Deep Rough

by A. J. Stewart

  He thought back a week, and I wondered if it was a bridge too far for him, but I should have been ashamed of myself for the thought. He was as sharp as a tack.

  “Yeah, I was here. That was the day the keg exploded. Am I right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, I remember the Mexican kid was setting up all the chairs and such in the tent over there. And then the keg exploded and there was beer foam going everywhere, and he came running up to help Chip.”

  “Right. Did you see anyone else that day? Did you see anything, interesting or not?”

  He did. And what he saw was interesting. Very interesting. He talked until Chip came from behind the busy bar to let him know that the access bus had arrived, and again he offered to help the old man down the stairs. I told Chip I’d take care of it so he could get back to his work.

  I walked down the stairs with Jackie and helped him out to the minivan.

  “It was nice talking to you, son.”

  “Always.”

  He bent down and the driver helped him get in and sit down. The driver left the sliding door open so I stepped forward.

  “Don’t forget, we’ve got a date to play a round,” I said.

  Jackie smiled. “That’s mighty kind of you, but you don’t need to play no round with an old man like me.”

  “I’m not a member,” I said. “I need a member to play.”

  He nodded. “Remember, I only play the executive.”

  “Nine holes is all the focus I have.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  The driver must have hit a button because the door started beeping and then it slid closed under its own steam. I stepped back and watched the bus pull away. As I watched my phone rang.

  “Lizzy,” I said. “What do you know?”

  “I know everything,” she said. It wasn’t my place to doubt her. I left that to her maker. But she told me what she knew and I had to agree, she pretty much did know everything.

  “You do good work.”

  “I know. I am underpaid for my value.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  There was static on the line, then, “Really?”

  “Yes. Let’s talk about that when I’m next in the office. Remind me in case I forget.”

  “I won’t let you forget.”

  I knew that to be true. I was turning back to the clubhouse when a black sedan pulled up and Special Agent Marcard, FBI agent in charge of the Miami field office, got out of the back.

  “I might have known you would be here,” he said.

  “Special Agent, what a surprise.”

  “Can it, Miami. Where’s your better half? On the course?”

  “I doubt it. Play’s finished. Why?”

  “Is she with Nixon?”

  “Usually,” I said with a little more venom than I intended.

  “Then let’s find them.”

  We walked into the clubhouse and I found Natalie Morris, and she used her walkie-talkie to put the word out. Special Agent Marcard and I wandered out to the practice putting green. Heath was working on his putts and we gave each other a nod.

  “You a golf fan, Marcard?”

  “I play tennis.”

  It didn’t really answer the question, but it put me off further small talk. We waited until we saw Danielle and Nixon walking over from the corporate hospitality tents and Marcard took off to meet them halfway. I figured I should follow.

  Marcard was still walking when he said, “Why is the FDLE making inquiries to the Department of Homeland Security about incoming flights from Colombia?”

  Nixon frowned. “It’s an investigation. What is the FBI’s interest?”

  “The FBI’s interest is not your concern at this time.”

  I smiled at Danielle. “I love a good pissing contest.”

  All three of them looked at me. Not in a good way.

  “We have an investigation,” said Marcard. “Ongoing. I don’t want it fouled up by the FDLE.”

  “That wasn’t our intention, sir,” said Nixon. He was a clever egg. The sir went a long way to placating the FBI man. Nixon knew how to play the game. He would go far. Just not with me. In my book he was a little too good-looking to be trusted.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got, and we’ll see what we can do.” Marcard was throwing Nixon half a bone, and I wondered if he’d take it. He did. He told Marcard what Danielle had told him, and he told the FBI man everything else that he knew. Then Marcard nodded.

  “Right. So the grass insurance scam, that’s one hundred percent yours. The vomit thing, that sounds like Palm Beach County. I really don’t want any part of that.” He wasn’t alone there. “And the property thing, that’s ours. There are things going on you don’t know about.”

  Nixon wasn’t jumping for joy, but he nodded. Danielle said nothing. Marcard turned to me.

  “And as usual, Jones, you’ve been annoying powerful people up and down the coast. Mr. Coligio and Mr. Donaldson for starters. What do you know?”

  He asked, so I told him. I told him I knew about the grass scam and how it was going down. I told him that a hospital in Colombia had treated an American for a severe case of gastroenteritis, which subsequent tests had shown was caused by a new strain of norovirus. I told him that the American had given a false name and fled the hospital and subsequently the country, following my own golden rule of never letting authorities in masks know if you are sick. I explained how that person had flown from Cartagena to Atlanta, and then driven from Atlanta to Palm Beach, in what was sure to have been a very unpleasant trip, punctuated by plenty of stops. I explained how it was that person who was responsible for the illness that had befouled the wedding, and that they were behind the damage to the course and the ugly demise of Ernesto the facilities guy, and it was they who had threatened Heath McAllen. Then I outlined the basics of the property scam because I didn’t yet know the specifics. But I explained who was behind it all and how that linked to everything that had happened on the course. And I laid out a plan to get the whole thing sewn up—lock, stock and barrel.

