Missing links, p.23
Missing Links, page 23
All the strength drained from her. I checked for welts.
“What?”
“Sorry.”
“You lie. You’re just jealous. You have been from the start. Just ’cause you couldn’t make a single relationship work in your whole pathetic life, just ’cause you couldn’t stand to stick your neck out for one little second, you don’t wanna see anybody else catch a break.”
“Fine. Don’t believe me …” I said.
“I won’t,” she snapped. She turned and walked away.
“But that sure is a sweet little butterfly tattoo he’s got on his ankle,” Thud said.
She froze. She looked at Browning. He was wearing long pants. He looked at her.
Browning started backpedaling like a cornerback.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. I just got so sick of the whispering at the parties. And my parents were so happy that I’d found someone. I’m going to tell them. I just wanted to give them a little happiness before I did. Is that so bad?”
Dannie walked out of the shop, looking like she was going to cry or punch somebody.
“Dannie!” Browning called.
“Shut the fuck up, Xanadu,” I mentioned.
Suddenly, Dannie broke into a sprint toward the putting green. It took me a minute to figure out what she was doing, but then it hit me.
“Two!” I hollered. “Run!!”
But Two Down had no chance. He looked up on the putting green just as Dannie caught him with a beautiful punch 7-iron to the knee, followed by a nice uppercut to the nose, which immediately started your basic Red River going. Then she followed that with a knee in the groin. “Get yourself another hobby,” she said.
Then she got in the middle of everybody and yelled through her tears, “Can I have everybody’s attention? I have an announcement to make! Them two right there”—pointing at Browning and Concorde—“are goddamn”—pause—“low-rent”—double pause—“they’re just …”
Concorde and Browning looked like their T-bills were flashing in front of their eyes.
“They’re not what you think.… They’re … just …”
And she couldn’t finish, running off to the parking lot in a slobbery, gorgeous mess.
There was much murmuring in the crowd.
Concorde pulled Browning over to him with a big smile and said, “They just can’t handle it when my boy Browning puts the old niblick off-limits, am I right, Browning?”
“Damn right,” said Browning, his voice quivering.
The faces on the members lightened in relief and guffaws and backslaps.
As I leaned over Two Down, I knew I’d just lost my partner and probably The Bet. Dannie had opened him up like a 7-Eleven. It looked like Two Down’s kneecap, nose and maybe dick were broken. He was definitely out of the match.
“You all right, Two?” I asked.
“Sure,” he groaned, spitting out a tooth and holding his knee. “This is NOT my favorite putting green, y’know what I mean?”
The head pro brought some towels and ice for Two Down and one of the Numerals offered to drive him to the hospital, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“Stone,” I said. “I’ve got to have another partner. Look at him.”
“No way,” said Stone. “That wasn’t the bet.”
“Fine. We win. One up.”
“Wrong. You forfeit.”
“Bullshit! We didn’t say anything about injuries.”
“We said strict USGA rules,” said Stone. “You can’t just substitute somebody during a match. We win.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “The rule book doesn’t say anything about injury.”
“Yes, it does,” said my father. “You forfeit the match.”
OK, so I forgot who I was talking to.
I looked around at the crowd of thirty or so Mayflower members watching.
I spoke up pretty loud. “So, Father, you want to win like this? By forfeit? When you’re 1 down? OK, you get the money and the house, but everybody here knows that a couple slobs from the wrong side of the hedge beat you, 1 up, and then you went double weenie.”
My father took a little look around and so did Concorde. There was a little grumbling in the crowd.
“Buck up, Will,” one of the rich guys in the back said.
“Let the match continue!” somebody else yelled.
I could see Concorde starting to squirm.
“Just let me have somebody,” I said. “Anybody.”
Suddenly, I saw Dannie out of the corner of my eye. She’d come back. “Except the girl,” I said softly.
Concorde’s eyes brightened. He turned and saw Dannie.
“Waaaaait a minute,” he said. “The girl! Hey, that’s a great idea, isn’t it, Will? I don’t suppose it would hurt anything to have the nice young lady …”
Suddenly, he froze. Then he spun around.
“Hold on one fuckin’ minute,” he said. “This is just what you want, isn’t it? This was all a setup, wasn’t it? The girl is a plant! How stupid do you think we are over here? This whole fight, this whole thing, all the accusations, they were just a setup so that you’d pick the girl and she’d be some dyke on spikes from the LPGA tour who would step on our balls and smoke a cigar later.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “You caught us. I’m actually Dick Clark and you’re on Foul-ups, Bleeps & Blunders.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “It’s the oldest setup in the world. Well, sorry. We’re not buying.”
“All right, who, then?”
He looked around at the collection of mutts who had invaded his precious club.
