by Jack Waddell
"Good afternoon, Mr. Graves," Gino said as he walked up to Robert. "What can we do for you today?"
Robert turned slightly putting his back to Fred. "Well, only what we discussed. Just a caddie."
"It's done, sir. He's waiting in the yard."
Robert extended his hand. "Excellent. Thank you, Gino."
Gino took his hand and felt the ten-dollar bill. Just as Conor had done he palmed it and put it in his pocket. "You're most welcome Mr. Graves. It's a pleasure to be of service."
Robert chuckled. "I'm sure it is a pleasure you bandit. Have him meet me over on the putting green. We're still waiting for Billy."
"Right away, Mr. Graves," Gino said grinning at the jab. "I'll send him right out."
Conor found both bags on the rack. Neither was heavy. He carried them to the practice green where Robert was putting. As he approached Robert looked up and quickly assessed his candidate. Tallish for a golfer and an Irishman. Intelligent eyes. Strong shoulders. And Meg was right; he was good looking. He liked what he saw.
Conor stopped at the edge of the putting green, took the bags from his shoulders and stood them up in front of him. Robert walked up to him.
"Afternoon. It's 'Mick' isn't it?" Robert asked.
"'Tis what I'm called here, sir," Conor responded smiling.
"Well, Mick, I'm Robert Graves. You caddied for my wife the other day and she tells me you're quite the excellent caddie."
"Too kind she is, Mr. Graves," Conor said. "She's a lovely lady. 'Twas my good fortune to carry for her."
"It just might be that," Robert said making a joke to himself. "We're waiting on my playing partner. Let me hit a few more putts 'til he comes along. Shouldn't be long."
It wasn't until ten minutes to two that Billy Compton made his appearance. He had walked halfway down the path from the clubhouse and stood in the vestiges of a tuxedo, coat draped over his arm, collar opened, studs missing from the shirt, barefoot inside his patent leather pumps.
"Bob… hey, Bob!" He called out. "Sorry I'm late. Just gotta change. I'll be right down!"
"Meet us at the tee!" Graves called back. "We're ready when you are!"
Billy gave a wave of understanding then turned and strode back up the path to the locker room.
Robert picked his balls up from the green and walked over to Conor. With something of a sigh of resignation he proclaimed "And that, my friend, is Billy Compton." He handed over the balls and his putter. "Let's go get some water before we head out."
Billy wasn't long. As he approached them on the first tee Conor thought he had the look of a golfer. About Conor's age he was hatless and very tan. His thick blonde hair was parted in the middle. Of medium size and frame he had emerged from the locker room impeccably dressed in white shirt open at the collar, brown plus fours, tan hose and brown and white spectators. He walked up to Robert and turned on the kind of smile that charms away all sins.
"Hey, Bob, so sorry. But you know how it is. Sometimes afternoons come much too soon."
"Ha," Graves replied, "I just know that's how it is for you. But you made it. Like always."
"So where is this guy you want us to check out?" Billy asked.
"You'll meet him. In the meantime, say hello to our caddie here. Name is Mick."
Billy gave a nod to Conor who nodded back. He turned back to Robert "We playing for anything today?"
"No, just a friendly game. Why don't you lead us off?"
Billy smiled again. "My pleasure. Kind of windy today. We'll have some work these first few holes.”
Billy took a ball, some tees and his driver from Conor and walked onto the tee box. He took several long, loose practice swings then teed up his ball. His swing looked effortless but the ball fairly cracked off the clubface then flew low before rising into the wind in a line down the center of the fairway.
A very good player Conor thought to himself.
Billy parred the first two holes despite the strong headwind. His manner was relaxed, almost nonchalant. The game came easy to him and it showed in his movements – purposeful, confident and easy. He exuded a certain cockiness but it was not obnoxious. He was simply in his element.
The third hole was the first completely out of sight from the clubhouse. When the three reached the tee Robert motioned Billy over to where he was standing next to Conor. "Billy, I want you to hear this," he said. Then, to Conor he said, "I have a proposition for you. We have the Calcutta coming up and I'm looking for a player to pair with Billy. I think you might be that player. But first I want to see what you can do. I'm sure Billy does too. So I want you to take my clubs and play a few holes. Billy can carry his own bag. What do you say?"
