Gene said, “Mapes tells me you looked like Hogan out there this morning, Denny.”
I shook my head. “I followed him often. I wish I had his mental attitude.”
Money, money, money…Judy had money. And what good was money now doing Bud Venier?
From the shower-room doorway, Pat called, “Let’s get off the dime, Denny. I’m starving.”
Pat went away, and Gene said, “That I should live to see, a Faulkner starving.”
If I married Judy, maybe Gene would live to see it. I toweled myself, thinking not of the twelfth hole nor Bud’s bloody face nor Judy Faulkner. I forced my mind to think of a ball resting where it should for the proper middle iron shot and I thought of how I would go back and come into it, taking the proper divot.
Muscle memory, as Mr. Ben Hogan calls it.
We ate at the club, at a big table with Clare Dunning and his wife, Gene English and Walt Lertwich. Most or the talk was about Denny Burke’s very hot 64.
Clare said, “I never felt as old as I did when I saw that score posted. I felt a hundred years old.”
Jean Dunning said, “You didn’t look a day over eighty-six, darling.”
He glanced briefly at her, and said, “It was hot out here. That sun got to me right from the first hole.”
Gene said, “That wasn’t the sun, Clare—that was Denny.”
The light touch and faintly nervous laughter, but tomorrow was another day. They were still there when Pat and I left.
The day’s heat had held and the motel pool looked inviting. Pat and Charles and I spent an hour splashing around. Then we put on robes and relaxed in the pool-side chairs.
I said, “I keep remembering how the early leaders fade in the big meets, how the morning glories wilt when the big names start to burn.”
“The big names are in Milwaukee,” Pat said. “You are playing with your peers, Denny. Peers—hell, you’re playing with your inferiors.”
“No,” I said.
“All right, your peers. And you’ve got a two-stroke lead on the best of them. Let Clare do the worrying, boy—he’s behind.”
“Think golf,” Charles said, “not Clare Dunning. Think of the course, not your competitors. They can’t beat you if you beat the course.”
“All right, Charles,” I said. “You’re right, Charles.”
Pat laughed, and stood up. “I’m glad I was born rich. I would hate to compete in the open market against an operator like you, Charles.”
Charles’ voice was soft. “I’d trade with you, any time, Mr. Faulkner. I wish I had your personality and your strength and your decency. You could keep the money.”
There was a silence, and then Pat said, “Well, thank you. Thank you very much, Charles.”
“If all the members were like the Faulkners,” Charles said, “Canyon would be the finest country club in America.”
“Don’t milk it, Charles,” I said. “You’ve made your point.”
I thought of the Canyon grill and Pat asking me if he should go over and slap Bud Venier just for kicks. I thought of the cold ground where Bud Venier was now insulated from the heat.
Pat was strong enough to break Bud’s neck with his hands. He wouldn’t need to bludgeon him. In strength, Pat was to Bud what Bud had been to me.
Charles stood up. “Well, you young fellows can sit up all night. It’s been a heavy day for me.”
From the highway came the sound of tires on concrete and the blare of a Diesel truck. From one of the motel units there was the sound of a woman’s laughter and soft music from a radio.
Pat said, “Did you notice that stocky man who was in the lunchroom this morning? He looked like a cop, didn’t he?”
“I thought so.”
Pat sat down on the end of the diving board. “I think he followed me down here. There was a new Chev tailing me most of the way, and I saw one like it in front of one of the units here tonight.”
“We don’t know the man’s a policeman, Pat.”
“No. But isn’t it strange we both thought he was? They can’t think I’m the killer, can they?”
“The police? I guess they can think it about any of us.” I leaned back and looked at the stars. “He was in my gallery.”
“Because I was there. He didn’t follow you down.”
“And you don’t know if it’s the same man,” I said. “There are a lot of Chev’s manufactured, you know. You don’t even know if the one here is his, do you?”