  Marcard stood stone-faced and then said, “Every time we meet you seem to be laying out field operations for the FBI—have you noticed that?”

  “I never take credit for them—have you noticed that?”

  “I have,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The final round of a PGA Tour tournament is the money round. People remember the winners of tournaments. The only reasons they remember the leader after fifty-four holes is because they either go on to win or blow a big lead and crash and burn.

  I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. I was nervous on multiple levels. I had intermittent doubts that I had summed things up correctly, but the more I played it through, the more I convinced myself I was right. But those mental battles took most of the night. The rest was taken by doubts that my plan would work, or that it would work but not prove anything, or that someone might be hurt. And then as the sun broke through and I felt drowsy I started thinking about Heath McAllen’s chances.

  I got to the course early. Danielle woke when I did and she drove. We didn’t speak about my lack of transport. I went to the locker room to make sure Heath’s clubs hadn’t been stolen overnight. I was confirming their presence and then counting them in a very OCD fashion when I heard the guttural bark.

  It was a sound that I had never planned to become familiar with, but one that had become second nature since I set foot on this infernal golf course. It was the sound of a human being barfing. I didn’t want to hang around for it, but my better angels made me stick my head into the lavatory area and see that the person was all right. A man was on his knees in a cubicle, face down to the toilet bowl. Although he certainly didn’t sound well, the man didn’t sound in any danger. I figured it was the kind of intimate act that a guy didn’t want another guy hanging around for, so I made to leave when the noise stopped and I heard a groan and the man whispered Oh Losh!

&nbs
p; I knew the accent and voice.

  “You okay, Heath?” I asked. I was suddenly very worried. I’d seen the effects, and anyone who picked up this particular strain of norovirus wasn’t standing unaided, let alone playing a winning round of championship golf.

  There was nothing in reply, perhaps the wiping of a chin, and then, “Never better.”

  He hefted himself up and turned to the basin and washed his face. I waited by the door until he had gathered himself. He looked pale, and he wasn’t a tanned guy to begin with. But he gave me a half a smile, and although it wasn’t his usual stunner, he was trying.

  “Final round jitters,” he said.

  “You’re sure? That’s all?”

  “Happens every time.”

  “And here I was thinking you were an ice man.”

  “We get on the course, I’ll be fine.”

  “You do know you don’t tee off until one o’clock.”

  He nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.” Then reality kicked in. “Why are you here?”

  “Same.”

  I decided not to tell him about the reasons I couldn’t sleep. It didn’t feel relevant, and I didn’t see the need to fill his head with irrelevant stuff. Since there were still hours until the first group teed off, let alone our group, I told Heath I’d take him off course for a coffee. His courtesy car was on call and I directed the driver to a small Cuban-run place that I knew near the airport.

  It was nothing to look at: cinderblock and peeling paint, and a sign painted by someone with no aptitude for graphic design. But the Cuban coffee would put hairs on a baby’s chest and start a stone heart, and it settled Heath’s stomach and got his cylinders running. The woman who ran the cafe made the most wonderful pastries filled with cheese and ground beef. The space was bare and the lighting industrial but the room sang with the rattle of Spanish, and Heath took it all in like he’d driven for twenty minutes and landed in another country. I didn’t have a queasy stomach so I went for a second round of pastries and Heath ate a banana.

  We returned to the course in plenty of time for warm-ups. Heath had a number of preround commitments. He signed a bunch of shirts and a sheaf of posters, and then spoke to Jim Nantz in their temporary studio as if it were just another day at the office. In my experience most days in the office rarely began with a session face down in the porcelain bowl. But Heath seemed to have gotten that out of his system and was now in his element.

  I polished every club and by the time I was done I was the only person in the locker room. It was uncomfortably calm, given the crowds that I knew to be outside on the course. Heath joined me on the range and he worked his way up the clubs, hitting each one ten times. Then he practiced with ten balls on the putting green, a crowd of onlookers watching as intently as if he were playing the final hole of the tournament. With fifteen minutes before tee time I called him over and he toweled off and did some stretches.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  “You need to go, now? Too much coffee, man.”

  I nodded and dashed away into the clubhouse. I got more than a few strange looks as I made my way past the dining room and down the hallway to where the administrative offices were. I got to Keith Hamilton’s office and stopped. The door was closed and the hallway was quiet. I turned the knob and found the door unlocked, as I expected it to be. I moved inside and closed the door and went straight to the desk. I picked up the desk phone and punched in the number I had been given. It took longer than was necessary, but the call was answered.

  “I know what you did,” I said without letting the other end speak.

  “Who is this?”

  “I know what you did,” I repeated. “Now it’s pay-up time. Maintenance shed, four thirty. Don’t be late.”

  I didn’t wait for a response. And I knew they wouldn’t call back, because I knew the call would show up as Keith Hamilton’s office at the club. So now someone would show, or they would not.

  I ran back out to the tee. Everyone assumed I needed a nature break, and I could live with that. The Kiwi who liked to carry his own bags actually did that and brought his own stuff to the tee, where he handed it off to his caddy for the weekend. Heath had done likewise and brought his own bag. He gave me a grin and head shake. I wondered for a moment whether I should tell him. I decided no news was good news.

