“You swine,” she sobbed hysterically, beating at his back and trying to kick at him with her pinioned legs. “You awful, filthy beast.” Using strength she hadn't known she possessed, she finally pushed his weight off her and jumped from the bed, taking the coverlet with her and holding it over her naked, invaded body. “I'll have you arrested,” she cried, tears rushing down her cheeks. “I'll see you punished for this, you bloody pervert.”
“Pervert?” He pulled his dressing gown closed and got up from the bed, his chest still heaving. “I wouldn't be so quick to call me a pervert, Francesca,” he said coolly. “If you weren't such an inept lover, none of this would have happened.”
“Inept!” The accusation startled her so much that she nearly forgot the throbbing pain between her legs and the ugly stickiness leaking onto her thighs. “Inept? You attacked me!”
He knotted the sash and looked at her with hostile eyes. “How amused everyone will be when I tell them the beautiful Francesca Day is frigid.”
“I'm not frigid!”
“Of course you're frigid. I've made love to hundreds of women, and you're the first one who's ever complained.” He walked over to a gilded commode and picked up his pipe. “God, Francesca, if I'd known you were such a dreadful fuck, I wouldn't have bothered with you.”
Francesca fled into the bathroom, shoved herself into her clothes, and raced from the house. She forced herself to suppress the realization that she had been violated. It had been a dreadful misunderstanding, and she would simply make herself forget about it. After all, she was Francesca Serritella Day. Nothing truly horrible could ever happen to her.
The New
World
Chapter
3
Dallas Fremont Beaudine once told a reporter from Sports Illustrated that the difference between pro golfers and other big-time athletes was mainly that golfers didn't spit. Not unless they were from Texas, anyway, in which case they pretty much did any damn-fool thing they pleased.
Golf Texas-style was one of Dallie Beaudine's favorite topics. Whenever the subject came up, he would shove one hand through his blond hair, stick a wad of Double Bubble in his mouth, and say, “We're talking real Texas golf, you understand... not this fancy PGA shit. Real down and dirty, punch that sucker ball upwind through a cyclone and nail it six inches from the pin on a burned-out public course built right next to the interstate. And it doesn't count unless you do it with a beat-up five iron you dug out of the junkyard when you were a kid and keep around just ‘cause it makes you feel good to look at it.”
By the fall of 1974 Dallie Beaudine had made a name for himself with sportswriters as the athlete who was going to introduce a welcome breath of fresh air into the stuffy world of professional golf. His quotes were colorful, and his extraordinary Texan good looks spruced up their magazine covers. Unfortunately, Dallie had a bad habit of getting himself suspended for cussing out officials or placing side bets with undesirables, so he wasn't always around when things got slow in the press tent. Still, all a reporter had to do to find him was ask the locals for the name of the seediest country-western bar in the county, and nine times out often Dallie would be there along with his caddy, Clarence “Skeet” Cooper, and three or four former prom queens who'd managed to slip away from their husbands for the evening.
“Sonny and Cher's marriage is in trouble for sure,” Skeet Cooper said, studying a copy of People magazine in the light spilling from the open glove compartment. He looked over at Dallie, who was driving with one hand on the steering wheel of his Buick Riviera and the other cradling a Styrofoam coffee cup. “Yessirree,” Skeet went on. “You ask me, little Chastity Bono's gonna have herself a stepdaddy soon.”
“How you figure?” Dallie wasn't really interested, but the flickering of the occasional pair of oncoming headlights and the hypnotic rhythm of I-95's broken white line were putting him to sleep, and they still weren't all that close to the Florida state line. Glancing at the illuminated dial of the clock on the dashboard of the Buick, he saw that it was almost four-thirty. He had three hours before he had to tee off for the qualifying round of the Orange Blossom Open. That would barely give him time to take a shower and pop a couple of pills to wake himself up. He thought of the Bear, who was probably already in Jacksonville, sound asleep in the best suite Mr. Marriott had to offer.
Skeet tossed People in the back seat and picked up a copy of the National Enquirer. “Cher's startin’ to talk about how much she respects Sonny in her interviews—that's how I figure they'll be splittin’ up soon. You know as well as I do, whenever a woman starts talkin’ about ‘respect,’ a man better get hisself a good lawyer.”
