Judy said, “You can only play the course. You can only handle one shot at a time. What the others do is their business.”
I smiled at her. “Intuitive, aren’t you? Let’s go.”
Jean Dunning managed to ignore us as we passed her. Chopko watched us go and then signaled the bartender for his tab.
Judy in a swimming suit is a sight to turn a strong man to jelly. I wasn’t quite a strong man; I was merely working toward that end. And maybe, I thought, that could be mine without a ring. Judy was no prude.
And what are you, Dennis Burke? Try to be a gentleman. Nor is this a time to think of Judy’s body. Thirty-six big holes tomorrow.
We spent the hot afternoon in the pool and the cool evening at a driving range. Gene English was tied with Art Kell for third place now. Levine had blown up, but Gene had carded another 69 to give him a fine 138 total for the halfway mark.
Was I a good front-runner? The fans seem to admire the man who comes from nowhere in the field, to finish in a blaze of birdies. That’s too easy; what can the man lose that isn’t already lost? To me, the real champ is the man who starts on top and stays on top. That takes real concentration and the perfect golfing temperament.
I had six strokes on Gene and Art and five on Clare. If I couldn’t protect that, I was playing out of my league.
The local paper called me, “This cool perfectionist who shows neither pleasure nor displeasure at a shot, who reminds this writer of another insulated shot-maker, Bantam Ben Hogan. On the glaring fairways of the Coast Country Club, today—”
Judy said, “You don’t even smile when you read about yourself. You don’t even look smug.”
“Tomorrow night,” I promised her, “if all goes well, I will smile and look smug. I will turn into Dennis Burke, human being, again.”
I thought of watching the U.S. Open on TV, and Gene Sarazen congratulating Ben Hogan on his apparent victory. Ben had remonstrated with Gene, reminding him there were still some players out on the course to be heard from. Gene had laughed that off.
But Jack Fleck had been out there, and he’d finished in a tie with Ben, and he’d beat him in the playoff. For the biggest title in the game.
Ben hadn’t smiled and looked smug for the TV cameras, though his victory seemed assured. He’d looked cool and cordial as he always did, except when annoyed by asses. And he’d been right, as usual. There’ had been some players on the course to be heard from.
The most important shot in golf is the last one.
Judy said, “You’re in your cocoon, again.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry.”
“Kiss me.”
“Tomorrow night. You’re too attractive to kiss now.”
She sighed. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Good night, honey.”
“One thing you mustn’t forget,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“There are twenty-four hours in a day. Out in the sun, maybe you don’t need anybody but Charles. But the nights can get awful damned lonely, mister.”
“I know, Judy,” I said. “Please, let’s not quarrel.”
She bent over, and her lips brushed my forehead. She left the court, walking slowly toward her room, and I watched her all the way.
A sigh and Chopko sat down in a nearby chair. “You’re sitting right up there, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t see your friend around this evening. Did he check out?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Chopko, I’d rather not talk. I came out here to relax.”
His voice was gruff. “Sorry, Mr. Burke.” He didn’t sound sorry.
The Jaguar came in from the highway, and I said, “There’s your man, now, Mr. Chopko, if you want to talk to him.”
“I didn’t want to talk to him. I was just making conversation.”
Pat came over and looked at us both silently. Then he said to Chopko, “Are you following me? You followed me from Los Angeles, didn’t you? I recognize that Chev.”
“That’s a common model,” Chopko said. “Don’t get hot, big boy.”
“I know all about you,” Pat went on, “except who hired you. Do you want to tell me that?”
Chopko said soothingly, “Simmer down, son. It’s been a hot day.”
Pat smiled. “How would you like to cool off? How would you like to hit the pool?” He paused. “From here.”
“You’d cool off, too,” Chopko said. “In the tank. Son, I’m beginning to lose my patience.”
“Why don’t you?” Pat said. “That’s what I’m waiting for.”
“Please, Pat,” I said wearily. “The man has a right to be here. You’ don’t know that he followed you. Sit down and relax.”
He paused, looking between us, and then turned and walked toward his suite.
“Excitable,” Chopko said. “Big man, too, isn’t he?”
I didn’t answer.
“Rich, too,” Chopko said. “But not as good-looking as his sister, eh?”
I said evenly, “Mr. Chopko, I probably saved you from the longest air trip you could make without taking a plane. For that small service, I’ll accept your silence.”
“Huh!” Chopko said. “I know a little judo. I can take care of myself.”
I stood up. “All right. I’ll leave you in peace to take care of yourself. Good night, Mr. Chopko.”
I went into the manager’s office to see if tomorrow morning’s Los Angeles Times had come in, but it hadn’t. Pat came out from his suite in swimming trunks as I headed for my room. He didn’t see me and I didn’t say anything to him.
I didn’t know much about private investigators, but it seemed reasonable to guess they cost money. Who could be paying Chopko? C. R. Faulkner, perhaps?
I fell asleep after a while and dreamed about Judy swimming in the water of the bay along the twelfth fairway. She was wearing one of those old-fashioned suits, with legs and sleeves.
