Страница 13 из 56
Co
“What’s going on?” Co
“That’s what you get for listening to me.”
“I’m serious. You’re my caddie. You’re supposed to help me out when I’m in trouble.”
Fitz shrugged. “Sorry, Co
“Thank you, Harvey Penick.”
“Look, this is going to require some study. After you finish, we’ll go out on the driving range and take a look at what you’re doing. Maybe I can figure something out.”
Co
“Fitz, I’m going to try the nine-iron again.”
Fitz closed his eyes. “You know, I was just thinking, ‘How could this boy possibly make things worse than they already are?’ And presto-right on cue-you answered the question. You must be psychic.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Co
Fitz snorted. “As if there’s going to be any pay after this performance!”
Co
“Goddamn it!” Co
“Stop swearing!” Fitz commanded. “Officials are everywhere.”
Co
“I know better than to imagine that you might consult your caddie on how to get out of this tough scrape,” Fitz said. “So I’ll ask you. What’s your plan?”
“Thought I’d use a wedge. If I pop it high enough, it might go all the way to the green.”
“Do you see the sheer wall of this trap, Co
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”
“It would be smarter to just get yourself out of the trap. Get to the green on your third.”
“You always want to play it safe. It’s like golfing with my grandmother.” Co
“Goddamn it!” Co
“I did.”
“I meant no one who would report me.”
Fitz arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Co
“Did the ball move?” Fitz asked, inching forward from his safe berth outside the trap. “If the ball moved, you have to take a stroke, even if your club didn’t hit the ball.”
“The ball didn’t move,” Co
He crouched down for a closer look. Using the handle of his club as a probe, he dug around, brushing the sand off the surface. The blue-something was a piece of fabric. A shirt, he realized. A shirt sleeve, to be precise.
Co
“What?” Fitz asked, moving forward quickly. “What is it?”
Co
There was an arm in the shirt sleeve.
A horrible sensation coursed through Co
The shirt was attached to a body, all buried beneath the sand. Grabbing it with both hands, Co
Co
His worst fears were confirmed. It was his best friend, John McCree, with his mouth filled with sand. And a fist-sized bloody gash on the side of his head.
Two. The Gentleman’s Game
At the Masters, falling out of favor with the powers-that-be can be fatal. After finishing second, Frank Stranahan looked forward to going for the win. But the next year, he had an unfortunate contretemps with Cliff Roberts and was thrown out of the tournament before it had even started. Herman Keiser’s upset victory endeared him to many, but Cliff Roberts disliked him so intensely that he accused Keiser of stealing his championship green jacket.
Jimmy Demaret won the Masters three times, but that wasn’t enough to impress Bobby Jones or Cliff Roberts. Demaret had told a slightly off-color joke on the grounds one day that resulted in a written reprimand from Jones. And the Augusta National, as many others learned before and after Demaret, had a long memory. Unlike Augusta favorites Gene Sarazen or Ben Hogan (neither of whom won three times), no bridges, ponds, or cabins were named for Jimmy Demaret. “I can’t even get an outhouse named for me,” Demaret commented.
8
“My God,” Fitz whispered under his breath. “What happened?”
Co
He heard Fitz rustling behind him. “We should… do something.”
Co
“We can’t just leave him here,” Fitz muttered. “Other players will be along soon.”
All true, but at the moment, the tournament was the furthest thing from Co
This man whose corpse was buried in the sand trap on the eighteenth hole.
Co
Co
About an hour after the police finally arrived, the crime scene was secure. Tournament play had been halted; the entire sand bunker and surrounding area was cordoned off with orange warning cones and yellow tape. A man in a suit was videotaping, recording the position of the body and the surrounding area. Three technicians in coveralls were cautiously searching for trace evidence-hair, fiber, blood. Another man was dusting for fingerprints; yet another was on his hands and knees, pressing his nose against the fairway, searching for the imprint of a footprint that might be recordable.