An Open Case of Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Huckleberry Hills?” I said. “Sounds like a Looney Tunes cartoon.”

  “Ain’t no joke,” Sharky said. “The land and the proposed condos would be a three- to five-hundred million payday once finished.”

  “Zowie,” I said. “Have they started building that yet?”

  “Nah,” Sharky said. “Like anything else that comes before the CCC, it takes five to ten years to get through the permitting process. They’re about halfway done getting it through the process. While fending off the anti-development crowd.”

  “Which I would imagine is quite energetic,” I said. “California being the land of fruits and nuts.”

  “Oh, yeah. Protest marches, sit-ins, people getting arrested at meetings…the whole nine yards.”

  “So Huckleberry Hills is still pending?”

  “Very quietly,” Sharky said. “Under the radar. But yes, it’s still pending.”

  “Real estate,” I said. He looked at me questioningly. “You always think about Pebble Beach as a golf development, or a fancy hotel development. But it’s not. It’s a real estate development. Worth a few billion.”

  Sharky was about to say something snarky, but just then two biker chicks walked past us on the way to the ladies’ room. Lithe, tanned, tall, blond and oh-so-California, they were whispering and giggling together as they passed us, giving us one of those over-the-shoulder, come-hither looks, with tossed hair, wry smiles and, once past us, exaggerated fanny wiggles that showed off the very tight, very low-cut jeans they each wore, jeans that showed just a portion of the tramp stamps on each of their lower backs before descending downwards and disappearing from view.

  “How’s your higher calling now, Hack?” he said.

  I got back to my luxurious room at The Lodge at about eight. The message light on my room phone was flashing. I punched a few buttons, saw that the call had come in from “Ms. Van Dyke” and hit callback.

  “Hacker,” Dottie said when she answered. I guess saying “hello” is passé out on the Left Coast. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out doing research,” I said. “I came out here to work, y’know.”

  “Ha ha,” she said, not sounding happy. “Such a card. Did you even look at the itinerary I left for you?”

  I looked around the room and saw the large envelop resting in front of a bottle of wine, next to a large fruit basket wrapped in colorful cellophane, that had been set on the cocktail table in front of my comfy sofa.

  “Oh,” I said. “No. Sorry. I’ll open it right away.”

  “No you won’t,” she said with a sigh. “So you already missed the pleasure of having dinner with me tonight. Do you want to play golf in the morning, or shall I cancel the tee time?”

  “What time in the morning?” I asked.

  “I got you an early tee time at Pebble,” she said. “Tried to get you out before the crowds, and leaving your afternoon free. Do you want to play, or not?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll make the ultimate sacrifice. Will I be done in time for you to buy me lunch?”

  “God, I hope so,” she said. “How about I meet you at one in the Tap Room?”

  “Sounds marvy,” I said. “See you th---”

  She had already hung up.

  Shrugging, I called home.

  “Hi, honey,” Mary Jane said. “How was your day? Anybody shoot at you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said.

  “So, you had a good day!” she giggled.

  “How’s the Vickster?”

  “Fine,” Mary Jane said. “She’s asleep. She got a hundred on her spelling test. I had to pay off with some ice cream.”

  I had a moment, a little internal shiver, when every part of me was wishing I was sitting there in my North End apartment, holding Mary Jane’s hand, sipping on a cocktail, looking in on the sleeping girl who could spell to beat the band. There were probably millions of people who wished they could be where I was right now, sitting in a fancy hotel room on the Monterey Peninsula, scheduled to play the Pebble Beach golf course in the morning. And I wanted nothing more than to be home, with the ones I loved. I sighed.

  “What’s the matter?” Mary Jane asked. She didn’t miss much.

  “Oh, I was just missing you guys,” I said. “You seem to be a long way away.”

  “No,” she said, “You’re the one who is a long way away. We’re right here where we belong.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Or sooner,” she said.

  My tee time was at 7:30 in the morning, and I had no trouble making it with time to spare, as I woke up in the dark at about 4:30, still on East Coast time, which gave me plenty of time to figure out how to work the coffee machine and to call in an order for some room-service breakfast.

  At the golf shop, I was informed that I would be joined by Charlie Sykes, one of the young assistant professionals. And did I wish to ride or walk?

  “I’ll ride,” I said. “I have a lunch date at one. Will that be a problem?”

  “Not at all, sir,” said the young man standing at the check-in register. “It is our policy to maintain a pace of play that adheres to our standard time of four hours and fifteen minutes for an eighteen-hole round.”

  It was pretty early in the morning, but I could recognize bullshit when I heard it. But the kitchen had done a great job sending me five slices of bacon, some hot biscuits and cheese, and my stomach was too happy for me to call him on it.

  I went out to hit a few putts. It was a pleasant morning, a few scattered clouds drifting across the sky and little to no wind. The temperature was a balmy 60 degrees, not bad for an early December morning. The putting green was empty except for one other guy, so I lost myself in the pleasure of rolling my ball across the pristine surface of the green.