I awakened, wet with perspiration, in the dark room. I could hear Charles’ snore and the dim sound of voices in the next unit. I got out of bed and lighted a cigarette and went over to sit near a window.
There were only a few lights in the court; the pool was in darkness. A thin and rangy alley cat was sniffling around a trash barrel, moving very quietly and carefully. A pair of headlights from the highway illuminated the courtyard briefly and passed on.
I’ve got the game, I thought. Have I got the guts? I can’t expect to win much, if any my first year. Nine hundred dollars won’t go far.
My dad had said a man should do what he does the best and likes the most. He hadn’t. Yet—a fascinating man, Judy had called him.
The cat looked around carefully, as though suspecting a trap, and then jumped to the open top of the trash barrel. Look before you leap, Dennis Burke. Things could be mighty soft for you if you play your hand right.
Somewhere a door slammed. The cat jumped down from the barrel and went scurrying off into the shadows near the pool. I stretched and went back to bed.
We’d left word for a seven o’clock call; we were due on the first tee at eight, I’d be playing with Clare Dunning and Jess Harper. We should get the big Sunday gallery.
It turned out to be another hot morning. Generally, the fog keeps the mornings cool along the coast, but we were getting a week-end of unusual weather.
The first tee crowd wasn’t as big as I’d expected; it was too early in the morning for most fans. It would grow, if Clare and I were on our games.
I had about five minutes of warm-up time and I tried to climb into my cocoon during that period. One shot at a time, one shot at a time, no imagination and no memory…
On the first tee, Clare was gabbing with Jess and Jean, but only Jean seemed to be listening. Then they both came over to shake hands with me, and Jean melted back into the crowd.
For some reason, my confidence was high; I knew I was going to have a good round. From the first booming tee
shot to the last twelve-foot putt, I played like the mechanical man. My insulation was complete; I’d had no idea Clare was matching me stroke for stroke. I didn’t remember more than three shots that Clare had had all morning.
We finished with identical 67’s and I was still five strokes up on him, with one round to go.
As Pat, Judy and I walked up to the clubhouse with Jess Harper, he said, “The talking man. It didn’t throw your game off, though, did it?”
“Who?”
Pat laughed, and Jess shook his head. Judy said, “My gosh, Denny, Clare was yacking away for eighteen holes. You mean you didn’t hear him?”
“Once or twice I heard some muttering. I thought it was in the gallery.”
When we were having lunch, Neil MacDonald came over to tell me, “If Clare bothers you, Denny, I can split you up for this final round. A couple of the members who were in your gallery tell me Clare was kind of noisy.”
“It wouldn’t look right, Neil,” I said. “I didn’t even hear him.”
He smiled. “Okay. I knew you’d say that—golfer.”
Neil had seen a lot of them. It was the highest compliment he knew. I stared at the table as he walked away.
Pat said quietly, “Speaking of Clare Dunning, look who is sitting with him, now.”
Three tables away, Chopko had joined the Dunnings and the Wests. Jean Dunning was talking to him animatedly.
Pat said, “It doesn’t figure. What do the Dunnings know about me?”
Judy was frowning. “Will somebody please brief me on this dialogue? I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Later,” I said wearily. “Please, Pat?”
No imagination, no memory, one shot at a time…
Silence for a few seconds, and then Judy said, “The world is a golf ball to you, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “At the moment.”
It was a quiet meal, worded with occasional trivialities.
But some of the cocoon had been torn away. I became conscious of Clare’s game that afternoon. I measured it against my own, stroke for stroke. That makes the game competitive and brings it down to the level of the other sports. That can be disastrous.
He picked up a stroke on me through the first nine. Which still put me four up on the 64th tee. With nine holes to go, four strokes should do it. I tried to climb back into my shell.
Clare was playing it like match play, and he’s a master there. But this was medal play and so long as I didn’t think of his game, I felt I could come through. If my game had been better than his for 63 holes, wasn’t it logical that a four-stroke lead should be insurmountable for him?
I don’t know what he shot on the tenth or the eleventh. I knew I was parring them. He must have bogeyed one; on the twelfth tee, I had the honors.
Charles said, “Play it safe, now. It’s an easy par the safe way. Let Clare gamble, if he wants to.”
The safe way was to the right. Driver, or brassie? There was some breeze, blowing toward the water. Keep it low and hit into the wind; strategy golf. The driver.
Then Clare’s voice finally came through. He said genially, “You’ve the honor. Belt one, killer.”
Killer…
The word hung in the air. I thought of Chopko eating with him. I saw Bud Venier’s bloody face. I saw Judy’s wild hook that had resulted in my discovering Bud’s body.
Muscle memory? Who knows? Who really knows, now? I couldn’t believe Clare had meant to shake me. I looked over and saw his wife’s impassive face.
I took the driver, and played it the safe way, along the shoreline. But that right hand came in, just as Judy’s pressing right hand had come in at Canyon.
And the hook went sailing out, reaching for the water as a gasp came up from the huge gallery.
Charles was teeing up another ball as Clare came over to whisper, “Denny, you didn’t think I meant—I mean—”
“Stand back, please,” I said.
Charles said quietly, “Play an iron, Denny. A low one, into that wind. You’ve got this sewed up, and you never hook an iron.”
