck and two men who were throwing nets into the water. Ballantrae was chattering away. He knew he had the match in hand. With a straight uphill putt with no break to it, he had an easy par and a possible birdie. Scarne wo
uld be lucky to get down in two. Ballantrae could then play the last hole for a half and win the match.

  When Scarne got to his ball, he was further discouraged to see that it was lying on a downslope in the sand. He now faced one of the toughest shots in golf. The ball would come out “hot.” He stood a good chance of running it by the flag right into the damn pond. Scarne dug his feet into the soft sand and opened the blade of his club so it was almost facing straight up. His only chance was to flop the ball just over the lip of the trap and hope it didn’t run out too far. A slight miscalculation and the ball could pop straight up and stay in the trap. Or he could blade it into the water on the fly.

  His shot landed just outside the trap and started rolling toward the pin. For a moment Scarne thought it would actually go in! But the slope was too severe and the ball glided past the hole and kept rolling. And rolling. It finally stopped just short of the fringe, a good 15 feet past the cup. Scarne ordinarily would have consoled himself by realizing that even a pro couldn’t have done much better from his horrible lie. But the bitter ash taste of defeat prevented that.

  “That was a wonderful shot from there,” Alana said sincerely. “You didn’t have much to work with.”

  “Yeah, nice try, Jake,” Ballantrae said, with mock generosity. Then, cruelly, “But I think you’re still away.”

  Scarne walked glumly over to his Pinnacle.

  “Gonna have to sink that, bucko,” Ballantrae said. Scarne took a deep breath and went through his routine. He brought his putter blade back as Ballantrae started whistling “Waltzing Matilda.” Scarne backed off and looked daggers at Ballantrae. “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry.”

  Scarne went through his routine again and blocked Ballantrae out of his mind. With nothing to lose he hit a bold, firm putt that went in! It was a world-class par from where he had been, but he knew it probably wasn’t enough. Ballantrae could win with a birdie.

  Scarne’s face was rigid as he awaited the crushing blow. It never came. Obviously remembering Scarne’s speedy second putt and worried that he might go long and be faced with a tricky downhiller, Ballantrae babied his putt. It stopped an inch short of the hill.

  “Nice lag,” Scarne said. “That one’s good. We’re still even.”

  Ballantrae swatted his ball into the pond. As they walked off Scarne hummed “The Marine Corps Hymn.”

  Alana Loeb looked at him and just shook her head.

  ***

  The crosshairs settled on Scarne’s forehead and then slipped down to his smiling mouth. The man in the truck adjusted the focus, took a deep breath and squeezed a trigger. There was a series of rapid clicks. Then he swung the digital Nikon with the telephoto lens to the others on the green.

  “That is one hot lady,” he murmured. “I don’t know how they can concentrate on golf.”

  “Man, he is pissed,” the other man said, focusing his binoculars on Ballantrae. “I wonder how much they’re playing for. He looks like he wants to kill the other guy. I wonder who it is.”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” the man with the camera said. “Come on. There’s a pond near the 18th green. We can get more shots there.”

  “I’ll get the nets. If I never see another fucking tilapia again it will be too soon. Remind me never to order one in a restaurant.”

  ***

  The mood was poisonous on the 18th tee. It had all come down to the final hole, winner take all. Unless they halved, of course. But Scarne was determined not to settle for a tie. This was a once in a lifetime match; the closest he’d ever get to the pressure of the real tour. He didn’t even think about Randolph or Josh Shields. All he wanted to do was beat the son of a bitch. For himself? For the woman? It didn’t much matter at this point, he realized. This is the only place on the planet I want to be right now.

  The last hole was a short but tricky Par 4, measuring a modest 340 yards on the card. But it doglegged to the right around a lake and there were out-of-bounds stakes along the left side of the narrow fairway. A diabolical layout. Alana’s tee shot almost ended in disaster. The wind had picked up and was blowing strongly from the left. It nearly pushed her ball into the water. Scarne couldn’t afford to get wet at this point, so he aimed well left, counting on the breeze to compensate. And, of course, the wind died and the ball held its line.

  “The dreaded straight ball,” he muttered as the well-struck shot went out of bounds left with sickening, unwanted accuracy. He’d have to hit another!

  Scarne couldn’t even look at Alana Loeb. He’d just lost the match, unless Ballantrae also hit it out of bounds or put it in the lake. But he sensibly put his driver back in his bag and hit a nonchalant 4-iron down the middle of the fairway. It was short but he didn’t care if it took him two more shots to the green. Scarne would be lucky to make a six or seven.

