Up a Winding Stair

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  JOEY HAD A HEAVY SCHEDULE lined up and Clark concentrated on his work. He played golf every day, mornings and afternoons, always with men who could afford to gamble. Sometimes he won a few dollars, but usually he lost in the hundreds, and always because of the slice. That slice of his became accepted as a permanent part of his game. It was amusing to him that every man he played with had some suggestion as to how the slice could be cured.

  Ricki Ranson played with him four times during the Succeeding days, winning more heavily each time. When Clark had lost seven hundred dollars to him, he and Joey figured that the pigeon was ripe to be plucked. Ricki had enormous confidence in the consistency of his own game and had not the slightest doubt that he could take Clark any time he pleased.

  Clark made his big pitch late one afternoon just as they finished a game on the country-club course. He had played well that day and, though the slice was still present, he had stayed out of trouble and came in with a seventy-five on his card.

  They went into the crowded club bar, where most of the men were shaking dice for drinks, and Clark set up drinks for the house. He acted as jubilant as if he had broken the course record.

  He slapped Ricki on the shoulder and told him, “I think this is my lucky course. You notice I was never in real trouble once with that slice.”

  Eric Bothello, who was standing nearby, leaned over to laugh and say, “Better take another reading on that, Clark. This course is tougher on a slice than any other around here.”

  “Maybe, but I got a seventy-five.”

  Ricki smiled smugly into his glass and said, “You were lucky today.”

  “Lucky, my foot! I felt good all the way around. Why, you only beat me by one stroke. With my handicap that places me two under you.” He studied their score card, burst into a laugh, and said, “Hell’s bells, I’ve taken you on both sides and game! How do you like that? Believe me, this is the course for me.”

  Eric winked at Ricki and nudged him with an elbow. “Sounds to me like he’s asking to be taken, Ricki.”

  “That’s no lie.”

  Clark snorted, “The hell I am. I can turn in a seventy-five on this course, or better, any day in the week.”

  That was a broad statement to make, even for a scratch player. The other golfers at the bar looked around at him with interest, some of them winking at Ricki.

  He said, “Wait a minute, old man. Eric was telling you the truth. You don’t know this course as we do. It really is tough on a slice. You just happened to compensate for it accidentally and didn’t get in trouble. That’s strictly luck. You can’t expect it to happen that way all the time.”

  Clark chuckled inwardly. The stupid fools. It was going the way it always did. The pattern never varied; always it was the other player who was condescending. Why they couldn’t see through his little act he could never understand. Probably, he thought, it was because they were so cocky about their own game.

  His attitude changed at once. He hunched his broad shoulders over the bar and glowered into space, as if wounded by their doubts. Then he turned to glare at Ricki. “You keep giving me a three on this course and I’ll take you every time.”

  Ricki stared at him, mouth open. “Oh, come off it, for God’s sake. You’re really asking to get your ears knocked off.”

  “Not by you.”

  There was silence at the bar now. Ricki looked at the others and his face colored. He finished his drink in one gulp and called for another. He was irritated and even becoming faintly angry. He leaned an elbow on the bar, facing Clark, frowning into his eyes.

  “All right, you asked for it. I understand you don’t mind playing a little steep now and then.”

  “You name it and I’ll double it.”

  Ricki’s color deepened another degree. “Then let’s make it five, five, and five.”

  “Thousands?”

  Ricki had meant hundreds, but when he thought of thousands more than a little trace of larceny crept into his mind. He thought of the many golfers he knew who played a game similar to Clark’s better than the average, really a superior game, but always with some weakness that made them crack under pressure. In Ricki’s mind, Clark’s slice was a weakness that would never allow him to play completely free of worry. Pressure, such as a large bet, would increase that worry and worsen his game. Any bet made was almost guaranteed to wind up in his own pocket.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Five thousand each way.” He saw the look of forced anxiety that suddenly came into Clark’s eyes and asked easily, “Are you going to double that?”

