Tuesday's Caddie

by Jack Waddell

  He started boxing while serving in the Army during the World War and took some professional fights after that with limited success. He was more proud of his time in the service than his boxing. Even though he had only risen to the rank of sergeant, he insisted that his charges address him as “Captain.” None of them had any problem doing so.

  Despite piques of nastiness that could lapse into entire diatribes of blue language, he was, at his core, a fair man. He knew his caddies needed this work; he knew it wasn’t an easy job, and he did everything he could to make sure the work was assigned where it was needed. But his first job was keeping the members happy. Certain members liked certain caddies and he made it a priority that his members get what they wanted. As rough as he could be, he was nonetheless the necessary buffer, the diplomat, the arbiter between the caddie yard and the clubhouse. And that gave him status beyond his station in the world that was the Biarritz Country Club.

  It was a world that came into starker contrasts with the coming of the Depression. The rich who were able to hold onto their wealth were still rich. Many of the members who weathered the crash were invested in things of lasting worth like oil, mining or, if prudently done, real estate. There was also a contingent of members who made their money in the relatively new film industry. Like several other exclusive country clubs in the area, Biarritz boasted a handful of Hollywood stars as well as some motion picture executives.

  The people who worked in the clubhouse or on the course, by comparison, were much poorer than they had been before the crash. There had been some loss of members that necessitated a cut back in staff. Those who remained were working longer hours for less pay. Still, those with jobs were grateful to have them. For some, working in the presence of wealth and opulence took the edge off their bleak existence away from the club.

  The caddies were another story. Essentially independent contractors, day workers, they were a mix of men like Conor O'Reilly who had lost more substantial jobs and found refuge and a living carrying golf bags and men who were holdovers from earlier days when caddying served the purpose of their shiftless lives.

  Years removed from his days as a caddie at Lahinch, Conor nonetheless recognized caddying in America was a different experience. In Ireland, class lines were far more rigid. Born the son of a barber, you were a barber or, at least the son of one, forever. But the son of a barber who was a caddie could be invited after the round to join his players of higher social rank for a pint or two. After the drinks and the talk and the jokes, they would part and head back to their very different lives. But during the round and for the hour or two afterward, the class differences melted away. A mutual respect for the game brought mutual respect for each other. No one, from maid to chimney sweep to clerk was viewed without some level of respect. It was just understood there was no movement between the classes.

  In America, it was different. In a land were opportunity beckoned and one could dare to rise in class, there were barriers of another kind. The moneyed, perhaps because they were self-made, were often jealous of their newly acquired status and took pains to validate that status at every opportunity. Thus at Biarritz, there was no respect for the help and certainly no fraternizing. After all, the help had the same opportunities as those who were now wealthy. It was their problem they hadn’t been able to attain the same status. The result was a cultural chasm even more sharply defined than it had been in Conor’s days in Ireland.

  But O'Reilly was astute enough to recognize the differences and he used his charm to cross the chasm. He was a little friendlier, a little more forward, a little more familiar with the members than his station should have allowed. And with most of the members he got away with it.

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  Chapter 3

  The Yard

  Tuesday, April 15, 1930

  It wasn’t far from the gate to the caddie yard. There was a path behind a hedge along the property line that kept the riffraff from being seen from the clubhouse. Crossing over to the yard Conor saw four sets of clubs lined up on the bag rack in front of the pro shop. Maybe there was a game going out early.

  When he opened the gate to the caddie yard, he saw that Stovepipe had beaten him in. The only Negro caddie at Biarritz, he was very tall, very thin and very black, hence his nickname. Still, the whispered joke among the other caddies was that the name referred to a specific part of his anatomy.

  “Stovepipe, good morning to you sir! And how are we this glorious day?” Conor offered with a little too much enthusiasm for the hour.

  Stovepipe was sitting on a bench his hands clasped before him looking down at the ground. He lifted up his eyes and gave Conor a baleful glance then looked over his shoulder and nodded toward the door. Conor turned around and saw Gino, his elbows resting on the shelf of the door, his face buried in his enormous hands.

  “Top o’ the morning, Cap’n!” Conor chirped. “Any games going out this early?”

  Gino slowly looked up, his eyes bright red, his expression that of a rabid bull mastiff. “Don’t give me any of that top o’ the morning bullshit, you worthless piece of Irish trash. And for Christ’s sakes pipe down, will ya? Goddamn you Irish are loud.”

  Conor turned away so Gino couldn’t see him smile. Giving Gino a soft “sorry” over his shoulder, he went over and sat down next to Stovepipe. All it would take is a little patience. Shortly it was rewarded.

  Gino had left the door and returned with a wet towel around his neck. Maybe that helped.

  “All right you monkeys. Only because you’re the only ones I got here right now, you’re going out. Why these people want to golf their ball at so ungodly an early hour I will never get. Stovepipe, you’ve got Mr. Anderson and Mr. Tillman. Mick, you’ve got Mr. Cook and Mr. Willoughby. Now get outta here.”

