The Franchise Babe: A Novel

by Dan Jenkins

  BOOTY: Okay, here we go. What’s your favorite golf club? I’ll go first. Hooters. Sorry, Rick. Start again. Okay. Everybody say their favorite club in the bag. Mine’s the sand wedge. It’s the one I use the most.

  HAPPY: I have to go with the driver. I’m a short hitter, but I can keep it in play with good old Bertha. If you don’t keep it in play…

  BOOTY: Garrett?

  GARRETT: I don’t have a favorite club.

  BOOTY: Pick one.

  GARRETT: Why?

  BOOTY: Because…Rick…wants…you…to.

  GARRETT: Shit, gimme a nine-iron.

  BOOTY: Ginger?

  GINGER: Seven-iron. My old reliable.

  BOOTY: Okay, next question. You’re playing golf naked and you can put on only one thing. Do you choose shoes or glove? Garrett Hicks? Shoes or glove?

  GARRETT: Why would anybody play golf naked?

  BOOTY: It’s a hypothetical. Go with me on this.

  GARRETT: Go where?

  BOOTY: Make a choice. Shoes or glove?

  GARRETT: It’s a stupid question.

  GINGER: I agree with Garrett for once.

  HAPPY: I’ll answer it. I say shoes. I have to make sure I can stand up or I can’t swing the club.

  BOOTY: If I’m playing naked, I say glove…but I wouldn’t wear it on my hand.

  GINGER shrieked—and couldn’t stop laughing.

  DIRECTOR’S VOICE: Seems like a good spot for a break.

  18

  Usually I have no thoughts to pass along on the subject of showbiz, because if I base my opinions on most of the movies I see today—Car Chase Meets Girl, Car Chase Loses Girl, Car Chase Finds Girl in Time for Sequel—I tend to wind up wishing the raghead terrorists would take out Hollywood. But I did have a suggestion or two for Ginger at the break.

  We sat in a corner of the greenroom, Mom included, and spoke quietly while Ginger nibbled on an oatmeal cookie.

  I said, “You have a chance to take over this deal, Ginger. You can use your looks and your golf knowledge to knock ’em dead. Happy is easygoing. Booty’s strictly a comedian. And as he’s proved, Garrett can’t contribute an intelligent word about anything.”

  “I am so disappointed to meet him,” Ginger said. “I thought he was a great player, but…yuck!”

  Thurlene said, “He is a sickening excuse for a human being. He gives new meaning to ‘trailer trash.’”

  I said, “He’s that lethal combination of loud and stupid. Garrett takes pride in the fact that he doesn’t do anything in this life but eat, shit, sleep, and hit golf balls. Pardon the expression, but he’s nine of the ten biggest assholes I’ve ever known.”

  “I don’t feel like I have anything to say here,” Ginger said.

  I said, “You have plenty to say. Listen to me. No matter what the question is, throw in something about how you play golf. For instance…have you ever played a shot in a tournament you haven’t practiced?”

  “Maybe once or twice,” she said. “But I try not to.”

  “Say that. When the opportunity presents itself, say something like, ‘That’s an interesting question, but I never play a shot in a tournament I haven’t practiced.’ Understand? The director will love it. He’ll know you’ll be giving the viewer a valuable golf tip, and he’ll want to use it.”

  Thurlene said to her daughter, “You’re getting this, right?”

  Ginger nodded.

  I said, “I guarantee you’re going to be asked, ‘What’s the hardest shot to hit?’ What do you say?”

  “There’s all kinds.”

  “That’s not what you say. What you say is, get a long iron up out of a tight lie. Fairway wood out of a divot. The forty-yard bunker shot. Something like that. You with me?”

  “It’s hard for me to make myself swing easy in the wind. The stronger the wind, the easier you should swing.”

  “Say that. There must be other tips you learned at the academy or out on the tour by now.”

  “Yeah, there’s stuff like ‘Think about the target before you swing’…‘Take dead aim’…‘Take your driving range swing to the golf course’…‘Never give up on yourself after a bad shot’…”

  I said, “Good. You and I know this stuff is bullshit—the game’s ninety percent mental once you know how to grip the club—but America doesn’t know this. America will lap it up.”