  Clark was tempted. It was really being handed to him on a platter. A possible thirty grand was not to be sneezed at. But there were other matters to be considered. He had followed the correct psychological pattern by boasting, then getting angry and making what appeared to be à stupid bet. But now the pattern called for the normal reaction of realization of his own stupidity and worry. Grabbing eagerly at a higher bet was not normal, would be remembered later, and would perhaps lead to suspicion; It had to be done right.

  “Well,” he mumbled, “I don’t know. Frankly, I wasn’t thinking of thousands. I was just shooting off at the mouth.” He added quickly, “I’m not reneging, though. When I make a bet it stands.”

  Ricki beamed at him. What a pushover this was going to be! “Good,” he said. “Then we’ll make it five each way. Tomorrow morning?”

  “I don’t think so. Right after lunch would be better.”

  Eric said, “Don’t be a damned fool. That will give you too much time to worry.”

  “Listen. Let me enjoy my own worries in my own way.”

  All of the men broke into laughter and tension was relaxed. Clark, they were thinking, might be a sucker, but he had a sense of humor and he was a good sport about it. Clark was O.K. Most of them even hoped that a miracle would happen and he would win. But none of them would have bet on it.

  Clark did worry that night, but not quite in the manner they expected. He knew the vagaries of golf. If Ricki played a normal game, the whole thing would be easy. But Ricki could get hot. It sometimes happened to the most consistent of golfers. If that happened, Clark’s task would be formidable. Though he knew his own skill to be superior to Ricki’s, the margin of difference between them was not wide enough to win if luck favored a hot player.

  Joey told him at the dinner table, “Forget it, kid. The odds are a thousand to one against it.”

  “But it happens.”

  “Sure, sure, but everything’s in your favor. Now, here’s what you do: Start out normal. See? Ranson’ll be relaxed in the beginnin’ and it won’t do no good to lower the boom then. Give him one up on you ’bout the fourth or fifth. Then gradj’ly put on the ol’ pressure. Bear down hard and take that side if you can and put the game in your pocket first half of the last nine. If it goes that way, then you can get into a li’l trouble. The main thing is, they’ll remember how you finished, not how you won it. But if he’s hot you’ll hafta take a chancet and bear down all the way.” He squinted at Clark and said, “Maybe I’d better go ’long and caddy for you.”

  “Good idea. Jees, you never can tell with a scratch player.”

  “Aw, shut up and hit the sack and get some sleep.”

  He and Joey were up at dawn and out on a practice fairway right after breakfast. Clark stood in one spot slugging out ball after ball for hour after hour. He worked with the precision of a machine, every ball landing smoothly and precisely almost exactly where he wanted it. Even Joey was happy.

  There were more people at the club that afternoon than usual on a weekday. Word had spread about the match and the size of the bet. Though there had been heavier bets at stake on that course, they were not common. Clark realized at once that they were going to have quite a crowd following the game. That was all to the good. Ricki, with his conceit, would be inclined to show off. Clark had no show-off tendencies as a golfer.

  Ricki was already at the bar, but was having a Coke. He was poised and assured, c
onfident he would win, and even more so when he heard that Joey would caddy for Clark. Joey growled, “This damned-fool boss of mine ain’t got good sense. I gotta pull him out of this one if I hafta carry him ’round the course in my arms.”

  Eric Bothello was also there, and Wallace and most of the other top players of the Peninsula. Ione was standing between Eric and her brother. Clark’s heart jumped when he saw her, but he was also immediately worried. He had telephoned her home the past week end only to learn that she was staying longer in the city. Coming upon her suddenly in the club was a surprise not altogether pleasant. She was wearing walking shoes, pleated skirt, and a loose sweater, but even in sackcloth her dark beauty would have been distracting.

  He frowned and glanced worriedly at Joey, but was smiling easily when he reached Ione’s side. “I called you a couple of times.”

  She tilted her head to one side, her eyes slanting up at him with a smile. “I know.”

  “You said you’d be back for the week end.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Well, I did think we’d get together.”

  She placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Clark. Mother wasn’t ready to come back right away and I had to stay with her.”

  “How about dinner tonight?”