Dallie laughed and then yawned.
“Shoot, Dallie,” Skeet protested, as he watched the speedometer inch its way from seventy-five to eighty. “Why don't you crawl in the back and get some sleep? Let me drive for a while.”
“If I fall asleep now, I won't wake up till next Sunday, and I have to qualify for this sucker, especially after today.” They had just come from the final round of the Southern Open, where Dallie had shot a disastrous 79, which was seven strokes over his scoring average and a number he had no intention of duplicating. “I don't suppose you got a copy of Golf Digest mixed in with all that crap,” he asked.
“You know I never read that stuff.” Skeet turned to page two of the Enquirer. “You want to hear about Jackie Kennedy or Burt Reynolds?”
Dallie groaned, then fumbled with the dial of the radio. Although he was a rock-and-roll man himself, for Skeet's benefit he tried to pick up a country-western station that was still on the air. The best he could get was Kris Kristofferson, who'd sold himself out to Hollywood, so he put on the news instead.
“... Sixties radical leader, Gerry Jaffe, was acquitted today of all charges after having been involved in a demonstration at Nevada's Nellis Air Force Base. According to federal authorities, Jaffe, who first gained notoriety during the riots at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, has recently turned his attention to anti-nuclear activities. One of a dwindling group of sixties radicals still involved in activist causes...”
Dallie had no interest in old hippies, and he flipped off the knob in disgust. Then he yawned again. “Do you think if you try real hard you could sound out the words in that book I got shoved under the seat?”
Skeet reached over and pulled out a paperback copy of Joseph Heller's Catch-22, then set it aside. “I looked at this one a couple of days ago when you was out with that little brunette, the one who kept calling you Mister Beaudine. Damn book don't make sense.” Skeet flipped the Enquirer closed. “Just out of curiosity. Did she call you Mister Beaudine once you was back at the motel?”
Dallie popped a piece of Double Bubble in his mouth. “As soon as she got her dress off, she mostly kept quiet.”
Skeet chuckled, but the change of expression didn't do much to improve his appearance. Depending on your viewpoint, Clarence “Skeet” Cooper had been blessed or cursed with a face that made him pretty much a dead ringer for Jack Palance. He had the same menacing, ugly-handsome features, the same pressed-over nose and small, slit eyes. His hair was dark, prematurely threaded with gray, and worn so long he had to tie it in a ponytail with a rubber band when he caddied for Dallie. At other times he just let it hang to his shoulders, keeping it away from his face with a red bandanna headband like his real idol who wasn't Palance at all but Willie Nelson, the greatest outlaw in Austin, Texas.
At thirty-five, Skeet was ten years older than Dallie. He was an ex-con who'd served time for armed robbery and come out of the experience determined not to repeat it. Quiet around those he didn't know, wary of anyone who wore a business suit, he was immensely loyal to the people he loved, and the person he loved most was Dallas Beaudine.
Dallie had found Skeet passed out on the bathroom floor in a run-down Texaco station on U.S. 180 outside Caddo, Texas. Dallie was fifteen years old at the time, a gangly six-footer dressed in a torn T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans that sh
owed too much ankle. He also displayed a black eye, skinned knuckles, and a jaw swollen twice its normal size from a brutal altercation that would prove to be the final one with his daddy, Jaycee Beaudine.
Skeet still remembered peering up at Dallie from the dirty bathroom floor and trying hard to focus. Despite his battered face, the boy standing inside the bathroom door was just about the best-looking kid he'd ever seen. He had a shock of dishwater blond hair, bright blue eyes surrounded by thick, paintbrush lashes, and a mouth that looked like it belonged on a two-hundred-dollar whore. As Skeet's head cleared, he also noticed the tear streaks etched in the dirt on the boy's young cheeks as well as the surly, belligerent expression on the kid's face that dared him to make something of it.
Stumbling to his feet, Skeet splashed some water in his own face. “This bathroom's already occupied, sonny.”
The kid stuck a thumb in the ragged pocket of his jeans and thrust out his swollen jaw. “Yeah, it's occupied all right. By a stinkin’ piece of no-good dog shit.”