  “You are getting this?” Thurlene said.

  “I’ve got it, Mom. Jesus.”

  In my judgment, the segment that came off the most interesting unfolded as follows:

  DIRECTOR: I’m feeling good about it, gang. You’re into the rhythm of things. Let’s keep it going.

  CRYSTAL: Okay, we’re rolling! Quiet out in the hall, goddamn it! I’ll eat my own people!

  DIRECTOR: Go, Booty.

  BOOTY: Okay, group. If you can play only one golf course the rest of your life, what would it be?

  HAPPY: Easy question. St. Andrews.

  GARRETT: St. Andrews? You just shit a trout, man.

  HAPPY: St. Andrews is a shrine, Garrett!

  GARRETT: I got your shrine right here.

  BOOTY: I’ve never been there, but I hear Pine Valley is something else. I’ll say Pine Valley.

  GARRETT: Overrated. I thumped it around with my dick and shot sixty-seven.

  GINGER: You’re so descriptive, Garrett. For me, it’s Augusta National. I haven’t played it, but I can’t imagine any course being more fun.

  GARRETT: Augusta. Geeah. Another zoo.

  GINGER: Why don’t you name a course, Garrett?

  GARRETT: I don’t like any of ’em. Sumbitches stand between me and making a living. You’ll learn that one of these days, missy.

  GINGER: I hope not.

  BOOTY: Moving right along. Toughest shot in golf? Happy?

  HAPPY: Uh…tryin’ to carve a three-wood out of a nasty lie.

  BOOTY: Garrett?

  GARRETT: There ain’t none I can’t hit.

  GINGER: How did I know you were going to say that?

  GARRETT: How’d you know what…?

  BOOTY: Toughest shot for you, Ginger?

  GINGER: A six-foot putt on the last green for your own money. Lee Trevino said that in something I read one time.

  DIRECTOR: I love that! Say it again, Ginger. But stand up and say it as you walk over to get a Coke. And leave out Trevino. Zoom in, Marty.

  GINGER: A six-foot putt on the last green for your own money.

  DIRECTOR: Great! Next question, Booty.

  BOOTY: What’s the main thing it takes to be a winner in tournament golf? I’ll go first. Get born Jack Nicklaus.

  GARRETT: Nicklaus didn’t have a short game.

  HAPPY: Jack Nicklaus didn’t have a short game? He’s the greatest putter who ever lived!

  GARRETT: He was weak on pitches and chips. I seen tape.

  HAPPY: I guess that’s why Jack only won twenty majors, counting the two amateurs…and he was second in nineteen others.

  GARRETT: Them amateurs don’t count for shit.

  HAPPY: You’re an idiot, Garrett.

  GARRETT: Yeah? How much money you won lately?

  BOOTY: Can we move on here? What does it take to be a winner, Garrett?

  GARRETT: You got to know how to play, is all.

  DIRECTOR: Ask Ginger, Booty.

  BOOTY: What about it, Ginger?

  GINGER: Everybody wants to win. I know players on our tour who say they want to win, but they’re happy to come away with a nice check when it’s over. I believe all the great winners, past and present…they aren’t necessarily the ones who try to win, or think they’re trying to win, but the ones who really deep down hate the idea of losing. Despise it, absolutely can’t stand the thought of losing. I mean, that’s just what I think, you know?

  DIRECTOR: Fantastico! Did we get that? Please, God, tell me we have that!

  19

  High on a plateau above the town of Ruidoso, and along the Billy the Kid Trail in the Sacramento Mountains, which a
re the southern Rockies if you want to be precise about it, I finally found the Mescalero Country Club & Casino Resort. There, the first people I met after turning over my rental car to the ski bum–slash–valet parking attendant were Sinking Canoe and Smokes Loco Weed.

  The ski bum–slash–parking attendant told me their names and explained that they were the head Apache honchos for the casino, hotel, and country club. Sinking Canoe and Smokes Loco Weed were standing out in front of the lodge, smiling, acting as official greeters to the arriving visitors, one of whom was me.