  “Why, that would be nice. If — ”

  But Eric, who had been listening, scowled and interrupted. “Hey, wait a minute. You got a date with me tonight. We’re going to the Smiths’. Remember?”

  Ione was not happy to be reminded, but said, “Of course, Eric. I did forget. Some other time, Clark?”

  He looked at Eric with venom in his cold eyes. Twice now he had intercepted a date with Ione. The guy was becoming obnoxious. Powerful character, rugged, built like a wrestler, and young. Clark wondered what it would be like to take him apart. It was apparent, though, that Eric was wondering the same thing. He had suddenly sensed a rival and was not liking it. His scowl was as dark as Clark’s.

  Ricki broke it up by announcing, “Well, let’s get under way,” and moving toward the door.

  Ione walked with Clark toward the first tee. There was a touch of concern in her voice as she asked him, “Isn’t this bet of yours a little foolish?”

  He nodded. “I guess it is.”

  “Ricki is awfully steady.”

  “I know. He’s out of my class.” Then he grinned and said, “But you never can tell about golf. I might get hot. It’s happened before. Do me a favor, though.”

  She laughed softly, a throaty little sound. “Stay away from you?”

  “You’re reading my mind. I can’t think about you and the game, too.”

  “Thanks. That’s one of the nicer compliments I’ve received.”

  “I can think of more as we go along. You’re going to like me.”

  “I do already.”

  “But bigger and better, with music and stars.”

  “And our names in lights, you and me, baby, up there on old Broadway?”

  “Sure,” he laughed. “Something like that.”

  “O.K., Buster. I’ll sashay my tights and spangles over to the opposition side.”

  She walked away from him and into the crowd that had collected about the tee, winking back at him as she left. He turned away at once and tried to wipe his mind free of everything but the game. He had a feeling it was going to be tough. Perhaps he had overplayed his act a bit. Perhaps it would have been better if he had injected some small grain of worry in Ricki’s mind. Ricki was too damned sure of himself. It would take time to break down confidence like that without making the big blunder of playing like a pro. Perhaps it would have been better — Perhaps a thousand things as he walked to the tee, and once there he forgot them all. It was always the same; the steady, monotonous, nagging worry that preceded any game with big stakes, the whys, perhaps, ifs and buts, but always the champion’s quick recovery.

  Joey looked at him and laughed inwardly. Everything was going to be all right. What a guy! In one way it was kind of a shame he had so much larceny in his soul. He could have been one of the greats of golf. He could have gone to the top and remained there until age knocked him out. He had the right cold-blooded attitude for it and the willingness to beat and torture his body into the smoothly functioning machine of precision that it had become. Then Joey thought, What the hell? Where would I be? He adjusted the strap of the heavy bag over his shoulder and plodded after Clark, the buffoon and the shrewd chiseler all in one.

  It was as it had been dozens of times before and with even better golfers. Ricki was good and he was confident and he started that way with a smoking drive down the middle, a smooth approach, a long putt, and a short one in for par. Clark faded a long slice dangerously close to the trees on the right, fell short on his approach, but chipped one close to the pin and was also in for par. Ricki grinned. The second, third, and fourth were the same, with Ricki playing a steady, smooth game and Clark just barely out of trouble. Ricki was up for a birdie on the fifth and Clark, who could have done the same missed a putt and let him take it. They parred the sixth and seventh together, Ricki smooth and Clark still wobbling close to danger, the way everyone expected him to be.

  But when they stood on the eighth tee Clark looked at Joey and Joey winked. The fairway was long and narrow and slanted downhill between thick stands of pines. Far at the bottom was a ravine with water, and over that, at an angle, some rough grass and then the green. Because of the ravine and the trees, even good wood experts played to the left and short of the ravine for safety, exactly where Ricki placed his ball. Clark, however, swept his club back on a lower and flatter arc than usual and unleashed all the power of his solid two hundred pounds of muscle. The crack of the club echoed like a pistol shot between the trees. The ball took off long and low and down the incline, but gathering height as it traveled and fading slightly to the right and still in the air at the bottom and gently over the ravine into the grass on the other side.

