When he reached the tees on the No. 15 hole, an animal loped across the fairway.
“Did you see that?” Buck said.
Art looked up from wiping the putter with one of the dozens of rags attached to the bag.
“Wolf?” Art moved closer to Buck.
“Coyote,” Buck said.
The animal stopped for a moment, turned his head straight at them, and then trotted off.
“It’s like being in a zoo,” Buck said.
“No. At the zoo, the animals are in cages,” Art said.
Buck shook his head. “You’re right about that. Better watch where we step. There might be rattlers out here too.”
Art jumped and yelped.
Buck regretted doing it. Teasing Art had always been too easy, but there was no reason to scare him shitless.
Maybe Art wasn’t the only one who needed to grow up.
By the end of the round, the notebook was full and Buck was four over par. He wasn’t anxious about it. He was fired up about playing on virginal greens and velvet fairways, and the strange desert vistas that caught his breath. It was Christmas presents, Halloween candy, and birthday cake all squeezed into a four-hour fantasy trip. The challenge had been invigorating; he was living his dream. All the petty nuisances faded into the background as they walked to the van.
He tossed the keys to Art. “You drive.”
Buck pulled out his cell phone and started thumbing through photos on an escort site, looking for a date for Art tonight.
He sighed, letting the photos flash by while he remembered his own initiation into manhood.
Kelsey was sixteen and he had turned fifteen the week before.
Her family was already living at the apartment complex when Ruthie moved them in at the beginning of the summer.
Kelsey wasn’t a virgin, but Buck was. It’d made him nervous, but he had been eager, too.
Once he figured out how to operate the equipment, they moved quickly beyond the adolescent preliminaries and straight into screwing, over and over again for a couple of delirious weeks, all done in a dank shed where the lawnmowers and ladders and leaf blowers and cans of paint were stored. Those oily mechanical smells would always take him back to banging Kelsey against the warm corrugated sheets of metal. The rhythm he could make on it, the squeaking and booming. He marveled to think that they got away with it so many times, although in reality somebody had probably figured it out and just left them alone.
Her family moved out before the next school year began. Kelsey left Buck with the confidence of knowing he excelled at something else besides golf. And she set a pattern—girls came and went in Buck’s life. He didn’t need to commit or extend himself much beyond showing a girl a good time, on the dance floor and between the sheets.
But it made finding a hook-up for Art freaking weird, forcing Buck to consider what it must feel like to be Art—totally ignorant of women and no way of getting experience.
“You’ve got a date this evening,” Buck said.
“I do?” Art looked surprised. “With who? Carla?”
“No. Forget Carla, okay. This girl’s name is Crystal.”
“Crystal? I don’t know her.”
“You will in about an hour.”
#
The best and closest room Buck could afford was in a motel forty-five minutes away from the course; straight off the interstate. The strong odor of curry greeted them in the lobby. At least the building was fairly new, which meant the slime in the bathroom hadn’t had enough time to accumulate to excessive levels.
Buck opened his ditty bag and pulled out the condom he had stashed in a side pocket. It was a lubricated Trojan-ENZ. He’d found it when he’d cleaned out the bedside table in Ruthie’s room. At the time, it had startled him, thinking that maybe his mother was sexually active. But he decided Leon had probably left it behind. Either way, it was a shame to waste an unopened rubber. Not because he thought he’d wear it himself. That would have been too creepy.
Buck took the condom and pulled a chair next to the bed where Art played on his tablet.
“Hey, let’s get you ready for your date tonight.”
Art watched Buck rip off the cover. “Now she’ll have one of these,” Buck said, “but I want you to know how to use it. She’ll, uh, help you put it on.”
He dropped the condom in Art’s palm. “You’re going to cover that cigar of your with this.”
Art giggled nervously. “Right now?”
“No. Like I said, she’ll help you. Just wait.”
Art stretched the rubber out like a balloon. “Why do I have to wear it?”
“Keeps the girl from getting pregnant and you from getting sick.”
“Yeah. She can have a baby,” Art said.
“Right, and we don’t have time for that nonsense.” Buck stood and put his hand on Art’s shoulder. “Even if a girl tells you she’s on the pill, you have to wear one of these. There’s lots of nasty shit out there. Syphilis, gonorrhea, hepatitis, herpes—that’s the one that keeps on giving—HIV if you’re really unlucky. So never, ever go without a condom, understand?”
Art grimaced, his eyebrows pushing together. Buck couldn’t help but feel frightened for his brother. All at once he understood how big and scary the world must be to Art, especially with Ruthie gone.
There was a knock on the door.
Buck took another condom from his pocket and tossed it like a Frisbee to Art. “Wear this one.”
Buck opened the door and found a brunette with a nose ring and a streak of purple hair. He should have paid more attention to her photo. He didn’t remember the nose ring.
She cocked her head to the side. “Hello.”
“Uh, no. He’s in here,” Buck said.
She brushed against Buck when she came into the room.
Art had retreated to the furthest corner. He lifted his head, revealing his throat, but without saying anything.
The room felt smaller now, crowded with Buck’s second thoughts, but he pushed them aside, convinced this needed to happen. Otherwise Art might blow a gasket one day.