Conor knew he couldn't say no and he didn't really want to say no. He also knew he was the equal of Billy's game. But to play with a member in a big event like this would be impossible. The other members would never allow it. Before he could respond Billy asked the question Conor was about to.
"Come on, Bob. What are you talking about? He's just a caddie for Christ's sakes. You have to be at least a member somewhere else to get into that thing. This can't work. And if he is any good you're probably going to get nothing but crap about bringing in a ringer. Jeesh, what are you thinking?"
"You let me worry about that," Bob replied. "If he's good enough I can pull it off. But first things first. Let's see if he can play. What do you say, Mick? You game?"
"That I am," Conor said. "And 'tis grateful I am you'd give me a chance."
"Well, let's see you make the most of it. Go ahead and tee off," Robert bid him.
Conor felt charged and a little nervous to be put on exhibition like this. But golf was second nature to him and he sensed a chance to take part in something important. His heart was beating fast as he walked to the tee and prepared to take his shot. He took a couple of practice swings and stretched his back. All the while he told himself to calm down. By the time he addressed his ball he'd done just that. Instinct took over as he made a couple of waggles and looked down the fairway at his target. He looked back at the ball and then he swung. His swing was not the graceful motion of Billy's. It was shorter, faster and more powerful looking. Nor did the ball soar as high, instead piercing through the headwind on a low trajectory that let the ball skip forward on landing and then roll a considerable distance.
"Nice shot," said Billy as he walked past Conor onto the tee for his shot.
Graves said nothing as he kept his eyes on Conor.
Billy and Conor matched each other shot for shot over the next few holes. Their game quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm, each hitting a shot near enough the other so that they could stand close to watch each other's play. Soon they began discussing each other's shots. Then a bit of banter began between the two.
On the eighth hole, a par five, Billy and Conor were both about seventy yards from the hole after their second shots. Billy played first sending a wedge high into the air. As the ball reached its zenith the wind caught it and blew it left. It landed on the collar and bounced sideways into a bunker. Billy slammed the club head into the ground. “Damn that wind is strong!” he blurted. “Should have allowed more room for that.”
“Bad luck,” Conor commiserated as he pulled a spoon from the bag and prepared to hit his shot.
Billy stopped and looked on in surprise. The wooden spoon was for much longer shots. Conor took his stance, choked down on the grip and then made a short sweeping stroke. The ball barely got off the turf before quickly beginning to roll toward the green. The ball hopped slightly on the collar then slowed as it rolled out toward the hole. It came to rest ten feet from the flagstick.
“Whoa! What kind of a shot was that?” Billy exclaimed.
Conor laughed. “It’s an Irishman’s shot to be sure. You can fight the wind or you can hide from it.”
“You’ve played that shot before.”
“Aye, ‘tis true. Back home the wind fairly howls some days. When it does the ground is surely more gracious than the air.”
/>
“You have to show me how you do that sometime,” Billy said.
“’Twould be my pleasure.”
Robert had seen enough to know Conor was the perfect player to pair with Billy. They were such a contrast that they complemented each other’s games – Billy playing with fire, Conor with quiet coolness – Billy with flair, Conor with imagination – Billy with the classic swing, Conor with the self-made action. While his decision had been made, he let the two play on. He could already see the two had established the mutual respect one sees between good players. Now he wanted to see them bond as a real team.
The eighteenth tee was the last place they would be out of sight of the clubhouse. Robert walked up to the two as they laid their bags down by the tee. “All right, Mick, I’ve seen enough. What do you think, Billy?”
“He’s good, Bob, real good. I think we’ve got something here. But I still have no idea how you’re going to get him past the committee.”
Robert turned to Conor. “You’re just what we’re looking for. You willing to do this?”
“’Twould be my honor, sir. But I’m to be with Billy on this. I surely don’t qualify being but the caddie I am.”