  Sinking Canoe looked like Geronimo would look if Geronimo had ever worn a gray pinstriped suit and a Schlitz cap. Smokes Loco Weed looked like Cochise would look if Cochise had ever worn a Dallas Cowboys jersey and a Texas A&M Corps of Cadets cavalry hat.

  A large banner was draped from the roof gutter of the lodge. It said:

  WELCOME TO THE SPEEDY ARROW ENERGY BAR GOLF CLASSIC.

  I shook hands first with Sinking Canoe, who said, “We have many squaws here to play golf. Good for our slots, you betcha.”

  “Welcome,” said Smokes Loco Weed as I was shaking his hand. “I hope you like to gamble and donate much money to noble savage.”

  I confessed to being a golf writer who’d come for the tournament.

  “You will write about our beautiful place?” Sinking Canoe said.

  “And the golfing squaws,” I said.

  They looked pleased to find a consarned tarnation polecat varmint of a sportswriter in these parts. Probably hadn’t been one around since Granny and Ring and the boys came through in ’23, thinking they’d found a shortcut to Shelby, Montana, for the Dempsey-Gibbons fight.

  The ranch-style lodge was three stories tall. It stretched as far I could see until it bumped into a mountain. I gathered the gambling casino was the enormous brown biscuit that was attached to the lodge by a glass-enclosed walkway. The biscuit looked big enough to cover all thirty-six holes at Winged Foot.

  Part of the Mescalero Country Club golf course could be seen from the drive leading to the lodge. A green here, a tee there. Hanging on precarious ledges.

  My two ladies were supposed to have been somewhere behind me. We had flown together from L.A. to El Paso, but Trey Bishop hadn’t been there to meet them as he had promised.

  Thurlene said, “The hotel in Taos says Trey checked out, but his cell isn’t working, damn it.”

  I said, “I’ll hang around for a while. If he doesn’t show up, you can ride with me.”

  Ginger said, “He’d better not lose my golf clubs.”

  I said, “When was the last time you guys talked to Trey?”

  “Two days ago,” Thurlene answered.

  “He could be having car trouble,” I said.

  Ginger said, “I don’t care what kind of trouble he’s having. He better not lose my golf clubs.”

  Thurlene said, “You go on, Jack. We’ll wait here for an hour or so. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll rent a car.”

  “This is great,” Ginger said. “I’m playing in a tournament with one day of practice, a pickup caddie, and a new set of clubs. Shit!”

  Trey Bishop never turned up, but my ladies didn’t rent a car. A shuttle bus for the Mescalero Country Club & Casino Resort happened to show up, and they climbed on board even though the driver’s name was Soaring Foot.

  By the time they reached the lodge they were exhausted from frustration, inconvenience, and worry. Thurlene let me know they’d arrived and would have room service for dinner and spend the rest of the night trying to find out where Trey was.

  They’d still heard nothing from him by noon the next day, Wednesday. That’s when Thurlene called the New Mexico state police to tell them a friend was missing and might have been in a traffic accident somewhere between Taos and El Paso.

  Wednesday was also the day I went with a seething Ginger Clayton to the pro shop at Mescalero Country Club to watch her pick out a set of clubs she could use in the Speedy Arrow Energy Bar Classic.

  Tyler Hughes, the head pro, introduced himself. Guy around thirty. He said he preferred to be known as the director of golf. This even though as far as I could tell his only assistant was a lazy-looking seventeen-year-old high school boy named Kenneth.

  I didn’t think we looked that inquisitive, but Tyler shared his personal history with us. His first job was assistant pro at Singing Winds muny in Amarillo. He moved from there to assistant pro at Howling Winds muny in Lubbock. His last stop before Mescalero was the head pro’s job at Tornado Winds Country Club in Waco.

  He filled us in on the history of the resort. It was developed in steps. The casino came first. The casino paid for the hotel. The casino and hotel paid for the golf course. The casino, hotel, and golf course were the lures for the home sites that were for sale surrounding the property. Private homes couldn’t be built on Indian property itself.

  Tyler said, “The course looks tricky, but it’s not as tough as it looks. You stand on a tee like the seventeenth, a par-four, and you think holy dang. The fairway’s narrow and slopes to the left. You gotta carry it about one seventy-five over this deep gully, but if you drive it straight, you can reach the green.”

