Chapter Five
The assistant pro ran his finger down the day’s tee sheet on his clipboard and told Sam that he could get him out with Al Barber in about 45 minutes.
Sam knew his Masters history. Al Barber had won the tournament—and his lifetime exemption—during one of those years when Nicklaus was slumping, Palmer was fading, and Watson had not yet arrived. Playing with him would be an advantage. Even if Barber couldn’t hit the shots anymore, he had 40 years of course knowledge, if he were willing to share it.
“Your caddie will be Dwight Wilson,” the caddiemaster said to Sam. “He’s waiting to meet you in front of the locker room.”
Sam walked through the breezeway between the pro shop and the bag room and up the sidewalk to the locker room entrance, where an enormous black man in a white jumpsuit was waiting for him by the door with his golf bag.
The caddie extended his huge hand and shook Sam’s with a firm but gentle grip—that of an experienced caddie, who would know that a golfer with crushed fingers wasn’t going to earn him any money.
“Morning, Mr. Sam,” the caddie said. “Dwight Wilson.”
Sam assumed it was standard Masters caddie lingo to address players as “Mr. Phil” or “Mr. Ernie,” but this formality made him uncomfortable.
“Please just call me Sam,” Sam said. “You’re the boss this week.”
“Yes, sir,” Dwight said. “But I’m here to help you. Ask me anything at all. There’s nothing I don’t know about this golf course.”
Dwight had a clean-shaven baby face, round jowls, and warm, friendly eyes shaded by his green Masters cap. Sam liked his face; he looked like he wouldn’t be afraid to tell you what you needed to hear, even if you didn’t want to hear it. He must have weighed 300 pounds, but appeared to be very strong. He slung Sam’s bag over his shoulder as though it were a school kid’s backpack, and they started walking across the parking lot to the practice range.
“I’ve heard all about you,” Dwight said. “You beat those college kids last summer.”
“Kind of a fluke,” Sam said. “I had a good week.”
“We’re gonna have another good week right here,” Dwight said.
“It’s a bad deal for you that amateurs can’t accept prize money,” Sam said. “Ten percent of my winnings is squat.”
“Don’t matter to me,” Dwight said. “I’m just glad to have a bag.”
“How long have you caddied at the Masters?”
“Since 1980. Three years before the club let the pros start bringing their own caddies here. Now, some years I get a bag, some years I don’t.”
“What about the other caddies here?” Sam asked.
“Some still caddie for the members, like I do. Some quit. They made more at the Masters than they could make caddying the rest of the year.”
“Must be tough to get by.”
“We do all right. You can get out three, four times a week with the members, except for summer, when they close the place. And a lot of us make money on the side. I’m gettin’ too old to do this full-time.”
“I’ll bet you’re named after Dwight Eisenhower, right?” Sam said as they emerged from the roped-off corridor onto the practice range.
“That’s right,” Dwight said. “My mama met the president many times. She used to clean the cabins at the National. Says he was the nicest man she ever met at this club, except right after a round of golf. Then he could be a little out of sorts. One time when she knew he was kind of low about the way he’d played, she thanked him for winning the war. He cheered right up and said, ‘You’re welcome, Helen.’”
Green mesh bags of range balls from every major manufacturer were piled up on a table at the right side of the range. Sam grabbed a bag of Pro V1s and found a spot on the range next to a bandy-legged older man wearing green checked pants, a white polo shirt, and a white Hogan-style snap-brim cap. He turned to Sam and introduced himself.
“Al Barber,” the man said, his eyes looking Sam up and down as though trying to guess his scoring ability from the way he dressed and carried himself. He took off his hat, revealing a silver crewcut, and extended his hand.
Sam shook the man’s firm, knobby, age-spotted hand. He saw a determined glint in Barber’s eye, the look of a competitor—even at his advanced age, the look of a champion.
“I saw a film of your Masters win on the Golf Channel.”
“I love that film,” Barber said. “Especially the ending.”