“No, but I’m going to find out,” Pat said. “I’m going to get his name off the registration slip. It might be on the steering column, or in the glove compartment.”
I looked over at him. “You’re crazy, Pat. You could get in trouble, nosing around a stranger’s car.
“Don’t worry about me, Denny. I won’t do anything foolish. And if I do, I won’t get caught at it.” He stood up. “I think I’ll go see the manager.”
“All right. But don’t tell me what you learn. All I want to think about is golf.”
He stopped to look my way. “Golly, I’d forgotten that. Sorry, Denny.”
“It’s all right. I didn’t expect better from a man with a handicap of twenty-four. Carry on, Pat.”
His big body disappeared in the shadows of the unlighted section of the court and then came into view again as he approached the manager’s office. Why was he playing detective? Bud’s death hadn’t put Pat into mourning. Was it self-interest that drove him?
I closed my eyes and pictured the first fairway and went on from there, playing each hole shot by shot. Then I heard footsteps and a voice said, “You looked great out there, today.”
I opened my eyes. The stocky man was sitting in one of the aluminum and plastic webbing chairs nearby.
“Used to play a little golf myself,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
He paused, studying me. “I didn’t mean tournament golf.”
“I guessed that. Where did you play your golf, Mr.—?”
“Chopko,” he said. “I played at Fox Hills. Do you know where that is?”
“Sure. Slauson and Sepulveda, in Los Angeles. That’s where you live, in Los Angeles?”
“In Santa Monica,” he answered. “I’m down here on business, but I just couldn’t keep away from that golf course today.”
“I see. You’ve kept up your interest in the game.”
“I guess I have. Tried to kill it. It’s not really a game, is it? It’s a disease.”
“It’s a game,” I said. “To wives, it’s probably a disease. But to me, it’s a game.”
“Wives?” he said. “You married, Mr. Burke?”
I shook my head. “Are you?”
“Not right now. I was. I see by the papers that you’re credited to Canyon Country Club. That’s kind of a fancy place, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “I never found it that way. What paper did you see that in?”
“Golly, I forget, now. Lot of wealthy women around that Canyon, I’ll bet.”
“A few. Men, too. Don’t you like wealthy people, Mr. Chopko?”
“I can live without ’em. How about you?”
“I’ve never given it much thought. I guess I’m not class conscious.”
Silence. He stretched and yawned. From the direction of the motel, the same woman’s laughter drifted over to us. I wondered if Pat had really gone to bed.
Chopko said, “That fellow who was out here with you, before, isn’t he from Los Angeles, too?”
“No,” I said, “he’s from Billings, Montana. He’s a dude ranch wrangler. Plays the guitar, too.” I stood up. “Well, hope you can make it tomorrow, Mr. Chopko. I’ve got to get my sleep.”
Silence, and then he said, “Sure thing. Pleasant dreams.” His voice was not friendly.
If he were an officer of the law, I doubted that he would have introduced himself to me. He could be a private detective, but that meant he’d been hired by someone. Who?
I tried to blank him out of my mind. I manag
ed it, finally, by thinking about Judy. I fell asleep thinking about Judy. I awoke in the morning, early. Too early. I was not due on the first tee until 10:30.
Charles said, “You’re the big draw, now. They want to give you a time that will bring the customers in.”
“And put me into the noon-day heat,” I said. “I’d rather start at eight o’clock.”
Pat ate without talking at breakfast, looking exceptionally thoughtful for him.
I said, “The man’s name is Chopko and he lives in Santa Monica and he used to play golf at Fox Hills. He was married, but isn’t now, and I told him you were a dude wrangler from Billings, Montana.”
Pat stared at me. “Are you crazy?”
“No. I talked to the man last night. He came out to the pool.”
“But why this Billings bit?”
“Because he didn’t give me any reason to assume he had a right to correct answers. Now, let’s not talk about him any more until after Sunday.”
“He asked about me, though?”