“Art, this is …” Buck said, and then realized he didn’t remember her name.
“Crystal,” she said and then sauntered towards Art. He watched her intently.
“How are you?” she asked, her voice an octave lower, taking on a weirdly motherly tone.
“We all square?” Buck stood by the door.
“Sure you wouldn’t like to stay? You’d get a discount.” Crystal licked her lips.
“No, no. It’s his party, not mine.”
Buck left and drove to a chain restaurant. He sat at the bar while the final round of the Phoenix Open played on the television in front of him. The young player who scored lowest yesterday had fallen apart. It was wrong, but it pleased Buck to listen to the commentators talk trash about the same kid they were drooling over yesterday.
He studied the notebook for Lone Wolf, appreciating the detail in Art’s illustrations, his confidence rising.
His cell rang.
Denny.
They’d not talked for several weeks, only texts, bromides against the acid of time and distance and separate paths taken.
Buck took a deep breath and answered.
“Hey, Buck. Where you at?”
“Tucson. I played Lone Wolf today. It’s sick, man. You’d love it.”
“Uh, I know you’re probably wondering…” Denny said.
Buck cut him off, saying, “I’ve got a steady guy on my bag already. Sorry dude.”
It sounded true because it was true.
“Totally understand,” Denny said. “Uh, I’ve got some news of my own.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Dad’s opening a new store in Amarillo. He’s making me manager.”
Keith’s plan all along.
“It’s an amazing opportunity,” Denny said. “There’s something else.” He paused. “Lauren’s coming with me.”
Lauren was Denny’s on-again
, off-again girlfriend.
“Shit, you’re going full-bore adult on me,” Buck said.
“Hey, not everybody can be a free bird forever, Buchanan.” Denny paused. “I’ll tell Dad to send you more shirts and a check. Where are you staying?”
“Oh, yeah, you know my agent’s working on a deal right now.”
Maybe Buck should take Keith’s money and wear the Big Tex shirts, but his ego wanted to prove he had better options. The Pro-Am with StraightLine would bring in the same amount of money, and might lead to something bigger. Why should he lock in with Big Tex and their itchy shirts?
“I should have known you’d have a better deal in the works. That’s cool. I guess we’re both sitting pretty right now.”
Another call was coming through on Buck’s phone.
“Hey, this is my agent. I’ll be thinking about your frozen ass stuck in Amarillo selling tires.”
“Stay away from those four-putts,” Denny said.
Buck picked up the other call.
“Buck. It’s LeeAnn Gaines. How are you?”
He didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t place the name right away.
“StraightLine. We had dinner last week.”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
“The reason I’m calling is that I can’t seem to get in touch with Josh.”
Probably for the same reason Buck hadn’t answered Josh’s calls or text messages. There had been nothing to say. He’d missed the cut, end of story.
“… And I wanted to confirm you’re playing in the Pro-Am on Wednesday.”
“Yeah.”
“Wonderful. Do you need a caddie? We’ll pick that up too.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll text you the details. This is fabulous, oh and by the way the fee is going to be a thousand dollars. Mike may have misquoted the other night. See you Wednesday.”
Fuck. That was half of what Mike had offered. He was being chiseled, but there was nothing he could do about it. Buck checked the time. Crystal should be gone by now.
He settled his tab and drove faster than usual, eager to hear Art’s reaction to his first experience with a woman. His confidence rebounded, feeling that Art entering manhood was a good omen for the week ahead.
#
Buck found Art sitting up in bed playing a video game on his tablet, an open bag of pretzels next to him. Neither bed had been disturbed.
“Well?” Buck asked.
“She likes cashews, but I like pretzels.”
“Okay, what else?”
“I didn’t like her hair gel. That’s what we found out.” Art popped a pretzel into his mouth.
Buck looked around the room. “Did you use the condom like I showed you?”
Art ignored him. Buck walked over and put his hand over the tablet. “Did you get laid or not? That’s what I want to know.”
“I told you!” Art did his baby-bird throat move. “Her hair gel was making me sick.”
“You puked because of her hair gel?”
“I would have. I couldn’t let her get close to me, so there was no kissing,” Art said.
“Nothing? Not even a blow job?”
Art scrunched up his face.
“All that money and she didn’t even lick your toes?” Buck asked.
Art giggled like a girl.
Buck shook his head. He sat down on his bed and removed his shoes. “You need to toughen up, Art.”
Art went back to working on the tablet.
“You can’t let a little thing like hair gel stop you.”
Buck grabbed the two pillows on his bed and tossed them next to Art. “Scoot over,” Buck said, and plumped up the pillows against the headboard. He stretched out next to Art.
Art looked down at Buck.
“What?” Buck settled in. “I don’t want to mess up my bed.”
Buck took the remote off the bedside table and turned on the television.
“What do you want to watch?”
“Cartoons,” Art said.
“How about college basketball?”
Art went back to his tablet.
Buck glanced at him. “Were you scared?”
Art shrugged without taking his eyes off the screen. He was playing a colorful pinball game.
“Why aren’t you playing with Gigi?” Buck asked.