“I have a membership out at Redlands Country Club. First place I joined when I came out here. Club manager there is a good friend. We’re going to make you a member there, at least for the time being. You won’t be able to play there, but that’s not necessary anyway. All I need to know is your full name. Is Mick short for Michael?”
“No, sir. I’ve but Gino to thank for that name. No, my name is Conor. Conor O'Reilly. C-o-n-o-r it’s to be spelled.”
“Excellent,” Robert replied. “It’s a name none of the members will recognize. And, Conor, I’m not ‘sir’ to you. I’m Bob. Got it?”
“Aye. ‘Tis ‘Bob’ then.”
“Now, a couple more things,” Robert continued. “Billy, I want you playing with Conor on Mondays between now and the Calcutta. You two need to learn each other’s games. I’m sure you can fit that into your busy schedule, can’t you Billy?”
“Mondays? Yeah, well, Mondays are my day of rest, if you know what I mean. But that’s okay, as long as we’re playing in the afternoon. Mornings are never good.”
“Why am I not surprised at that?” Robert chuckled. “Now, Conor, how are you set for equipment – clubs, balls, shoes? What do you need?”
“I’ve clubs and all the balls I can find,” Conor replied smiling. “But I own no proper spikes.”
“Okay, then. Billy, you go to the pro shop and get Conor some golf shoes. Charge them to my account. And make sure they fit him before you do. I don’t want one of my horses coming up lame. Now, Conor, here’s some money. Get yourself a couple shirts, ties, maybe some trousers. I want you looking like a member, not a caddie. Got it?”
Conor took the five-dollar bill Robert had pulled from his wallet. “Thank you, Bob. ‘Tis much appreciated.”
“Good. While I’m at it, here’s another five for the effort today. Now, do you have a phone where we can get in touch with you?” Robert asked.
“No, no phone. And thank you again.”
“All right, then, we’ll communicate through Gino. So we should be set. Let’s go in. You can be a caddie for one more hole, can’t you Conor?”
“Aye, I can,” Conor fairly beamed, the reality of all that just happened finally sinking in.
“That’s good, then. I want to see if I learned anything watching you two this afternoon. Billy, lead us off.”
(back to top)
Chapter 11
Gossip
Sunday, May 4, 1930
Annie stopped her pacing briefly to light another cigarette. She stepped across the half typed pages littering the floor around her desk to open the crystal cigarette box, take one out and use a sterling silver lighter to ignite it. She took a long drag, exhaled slowly, then resumed her laps of the study.
The script was not going well. She was stuck on the scene where the rich socialite and the poor newspaper reporter finally consummate their love. It had to be suggestive without being obvious, tender not tawdry, expectant not explicit. And that was the problem. She couldn’t get her mind off her caddie and the love scene she longed to play with him. And that scene was obvious, tawdry and quite explicit. She knew it was ridiculous to think such things. Such a scene would never, could never, play out. She chastised herself for not being able to focus on her work. The script was far more real than her fantasy. Still, she could not stop typing the words she herself longed to say and hear. And such words were hardly appropriate for the big screen.
She finally paused in front of the bookcase wall. She scanned the lower shelves looking for the large tome she wanted. She found it, stooped down and used both hands to slide it from its place. She laid it on the coffee table, sat on the divan and opened it up. It was a world atlas. She leafed through the pages until she found the map of Ireland. She looked for Lahinch. She found it south of Galway and north of Shannon. Right on the sea, it must be beautiful there, she thought.
Her phone rang. She rose to answer, grateful for the distraction.
“Hello?” she asked, suddenly dreading a call from Franklin.
“Hello, Annie? This is Meg Graves.”
“Oh, hello Meg. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I just wanted to confirm we’ll be playing again this Tuesday. Three o’clock, right? You’re still planning on that?”
“Absolutely! I’m very much looking forward to it. That was so much fun last time!”
“It was, indeed! I too am looking forward to it. So it’s very good we’re still on. Oh, and I have some news to share with you. Remember the caddie we had, that Mick?”
“Yes,” was all Annie dare say.
