Deep Rough

by A. J. Stewart

  “What the hell.”

  I stepped up to the box like a batter and teed up a ball. I didn’t stretch and I didn’t take a practice swing. Golf is like baseball. It’s a rhythm thing. You can overthink it. Most people do. I dropped the massive club head behind the ball, dug my feet in like Babe Ruth, wiggled my backside because it felt like the thing to do, and pulled the club back.

  I swung it up high around my shoulder, propped for a moment and then drove my momentum down. I wasn’t planning on hitting the cover off the thing. I just wanted to make clean contact. But I drove my hands down and popped my hips and the club head hit the ball with a solid thwack.

  I stayed in position with the club wound right back around my shoulders and then I lifted my head to see. The ball was a missile and it was getting smaller and smaller as it flew into the distance. Heath let out a low whistle.

  “Nice,” he said. “That’s got to be close on three hundred yards.”

  I moved back to the bag and wiped the club clean, and then I returned it to the bag.

  “You should be out here, with us,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I can’t putt.”

  I picked up the bag and wandered over to the practice green. I handed Heath his putter, and he took a bucket of balls and hit his way around the green as I watched. He was relaxed and easy. He was doing what he believed he was put on earth to do. Maybe he was. Maybe he’d learn later that there was more to it than that. Or not. He chatted with some of the other players, and as he did a tall guy sidled up to me. I glanced at him. He was in a pressed blazer and trousers with a crease up the leg that could have cut diamond. He was groomed better than any of the greens on the course and wore the scent of the best-ever leather club chair. He looked at me and offered his hand.

  “Jim Nantz,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I replied poetically. I knew Nantz. Everyone knew Nantz. He’d been hosting golf coverage on CBS since Adam took up the game. “Miami Jones,” I managed to say.

  “Caddying for McAllen?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “I am.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Going well. He’s a good kid.”

  “He is that. Isn’t it strange that Alfie isn’t carrying the bag this week?”

  “He’s working through some stuff.”

  “Divorce. That’s hard.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know. It wasn’t something I had lived through.

  “I get the feeling there’s more to it,” he said.

  He sounded like a journalist trying to get a story. And then it struck me that maybe he was. I’d never thought of golf commentators like that. Nantz was a honey-voiced guy who spoke in whispers and never raised the hackles of the golf clubs that hosted him. I couldn’t imagine him digging dirt like those shows that follow the every move of reality television stars. But I decided to play my cards close.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Anything to do with the alligator who ate the guy?”

  “I don’t think so. That idea getting a lot of airtime? The alligator?”

  “We can’t quite figure out how to frame it, you know?”

  I nodded. “We could rename the seventeenth hole Alligator Alley.” I smiled.

  Nantz turned and looked at me.

  “Alligator Alley.” He smiled. “Faldo is going to love that.”

  He slapped my shoulder and wished us a good round and wandered off. I decided not to talk to anyone else. Ever. I waited and watched Heath and then fifteen minutes before our tee time I called him over, as Alfie had instructed me to do.

  Heath wiped himself down, and then took a slug of Gatorade. Then we made our way slowly toward the first tee. We were playing with the same two players as the previous day. Both of them had shot over par, and were well off the pace, but they all shook hands and showed each other the ball that they were playing so everyone knew which ball belonged to whom. Then the course steward announced Heath to the gallery. The patrons offered a polite clap and Heath took his fairway wood and stepped up and after the same couple of practice swings, he whacked the ball way down the fairway, straight and true.

  I glanced around the gallery and saw nothing of note but the smiling face of Deputy Danielle Castle.

  * * *

  Heath started well, two birdies in three holes, to move to co-leader. We played the third with a glance toward the water. I kept the Alligator Alley thing to myself. I wondered if the television guys would use it. I wondered if the governor would care. Heath shot even par for the next six holes, and then hit his iron into the trees on the par three tenth. We studied the shot out and he decided to pitch for the green. The only risk was a sand trap at the back if he went long. He went long and landed on the beach. He hit a good recovery wedge out of the bunker and onto the green, and putted smartly but dropped a shot.

  It was on the following hole that I noticed the white knuckles when he putted. He hit an eight-foot putt four feet past the hole, and dropped another shot. It was time to pull out one of Alfie’s bawdy jokes. Problem was I couldn’t remember them. He didn’t write them down and I wouldn’t have carried them in my pocket if he did. So I figure I would go my own way. I knew from my own experience that when a pitcher started to lose his rhythm, the pitching coach would often be sent out to chat. It wasn’t that the coach had some sage piece of wisdom to offer. The objective was much simpler. To get the pitcher’s mind off whatever the hell he was thinking that was making him so hinky. The fact was that by the time a guy got to play professional baseball, even in the minors, he knew the mechanics of pitching. Sure he could get better or learn a new trick, but he was well versed on how to actually pitch. The idea of the on-mound chat was to get him to stop thinking about it and just do it. Golf seemed pretty much the same deal.

  “Can I ask you something?” I began as I slipped the putter in the bag, walking off the green.