  Ricki stared at Clark and mumbled, “Well, I’ll be damned. You really put legs on that one. What happened?”

  Clark smiled and shrugged. “Just caught it right, I guess. I told you before I do it now and then.”

  “O.K.,” he laughed. “But just don’t do it too often.”

  Ricki was in for a beautiful par, but Clark had an easy chip shot to the green and the pin and took a birdie. The game was even. It was the same thing on the ninth, a long one and dangerous, with a ditch and heavy shrubbery on the left, a bottleneck fairway, and trees, shrubbery, and high, gleaming white sand dunes on the right. It was one to play with caution, but Clark, now up, unwrapped another long, low ball that screamed a good three hundred yards down the fairway and, instead of slicing, faded properly to the left away from the dunes for a beautiful lie. Ricki frowned thoughtfully, but was forced into following suit and slammed into his ball as hard as he could. The desired hook, however, did not quite come off and the ball flew straight along the right edge of the fairway, still landing in the grass, but grass that was deep in sand. The lie was not too bad, but neither was it good. Ricki had to use a two iron, played it well, and landed down the middle of the fairway about sixty yards from the green. Clark was then in position to play it safe and still come out ahead. Instead, he took a three wood from the bag and slammed a high one into the wind coming off the ocean. The ball plunked on the green, bounced, and came to a stop four feet from the pin. Ricki then had to gamble and pitched a high one with an eight iron, depending on the wind to keep it on the green. The ball, however, overran the green and went into the ditch on the other side. Ricki recovered nicely, but holed out with a six against Clark’s eagle three.

  Ricki, as well as everyone else in the crowd, was amazed and baffled. He had played excellent golf all the way and, except for the last two holes, had seemingly demonstrated a skill far superior to Clark’s. Yet it was Clark who won the first five thousand and had him three down, which, with his handicap, he didn’t even need.

  Ricki walked toward the tenth i
n a thoughtful frame of mind. He could still take the last half and game, which would balance off the loss on the first side and put five thousand in his pocket, but that would now be a very difficult thing to do unless Clark blew wide open, which didn’t appear likely. He wiped sudden perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Clark was completely relaxed. As far as he was concerned, he had broken the back of the game with the last two holes and it was all over. He took an even par three with Ricki on the short ten, then moved on to the eleventh. For the first time he took an interest in the crowd and looked about for Ione. She was standing back with Eric and Wallace and some others, and when she saw Clark looking in her direction she gave him a provocative smile. He grinned, stepped up to the tee, thinking of Ione now rather than the game, and forgetting the act he had so carefully built. Between the tee and the green, 322 yards away, was a rolling mass of sand dunes, with a short stretch of grass on the other side and then the green under some trees. It was a tricky hole requiring a hook for safety, yet a player with a natural slice would have no trouble landing somewhere on the fairway. Clark, however, not thinking, played it the professional way with a hard-hit low ball that skirted just above the sand dunes, climbed out over the fairway, then faded back in to the left to land rolling hard and come to a stop not many yards from the green.

  He took the hole from Ricki with a birdie, but as they walked toward the next tee he noticed that Eric was squinting at him narrowly and whispering rapidly to Ione, who was shaking her head. Joey, too, noticed it and moved up to Clark’s side to whisper, “That was a dumb play. Eric’s wise. Get in a little trouble from now on.”

  Clark nodded and again concentrated on the game, returning to what was supposed to be his natural slice and skirting the edge of danger. But he never actually had to get in trouble, as Ricki from there on defeated himself. Ricki was putting on far too much pressure, trying too hard and overreaching himself. He drove too hard and sailed off the fairways in the wind, he chipped his approach shots too high, and his putting was nervous and erratic. He swore under his breath at every shot, his score climbed steadily, and his game degenerated so badly and so rapidly that he blew completely on the seventeenth, cussed out his caddy, slammed his putter into the trees, and stalked off alone toward the clubhouse, his face a picture of black, frustrated rage.