Fair Prey

by William Campbell Gault

  “You’ve been drinking,” I said.

  “Not much. With Bud, it helps to drink a little.” She smiled up at me. “He can be so dull.”

  Her body next to mine, her perfume in my nostrils, the band playing a number with my kind of beat. We danced, and talked no more about Bud Venier.

  The number ended, and there was no Bud in sight. I asked, “Shall I go look for him?”

  “Not unless you want to get rid of me.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” I said, again.

  “And you’re being stuffy,” she answered. “Take me out where I can get some air.”

  This wasn’t the sunny and sun-tanned Judy of our teens. This was a girl who had been to school in Switzerland and no doubt seen a lot of Europe and a lot of people since I carried her dad’s clubs so long ago.

  We went outside and smoked a pair of cigarettes and looked at all the fairways below, now deserted in the moonlight. We didn’t talk much and I’ve forgotten now what we did say to each other.

  We came in to dance again, and a few of the boys cut in on me, but not one of the boys was Bud. I asked Henry, at the bar, if he’d seen him.

  Henry shook his head. “But there’s a free-wheeling poker game going on in the locker room. That could be a good try.”

  I didn’t check it that far at the time. I wasn’t his keeper.

  I had a drink and danced with Judy some more. It didn’t seem like anything I’d ever grow tired of doing; let Bud rot in the locker room.

  But all dances end, even in California. I told Judy, “I think I know where Bud is—I’ll get him for you.”

  “It’s your decision,” she said. “Not mine.”

  There were seven of them in the game and very few chips in front of Bud Venier. I said, “The dance is over, Bud. Judy’s ready to go home.”

  “The name,” he said, “is Venier, Mister Venier. Thank you for the message, boy. Tell Miss Faulkner I’m not quite ready. About two hundred dollars from now, I’ll be ready.”

  The other men at the table looked embarrassed. My face was burning, and I knew I was blushing. I said, “I’ll tell her, Mr. Venier.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE MEN’S LOCKER ROOM at Canyon is immense and the walk back to the bar seemed even longer, tonight. I had never been this humiliated in my life; I’d never had a stronger urge to swing on somebody.

  There wasn’t a man at that table I hadn’t played with and wasn’t on a first name basis with. But not one of them had remonstrated with Bud Venier. He was a member, and a wealthy one.

  And also a husky one and drunk, I reminded myself. Don’t judge the others too harshly, Dennis Burke.

  Back in the bar, July said, “What happened? Something’s happened.”

  “Nothing,” I said,

  “Don’t lie to me. You look ready to commit murder, Denny. Was Bud insolent?”

  “He’s—been drinking,” I answered. “He isn’t’ quite ready to go home, yet.”

  “Have you a car?” she asked. “Could you take me home?”

  “I have a ’49 Chev,” I said. “I think it will make it.”

  She studied me. “My, aren’t we resentful? Tell me what happened in the locker room.”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and the pro shop has to be open at seven o’clock.”

  Her face stiffened and we walked in silence to my car in the parking lot. The Chev ground into life and her retreads crunched gravel and I asked, “Amalfi Drive, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Denny, there’s no reason for you to be angry with me, just because Bud’s such an awful ass.”

  “I’m not angry,” I said. “I—well, I’m not angry with you.”

  Silence. On Sunset, a Cad convertible went zooming by, thirty miles an hour over the speed limit. The Chev’s tappets clacked noisily.

  “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you,” Judy said quietly. “Do you remember it? That first day I played with Dad?”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t talk to me,” she said. “You talked about me, in front of me, to him. You were shy, weren’t you?”

  “Not much,” I said. “But I knew my place.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “My dad worked his way through engineering school by waiting on tables in a cheap restaurant.”

  “All right,” I said. “But he’s not waiting on tables now. Judy, I’m sorry I’m grumpy, but it’s been a restless time for me since graduation.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll shut up. But when are we going to play again? You owe me a chance to get even.”