“Stand back, please,” I said, and I could feel myself unravel. My voice had been shaky.
Easy, now. Light right hand, pull through and follow through and show them the game they expect to see from you. Easy does it, right toward that group of three trees on the right edge of the fairway.
The hook came again and the gasp came again as the ball went arching into the water of the bay.
Clare’s face was stricken. I didn’t look beyond it at his wife’s.
Charles handed me a two iron.
It was the worst iron I’d hit in months, a topped ball that just trickled along the shoreline. Behind me, the gallery murmur grew louder.
Somehow, I hacked my way to the green, finally. I didn’t learn until the round was over that I’d taken an eleven on the hole. I bogeyed the thirteenth and then fought my way back to par. I finished with a sidehill birdie putt of twenty-two feet on the last green.
Clare came over to shake my hand, and I didn’t look at him as he apologized. He offered his hand to Jess, but Jess walked away from it.
I didn’t stay around to see what the others were doing. I went back to the motel with Judy and Pat. They were both furious, but none of their words came through to me. I went right into a warm shower as soon as we were at the motel.
And then I lay on the bed, trying to blank my mind, waiting for Charles to come with the word.
Clare, I knew, had beaten me by six strokes. He’d picked up seven on that twelfth hole.
At six, Charles came into tell me Clare’s game had been good enough to win. And my last round 80 had given me a 279 for the meet. Which is good golf on a tough course, but put me into a three-way tie for sixth place.
Charles said, “Some of the boys are pretty angry, Denny. The word has spread.”
“My fault,” I said. “I’d be getting worse than that, on the trail. I should know a man has to be deaf.”
Pat stuck his head through the open doorway. “Come on, Denny, let’s eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“Well, come on outside,” he said. “Don’t sit in here and brood.”
Then Judy was there. “Please, Denny! It’s all over now. There’ll be other meets.”
I went out to sit next to the pool with Pat and Judy. Pat had mixed a shaker full of Martinis.
The first one hit me. I hadn’t eaten and I was bushed and lassitude came with the alcohol and the outlines softened around me and I guess my dialogue wasn’t very coherent.
And then a voice said, “Game of nerves, this golf, isn’t it?”
I looked up into the broad face of Chopko and the outlines were no longer soft and my lassitude was gone.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” I said.
His smile was uncertain. “Easy, boy. You’re a little drunko, huh?”
“Get out of my sight,” I said, and started to get up.
He put a hand forward to push me gently back again, and I avoided it and got to my feet. He put a hand up again, and I swung the right from center field.
I had the unholy satisfaction of feeling one of his teeth crack before the lights went out…
CHAPTER SEVEN
I WAS ON THE ground, under a pepper tree, when my eyes opened. Pat and Judy were looking down at me, and over their heads I could see the face of the manager.
“Did he hit me?” I asked.
“Real clean,” Pat said. “One punch.”
“Where is the bastard?”
Pat grinned. “Changing his clothes. I threw him into the pool, like I promised him I would.”
The manager said, “This is no barroom, you understand, gentlemen, and I won’t have this kind—”
Pat turned to look at him calmly. “Shut up.”
I don’t know if it was Pat’s size or the sixteen dollars a day, but the manager shut up.
Judy asked, “Are you all right, Denny? Can you get up?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m dandy. I’m tied for sixth place.”
Pat bent down to help me up. “You need to eat, boy. And right now.”
“And while we eat,” Judy said tartly, “you boys can fill me in on all these things I don’t know about.”
“Sure, sis,” Pat said. “It’s Sunday night and we can get back to the trivial things, like murder.”
We drove out to a shore restaurant for dinner and there we told Judy about Chopko.
Judy looked strangely at Pat. “Why did you check him? Even if he is a private detective, why should that bother you?”
“Because I don’t like to be followed. And I don’t like private detectives, even when they aren’t following me. And besides, I’m naturally pugnacious.” He met his sister’s gaze. “Did you have some other reason in mind for my checking him?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
She looked away.
“And besides that,” I said, “Pat’s got his own private suspect for the murder.”
“That’s right,” Pat said.
Judy stared at him. “Who?”
“Say ‘please’ and I’ll tell you.”
“Please.”
“Doctor Evans,” he said.
Judy shook her head. “You’re crazy. You get more adolescent every day. Just because Bud flirted with Mrs. Evans a few times?”
“Bud doesn’t flirt, if you mean flirting. If you mean more, remember that we haven’t all the sophisticated background of a European education. A few of us think adultery is a sin.”
“You’re a mighty sinful man, then, Brother Patrick.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ve got more, too, but it’s not for publication yet. Not with that reward Papa Venier just offered.”
Both Judy and I looked at him quizzically.
“Don’t you two listen to the radio? Ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and so forth—”
“You don’t need the money,” I said. “Tell me what you know.”
He shook his head, and started to eat.
Every dollar-chaser at the club would now be playing amateur detective, and wouldn’t Sergeant Morrow love that? All of them keeping what information they might have in the hope they could dig out enough more to make it worth ten thousand dollars.
Fair Prey Page 7