“He asked about you. I could guess that he might be a private detective.”
“That’s what he is,” Pat said. “I made some phone calls last night. Sunday night, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Charles said, “Maybe you’d better try a driving range this morning, Denny. That practice fairway at the club will probably be jammed.”
Pat gulped his coffee and said, “I’ll see you both at ten-thirty. Stay cool, kid.” He waved, winked and went out.
Five minutes after he’d left, I was reading about myself in the Los Angeles Times. I was reading, “This torrid young sharpshooter, representing the Canyon Country Club, went out on the tricky Coast layout in San Diego and shot a dazzling—”
And someone said, “Hello, Torrid.”
I turned to see Judy standing in the lunchroom doorway.
“I flew down,” she said. “I can ride back with you Sunday, can’t I?”
“Does your father know you’re here, Judy?”
She nodded, the radiance in her face dimming. “Some welcome.”
I stood up. “I’m sorry. Come on, I’ll buy you a breakfast.”
“I had it on the plane,” she said. She smiled at Charles. “Your champion isn’t very nice, is he?”
“Today’s important,” Charles said gravely. “After Sunday he can afford to be nice again, Miss Faulkner.”
Judy’s face was bland. “Oh? Some sort of training program?”
“You’re a golfer,” I said. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m a woman first,” she said.
I winked at her. “I know it. That’s the trouble. Sit down, hothead, and have a cup of coffee.”
She had that, and a cigarette, and we were friends again. She came out to the driving range and watched me hit a bucket of balls with the middle irons, and then we went over to the club.
Lee Shirvanian and Jack Woolgar were the rest of the 10:30 threesome. Both had been over par yesterday; they would need a hot round to stay in the limited field that would tee off for tomorrow’s thirty-six holes.
They didn’t make it. Both were pressing, throwing that right hand in for the snap. Both wound up with a savage hook. I didn’t watch them play their shots; that calamitous sluggers hook can be contagious. I concentrated on keeping control of the club at all times, on putting that pill down the middle. I never thought birdie until one stared me in the face.
Two of them did the first nine and I made the turn in a respectable 34. I picked up another on the eleventh and decided to play the twelfth the safe way. My tee shot landed exactly where I wanted it and I parred the hole.
I picked up another bird on the par-three sixteenth, and came home from there in regulation. For a very comforting 68.
It put me six strokes up on the nearest man who’d finished, but yesterday’s low scorers hadn’t come in yet. I wasn’t too worried about them; I’d put a good second round on top of a good first, and no man can do more than that. If somebody went crazy out there, my game wouldn’t change his score.
In the dining room, Judy said, “You never talked to me once in eighteen holes. You didn’t even know I was there, did you?”
“I tried not to know it.”
Pat smiled and looked away.
Judy took a deep breath. She started to say something, and then didn’t say it.
I said, “I don’t want to clean clubs all my life.”
She paused before saying, “No. No, of course not.”
Pat chuckled. “My spoiled sister isn’t getting the attention she thinks she deserves.”
“Go to hell, Lard Faulkner,” Judy said sharply.
Pat smiled at me. “When I was a kid, that word would really steam me. But now that I’m a man and all muscle, poor little Judy hasn’t any weapons left.”
“Not against you, maybe,” I said. “But she has all the weapons she’ll ever need to get a man.”
Judy sniffed. “What man?”
“Any man you want,” I said.
Silence. She looked at me and I looked at her and Pat looked studiously at the menu.
“Say it, Denny,” Judy said.
I could feel myself blush.
Pat said, “I think I’ll have a steak.”
“Say it, Denny,” Judy repeated.
“I love you,” I said. “I guess I always have.”
CHAPTER SIX
PAT CONTINUED TO LOOK at the menu. Judy said, “Shouldn’t we kiss, or something? Isn’t this kind of an occasion?”
Pat said, “The way you’ve been throwing yourself at him, he probably just said it to get you out of his hair.”