  “I’ll tear up the check,” I said, “and you’ll be even.”

  A silence that grew and grew and grew, and then she finally said, “Well, to hell with you, Dennis Burke. I’ve got some pride.”

  Me, too, I thought. I said nothing. The Chev rattled down Amalfi and Judy said, “Five more houses. The one with the white rail fence in front.”

  It was a circular driveway and I drove her to the front door. I was starting to get out from my side to open the car door for her, when she said, “Don’t bother. I can manage.”

  She got out of the car and didn’t look back.

  I had been a slob and I knew it. That bit about her dad was true; he’d made his money from patents and his first big patent, for oil refining equipment, had started to pay off when he was still under thirty. Judy wasn’t class conscious. But she was C. R. Faulkner’s only daughter and his favorite child. It wasn’t a league where I was prepared to bat.

  And now she knew I knew it. Bud Venier and his friends had brought me back to the cold world of reality.

  It was two-thirty and there was no reason for a light to be on at our house. The folks never left a light for me.

  I came in to find Dad working on some papers in the living room. The room was heavy with cigarette smoke and my dad looked drawn and tired.

  “I hope you’re getting time and a half,” I said.

  He shook his head and smiled at me. “Nope. But I think I’ve finally found something I can sell. How’s everything with you, boy?”

  “Oh—fair. Better come to bed, Dad. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  “Pretty soon. Denny, you look disturbed about something.”

  I thought about it a moment, and then told him what had happened tonight.

  When I’d finished, he said, “That sounds like a Venier. His father was an arrogant ass, too. Played fullback for Stanford.” Dad smiled. “We clobbered him every year. Truck Darter used to lay for him. I guess I told you—” He broke off. “There I go again, making noises like a halfback.”

  “Why not?” I said. “How many men gained two hundred and forty-six yards in a Rose Bowl game?”

  He was still smiling. “Thank you, Denny. You can go to sleep with a clear conscience, now.”

  I went to bed but not right to sleep. It had been one hell of a mixed-up day, half despondent, half elated. It had ended on a sour note.

  Well, Dad had tried to tell me…I went to sleep remembering that.

  At six-thirty, my alarm went off. I’d had three hours of sleep. I shaved at home, figuring to get a shower and some breakfast later, at the Club.

  Some of the early birds were already waiting to get their clubs, and the next hour and a half was well occupied. When Willie’s assistant came, I went into the grill for breakfast.

  C. R. Faulkner was in there, at a table all alone. He saw me and beckoned me over.

  “Judy told me about last night,” he said.

  I sat down across from him. I said nothing.

  “It won’t happen again,” he said. “I’ll have a word with young Venier.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “He was well within his rights.”

  The waiter came over and I ordered eggs. When the waiter left, I said, “After all, I’m not a student any more. Or honorary member.”

  C. R. smiled. It was a very chilling smile. He said quietly,

&
nbsp; “I’ve picked up a few deficits at this Club. And if I complain about a member’s bad manners, I don’t think the complaint will be overlooked. Young Venier brought my daughter to the dance and when she was ready to go home, he refused to take her.”

  Well, complaining about that wasn’t anything that concerned me. I said nothing.

  C. R. sipped his coffee. “Judy tells me you still play a beautiful game of golf, Denny.”

  “So does she,” I said, “except for her fairway woods. I guess she hasn’t been playing much lately, has she?”

  “I guess not,” he said.

  And there was a silence. It wasn’t a natural silence; it felt like one of those quiet pauses that precede words a man is doubtful about voicing.

  My eggs and toast came, and I started to eat.

  I was halfway through my eggs when he said, “Judy is an impulsive and sentimental girl. She gets it from her mother.”

  All right, C. R., I thought, I get the picture. I’ve been warned. I nodded, saying nothing.

  “She’s my only daughter,” he went on, “and I guess I’ve spoiled her a little.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said evenly. “She’s very unaffected, and about the best-loved member of this club.” I looked up to meet his gaze steadily.

