But Fireman did more than that, of course. He kept track of his boys, the ever-changing cadre of caddies. If a pro needed someone to carry his bag, Fireman would arrange it. If one of the boys dropped out for a few weeks or months or even years to dally in the pleasures of a bottle or to chase a woman or to enjoy the fruits of a Top Ten finish, Fireman would know it. And when the prodigal caddie eventually returned, as they always did, Fireman would rant and rave and lecture him for a while, and then set about getting him a bag again.
Fireman knew the nomadic life of following the professional golf tour. It was all he had ever done. He knew the excitement of carrying the winner’s bag at a major tournament, he knew the helpless pressures of carrying the bag of a perennial cut- misser. He knew that a golfer on a bad streak would seek to lay the blame on the imaginary mistakes of his caddie, and that a player winning big would rarely give any of the credit to the guy lugging his clubs. And he knew all about The Life. Legend has it that he earned his nickname decades ago when another caddie overheard him yelling from the converted bed of his pickup late one night “Ooo baby, I’m on fire for you!”
I’d never figured out quite how Fireman supported himself. My best guess was through a combination of good poker hands, shrewd investments in the weekly caddie Calcuttas, occasional dividends paid by the ponies, and a well-structured network of sympathetic friends strategically located at tour stops from coast to coast. But then, for all I really knew about the man, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he had a five-million-dollar portfolio on Wall Street, and was living off the interest.
Fireman was my best source for inside stuff. He was the central conduit of information from the most unbiased sources on tour: the guys who carried the clubs. The caddies knew who was playing well, and who wasn’t. The caddies knew which player still had a hurt shoulder, an angry wife, a hangover, an empty bank account or an eye on the girl in the red shorts in the gallery. The caddies knew all about weaknesses and strengths, ups and downs, successes and failures, good luck and bad. And everything the caddies knew, Fireman knew. He knew which player’s wife had just ordered expensive new carpeting for the whole house, and how that might affect the guy’s play: make him stressed and try too hard, or blow it off with a shrug. There was a good-sized pile of wood shavings at Fireman’s feet when I walked over. He had attached an old golf umbrella to the back of his folding chair with some imaginative use of duct tape and was sitting in the shade away from the hot Carolina sun.
“Whatcha making, Fireman?” I asked as I perched on the back bumper of his ancient truck. I had a paper bag with me, and I pulled out the two cold six-packs of Budweiser and opened two. It was Fireman’s favorite brand.
“Nuthin’, Hacker, nuthin’ a’tall,” Fireman wheezed. “Jest passin’ the time and keepin’ myhands from the arthuritis is all.” His creased face lit up with pleasure as he took a long draught from his can. He eased himself out of his chair and carefully packed the remaining beer away in a Styrofoam cooler in the back of his truck. A place for everything and everything in its place. He sat back down and picked up on his whittling again.
“So, who’s hot this week?” I asked.
“Well,” he drawled, scratching on his chin, “They be a number who be swingin’ pretty fine lately,” he mused. “Mister Kite be swingin’ pretty fine, an’ he do like the hot weather, and Mister Mahaffey, he do like this course. An’ I hear some mightly good things about Mister Turnbull...mighty good.”
“John Turnbull, eh?” I said. “Who’s carrying his bag this week?”
Fireman turned his head and his pink-rimmed eyes peered up at me from his weathered face. “The Hacker-Man has been a busy one,” he said softly. “Won’t be needin’ to come see his ole friend Fireman no more.”
I grinned at him. “Only doing my job, Fireman,” I said. “You see things, hear things. I saw Turnbull fire Jocko up in Atlanta Sunday.”
“Yeah, that be comin’ from a long way back,” Fireman said, returning to his stick. “That Drugstore be a bad dude, real bad. He be sellin’ reefer and pills to my boys for a long, long time. Mister Turnbull, bein’ himself a fine Christian gentleman, tried to get Drugstore to stop sellin’. But Gypsy and Wheezer see him sellin’ reefer to some be-bops in the parking lot up to Atlanta last week, and the word got back to Mister Turnbull, as it always do. Boom! No more bag for Drugstore.”
He bent to his stick, slashing at the wood and shaking his head sadly. In the Life, no one makes judgments about another. Everyone always knows everyone else’s business, but in the Life, a caddie is free to make his own decisions about life, about working or not working, about right and wrong, and no one says a thing against him. Except for behavior on the golf course: there, a caddie must adhere to all the rules about doing the work, not showing up your man, being invisible, being professional. Off the golf course, it’s your own life to lead and no one is going to say a word.
Suddenly, a big, black crow walked calmly around Fireman’s truck from the front, stared at the old black man for a long moment with dark, liquid eyes, and then took off into the Carolina sky with a loud and raucous cry. It sounded like the cry of a dying man.
Fireman was visibly shaken. He reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out a cross on a long, silver chain. He bent his head down and kissed it, then closed his eyes tightly and mumbled what sounded like a prayer or an incantation.
I laughed, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t know you were superstitious,” I chided him gently. “I know black cats are unlucky, but crows?”
“Not good, not good a’tall,” Fireman said, his eyes darting at me nervously. “They be trouble in dat crow. Trouble.”