Dwight walked over to Barber’s caddie, put an arm around him and gave him a soul handshake.
“This is my cousin, Chipmunk,” Dwight said, introducing him to Sam. “How you doin’ this morning, Mr. Al?”
“Couldn’t be better, Dwight.”
“Looks like they’ve got us playing a practice round together,” Sam said.
“Terrific,” Barber said. “I hope you brought some money.”
Sam began to stretch, holding his sand wedge out in front of him, one hand on the grip end and one hand on the hosel, and twisted slowly around without moving his feet until he could look behind him and see the player who had walked up to the hitting station to his left.
It was Shane Rockingham.
Sam turned all the way around in the opposite direction, still keeping his feet planted, until he could once again see behind him. It wasn’t the Rockingham he remembered from college. He still had the same babe-magnet features—the thick dark hair, the two-day growth and the sleepy-looking eyes—but he’d lost weight and added muscle. As he stretched, his chiseled torso and knotted biceps looked as though they were going to rip through the fabric of his golf shirt. No wonder his nickname on tour was “The Rock.”
“There he is,” Rockingham said when he noticed Sam watching him. “What’s new, Sam?”
“Since the last time we saw each other? Pretty much everything.”
Rockingham reached over and squeezed Sam’s outstretched hand with a grip like a trash compactor.
“You’ve been working out,” Sam said.
“You noticed,” Rockingham said. “Yeah, I’m in the Tour fitness trailer five days a week. With all the money to be made out here, the guys who don’t use it are idiots.”
“I’d rather sit in the shade with a cool drink,” Barber said, overhearing their conversation.
“You’ve earned a rest, Al,” Rockingham said. “You got a game this morning?”
“Just me and Skarda here.”
“Mind if Cody Menninger and I join you?”
“Your money is as good as anyone else’s,” Barber said.
“You ever hear from any of the guys?” Rockingham asked Sam, though his tone suggested it was a perfunctory question. The son of a Detroit auto executive, Rockingham never had much in common with his college teammates—like Sam, who was the son of a Minneapolis cop.
“Now and then,” Sam said. “We usually talk about seeing you on TV.”
Rockingham nodded and continued with his stretching routine. Sam was still astounded by the physical transformation. He’d heard rumors that some guys on the pro tour were experimenting with steroids. Rockingham certainly looked like he might use substances stronger than milk and Wheaties.
“You seem to be taking better care of yourself,” Sam said. “I remember you sleeping it off in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot the night before the Penn Invitational.”
“I’ve grown up since then.”
Rockingham bent at the waist and twisted from side to side several times, then straightened up.
“You’re a cop now, right?” he said to Sam.
“Yeah.”
“What’s that like?”
“Pretty much like TV, except for the tidy endings and the hot women.”
“So why do it? Can’t be for the money.”
“No, th
e money sucks. But I do like sending assholes to prison.”
“Somebody else could do it.”
“I know. I’m on a leave of absence now. I’m trying to decide whether to go back, or try something else.”
“It’s tough out here if you don’t already have your name on your bag,” Rockingham said. “A lot of amateurs qualify for one Masters and think they can go pro. Most of them, you never hear from again.”
“I’m not going pro,” Sam said. “I know I’m not good enough.”
Sam turned back to his pile of balls and tried to concentrate on his warm-up routine. He would have felt self-conscious about hitting balls in front of so many critical eyes, but he realized that the crowd that had gathered in the grandstand behind him was there to watch Rockingham.
Rockingham’s caddie was a skinny man with a droopy moustache and tattoos on his neck. The other tour caddies called him Weed, for reasons Sam could guess. Weed knelt next to his pile of range balls while his boss finished his stretching—or posing, as Sam would have described it. Then the floor show began.