  A faint flush in his cheeks, and I thought, Migawd, C. R. is embarrassed. I never thought I’d see this day.

  He started to say something, and stopped. Then he said, “I’ve always admired you, Denny. You’re a very forthright young man.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “This is good coffee, isn’t it? I think we have the best coffee in town.”

  He studied me a moment and then said, “Excellent.”

  Which was the extent of that morning’s conversation with C. R. Faulkner. His friends came a moment later, and he went out for his Sunday round.

  At noon, I had a shower. At one o’clock I ate a sandwich. At two o’clock, Judy walked into the pro shop.

  “Half a dozen Titleists, please,” she said coolly.

  “Yes, ma’m” I said.

  I made out a chit and she signed it. Then she studied the golf gloves we had and tried out a couple of putters and examined two or three sets of woods, hefting them all. I ignored her.

  After a while, she asked, “Did my father play this morning?”

  “Yes, Miss Faulkner,” I said. “I had breakfast with him just before he went out, around nine o’clock. He should be finished by now.”

  I smiled and went into the back room to clean up some clubs.

  She glared at me. “Thank you.”

  She came over to the open doorway. “Dad is really going to tell that Bud Venier off. That’s what you should have done, last night.”

  I took a deep breath. “Let’s not fight, Judy.”

  Her whole face lighted up. “Okay. Let’s play some golf.”

  “I can’t,” I told her. “Judy, it’s Sunday, our busiest day.”

  “Not after three o’clock,” she said. “Those fairways will be deserted in another hour.”

  I took another breath.

  “I’m going to ask Willie,” she said. “He could never refuse me anything.”

  She went away and I continued to clean clubs. She came back in five minutes. “Willie thinks it’s an excellent idea. I told him I wanted a playing lesson.”

  “I’m not a pro here,” I said.

  “This afternoon you are. Pat’s going to play along with us.”

  Pat was her brother. He weighed about two hundred and twenty pounds and I had seen him hit a ball further than any member of the club could manage. But his handicap was 24.

  She went into the bar and I continued to polish clubs. About a quarter to three, Willie came in to tell me I could go.

  As I was getting my clubs out of the bin, he added, “And you’re not required to swallow insolence, Dennis boy. If any member had talked to me like I understand young Venier talked to you last night, I would have beaten him to death with a wedge. Is that clear?”

  “That’s clear, Willie. But I haven’t your temperament.”

  “You will have, if you stay here long,” he said. “And don’t worry about their weight. You get in that first punch and it will compensate for a lot of weight. Especially with bullies like young Venier.”

  I smiled. “You don’t like him, either, huh?”

  “I never have,” he said, “since he was seven.”

  I took my clubs outside and found Charles picking up paper around the tenth tee. Charles is fifty, and the best caddie we have. He looks like a refugee from Skid Row and owns an interest in three filling stations.

  “Double?” he asked. On Sundays, Charles will not carry single; there’s not enough money in it.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Going to buy another filling station, Charles?”

  He ignored that. “Who are you playing with?”

  “Pat and Judy Faulkner.”

  He smiled. “I’ll carry for them. You can get Tony.”

  I gave him a cold eye. “I’ll get Tony for them and Red for me. Red’s a better caddie, anyway.” He hated Red.

  He paused, frowning. Then he smiled. “All right, I’ll carry for you, Denny. I like to watch you hit them.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And maybe you can carry Judy’s too. We’ll let Pat have Red; he deserves him.”

  He looked very happy. “That’s what we’ll do. That’s a pair deserve each other.”

  That’s the way it was. Judy and I down the middle, making very little work for Charles, carrying double. And Pat spraying them all over the course, making a lot of work for Red, carrying single.

  We didn’t bet today, and it was a good thing for me. I couldn’t seem to find the rhythm; my mental attitude was wrong. With golf, you can’t think about anything else. Not about money, nor love, nor hate, nor the state of the world. You can only think about one thing when you’re playing, and that’s golf.