Skeet, with his slitted eyes and Jack Palance face, wasn't used to having a grown man challenge him, much less a kid not old enough to have much more than a weekly date with a razor. “You lookin’ for trouble, boy?”
“I already found trouble, so I guess a little more won't much hurt me.”
Skeet rinsed out his mouth then spit into the basin.
“You're about the stupidest kid I ever seen in my life,” he muttered.
“Yeah, well you don't look like you're too smart, either, Dog Shit.”
Skeet didn't lose his temper easily, but he'd been on a bender that had lasted nearly two weeks, and he wasn't in the best of moods. Straightening up, he pulled back his fist and took two unsteady steps forward, determined to add to the damage already done by Jaycee Beaudine. The kid braced himself, but before Skeet could strike, the rotgut whiskey he'd been drinking got the best of him and he felt the dirty concrete floor give way beneath his wobbly knees.
When he woke up, he found himself in the back seat of a ‘56 Studebaker with a bad muffler. The kid was at the wheel, heading west on U.S. 180, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging from the window, beating out the rhythm of “Surf City” on the side of the car with his palm.
“You kidnappin’ me, boy?” he growled, pulling himself up on the back of the seat.
“The guy pumpin’ super at the Texaco was getting ready to call the cops on you. Since you didn't seem to have a legitimate means of transportation, I couldn't do much else but bring you along.”
Skeet thought about that for a few minutes and then said, “Name's Cooper. Skeet Cooper.”
“Dallas Beaudine. Folks call me Dallie.”
“You old enough to be drivin’ this car legal?”
Dallie shrugged. “I stole the car from my old man and I'm fifteen. You want me to let you out?”
Skeet thought about his parole officer, who was guaranteed certain to frown on just exactly this kind of thing, and then looked at the feisty kid driving down the sun-baked Texas road like he owned the mineral rights underneath it. Making up his mind, Skeet leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Guess I might stick around for a few more miles,” he said.
Ten years later, he was still around.
Skeet looked over at Dallie sitting behind the wheel of the ‘73 Buick he now drove and wondered how all those years had flown by so quickly. They'd played a lot of golf courses since the day they'd met at the Texaco station. He chuckled softly to himself as he remembered the first golf course.
The two of them hadn't traveled for more than a few hours that first day when it became evident that they didn't have much more than the price of a full tank of gas between them. However, fleeing the wrath of Jaycee Beaudine hadn't made Dallie forget to toss a few battered clubs into the trunk before he hotfooted it out of Houston, so he began looking around for signs that would lead them to the next country club.
As he turned into a tree-lined drive, Skeet glanced over at him. “Does it occur to you that we don't exactly look like country club material, what with this stolen Studebaker and your busted-up face?”
Dallie's swollen mouth twisted in à cocky grin. “That kind of stuff don't count for shit when you can hit a five-iron two hundred twenty yards into the wind and land the ball on a nickel.”
He made Skeet empty out his pockets, took their total assets of twelve dollars and sixty-four cents, walked up to three charter members, and suggested they play a friendly little game at ten dollars a hole. The charter members, Dallie declared magnanimously, could take their electric carts and their oversize leather bags stuffed full of Wilson irons and MacGregor woods. Dallie announced that he'd be happy as a clam walking along with only his five-iron and his second-best Titleist ball.
The members looked at the scruffy-handsome kid who had three inches of bony ankle showing above his sneaker tops and shook their heads.
Dallie grinned, told them they were yellow-bellied, shit-stompin', worthless excuses for women and suggested they raise the stakes to twenty dollars a hole, exactly seven dollars and thirty-six cents more than he had in his back pocket.
The members pushed him toward the first tee and told him they'd stomp his smart ass right across the border into Oklahoma.
Dallie and Skeet ate T-bones that night and slept at the Holiday Inn.
They reached Jacksonville with thirty minutes to spare before Dallie had to tee off for the qualifying round of the 1974 Orange Blossom Open. That same afternoon, a Jacksonville sportswriter out to make a name for himself unearthed the staggering fact that Dallas Beaudine, with his country-boy grammar and redneck politics, held a bachelor's degree in English literature. Two evenings later the sportswriter finally managed to track Dallie to Luella's, a dirty concrete structure with peeling pink paint and plastic flamingos located not far from the Gator Bowl, and confronted him with the information as if he'd just uncovered political graft.