After each shot Rockingham hit, Weed picked up a new ball and threw it directly at his boss’ head. Rockingham caught each ball in his right hand with a loud smack, dropped it on the grass in front of him and exploded through the shot, grunting at impact like a pro tennis player delivering a 140-mph serve as ball after ball went screaming down the range. Then he stuck out his right hand to catch another fastball from his caddie. The crowds in the bleachers behind the range seemed to enjoy the pitch-and-catch act as much as the long, rifle-crack iron shots. Sam was as entertained as anyone. Weed turned around to look at him
“Everybody stares at first,” Weed said with a grin that showed gold and gaps from years of haphazard dental work. “You’ll get used to it.”
“What do you think, Weed?” Rockingham said. “Should we carry the utility club or the two-iron this week?”
“Let’s see how you’re hitting them.”
Rockingham took the two-iron from his caddie, teed up a ball, and sent it to the base of the fence at the other end of the range, 270 yards away.
“Now the utility,” Weed said.
Weed took the two-iron and handed his boss the slim-backed utility club. Weed fired another ball at him, and Rockingham launched it halfway up the 105-foot-high net suspended above the fence to protect the cars and pedestrians on Washington Road.
“Tough call,” Weed said with a snicker.
The fans in the bleachers behind them started chanting “Over the net! Over the net!” before being admonished by a marshal. The players knew they were not supposed to hit balls over the net, but Rockingham pulled out his driver and sent one of the range balls disappearing into traffic. He twirled his driver and slammed it back in his bag.
“See you on the tee,” he said to Sam as he walked off the range to sustained applause.
Dwight whistled and said, “He ain’t human.”
“Yes, he is,” Sam said.
Sam finished his warm-up shots and spent ten minutes on the lightning-quick practice green on the other side of the clubhouse. When it was time to tee off, he followed in Dwight’s massive wake through the throngs of spectators gathered around the first tee. He presented his player ID to the tee marshal, stepped through the ropes, and took a deep breath. He was about to play Augusta National.
Rockingham and Cody Menninger had been pals and running mates on the Nationwide Tour before breaking through to the big show. Menninger had made some decent money, but it was obvious that Rockingham was the star in this pairing. He was being photographed by fans all the way to the first tee.
“You guys want to play us?” Rockingham said to Sam and Barber when he arrived at the starter’s table.
“Whattya got in mind?” Barber said. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna need strokes from you two gorillas.”
“Al, you’ve forgotten more about Augusta National than I’ll ever know,” Rockingham said.
“That’s the trouble,” Barber said. “I forgot it all.”
*
Sam was so mesmerized by the beauty and perfection of the golf course that he barely noticed he and Barber were losing their match after the front 9. Barber suggested a back nine press, to which Sam reluctantly agreed. The needle on his bank account back home was pointing at “E.”
Yellow police tape greeted Sam’s foursome when they arrived at the 12th tee. Several squad cars were parked along the service road behind the grandstand, and a canine unit explored the wooded area along the left side of the 12th green. Sam’s group was met by a uniformed Richmond County sheriff’s deputy and an Augusta National member in a green jacket.
“We’re not playing 12 this morning, fellas,” said the member, an older man with a dark tan that showed through the wispy white hairs on top of his head. “There’s been an accident here.”
“What kind of accident?” Rockingham asked.
“Sorry, gentlemen, I can’t say any more. Please proceed to the 13th tee.”
“Shit,” Rockingham said to Menninger as they began walking to a waiting Cadillac Escalade. “They better let us practice here tomorrow. I’m never sure what club to hit on this hole.”
Rockingham was so locked into his tournament preparation that he didn’t even seem to care why the cops had shut down the hole. But Sam was interested.
“Officer,” Sam said quietly to the deputy. “Is this a homicide?”
“You’ll have to talk to the investigator, Lieutenant Harwell.”
He pointed to a man walking toward the tee from the edge of the pond. He had wiry red hair and wore a white short-sleeve shirt, a red tie, and navy blue pants, with a police radio and a holstered handgun attached to his belt. Sam waited until Harwell reached the tee.