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you play?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After the death threat? Why did you play? You weren’t concerned?”

  “You seemed pretty capable.”

  “But you were going to play before I stepped in to caddy.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I don’t miss anything. It’s figuring out what’s important that’s the trick. So?”

  “I just put a deposit down on a new car.”

  “A car?”

  “Yeah. A Lamborghini.”

  “So?”

  “So if I win this week, that’ll pay for it.”

  “That’s all? You blow off a death threat for a car.”

  “It’s a hell of a car.”

  “I’m sure.”

  We reached the next tee and I looked at the notes and handed Heath his driver. Heath took it with a smile.

  “Besides, I’m from Scotland. You’ve seen Braveheart. We donnae back down from a fight.”

  He gave me the wink and stepped up to the tee. Some people might think it crazy to try getting a sportsman focused by referring him back to a death threat. But there was method in my madness. Whatever he’d been thinking about—what was making his knuckles white—that was gone. Now he was thinking about his heritage, and how they wouldn’t stand to take crap from anybody.

  And then he smoked his drive down the middle of the fairway.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Heath found his mojo on the back nine and slotted home two birdies and an eagle on seventeen to come in as clubhouse leader again. I kept my eyes open, and Danielle followed our group the entire rounds, but there was no sign of trouble. Heath wanted to work some more on his putting, and he said he’d see me later. But I told him I was there for the duration, so I handed him his putter and stood by the practice green as he worked on things. He hit most of the balls into the holes, so I couldn’t quite see the problem.

  After that we went back to the range and he worked on his short game.

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “this t
hing’s gonna come down to short play.”

  He could have hit a soup can nine times out of ten with his wedge, but I supposed it was the tenth one he was worried about. We worked for another hour or so, him hitting balls, me watching him do it. I was beat when he decided to call it a day.

  “What’s on your agenda today? More sponsors dinners?”

  “Nah, quiet one. Probably just go to the hotel. Need to get away from all this,” he said, waving his hands around the course. I could understand his point. He lived in a bubble, and it could feel claustrophobic in there. Don’t get me wrong—it was a nice bubble. On the big tour no one was worrying about how they were going to pay to keep the heat on, or having to feed their kids cereal for dinner because it was the only thing in the house. It was a damn comfortable bubble. It was chauffeured cars and private planes and endorsements from companies that made a lot of money doing things that no one understood.

  “You wanna go somewhere?” I asked.

  “What? You mean you and me?”

  “Sure. Somewhere local. Somewhere they won’t care who you are.”

  He smiled. “Sure, that sounds brilliant.”

  * * *

  It was brilliant. Longboard Kelly’s was always brilliant. It had no view, which kept the riffraff in and the tourists away, but it was like a breezy blanket, cool and comforting. The black SUV stopped in the lot and Heath gave a broad grin at the sight of the place. It sure wasn’t The Breakers, but it was just as Florida. I told Heath’s driver to come in, but he wouldn’t. He said he would wait with the car.

  “This is Longboard Kelly’s. People don’t wait in the parking lot at Longboard Kelly’s.”

  He shrugged but wouldn’t be moved. At least not by me. Heath and I took seats at the outdoor bar under the palapa and I told the bartender, Muriel, about the guy waiting out in the lot. She charged out there, breasts pulsing against the tight tank top that was like her second skin, and she dragged his sorry backside into the courtyard.

  “You can drink soda, if you must,” I offered as a consolation.

  Muriel didn’t know who Heath was, but she took a shine to his boyish smile and his fancy accent. I think Mick recognized him, but playing a good round of golf doesn’t get you far in Mick’s book. Mick served up some fish dip and some conch chowder. The kid was in heaven.

  I left him in the care of Muriel and wandered to the back of the courtyard, near where the surfboard with the shark’s bite taken out of it was mounted. The cell phone reception always seemed best there, and I called the office.

  “Lizzy,” I said. “How’s the fort?”

  “Quiet.”

  “Why don’t you come out to the golf course tomorrow?”

  “How many reasons do you want?”

  “As you will. Can you do something for me? I need you to call a hospital, about the norovirus.”

  “The one where the wedding party is? I think they’ve all been discharged now. Except maybe the bride.”

  “No, this is a different hospital.”

  I told her what I wanted and I heard her scribbling notes on her pad. I thanked her and hung up, if that’s what one does when one hits the little red telephone picture on their phone. Then I made another call.

  “Hey, where are you?” asked Danielle.

  “Longboard’s.”

  “This is me making a sad face.”

  “I wish you were here, too. I brought Heath. He seemed like he needed a bit of reality.”

  “Most of the country comes to Florida to escape reality, you realize that?”

  “My reality.”

  “Okay, then. That’s nice of you. I’m really pleased you’re taking this so seriously.”

  “You don’t think I take things seriously?”

  “I don’t mean that. It’s just that Heath looked like he needed someone to take him under their wing for a while. He could do a lot worse than you.”

  “I do my best.”

  “I know. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  “I can’t just call to hear your voice?”

  “You can, but you didn’t.”