“My Xbox doesn’t work on the television here.”
A strong feeling—a closeness—crept over Buck. For a moment, he sensed what it must been like for his brother. Art had been intimidated, maybe even terrified, by Crystal.
Without warning, Buck suddenly felt very protective and it brought up an unpleasant memory, something he’d buried a long time ago.
Buck was in high school and coming home on the city bus, sitting in the long bench seat in the rear. Art got on a couple of stops away, coming home from his after-school program. When the bus stopped, Buck could see Art through the window, waiting in line to board.
A group of younger boys in front of Art climbed on first. They fought their way through the crowd and crammed into the bench seat next to Buck.
When Art boarded, he waved at Buck. The other boys thought Art was waving at them. They started laughing and talking trash, calling Art names like retard, nerd, Dimlinger.
One of them said something about the coach making fun of Art during P.E.
To his chagrin, Buck couldn’t take it.
“Shut up. He’s my brother,” he said, cold and blunt and desperate.
For the remainder of the ride, Buck seethed, mad at himself for speaking up. Why couldn’t he let it go? If he’d been in their shoes, Buck would have said the same things about Art.
Their insults had lodged in his throat though, and he had to spit it out.
When their stop came, Art waited for Buck so they could walk to the apartment together. Instead, Buck charged ahead, embarrassed by his own feelings. He resented feeling hurt and vulnerable for Art’s sake, hated seeing how the world judged his brother. Buck had enough of his own problems and he was pissed because he didn’t need Art’s too.
But now, remembering it brought up something different, and a sense of pride ran through Buck. He nudged Art with his foot.
“Would you like to take Wednesday off?”
Art looked up instantly. “Can we go to the ostrich farm? I really want to feed one.”
“I’m playing in the Pro-Am, but you do whatever you want. Within reason. I don’t want you spending the whole day in this room playing video games.”
“I promise.”
“Here’s the rules. You’re going to drop me off around 10:00 and come back no later than 5:00.”
“I can go to the mall and find a gamer store,” Art said. “Oh, I know!” He held up his index finger when he announced, “I’m going to wash the van.”
“That’s a great idea.” Buck chuckled.
“What if I get lost?”
“You won’t. You’ll be fine.”
Buck held up the remote and found a basketball game. Soon the squeak of rubber, the back and forth movement, and the dull commentary lulled him to sleep.
A Bump and Run
On Monday morning, Josh shared a town car to the airport with Phil.
“It’s the Buddhism.” Phil was pontificating again. This time on the much-anticipated comeback of Cubby Johnson. It failed to materialize when he withdrew after the third round in the Phoenix Open.
“Cubby’s lost his drive,” Phil said. “It’d be more headache than it’s worth to represent him now.”
“It’s a headache I could use.” Josh was leaving Phoenix with no new prospects and his only client had gone radio silent, probably to lick his wounds after the spectacular fail on Friday.
“At least Cubby proved he’s human.” Phil had an unlit cigar between his fingers. “All that pressure had to go somewhere.”
“Sleazy whores is where it went,” Josh said. His phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID and let it go to voicemail.
“Can you r
eally afford to play hard to get, Josh?”
“It’s LeeAnn Gaines.”
“I thought that horse was dead.”
“She’s still pushing it,” Josh said.
“Does he have a new man on his bag?”
“I’ll find out today.”
“If not, I heard Irina’s been asking about you.” Phil smiled.
“Fuck off, Phil.”
“She’s not your favorite?”
“She knows how to win, but she is one crazy, psycho bitch.” Josh glared at Phil. “You know she threw a pair of scissors at me once. Almost hit me.”
“If it had been a tennis ball, she wouldn’t have missed.”
Josh turned to the window as they approached the airport. The town car pulled to the curb. Josh stepped out happy to be leaving Phil and flying on to Tucson alone. It would be a short reprieve because Phil would fly in Saturday to make the final round.
They parted at security.
Josh’s flight was a straight up-and-down, less than thirty minutes in the air. He arrived at the Lone Wolf Golf Estates before noon.
The sky was clear when he handed over the rental car to the valet at the main entrance.
Phil was also an investor in the property, and Josh was staying in his two-bedroom condo.
The resort had been built on land bought out of bankruptcy and transferred into the newest high-end golf destination resort in Arizona. Branded under a conglomerate masthead and paid for with cash in need of a shelter, Lone Wolf checked all the boxes: championship course, stunning Sonoran desert landscape, five-star accommodations, top-rated chef, expensive spa.
Despite the luxurious furnishings and contemporary design, the lobby exuded the same ambiance as a bland conference center. Exactly what Josh expected from a spread-sheeted, power-pointed, real-estate investment vehicle plopped down in the middle of a farming community previously distinguished by a large truck stop.
Phil had not been shy about letting Josh know he was making a bundle renting the condo to SGI for the week.
After Josh settled in, he walked out to the golf course and entered an atmosphere of subdued tension; the crowds were thin, and fewer name faces on the practice range. Buck was there too and the caddie was nowhere in sight. A good sign. Josh breathed easier and relaxed on a bench not far from Buck.
The Perfectly Good Lie Page 13