  Conor couldn’t contain himself. “Mr. Cook and Mr. Willoughby? You’re joking, right? Mr. Cook slices everything right and Mr. Willoughby hooks everything left. I’m going to be walking this golf course sideways all morning! Come now, Cap’n, let me switch one of them out with Stovepipe here.”

  As soon as he said it, Conor knew it was the wrong time to offer up any kind of opinion. And he was right. “You stupid Mick! You’re lucky I’m going to let you out at all! Don’t you ever give me that sass! Mr. Willoughby and Mr. Cook want you. I swear to Christ if I had another looper here I’d send you home. That’s all. Now get out of here before I whack you upside the head!”

  Conor put his head down and went out the gate to fetch the bags. It would be a long walk this morning.

  * * *

  By the time Conor and Stovepipe got back to the yard after their round, the place had filled up. Blackie and Whitey, the two old alky pals, were playing cards. Dogface was sitting on the bench, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips, intent on the day’s sports page, trying to divine the winners of upcoming boxing cards at the Olympic Auditorium. Pissquick was slouched against the fence, hat pulled over his eyes, napping. There was also the usual handful of teenagers, “C” caddies who showed up sporadically during the week when they were able to cut school.

  Then there was Benny, hulking, brooding Benny. He sat straight up on the bench his palms flat on his knees, his eyes a vacant stare. The only sign of life was the constant bouncing of his right leg, his heel beating a nervous tattoo against the ground. Benny never said much. In fact, in Conor’s memory he’d never said anything. As the antidote for the chatty caddie, he met a special need among members whose games included conversations that were never to be repeated.

  Conor walked over to the bench and sat down next to Dogface. “So what’s the picks today mate? Got anything for me?”

  Dogface gave a shrug, then out of the side of his mouth, the cigarette still dangling, offered up, “I like Kid Cohen Friday night at three to one. Could be his night. Or not. But I'm gonna cover.”

  Conor smiled and shook his head. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a buttered roll wrapped in a handkerchief. He opened it then held up half t
oward Dogface. “Offer you a bite can I?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I ate.” Then turning his head to Conor he added, “You don’t have a nip to share, though, do you?”

  “Ha! Nay, today would find me as dry as the desert, as empty as a harlot’s heart. It’s pitiful sorry for that I am.”

  Dogface could only snort, “Irish.”

  Conor ate his roll. Just as he finished he heard Gino bellow, “Mick! Get over here!”

  Conor jumped up and approached the door. Either coffee or hair of the dog had worked some magic because Gino seemed to be what passed for him as almost affable.

  “I’ve got another loop for you; Mrs. Cockerill and Mrs. Endicott. But if I had my way you’d be high tailin’ it down the road after that bullshit you pulled this morning. I don’t know what all these women see in you… stupid Mick with a butt ugly mug… but they asked for you and by damn they’re gonna have you. Now git and don’t let me see you again today.”

  Conor smiled at the insults and ducked out the gate.

  Conor O'Reilly was, of course, anything but ugly. Taller than average, maybe five foot ten, he was what had come to be known in America as Black Irish; jet-black hair, fair skin and blue eyes. He had a broad square face, wide-spaced eyes and a strong jaw. He was clean-shaven, but his black beard always cast a bit of a shadow against his very white skin. Under his bowler hat he kept his hair combed straight back from his forehead. He was no matinee idol, but he didn’t break any mirrors either. Coupled with his Irish lilt and no little charm, his looks gave many of the female members of Biarritz plenty of reason to seek his company for the three and a half hours they played each week.

  Gino would never tell him so, nor would he ever let on to the members, but there was actually some competition for Conor’s services on Tuesday afternoons. And where there is competition there is profit. Gino was not above accepting tips to ensure Conor's services. Perhaps that was why Conor got such broad smiles from Mrs. Cockerill and Mrs. Endicott when he arrived with their bags at the first tee. They got what they paid for.

  * * *

  It had been a good day. Two loops and tips had put five dollars in his pocket; a dollar a bag and a quarter tip from each player. It wasn’t often that he was able to pick up two loops in a day, much less two doubles. Gino took pains to make sure that as many caddies as possible got at least one bag every day. He’d been lucky to pick up that early double loop. Now he had enough to cover a week’s rent on his room and have a little left for a decent supper, something better than the can of beans he’d warm on the hot plate in his room many nights.

  Despite Gino’s orders, he’d returned to the caddie yard after his second round to set up a game the following Monday. As it was at most clubs, the course was closed on Monday. Sometimes some course maintenance would take place, but Mondays were when caddies were allowed to play for free. Conor wanted to set up a game with Dogface and Pissquick, two of the better players in the caddie yard. He had to give them strokes, but the games with them were brisk and competitive. Unfortunately, the best player beside himself was Stovepipe who wasn’t allowed to play on Mondays. Conor had twice seen him swing a driver off the first tee in the darkness when Stovepipe thought he couldn’t be spotted. He was a natural. Conor had heard that Stovepipe was sometimes able to play the public course, Harding Municipal, but that cost money which was something Stovepipe had little of. Conor thought the whole thing a shame.

  By the time he’d arranged the game and bantered with his friends it was dusk. He set off for a small neighborhood restaurant near his boarding house. He’d made acquaintances with the owner and become something of a regular. And that would be worth a couple of shots of Jameson’s spirited out from a cupboard back in the kitchen on a night like this.