  “Okay. I want you to get Nixon to do something.”

  “He doesn’t report to me, but I can ask him.”

  “Yeah, okay. Ask him to check with Homeland Security. Ask him about people entering the country from Colombia.”

  “Entering where? Miami? Orlando?”

  “No. Not Florida. Somewhere close though. Maybe DFW, or ATL.”

  “Okay. Who are we looking for?”

  “Anyone we know.”

  “That could be quite a list.”

  “Narrow it down to flights between two and three weeks ago.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t got a handle on it, but it’s out there somewhere.”

  “Okay. I gotta go. Don’t let Heath drink too much.”

  “I’m all over it.”

  “Love you.”

  “And I you.”

  I looked to the bar and saw Mick regaling Heath and his driver with some kind of tall tale, so I took the chance to make one last call. Connie Persil picked up on the second ring.

  “Have you seen any more cases of the virus?”

  “No. It’s like it was isolated.”

  “Did you look outside Florida?”

  “Why outside Florida? None of the victims had been outside Florida in the week previous. The families were all local.”

  “What about the source?”

  “There’s no evidence as yet.”

  “Is there anyone you can try?”

  “Sure, I can make a call to the CDC. We’ve already sent them a report, but they would have flagged any large-scale outbreak.”

  “Why don’t you give them a call?”

  “I’ll do it right now.”

  I stayed in the back of the courtyard, watching Heath at the bar. He looked relaxed, which was exactly how I wanted him to be. Those guys can get pretty intense on the course. And off it. I knew what Longboard’s did to recharge my batteries, and it had more to do with the people than the beverages.

  My phone rang as I stood there. It was Connie Persil.

  “The CDC says they have another couple cases. In Atlanta, Georgia. They haven’t yet been able to trace them back yet.”

  “Atlanta. That helps, thanks.”

  “Keep me in the loop if you learn something, okay?”

  “You bet. And right back at ya.”

  “Of course.”

  I was about to make another call and thought the better of it. I didn’t know what Danielle was up to but she had sounded busy, so I decided to send her a text message to suggest Nixon concentrate his inquiries with Homeland Security on flights into Atlanta.

  I ambled back to the bar. The late afternoon sun was pleasant and the beers were cold. I could have settled in for the duration, but I was conscious of Danielle’s words, and I didn’t want to let her or Heath down by letting him go wild. I asked Muriel to switch him to lemonade, but she said she had a better idea, and she showed me the label on a bottle of non-alcoholic beer.

  “How did that even get in here?”

  She shrugged. “Mick doesn’t know. I got it for emergencies.”

  “You are a fine piece of work,” I said.

  “And you, Miami Jones, are all talk.”

  She opened the bottle and poured it into a glass and gave to Heath. He kept on drinking without missing a beat, engrossed in a story Mick was telling which sounded suspiciously like a reworking of Moby Dick.

  By the time I poured Heath into the back of his courtesy SUV he was more sober than when he had arrived.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  After getting Heath McAllen into his SUV and making sure the security was in place at his hotel, I stayed for one more beer at Longboard’s before I decided what was good for the goose was good for the gander and I headed back to Singer Island. I didn’t have a car so I got a cab, which was easier from Long
board’s than it was from the tournament site, and not nearly as far. It was still only early evening so I had the driver drop me at City Beach and I went for a walk, watching the gulls swoop and dive for supper.

  I had eaten enough at Longboard’s so I made some iced tea at home and stood at the edge of my property near the water. A retaining wall dropped into the Intracoastal, and Friday evening boaters were enjoying the spring sunshine. I stood for a good time, waving at the passing boats and getting lots of waves in return. I wondered why we treated each other like that on boats and hikes, but rarely anywhere else. But that was all I thought. The saline air cleared my head of theories about what was happening at South Lakes. I took lots of deep breaths and felt a calm descend. By the time I came in it was dark and I was bushed, so I grabbed a battered old copy of The Deep Blue Good-By and took it to bed.

  When I woke Danielle was beside me. It was still dark out. Heath McAllen had finished in equal second place after the second round, and we weren’t due to tee off until the second-to-last group, after lunch. So I shifted my weight across and wrapped my arm around her and got a face full of her hair. It smelled faintly of jasmine. Danielle let out a soft moan but didn’t wake. I didn’t sleep. I lay there, arms wrapped around her like we were tandem skydiving, breathing in her hair. My whole body was relaxed. I stayed that way for a couple hours.

  Danielle woke with the sun and gave the soft moan again, and then slowly rolled over to face me. She smiled and traced her fingers across my face. We didn’t speak for the longest time, just looking over every line in each other’s face. There was a lot more for her to look at, and she took her time. Then the day invaded my peace.

  “I asked Nixon to check with DHS.”

  “Okay.”

  “He thought it was a good idea.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think he thought it was my idea.”

  “Okay.”

  “You planned it that way.”

  “Okay.”

  She smiled and her eyes grew shrewd. “You know what else he said?”

  “Nope.”

  “He said he wanted me to apply to the FDLE.”