  Ginger said, “What if you don’t drive it straight?”

  “Don’t miss it left. You might have to go down to Alto to find it, or all the way to Ruidoso. Our members have learned to aim for the trees on the right, hope for a good bounce.”

  “Who designed the course?” I asked.

  “Afraid of Dogs,” Tyler said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Burch Webb did it. You know him, I’m sure. But Sinking Canoe named him ‘Afraid of Dogs’ one day. Mr. Webb was standing out there where the first tee is now, when the course was under construction. These three little dogs got loose from the lady owner who was staying in the hotel. Two little brown dogs, one little white dog. They went yapping after Mr. Webb. I guess he didn’t like dogs or he’d never seen dogs that little and that loud. He started running. Sinking Canoe watched the dogs chase him everywhere, all around, and they didn’t stop till the lady owner ran after them and yelled, ‘Sit…sit!’ She yelled it in a bloodcurdling voice. The little dogs stopped right away and sat down and started to quiver…and so did Mr. Webb. It was kind of funny.”

  Ginger began to rummage through the pro shop, looking for mallets she liked. Tyler Hughes followed her, suggesting things.

  Curious about Ginger’s priorities, I said, “What are you worried about the most, Trey Bishop or your golf clubs?”

  She ignored the question and kept rummaging, slowly selecting a blend of Callaway, TaylorMade, Ping, and Adams metal woods, hybrids, irons, and wedges—and a Titleist Cameron putter.

  Tyler said Ginger didn’t have to pay for the golf clubs. He was honored to let her use them, and she was welcome to keep them if they helped her in the tournament.

  Ginger thanked him and asked if the pro could find her a caddie. “I’ll pay twenty percent of what I win.”

  Tyler said, “First place is three hundred thousand this week. You’re saying if you win you’ll pay your caddie sixty thousand dollars?”

  “He’ll earn it.”

  “Damn, I’ll carry your bag.”

  “You will? How can you leave the shop?”

  “Nobody buys anything in here. Most of the members make their own clubs, and when they’re not playing, they’re wading in the creeks and crawling around in the rough looking for balls. Kenneth can sit here and stare out the window as easy as I can.”

  “If you’re serious…”

  “I’m serious. You intend to play a practice round today, don’t you?”

  “I would like to, yeah.”

  “I’ll meet you on the first tee in an hour. Leave these clubs with me. I’ll put ’em in a good bag. Couple dozen Titleists enough?”

  “You da man, Tyler,” Ginger said.

  I asked Ginger the question again. What worried her the most? Her golf clubs or Trey Bishop’s health?

  “I’m not w
orried about Trey,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know where he is.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “Care to share it with me?”

  “He’s found a honey in Taos with a hot bod and no morals. That’s exactly where he is…and he’s fired.”

  I started to say he’d found every man’s dream, but I settled for “You’re dumping Trey? Hasn’t he been a good caddie for you? You’ve won with him.”

  She said, “Trey doesn’t club me and he doesn’t read greens for me. All I need is somebody to carry the bag, keep the clubs clean, and be on time. That’s mainly what I ask.”

  “Maybe Trey’s been in an accident,” I said.

  “What, he fell off the bed and broke his dick?”

  20

  The Trey Bishop mystery was solved when he phoned the ladies on Wednesday night before the tournament started. The details of their conversation were reported to me later when the three of us dined together in the Tomahawk Room in the lodge.

  There were other restaurants in the lodge and casino, but the Tomahawk Room looked like the safest and quietest. Among the others to choose from in the lodge and casino were Dances with Jalapeños, Custer’s Revenge, Soup R Bowl, and Fattest Woman.

  Trey was in love and intended to change his life. That was the red meat of the phone call.

  First, he apologized for having car trouble and not letting them hear from him. Second, he apologized for getting trapped in the sudden blizzard that gripped Taos for two days and rendered his leaving impossible.

  Eventually he got around to saying they could ignore that—he lied—and he was sure Ginger and Thurlene would love Ashley if they ever came to Taos someday and met her.

  “Ashley,” Ginger said. “Jesus.”

  “It could be worse,” I said.

  “How?”

  “It could be Amber.”