“Shut up,” Judy said. “Shut up, you—you—eater.”
Pat laughed and I laughed and finally Judy smiled.
“If you win,” Judy said, “you’d have enough for an engagement ring, wouldn’t you? Just a little one?”
“Because I love you,” I told her, “it doesn’t follow that we’re going to get married. Not unless you can take three-dollar hotel rooms and one-dollar meals. I can’t help loving you, but I can prevent it from making a mouse out of me.”
She looked at me anxiously. “What are you trying to say, Denny?”
“I intend to be a tournament golfer. I intend to give it a long trial. And that means poverty for quite a while. If you want to share that, you could ask Jean Dunning what it’s like. She’d be happy to give you the facts of life.”
Judy said, “I have an allowance.”
“Not married to me, you wouldn’t have. My wife will live on what I earn.”
She frowned.
“Aren’t you being medieval, Dennis Burke?”
“I’m just being me, take it or leave it.”
Pat coughed, and beckoned to a waiter. I said nothing.
Judy said, “If there was another vacant table, I’d—”
Pat said mildly, “I think there’s one over there in the corner, sis.” He smiled at the waiter. “I’ll have the filet with a green salad.”
Judy glared at her brother and then turned to me. Her voice was mild. “Do you want me to go, Denny?”
“Of course not. But please don’t fight. My nerves have been under strict control for four hours. I could unravel, with all this quibbling going on.”
Judy and I ordered and there was a silence.
Then Pat said, “I apologize, sis. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay!”
“I apologize, too,” I said, “if I was rude. I’m too poor and too proud, Judy. Try to understand me.”
“Okay,” she said more gently. “Okay, Denny.”
The heavy-set man came in and went over to the bar, the detective named Chopko. He nodded to me.
I love you. I guess I always have. Why had I said that? It had been truth when I’d voiced it, but what had been the percentage in voicing it? It would only complicate things; I meant to be a golfer, a tournament golfer.
And why? Because there was big money out there on the trail? Th
ere was. also futility. Out of the hundreds who followed the sun each year, perhaps ten players made a respectable living. Why this frantic concern for the big buck? Because my dad had never made it?
Judy asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“About me. I’m wondering why I’m not content to be a nothing.”
Her voice was soft. “What is a ‘nothing,’ Denny? Do you mean being a normal, working family man is nothing?”
“I suppose that’s what I mean. I suppose that’s wrong.”
“That’s wrong,” she said firmly.
Pat said, “I’m glad Dad didn’t think it was wrong. Or both of us would be working for a living, Judy. I could drive a truck and you could run an elevator.”
Judy stared at her brother. “Dad’s a normal, working family man.”
Pat looked at me and shook his head. The waiter brought our orders. Silence, as we started to eat.
Then Charles came in to tell me, “Clare Dunning just finished; he had a seventy-one.”
“How about Levine and English?”
“They’re still out there,” Charles said. “Unofficially, I hear they’re not doing so well.”
Good news. But how did I know that some entrant buried down in tenth place wasn’t taking the course apart this very minute? Clare had probably felt very good about his 66 yesterday until he’d come to the board to discover a young punk named Burke had finished with a 64.
Judy said, “Five up on Clarence Dunning. That’s golf, Denny.”
“Thirty-six holes to go,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “But he’s human, too. And he’s behind.”
Jean Dunning came in and looked around for a table. I waved, but maybe she didn’t see it.
Judy said, “Don’t wave at attractive women when you’re with me, lover.”
“It’s Clare Dunning’s wife,” I said. “I thought she and Clare could eat with us.”
Judy said quietly, “She saw your wave, too, didn’t she?”
“I think she did.”
Judy sighed. “Is that what I’d become?”
I didn’t answer.
Pat said, “That heat is killing me. Why don’t we go back to the motel and get into that pool?”
I hesitated. I wanted to stay there and see how Levine and English finished.
Fair Prey Page 6