  “Mister Hacker?” The man’s voice interrupted my meditation. He was holding out his hand, a large grin showing his teeth. He was tall, in his mid twenties, with a shock of bright red hair, dressed in slacks, golf shirt and a sweater with a Pebble Beach logo. “Charlie Sykes,” he said. “We’re next on the tee.”

  “Morning,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  There was a foursome ahead of us, and although they had already teed off, they hadn’t gotten very far. Two of them appeared to be searching for balls in the shrubbery down the right side of the first hole, next to the privacy fences that had been erected to shield the expensive rooms of the Casa Palmero wing. Beyond that, the new cottages of the Fairway One section rose near the fairway. Lucky for us, the group ahead had hired a forecaddie, and when he looked back and saw one of the assistant pros and I ready to go, he waved us to play through.

  “Shall we play for a little something?” I asked.

  Charlie looked at me with a wry smile. “You used to play on the Tour, right?” he asked. I nodded approvingly. He had done his homework.

  “Yeah,” I said. “About thirty years ago, for parts of three seasons. I play to a five these days. And I haven’t swung a club since September. Meanwhile, you played your college golf where, again?”

  “Stanford,” he said. The wry smile never left his face. “How ‘bout I give you two a side?”

  “Done,” I said. I gestured to the tee. “Play away, please.”

  He stepped up, planted his tee and knocked his drive down the fairway. I followed suit. The first at Pebble is one of several pedestrian holes on the course, a simple par four of under 400 yards that bends slightly to the right. You don’t need to mash a driver here, so I just corked a three-wood out to the left, keeping my ball short of the fairway bunkers out there.

  Taking a cart at Pebble Beach is not a great time saver. There is a hard-and-fast paths-only rule, so walking the course with a caddie is usually faster and more efficient. But then nothing about playing at Pebble is fast: when you pay the kind of money they charge for a round of golf, you are going to play every last shot. You want t
o get your money’s worth, especially when you’re laying out half a thousand bucks.

  In any case, we sped past the ball-searching foursome, hit our approach shots up onto the narrow green and both of us putted out for par. Standing on the second tee, I couldn’t see any other groups in front of us. We had clear sailing. The second hole is a par five, which the USGA usually converts into a long par four for the Open. Again, nothing very spectacular: long straight fairway, a sand-filled barranca across the fairway about sixty yards short of the green, so you can’t bounce a second shot all the way onto the green.

  Charlie’s long drive drifted right and found one of the fairway bunkers waiting down there. I overcompensated by pulling mine into the left rough. It wasn’t as deep as it would be next June, but I still had to lay up short of the barranca. Charlie did the same, and we, again, both made pars. All even, so far.

  He drew the first blood on the third, a short par four that doglegs almost 90 degrees to the left and heads down toward the sea. Charlie cranked a monster drive up and over the trees guarding the corner and his ball disappeared heading toward the green. I hit my hybrid club and was glad to see the ball didn’t carry all the way to the row on bunkers on the far edge of the fairway. Still, I had a full seven-iron to hit the green, while he had a flip wedge, which he stuck to about three feet and sank for the birdie. One up for the home team.

  Four is another meh hole: from the tee next to the Beach and Tennis Club along Stillwater Cove, it’s a short par four up the hill. Both of us hit irons, trying to find some green amid the puddles of bunkers scattered all over the fairway. We did, and then wedged up onto the green. This time, I sank a nice fifteen footer for my bird, while his lipped out. All square!

  Next came the Nicklaus hole, the par-three Jack designed and built to replace the old sixth hole, a project which had to wait several decades until the little old lady, whose husband had built a house where the tee box now sits, had passed away. The new hole crosses the barranca from the back tees, rises up a gentle hill and the green is tucked away behind several bunkers. The hole calls for a high fade into the green, which should surprise no one, since that high fade was Nicklaus’ go-to shot all his life. Were I an architectural critic, which I am not, I would point out that an architect ought not to design holes that favor his own game quite so much, but that’s just picking nits.

  We parred out and carried on to the sixth. Here, the course finally begins to grow some teeth. This par five shows the ocean for the first time, as the rocky cliff down the right side falls away into Stillwater Cove, where there are usually some sea otters floating around or diving for abalone. You don’t want to lose a tee shot right, but to mess your mind up, they installed a nest of bunkers down the left, which is where you want your ball wants to go.

  Both of us left the drivers in the bag and found the fairway. Now we had a long carry up to the green, which we couldn’t see: there’s a tall, rough-covered hill and the rocky cliff over the water blocking the view, while the fairway up on top moves slightly to the right. I tried to put a little extra mustard on my hybrid iron and pulled it a bit left, which, I recalled, I seemed to do every time I played here. Charlie hit a beauty, which looked like it was going right towards the hole.

  I found my ball short of the greenside bunker and chipped it on. Charlie’s approach had stopped just a foot or two off the front of the green, and, showing a nice short game, he chipped it up to kick-in range. I didn’t make him kick it. One up again.

  Next was the iconic seventh—the short par three runs sharply downhill from tee to the green, which looks like it’s surrounded on three sides by the crashing Pacific surf. Actually, there’s bunkers and grass between the green and the ocean, but it looks scary, even if the hole is just 100 yards. We both made it onto the surface, but neither of us could coax our putt to go in.