We both sipped some beer. Fireman went back to his whittling.
“You get Jocko another bag?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Fireman smiled. “He be a good caddie for a bad dude now. He got hisself a bag right away. But he still be steamin’ at Mister Turnbull. His own damn fault, you ask me.”
“Jocko doesn’t sound like the best kind of caddie for a good Christian gentleman like Miter Turnbull,” I offered.
“Now don’ you go jokin’ ‘bout Mister Turnbull,” Fireman jabbed his pocketknife at me. “He be a fine gentleman and he try an’ do the right thing. He talk and talk at that Drugstore and gave him stuff to read an’ all. But that boy be a bad’un, just a bad’un. He laugh at Mister Turnbull behin’ his back. Nossir,” he shook his head. “Mister Turnbull try an’ bring his faith to that boy, but it don’ do no good. No good at’all.”
“You think that faith helps his game any?” I asked.
“Now that’s another question in the altogether,” Fireman said. “They be a bunch who read they Bible and go to they studies. My boys say they come out next day and some look like robots. They hit that ball right down the’ middle and shoot four, five birdies until Pop! Long ‘bout hole twelve, it’s like they be wakin’ up from sleep and they start playin’ like they always does. And some of they others, they come out an try real hard and they ball be goin’ ever’where, and they try and they try and just get so flusterated they can’ do nuthin’. I dunno,” he said, “Seems to mess up they swing. Golf be an easy game. All you got to do is swing purty and let the ball fly away.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Easy.”
Chapter 6
I DROVE BACK TO MY villa as the shadows began to lengthen across the fairways. The angle of the sun turned the marshes golden and hazy, and the constant pulsating buzz of the insects seemed to lighten, as if they knew the workday was almost over.
I pulled into my driveway next to a blonde struggling with an armload of grocery bags piled in the trunk of her car. It was Becky Turnbull. She had changed into a loose scoop-necked blouse, tight stonewashed jeans and big sunglasses. Her soft blond hair was piled atop her head. It made a nice picture of housewifery.
“Need a hand?” I asked gallantly.
She peered over at me. “Mr. Hacker! Gosh, yes, thanks,” she said. “If you’ll carry i
n the beer, you can have one with me.”
In short order, we had the bags carried, unloaded and food put away, and we sitting in the overdecorated living room of the Turnbull’s villa. It was almost exactly the same as mine next door, with its floorplan of two bedrooms, two baths, plus carpets, overstuffed upholstery, cathedral ceiling with endlessly circulating fan, skylights, trendy pastel wallpaper and essential lifelessness.
Turnbull, I learned, was at the practice range. “Christ,” she said, “He will spend a solid hour hitting a wedge at this one flag, getting mad if the ball lands more than ten feet away.” She held the cold bottle of beer to her temple. Her striking features were flushed with the simple effort of grocerying in the humid af- ternoon heat. “It would drive me stark, raving mad,” she said.
“That’s what it takes to win out here,” I said. “But I can imagine being a tour wife takes some getting used to.”
“Tour wife?” she chortled. The telephone rang. She went over to the kitchen counter to answer it.
“Charley? I’m glad you called back. Hang on a sec...” She reached over the counter and dragged out a bulging leather attaché. “Listen, we need to go over some of the figures on the Dectron deal.”
She pulled a bar stool up to the counter and perched her very nice fanny on the edge. Sheafs of paper, computer printouts, a hand-held calculation and various other implements of business came tumbling out. She began to discuss stock options, floating debentures, hedged discount rates and other financial esoterica. I pulled on my beer, and to avoid staring at her stool-perched parts, leafed idly through the magazines on the coffee table in front of me. She hung up thirty minutes later with a sigh, got another beer from the refrigerator, and sank down in the chair opposite mine.
“I stand corrected,” I said. She raised her eyebrows in ques- tion. “About the tour wife thing.”
She smiled. “I’m chief financial officer for Tectronics. We make keyboards for all the big boys in Silicon Valley. We make lots of money and I’m in charge of growing that money and keeping the tax man from taking too much of it. Hell, it’s not too hard. We make more money each year than the year before. I could probably screw up three years in a row and not make a dent in anyone’s pocket. But I don’t. Screw up, that is.”
“Where did you meet your young golfer?” I asked.
She smiled again, this time with evident pleasure at the memory. “We put a lot of sponsor dollars into the San Diego tournament a couple years ago. So they invited us down to one of those watch-the-golf cocktail parties. I hardly ever go to those things, but I was told to show up for this one. Hated it. Everyone there was either a golfer who liked to talk about golf, or the other half of a couple. I was neither. John was there for some reason, but he was hiding on the sidelines too, so I started talking to him.” She smiled at another memory. “Funny...we didn’t talk about golf at all.”
She pushed her hair back and sipped at her beer. “We escaped. He took me out to dinner. I decided to stay around for the rest of the tournament. He barely made the cut and finished third from last. I was the only one in his gallery.” We both laughed.
“Looks like another good investment,” I said. “He’s a good one, and he’s getting better by the week.”