“Lieutenant Harwell, I’m a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department,” Sam said.
“What’s a Minneapolis cop doing here?” the investigator said to Sam.
“I’m playing in the Masters this year. Sam Skarda.”
“Oh…,” Harwell said, letting the sound escape from his mouth like a draft through a barn. The idea of a cop playing golf made no sense to him whatsoever. “What can I do for y’all? We’re a little busy here.”
“What happened here?” Sam asked.
“We don’t know. The M.E. will determine that.”
There was no body visible. The ambulance and the hearse were gone.
“Why is the hole closed off?”
Harwell looked around, then lifted the police tape.
“C’mere. Have a look.”
Sam and Dwight followed the detective to the end of the tee and down the slope to the edge of the pond. Cops and forensic technicians stood around the 12th green, some taking pictures, some on their hands and knees inspecting the grass, and others just standing around enjoying the warm April morning.
“We found a body floating here this morning,” Harwell said. “And that writing on the green.”
At first Sam couldn’t see anything unusual. Then, through a gap between two cops, he spotted some brown grass in the center of the putting surface. That never happened at Augusta. Looking more closely, there appeared to be a pattern to the spots of dead grass.
Someone had burned a message into the green. Sam took a few steps closer until he could make out the words, written in letters a foot high:
THIS IS THE LAST MASTERS
Chapter Six
Sam couldn’t get the image of the defaced green out of his mind for the rest of the round. Nor could he imagine why someone was willing to commit murder to end the tournament. Could it have something to do with the protests?
He made a string of distracted swings that led to bogeys and double-bogeys as they played their way back to the clubhouse. The temperature had climbed into the 80s by the time Sam’s fou
rsome walked up the 18th fairway, and Dwight was laboring.
“Are you okay, big guy?” Sam asked as they approached the two-tiered green, surrounded by milky white bunkers and hundreds of spectators. Dwight toweled his face and offered a weak grin.
“These hills get steeper and this jumpsuit gets hotter every year,” he said. “But I’d feel a whole hell of a lot better if you’d get your mind back on your game.”
Sam responded to Dwight’s challenge, sinking a 25-foot birdie putt to win the hole and three carry-overs worth $200.
“You just cost me a steak dinner, pards,” Rockingham said to Sam as they walked off the 18th green. He was smiling as he compressed Sam’s hand, but the force of the handshake convinced Sam that Rockingham wasn’t joking.
“Two hundred bucks for a steak dinner? You need to find cheaper restaurants,” Sam replied.
“I made four fuckin’ point nine million last year,” Rockingham said, suddenly not smiling. “What’d you make?”
“Less than you make in a week.”
“You need a better job,” Rockingham said, and headed for the locker room, whistling an unrecognizable tune.
Can’t argue with him there, Sam thought.
Sam told Dwight they’d play another practice round Tuesday morning around ten. Dwight said he’d be there early, but he was walking with a limp as he and Chipmunk headed for the bag room with the clubs. The steep 18th fairway had been hard on both of Sam’s knees; he could only imagine how tough it was for Dwight, who had to be at least 10 years older and 100 pounds heavier than Sam.
Sam made his way through the throngs of spectators, hreen jackets, reporters, photographers and club employees milling around the 150-year-old oak tree that shaded the southwest corner of the clubhouse. Its tentacle-like branches extended horizontally at least 40 feet from the trunk and were held aloft by a network of steel cables. There was a buzz in the air that had to be connected to the body that had been found in the 10th fairway.
“Skarda? You Sam Skarda?”
Sam heard a gruff voice call his name through the commotion on the lawn. Sam turned to see a dumpy, sweaty man with thinning, unkempt hair and a press badge hanging around the frayed collar of his beige—or was it supposed to be white?—golf shirt. There was a mustard stain on the lapel of his ratty tan sports jacket and an ink smudge that ran from the cuff of his left sleeve almost up to the elbow. He was wearing baggy jeans and dirty white sneakers.
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