“Well, Robert told me not to say anything to any of the members, but I know I can trust you to keep a secret. And I know you’d be interested to hear this. It seems Robert has recruited our caddie to play in the Calcutta tournament that’s coming up. It’s quite a big event at Biarritz. He’s going to team him with a young man named Billy Compton. I don’t think you know him but he’s also a very good golfer. Isn’t that exciting, though? Can you imagine our caddie with a chance to win such an event?”
“That is exciting,” Annie said, trying not to sound too excited. “The Calcutta is where the men wager all that money, isn’t it?”
Meg laughed. “Yes they do – gobs of it, and Robert among them. He loves the action. That’s why he wanted to put together a team he could buy and win with. He thinks he has a great chance with these two players. He’s even got them practicing together Monday afternoons on caddies’ day. But I’m not supposed to be saying all this. You can keep a secret for me, can’t you dear?”
“Oh, Meg, of course, of course. But that really is exciting news. Thank you for sharing that with me. We’ll have to wish him luck when we see him Tuesday.”
“Indeed.” Meg agreed. “It appears your caddie could become some kind of celebrity around Biarritz. Oh… I hear Robert coming in. I have to go. See you Tuesday! Bye!”
“Bye,” Annie said. She hung the phone up on the cradle and then she thought to herself, “My caddie. Would that he were more.”
* * *
Conor got the message after his second loop of the day. Both rounds had been single bags so he wasn't all that tired. Which was good because Michael wanted to meet him for dinner at Shanahan's in Glendale. Gino had delivered the message cryptically, complaining he was getting tired of being Conor's "goddamn secretary" and wished Conor would get his own "goddamn telephone" and leave him the "goddamn alone, goddamn it."
Conor thought it a bit strange that Michael hadn't invited him home for dinner with Mary, but chalked it up to the notion his cousin probably just wanted a drink or two out of Mary's disapproving sight and chose not to do so alone.
Michael was already sitting at a table in the back of the room facing the door when Conor walked in. Even from such a short distance away, Michael appeared like
a miniature man or perhaps even a child, his shoulders hardly clearing the tabletop. He'd doffed his straw boater so his shock of unruly bright red hair appeared as much like a candle's flame atop the table as it did the haircut of a patron.
Michael had been a jockey at Belmont in New York before a bad fall on the home stretch left him with a shattered hip and leg that ended his riding days. Too proud to work the stables where he had once been something of a celebrity, he moved with Mary to California intending to catch on with a breeder as a trainer. He'd started working at a farm outside San Francisco and did well in the beginning. Tanforan Racetrack had reopened without betting in 1923 and even after the racing stopped the next year the track served as a training Mecca for California's growing number of thoroughbred breeders. Then one day he had a screaming confrontation with the farm's owner over his training methods and summarily quit his job. He and Mary found their way down to the Los Angeles area where he finally found work as a stable boy at the Kellogg ranch.
Michael's face lit up when he saw Conor approach. "Ah, Connie! 'Tis a sight for sore eyes you are. Come, come, sit down!"
"Hello, Michael," Conor smiled back taking his chair. "What's to be the occasion that you're out alone on a night like this?"
"Just some business I want to share with you. But first let's get you taken care of." With that he motioned for the waiter to come to the table. "My cousin here will have one of these, if you so please," he say pointing at his half full glass. "And I'll be taking a topper too, if you don't be minding,"
"I take it that's not water," Conor asked.
"Nay, 'tis the finest bathtub gin in this whole glorious state of Cal-i-forn-i-a. Put hair on your chest it will," he added laughing.
"Sounds to be a fine idea, that," Conor replied. "Now what's to be your business?"
Michael took a swig of his drink and leaned his elbows as far forward on the table as his stature would allow and lowered his voice. "I'm to have an idea, Connie. And it's a good one, I can tell you." He stopped and looked up as the waiter put a full glass in front of Conor and filled his from an unlabeled clear bottle. He turned back to Conor. "See, I got a line on somethin' over to the Kellogg Ranch. I keep my eyes and ears open over there and I think I've picked up on something."