  Finally, on the eighth tee, we entered the heart of Pebble Beach. For the next three holes, every shot had to be precise, starting with the tee shot. On eight, it’s a mostly blind shot uphill, and the landing zone, while it looks large, is actually segmented. For the best approach, you need to be as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. If playing to the plateau on the right, you only need a three-wood. If you want to crush a driver, keep it left of center, or kiss it goodbye.

  Charlie crushed a three wood dead straight, and ended up ten yards from the cliff. I pulled my driver again and found the ball in the left rough, but in a not-impossible lie.

  Now came the best shot at Pebble. It’s a long way to the green, but it’s also steeply downhill. You launch the ball from atop the cliff, over the rocks and surf below, down towards the narrow little circle of green, framed by bunkers, with a little green run-up space below the hole, and nothing but penalty strokes for anything that goes right into the gunch that clings to the hillside above the beach. The winds were calm in the early morning, so that didn’t factor in as much as it usually does.

  I had 190 yards left, downhill, so I took a five-iron and stepped on it hard. A little too hard, as my shot hit on the back part of the green, bounced high and dribbled off the back. I was left with a tough chip to a green running away sharply.

  Sykes was able to loft a seven-iron onto the front of the green, where it stopped nicely, leaving him an uphill twenty-five footer for birdie. There wasn’t much I could do to stop my chip, so I ended up with about fifteen feet for par, which I missed. But I got a shot on this hole, so Charlie had to make a run at his birdie, which slid by the left and kept going for another four feet. But he calmly sank his par putt to remain one-up.

  We stopped and looked back at the craggy rocks and the fairway which stopped abruptly some 50 feet above the beach and sea. “When was the last time someone went over the side?” I asked.

  “Last I remember was about thirteen months ago,” he said with a soft laugh. “They drove out onto the plateau, which you’re not supposed to do, forgot to set the brake, went to play their shots and the cart went over the side. Happens maybe once every year or two. We charge the idiots 2,500 bucks to recover the cart, and the entire pro shop goes out to dinner.”

  So I was one down going into the ninth. Nine and ten are almost carbon copies: long, narrow par fours that run downhill, with the beach all down the right side. It’s a lovely beach to look at: the folks who live in Carmel-by-the-Sea come out to walk with their dogs and children, toss Frisbees, have picnics and do assorted other casually California things on the beach. But any golf shot that drifts right is as gone as a California teenager’s innocence. And protecting from going right at any cost usually means overcompensating to the left, which is full of thick rough and deep bunkers. Every shot has to be precise.

  I played what I thought were two excellent shots, but my approach was perhaps a shade heavy—that downhill lie will get you every time—and my ball caught the top of the front bunker and fell in. Charlie was on in two, but a good forty feet away.

  Climbing down into the sand, I tried to remember the last bunker shot I had hit, but couldn’t think of one. That’s not a good mental picture before hitting a tough shot, but maybe it worked, because I managed to thump my ball out just right, saw it fly towards the hole, hit, bite and jump to the right before stopping on a dime. Three feet.

  “Nice shot, Hacker,” called Sykes. I waved my thanks and raked the sand smooth.

  He missed, I made, and we finished the front side all even. It was a good match. The morning had developed nicely, with the warming sun bathing the course and, without any breeze, keeping the temperatures nice.

  My attention wandered a bit and I made more than a few squirrelly shots over the next few holes, including my approach on ten that went all the way down to the beach, where an Irish setter ran over and sniffed at it and looked disappointed when the ball didn’t take off and run. Suffice it to say that when we putted out on the par-three twelfth hole, I was three-down and searching for an answer.

  Luckily, Pebble Beach provides a nice little snack shack betwee
n the twelfth green and the thirteenth tee, and Charlie stopped the cart there.

  “Want anything?” he asked.

  “How about a new golf swing,” I said.

  They didn’t have that on the menu, alas, but I settled for a cold beer and a hot dog. Not my usual mid-morning fare, but then my breakfast had been before the sun came up and my stomach was growling. Charlie went for a coffee and a sweet roll. I signed the chit without looking at the ridiculous amount of money they charged, since the USGA was picking up the tab. Maybe next time the rules mavens get together, they should consider adding a Rule against overcharging for beer and dogs.

  We were not being pressed by anybody—that foursome we had blown through back at the beginning was probably putting out on five—so we sat in our cart to eat and stared out at the achingly beautiful ocean and the rocks over at Point Lobos. A sailboat went by, sails down, motor running, the bow rising up and down as it struggled through the waves rolling in from Japan.

  “Not a bad place to work, is it?” I asked.

  “I’m sure there are worse,” he said.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Coming up on three years,” he said. “I was lucky—my Dad knew one of the owners, and after I graduated from Stanford, he put in a word. I knew I was never going to play on the Tour, so this was my Plan B. After working here as an assistant, I should be able to find a good head professional job somewhere.”

  “I would think so,” I said. “Working here is like going to Harvard.”

  “Or Stanford,” he said, and gave me a wry grin.

  “Touché,” I said, chuckling. “Either way, it’s less about what they teach you and more about the people you get to know who can come in handy some day.”