  The grill was crowded when we came back, filled with card players. But we found a table in the corner.

  Three tables away, Bud Venier was playing gin with Doc Evans.

  Pat asked, “Should I go over and slap him, just for kicks?”

  Judy frowned at him. “You did that once, Pat, remember?”

  “When I was thirteen. And he damned near killed me. But Sis, I’ve put on a few pounds since then.”

  “Isn’t he a friend of yours?” I asked.

  Pat shook his head. “Of Judy’s. Never of mine.”

  “Since the beating,” Judy explained tartly. She pulled the glove off her left hand. “I’ll take a vodka and tonic.”

  There had been a lot of discussion today about what had happened last night. Which should have served to isolate it as an incident rather than suggest it as a standard attitude.

  It still didn’t make me feel like a Faulkner or a Venier. Everybody was trying too hard to make me feel at home; no member at that poker table had made the try last night.

  Cool, cool, cool, Dennis Burke. Emotion will get you nowhere. More than cool—cold. My dad had told me that when I’d been sixteen.

  Doug Ford beat Dr. Cary Middlecoff for the PGA title the following Tuesday in Detroit. The last eighteen holes had been too much golf in one day for Middlecoff.

  The young ones were coming along, Billy Maxwell and Bud Holscher and Gene Littler and Mike Souchak. At the Canyon Country Club, Denny Burke checked the swing weights of a new member’s clubs.

  The new member’s seven and nine irons were out of balance, not matched with the rest. This startling information did not cause any perceptible reaction in the world’s capitals. In econ, I had learned that big profits usually resulted only from big risks. The phone rang, and I answered it.

  Judy said, “Eighteen?”

  “I—am—a—working—man.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said. “You’re probably playing gin with Willie right now.” I said nothing. “Please?” she said. “Willie told me Sunday to consider you available any time I wanted y
ou.” A chuckle. “I guess there is another deficit shaping up.”

  The sun was out and it was ten o’clock; all the women had teed off. I said, “At your service, Miss Faulkner. You picked a good day.”

  “Ten-thirty,” she said. “Bring your wallet, horseshoes.”

  “I can’t afford to bet,” I said. “I don’t make that kind of money.”

  “After I’m forty dollars into you, you can quit,” she said. “Ten-thirty.” She hung up.

  Well, I still had her check and would pay her with that if I lost. For some reason, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to cashing it.

  Charles was down on the practice range, painting the old tires we used as targets and I called to tell him he had a double at ten-thirty.

  “Miss Faulkner?” he asked, and I nodded.

  “I’d better clean up,” he said.

  It was the first time I’d ever heard him say that and I had known him for nine years.

  She was there at ten-twenty-five, in shorts and T-shirt and the day seemed warmer and there was some lassitude in my knees.

  “Psychological warfare,” she explained. “I knew this would distract you.”

  “You didn’t used to be so bold,” I said.

  “And you didn’t used to be so handsome. Five a side, now, you promised me.”

  “That’s ridiculous, with your handicap,” I said, “but a promise is a promise.”

  Charles looked from Judy’s legs to the first green and back to Judy’s legs. From the clubhouse porch, Willie smiled benignly, giving us his silent blessing.

  There is no separate ladies’ tee on the first hole so Judy shot first. She really laced one down the middle, about eighty yards short of the barranca. Mine wasn’t much more than thirty yards longer.

  She put a three wood fifty yards from the green, and I put what I had into a three iron. It was a sweetheart, pinbound all the way, soaring and reaching. Kissing the green and bouncing toward the pin—and I’d be putting for an eagle.

  “Ye gods!” Judy said. “You’re on in two. And with an iron.”

  “Boys are stronger than girls,” I said.

  Charles handed me my putter, and took the three iron.

  “Five a side,” Judy muttered. “I should have seven, you sandbagger.”

  She was fifty yards from the green in two; I was on. But from fifty yards out, she hit the chip that broke my heart. It landed to the left of the pin and followed the slope to stop six inches short of the hole.