  We all shook hands, and each of the players wished each other the best of luck. Both guys seemed to mean it, but I suspected otherwise. Golf was very much a battle against yourself, but ultimately if another guy shot one stroke lower than you then you lost, regardless of whether you won the internal war.

  Both drove the first fairway right down the middle, and I got the feeling that this thing was going to go down to the wire. They were young, fit guys and they walked with purpose, striding down the fairway to the applause of the crowd, knowing they still had four hours of work ahead, but living the moment anyway.

  The bag felt heavier than before. I had checked it thrice over and no one had punked me and filled it with bricks, but it still weighed on me. I handed Heath his club and he landed the ball on the green, about ten feet from the hole. The Kiwi landed eight feet out. Heath smiled and held up his hand at waist height to the crowd around the first green. It was a demure form of thanks for the applause, as if he were embarrassed by it. He marked his ball and threw it to me and I cleaned it with a towel and handed it back to him. He put it back on the ground and took up his marker, and then proceeded to sink his birdie putt. The crowd cheered. I wasn’t sure who they were rooting for exactly. One player was from New Zealand, the other Scotland. The closest local was the South Carolinian in the group ahead, who had parred the first and was therefore still another shot back. No doubt some bright on-course commentator would earn their chips by proclaiming that golf was the real winner here.

  The players traded shots across the front nine holes. The Kiwi picked one up on three, and then Heath got it back on six. They were still even as we turned for home and started the back nine. Heath took some Gatorade as we waited on the tenth tee. He was smiling and easy. It looked like a Friday afternoon with his buddies, not championship Sunday. I waited and looked at my watch.

  The timing was both critical and unfortunate. I didn’t want to leave Heath McAllen holding the bag as it were, but I needed all eyes on the backside of the course. Almost all eyes, anyway. The good news was that we were waiting. The group in front were still on the green, and our group couldn’t tee off until the group ahead had putted and cleared the way. They were taking their sweet time. It was common on Sunday, when the pressure was high and big bucks and livelihoods were at stake. Guys took that little bit longer over each decision, over each shot. It was like freeway traffic. Each small additional sliver of time was magnified by the number of times each guy took that time and the number of guys in the field, and the net result was a traffic jam.

  Slow play frustrated most players, even though it was caused by the players themselves. But it was worse at the pointy end of the tournament, where the winner would be decided. Then they played just as slow and took just as long to make their decisions, but when they got near the end and their shot decision was made, they wanted to play it. They didn’t want to stand around thinking about it. Too much thinking was a sportsman’s mortal enemy. Men and women who made their living in an athletic pursuit had done their thing so many times—whether it was a golf shot, or tennis stroke or a shot from the free-throw line in basketball—it was second nature. Their muscles knew the moves and their bodies knew the rhythms. The only thing that got in the way was the mind. Overthinking it. And the major reason for overthinking was time. Or too much of it.

  But the time was on my side. It meant when it got to 4:10, we were still only on the fifteenth hole. That was when I leaned over to Heath and said, “Dude, I need to go do something.”

  He looked at me and then looked down the fairway and then looked at me again. “Now?”

  I nodded. I was going to make up some story about using the
bathroom or something, but I had decided to keep that one for the media. Heath deserved the truth. But he didn’t need it.

  “It’s the guy,” he said. “You’re gonna get the guy.”

  “Right. But I’ll be back.”

  “Do. I don’t want to walk up eighteen without you.” Then his face dropped. “What about my bag?”

  He wasn’t just lazy. The PGA Tour and most country club rules didn’t allow a player to carry his own clubs. But I had anticipated this, and I turned to the gallery and nodded. Ron stepped forward. He looked euphoric, like he’d just won the Masters rather than being asked to carry another man’s gear. But like me, it was as close as Ron was ever going to get to playing in a PGA Tour event.

  I stepped over to the rules official who was walking the course with our group. He was a member of the club, an older guy in a Panama hat, and I told him I was ill and needed to use the facilities. I said I’d be back ASAP. It wasn’t against the rules to change a caddy midround. The rules even allowed for a member of the public to step forward and carry the bag if it came to that. The only issue the custodians of the rules—the United States Golf Association, and the Royal and Ancient Golf Club in Scotland—had with changing caddies was that it could not be for the purpose of coaching or offering additional advice. The rules official of course knew Ron, and he was pretty comfortable with the idea that Ron wasn’t going to tell the world’s number one player anything he didn’t already know.

  “Get back before eighteen,” the rules guy said. “The network will cover that from tee to green.”

  I nodded to him, and then to Ron, and then to Heath. I got three nods in return. Then Heath grabbed a club from his bag and stepped over to me. He handed me the club.

  “Just in case.”

  There was an old saying, never bring a knife to a gunfight. I wasn’t sure how a golf club fitted into that scenario. But I didn’t have a knife or a gun, so I took the club.

  “You might need it,” I said.

  “Nah, it’s a fairway wood. I never hit it. I’ve been thinking about changing to a hybrid anyway.”