Dallie looked up from his glass of Stroh's, shrugged, and said that since his degree came from Texas A&M, he guessed it didn't really count for much.
It was exactly this kind of irreverence that had kept sports reporters coming back for more ever since Dallie had begun to play on the pro tour two years before. Dallie could keep them entertained for hours with generally unquotable quotes about the state of the Union, athletes who sold out to Hollywood, and women's “ass-stompin’” liberation. He was a new generation of good ol’ boy—movie star handsome, self-deprecating, and a lot smarter than he wanted to let on. Dallie Beaudine was about as close as you could get to perfect magazine copy, except for one thing.
He blew the big ones.
After having been declared the pro tour's new golden boy, he had committed the nearly unpardonable sin of not winning a single important tournament. If he played a two-bit tournament on the outskirts of Apopka, Florida, or Irving, Texas, he would win it at eighteen under par, but at the Bob Hope or the Kemper Open, he might not even make the cut. The sportswriters kept asking their readers the same question: When was Dallas Beaudine going to live up to his potential as a pro golfer?
Dallie had made up his mind to win the Orange Blossom Open this year and put an end to his string of bad luck. For one thing, he liked Jacksonville—it was the only Florida city in his opinion that hadn't tried to turn itself into a theme park—and he liked the course where the Orange Blossom was being played. Despite his lack of sleep, he'd made a solid showing in Monday's qualifying round and then, fully rested, he'd played brilliantly in the Wednesday Pro-Am. Success had bolstered his self-confidence—success and the fact that the Golden Bear, from Columbus, Ohio, had come down with a bad case of the flu and been forced to withdraw.
Charlie Conner, the Jacksonville sportswriter, took a sip from his own glass of Stroh's and tried to slouch back in his chair with the same easy grace he observed in Dallie Beaudine. “Do you think Jack Nicklaus's withdrawal will affect the Orange Blossom this week?” he asked.
In Dallie's mind tha
t was one of the world's stupidest questions, right up there with “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” but he pretended to think it over anyway. “Well, now, Charlie, when you take into consideration the fact that Jack Nicklaus is on his way to becoming the greatest player in the history of golf, I'd say there's a pretty fair chance we'll notice he's gone.”
The sportswriter looked at Dallie skeptically. “The greatest player? Aren't you forgetting a few people like Ben Hogan and Arnold Palmer?” He paused reverentially before he uttered the next name, the holiest name in golf. “Aren't you forgetting Bobby Jones?”
“Nobody's ever played the game like Jack Nicklaus,” Dallie said firmly. “Not even Bobby Jones.”
Skeet had been talking to Luella, the bar's owner, but when he heard Nicklaus's name mentioned he frowned and asked the sportswriter about the Cowboys’ chances to make it all the way to the Super Bowl. Skeet didn't like Dallie talking about Nicklaus, so he had gotten into the habit of interrupting any conversation that shifted in that direction. Skeet said talking about Nicklaus made Dallie's game go straight to hell. Dallie wouldn't admit it, but Skeet was pretty much right.
As Skeet and the sportswriter talked about the Cowboys, Dallie tried to shake off the depression that settled over him every fall like clockwork by indulging in some positive thinking. The ‘74 season was nearly over, and he hadn't done all that bad for himself. He'd won a few thousand in prize money and double that in crazy betting games— playing best ball left-handed, betting on hitting the middle zero on the 200-yard sign at a driving range, playing an improvised course through a dried-out gully and a forty-foot concrete sewer pipe. He'd even tried Trevino's trick of playing a few holes by throwing the ball in the air and hitting it with a thirty-two-ounce Dr Pepper bottle, but the bottle glass wasn't as thick now as it had been when the Super Mex had invented that particular wrinkle in the bottomless grab bag of golf betting games, so Dallie'd given it up after they'd had to take five stitches in his right hand. Despite his injury, he'd earned enough money to pay for gas and keep Skeet and him comfortable. It wasn't a fortune, but it was a hell of a lot more than old Jaycee Beaudine had ever made hanging around the wharves along Buffalo Bayou in Houston.
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