  He was about halfway there when the streetlights popped on. A little tired, he’d settled into an easy lope along the shoulder of the road. Lost in thoughts of the day, he didn’t hear the sound of the big black Packard coming up behind him. Suddenly headlights flooded him in blinding light. In the same instant he heard the sound of an engine revving, then roaring as the driver missed a gear. He turned in time to see the car lurch onto the shoulder and head straight for him spewing gravel to the side. He leapt backwards, nearly losing his balance as the car careened past him no more than two feet away. As it did he caught a glimpse of a face in the passenger seat. A woman, blonde, eyes wide in alarm, beautiful, extraordinarily beautiful.

  The car swerved back onto the road, screeched across the median, then regained its footing and disappeared down the street.

  Shaken, his heart pounding, Conor looked after it some minutes before he resumed his walk. And when he did, all that he could think of was that face.

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  Chapter 4

  Annie

  Friday, April 18, 1930

  The parade of glistening Cadillacs, Packards and Lincolns inching westward along Hollywood Boulevard this early Friday evening were sequenced in precise order. Which is how Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Burke found themselves in the middle of the cavalcade, behind cars with the production people and supporting cast and in front of cars carrying the producer, the director and the stars.

  As they crossed North Highland Avenue they could see their destination, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a little more than half a block away. Pairs of giant searchlights on either side of the entrance sent crisscrossing beams of light high into the darkening sky. The forecourt and façade were ablaze in light. Velvet ropes contained the throngs of fans on either side of the red carpet. A twenty-four-piece orchestra alternated between recent melodies and fanfare for the celebrities as they emerged from their limousines to echoing cheers from the crowd. Clusters of photographers with their Speed Graphic cameras flew about like flocks of birds exploding flashbulbs in their quarry’s faces as they smiled their way up the gauntlet.

  Inside his car Franklin Burke took some notes from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and re-read them. He would be interviewed by the event emcee on the red carpet, his remarks broadcast across the country on radio. It was important he say the right things no matter how brief. His review done, he folded the notes and put them back in his pocket. He took off his glasses, folded them, put them in his lap and then used both hands to smooth back the hair on either side of his head. He turned to his wife.

  “Well, how do I look?” he asked brightly.

  “Lovely,” she deadpanned, staring straight ahead.

  Burke looked down and picked up his glasses and put them in the pocket with his notes. There was no point in pursuing the conversation. He reached down into a pocket on the back of the seat in front of him and retrieved a hip flask. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig, then another, emptying it. He replaced the cap and put the flask back in the pocket.

  Minutes later their car came curbside to the red carpet. Burke leaned over to his wife and hissed a command, “Just try to be beautiful.” The smell of gin washed across her face.

  A doorman opened the rear door. As Burke stepped out the emcee’s voice could be heard over the loudspeakers making his introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome a renowned Academy Award-nominated Hollywood screenwriter with too many credits to mention here other than that he is the man responsible for writing the epic motion picture we are about to enjoy this evening. I give you Mr. Franklin Burke along with his lovely wife.”

  Burke reached in and helped his wife out of the car as the crowd applauded and the orchestra played a flourish. As she stepped out all she could think to herself was “They didn’t even say my name. They didn’t even say my damn name.” Then she put on the smile she would wear until they could escape into the theater.

  And a lovely smile it was… on a lovely face. As she took her husband’s arm and walked up the carpet they made a handsome, if somewhat incongruous looking pair. He was slightly taller than she, dark hair and noticeably older. He could have been a father escorting a daughter at a debutante ball. Slim and fair, she was a nat
ural blonde. Her hair was parted in the middle and then fell in Marcel waves to the nape of her neck. She wore a full-length ecru silk dress cut low revealing a matching lace camisole underneath. The long sleeves were buttoned tightly to her arms all the way to the elbow, then ballooned to her shoulders. Pinned to her bodice was a corsage of cascading white orchids. She had no trouble being beautiful.

  When they reached the end of the carpet she let go of his arm and stepped aside as the emcee pulled him to the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have here with us our screen writer, Mr. Franklin Burke. Tell me, Mr. Burke, what was your inspiration for this story?”

  Burke leaned into the microphone. “Well it was just an exciting project to be involved with. I really want to thank my producer, Irving Glass, and the director, John Montello. And, of course, the wonderful cast who brought this great story to life. But most of all I want to thank my lovely wife who truly is my inspiration. I hope everyone enjoys the picture!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Burke! I’m sure we all will.”

  As the crowd applauded, the emcee turned away to corral and introduce Irving Glass and his wife who had already started up the carpet. Franklin stepped over to Annie. She took his arm and they entered the theatre. The smile fell from her face the moment she crossed the threshold.

  * * *

  Anna Charlene Harper was born in Davenport, Iowa in 1904. Her father John was a physician, a general practitioner. Her mother Maureen was a music teacher who doubled as something of a socialite volunteering at the hospital and serving on the board of the library. An only child, Annie adopted her mother’s younger sister Louise as her friend and confidant.