  “Position A,” Ballantrae gloated, his humor partially restored.

  Scarne glumly teed up another ball. Even if he hit a perfect drive, with the stroke-and-distance penalty for going out of bounds, he’d be laying three in the fairway and be lucky to get a bogie. It was over. He’d lost.

  Unless.

  Scarne estimated that it was about 220 yards from the tee box to the green – if a golfer hit directly over the lake and was suicidially inclined.

  “A faint heart never won the chorus girl.”

  “What was that?” Ballantrae said.

  “Nothing,” Scarne said, putting his driver away and pulling out a 2-iron.

  Even tour pros didn’t carry the notoriously hard-to-control 2-iron anymore. (Thus the old joke: hold a 2-iron over your head in a lightning storm; even God can’t hit it.) The look on Ballantrae’s face was one of relief; Scarne was giving up. Only when he teed his new ball on the right side of the box and took his stance was it obvious that he planned to get to the hole by sea, not land. He looked at Alana and winked. Ballantrae’s jaw actually dropped.

  Scarne went into a zone. Take the club back slowly, and hold the finish. Imagine the shot and execute. He knew immediately it was a great shot. He heard it, felt it and now watched it. If it has enough legs, if the wind stays calm, if I haven’t misjudged the distance, if I don’t hit a fucking pelican, it will be all over the flag. The ball landed on the green and ran 15 feet past the cup. It was the best golf shot of his life. He was on in three and could save par!

  He felt the silence. Without looking back, but knowing Ballantrae could hear him, he said, “Damn. Too much club. Should have used a 3-iron.”

  Caligula would have said “nice shot.” Not Ballantrae, who was stunned.

  In the cart Alana said, “That was the greatest pressure shot I ever saw.”

  “It will mean nothing unless I sink that putt.”

  “You will!”

  They all drove up to Ballantrae’s ball. For the first time, Scarne noticed a sheen of sweat on the other man’s face. His 4-iron left him almost 170 yards from the green and some of it was over water.

  “Still planning to lay up Victor?” Alana said. It was almost a taunt.

  Ballantrae looked at her. His eyes glittered. He angrily pulled a 5-wood from his bag. He hit it flush and the ball tracked right at the pin. It landed softly and rolled to about eight feet from the hole. It was a gutsy play.

  “Great shot.”

  Scarne meant it, even as he hated saying it.

  Alana also reached the green in two. When they got there she walked to the pin and pulled it. Her ball was five feet past Ballantrae’s, on the same line.

  Word of the high-stakes match had spread and there was a considerable crowd standing around the green, including Lee Rodriguez and his friends. As Scarne walked by, Rodriguez asked, “What did you hit off the tee?”

  “A 2-iron. But it was my third shot. I was out of bounds on my drive.”

  “That makes it even better,” the old pro said.

  Alana was away. She asked Ballantrae to mark his ball, which was in her line, off to the side.

  “For Christ’
s sake. You’re not even in the goddamn match. Just pick up!”

  Ballantrae’s bad manners elicited disapproving murmurs from the crowd.

  “I’ll putt out, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, sure. Just hurry up.”

  He placed his marker behind his ball and then used his putter head as a measure to move the mark out of her line. She lined up her putt and boldly sank it. There is a smattering of applause from the crowd. She quickly picked up her ball and walked past Scarne.

  “You’re up.” She lowered her voice. “Just be quiet when he putts.”

  He looked at her. What did she mean?

  Scarne’s putt was downhill, with a left to right break towards the water. As he knelt to read the putt, perspiration trickled down his spine and his heart pounded. He walked over to the hole and looked at the rim. The grass seemed to be growing towards where his ball was. That meant the “grain” was running against the ball and any putt would be marginally slower, even downhill. At least he hoped so, because he wasn’t planning to leave the putt short. He needed to hit the putt strongly enough to hold the line. If he missed it wouldn’t matter if the ball rolled to China. A par four was his only chance.

  “Jesus Christ! Are you going to putt or not?”

  “Soon as you move out of sight line,” Scarne said.

  Ballantrae grumbled and walked to the side.

  Scarne took a deep breath and took a practice stroke. Grounding his club behind the ball, he willed himself to relax and putted through the ball firmly. It took off like a cue ball on a pool table! This ball is going in the hole or in the lake, he thought wildly. But the grain slowed it a fraction and at the last second the ball curled in the middle of the cup with a satisfying clunk.

  By now the crowd had taken sides and roared approval of the miracle par.