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He sca
He suppressed a smile, barely able to contain himself. For all he had heard about the much-vaunted ultratight security measures of the Augusta National, he’d made it inside. He wrapped a green flak jacket around his ski
Slowly, he eased out of the rough, checking in all directions for security. He could probably make it to the clubhouse without being spotted. Course, even if someone did spot him, he would just whip out the false credentials he was carrying. According to his wallet card, he was a member of a CBS film crew. Just out for a walk, he would say. Scouting locations.
As he crested a hill, he spotted for the first time the gleaming white edifice of the Augusta National clubhouse. All the pros would be in there now, he knew, swapping stories, buying drinks. Getting ready for the a
And after the di
And once he knew that, he would be able to complete his mission with ease.
He smiled, then headed toward the clubhouse. He zipped up his flak jacket, insulating himself. A strong wind was coming out of the west, and he was begi
John McCree, he thought silently to himself. Soon, he would be face-to-face with the man.
And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
4
Co
“Man,” John said, “have you ever seen so many golf pros crammed together? It’s like the audition room for the new Titleist commercial.”
“Or a meeting of Gamblers Anonymous,” Co
The large banquet room was packed with golf pros of all ages, from all eras. Sca
The Tuesday night Masters champions’ di
“Over there,” John said, pointing toward the dais. “Table One.”
Co
“Check it out,” John said, gazing with awestruck amazement. “Jack Nicklaus!”
“Really?” Co
John grabbed Co
“It’s hard to respect a living legend who welshes on a hundred dollar bet.”
“He did not welsh on the bet. There was a difference of opinion about whether your ball moved the first time you swung.”
“I never even came close to that ball! It was the wind. You know what those Scottish winds are like!”
“Yeah. So does Jack Nicklaus.”
Co
John glanced at the seating chart. “Not hardly.” He pointed toward another table in a recess against the south wall, the table furthest from the dais. “Table Twenty-Four. That’s us.”
“Swell.” Co
Halfway across the room, Co
They steered hard aport, trying to give Ace the slip. Unfortunately, the press of so many bodies made escape impossible. Within a few moments, Ace had caught up with them.
“Co
As flight was now clearly impossible, Co
“Co
Co
“I want to shake your hand, friend!”
Co
“Damn straight.” Ace grabbed Co
Co
“Those camera boys had been following me all day, but they hadn’t gotten a thing they liked. They didn’t say it, but I know what they thought-that I was boring. Too conservative. Not camera-worthy. But you changed all that, didn’t you?” He laughed heartily. “Boom!”
“Uh… yeah. I guess I did…”
“They loved that bit. Said they got great footage. They’re going to use it not just this week, but all year long, as one of those video replays before they cut to a commercial. All year long! I’ll get more exposure than I ever could’ve from some single-play feature piece. I really owe you for this one, buddy.” He grabbed Co
“I truly don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say a word, my man. All is forgotten. And anytime you need something, I’m the one you call. Kapeesh?”
Co
Ace slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You’ve got a friend for life, buddy boy. Excuse me now, okay? Gotta get back to Table One.”
Co
Co
Co
Barry ignored him. “Pay up, Co
“Pay…?”
“The Tiger Woods bet.”
“Oh, right.”
“You owe me a hundred smackers. And don’t try to pay me off in golf balls, either. This time I want cold hard cash.”
“And you’ll have it, Barry. But I’m a bit short at the moment…”
“Don’t give me any excuses, Co
Co