Her eyes shone. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’m so proud of him and what he’s accomplished so far. I’m looking forward to watching him hit his peak.” I saw a cloud pass quickly over her eyes and the edges of her mouth tightened. “That’s why it’s so damn frustrating –”
The door to the villa opened and John Turnbull walked in looking hot and tired. Becky jumped up and ran to kiss him, taking his hand and leading him into the living room. “Come sit down and cool off, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Hacker’s here. He helped me unload groceries. Let me get you a beer.”
Turnbull sank down on the couch with a groan. “God, I forgot how hot it gets out there at this time of the year,” he said. “Playing the tournament is going to be a snap compared to this.”
Becky came back with his beer and curled up at his feet.
This was a different person from the one I had been listening too on the telephone a few minutes earlier. That one had been a self-assured predator, stalking her jungle territory with assur- ance, expertise and even cockiness. Knowing what she wanted and knowing how to get it.
This Becky was different. She sat comfortably on the floor next to her husband while we chatted. She was always connected to him in some small way. An elbow thrown casually across his knees. A hand reaching out slyly to touch his calf. A happy glance thrown over her shoulder while she laughed at his jokes. This was a nurturing woman, also assured and expert, but committed to the other in a total and all-consuming way. John Turnbull, it occurred to me, was a lucky man.
Becky turned to me. “How long have you been covering the tour, Hacker?” she asked.
“Been out here for about six years,” I said. “Before that, I worked the crime beat back in Boston. Covered murders, rapes, terrorists, larcenies, armed holdups, corruption...the works.”
“And before that, you were a golfer,” John Turnbull said. “I’ve heard you were a damn good one. Why did you give it up?”
I paused a moment before answering. As I’ve said, I get asked that question a lot. Some people can understand, most can’t. I decided the Turnbulls were good bets for understanding.
“Golf has always been a game for me,” I said. “I started playing when I was a kid. My father would take me out to his club late on Sunday afternoons, when the course was empty. Golden summer afternoons, just him and me and all that green grass and lengthening shadows and birds flittering about before darkness fell. Those were special times.”
Becky and John Turnbull listened raptly. I could tell that they would understand.
“My dad always made it fun...a game. It was never ‘What did you have on that hole?’ or winning or losing. It was always skill games, like ‘See if you can hit a low shot and bounce the ball onto the green,’ or ‘I bet you can’t bend it around that tree,’ and ‘let’s play this hole with just a six-iron and see what happens.’ It was never about keeping score and keeping track of pars and birdies and stuff...we were just out having fun, whacking a ball around God’s green earth.”
The Turnbulls were listening. I saw John nodding once or twice.
“Of course, there was an ulterior motive to my dad’s games,” I continued. “He was making me into a shot-maker. Teaching me that golf was a game of infinite subtleties, not just raw power and scoring. A game that is shaped, shot by shot, much as a sculptor unveils a shape from the block of granite.
“The net result was that I became a champion as a junior. Everyone else was trying to make a score. I was just trying to have fun, overcome the challenges of that particular round, and see how creative I could be in getting the ball into the hole. That was the game to me. And the more I won, the more was expected...by other people. I was just out there having fun, playing a game, me against me, trying to use my knowledge and abilities to do something I found fun. It was never about winning making me a better person, or losing make me a worse one. I just played golf on my own terms and had fun doing it.”
I shrugged. “Until I got to the pros. Then it stopped being a game and became a business. It stopped being fun. I had to please other people – my investors, the press, fans. The prior- ity became winning money...as much as possible and as fast as possible. With those pressures, golf stopped being a game. And I couldn’t bear to lose that. So I got out. Simple as that.”
There was silence for a moment as they digested what I said. “I don’t think it was quite that simple,” Becky finally said. “Because it sounds like you made quite a leap. From a fantasy world of green grass, golden sunshine and unending adulation, into the real world of murders and blood and crime and, for you, anonymity. That sounds more like an escape, or perhaps a search for absolution.”
“You might be right,” I admitted. “I majored in journalism in college, in between
golf tournaments, so I had something of a skill to fall back on. Plus, journalism classes were reputed to be easy.” We all laughed. “But I asked for the crime beat. I think I did feel a need to get back into the so-called real world, make up for lost time, do something worthwhile for a change.”
“And now?” Becky Turnbull looked at me questioningly. “And now I’ve got a satisfying assignment,” I said. “I’m involved again in the game I really love, but I let other people deal with it as a business instead of a game. Being that one step removed makes it okay, for me anyway. I’m good at what I do, and I like doing it. And I get paid for it, which is a bonus.”
“No regrets?” John Turnbull asked.
“Oh, Lord, no,” I said. “I’ve gotten everything I wanted from the game.”
“And what’s that?” Becky leaned forward. She was not just keeping the conversational ball rolling, but was seeking an answer to something that had apparently been burning inside. I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts before I answered.
“There’s not a whole lot right with the world these days,” I said finally. “Our cities are full of drugs and death and de- spair...more than half the world lives in abject poverty...gov- ernments are out there killing people and manipulating us in various ways. Life is basically chaos everywhere you look. But golf is still a world of order. It’s based on a system of honesty and values.”
Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty Page 4