Crowbar whispered to Cementhead in a nerdy voice, “A course, I’m an excellent driver.”
“The African Queen?” whispered Cementhead.
“Rain Man.”
“Damn!”
Concorde kept looking. And then he saw him. The man he wanted. He pointed right at him. My heart sank.
“That guy!” he said. “The guy I saw this morning. That’s your partner from here on in.”
Every Chop groaned.
Hoover.
Hard as I protested, the Numerals wouldn’t listen. Stone said I was lucky they let me continue with anybody at all.
I tried to look on the bright side. As bad as Hoover was, maybe he’d accidentally skull one off a duck and into the hole or maybe just watching his swing would infect the Numerals’ game. Hoover was better than quitting right then and there, but only by a little.
Hoover didn’t want to do it. He was petrified. But we convinced him to run out to his trunk to get his clubs and they allowed him five minutes to warm up. But before he made a single swing I said one thing to him: “Hoov, just pretend it’s dark.”
He looked at me like he was just about to go to the electric chair. I gave him a wink and squeezed his shoulder. He was so tight he was not even there. It was like staring into the eyes of a chicken.
My advice really helped. On the 1st hole, he swung like a man trying to machete his way out of a Borneo jungle. He made a 14. Now we were even with the Numerals.
On the 2nd hole, he put a loop in his backswing you could have driven a Peterbilt through and made an 11. Now we were 1 down.
He played the 3rd hole a little better, reaching the green in 3, but then he put the Roberto Durán Hands of Stone stroke on his putt and it sailed off the green and into the longish rough, from which he became the first person in history to lose a ball off a putting green. He actually had to redrop on the green. Ten. Now we were 2 down.
As we got to the 4th tee box, I asked him bitterly, “How’s that Colossal Cathy treatin’ you, pards?”
“The kick point is a little high,” he actually said.
“Oh, well, no wonder,” I said, seething. “For a minute there, I thought you were just trying to ruin my entire fucking life.”
He felt bad. I felt bad. Down 2 holes with 6 holes to play.
A couple of Chops tried to rattle Concorde. One time he hit his drive and Thud said, “Hoo-boy, you really spanked that one, huh, Stoner?”
And Cementhead said, “Yessir, he spanked that one hard!”
“Nuttin’ like a good spanking,” said Two Down.
“God, yes. Nothin’ feels as hot as a real good spanking!” Thud said.
But Concorde only blushed a little and kept staring straight ahead.
Soon the Chops’ steps were heavy and their shoulders six inches lower. Two Down looked like the “before” half of a hemorrhoid ad.
“Jesus, Hoover,” Two snapped. “Get aggressive. They slaughter the lambs in this world. When’s the last time you ordered a lion burger?”
I personally couldn’t look at my driver without feeling like crying. How many more times would I hit it?
Some of the Numerals’ chums were already shaking their hands and saying things like “Well, congratulations, guys. I’ve got to go. You don’t need me anymore.”
The 4th hole at the Mayflower is nasty. The fairway is so tight, a fat guy like Thud could snag his pants on the rough on either side. It’s 440 yards long on top of that, so you have to hit the driver if you are to have any chance. My father got up and hit a pretty decent drive down the middle, but Concorde bailed out way right, into the broccoli.
“Twenty dollars to the first person who finds that ball,” Concorde announced. “Inbounds!”
I blistered my driver 275 down the middle. God, I was going to miss that club. And Hoover, upon my advice, hit a 4-iron that was ugly but actually found the fairway. I figured three 4-irons from him and two putts and a bogey and maybe we’d have a chance to tie a hole.
Concorde couldn’t find his ball. Not only were he and my father searching but most of the Numerals, too. Hoover hit his second 4-iron in the fairway and all the Chops met right there in the fairway, waiting to see what would happen.
Thud: “You know, if we can win one here, we’d be only 1 down.”
Me: “Yeah, right. And maybe Hoover is the ghost of Bobby Jones.”
Thud: “You think Concorde’s gonna find his ball?”
Me: “Of course. Don’t you?”
Thud: “Nope.” Me: “Why not?”
Thud (pulling Concorde’s personalized Titleist 3 out of his pocket): “Because I got it right here.”
I had a sick feeling in my stomach, but the rest of the Chops were having themselves a very big laugh about it, when suddenly, from 50 yards up, Concorde hollered, “Found it!”
Ouch.
WHATEVER BALL THE lizardlike Concorde had slipped down his pant leg, he slashed it out of there, remarkably, very near the green and made the world’s greatest bogey, especially for someone that had an 8.
What were we going to say about it? That can’t be your ball, because I have your ball right in my pocket!
I made a very good 4 and my father made a 5 and Hoover chunked four 4-irons in all, plus a wedge for good measure, and wound up with a snowman.
Three down with 5 to play.
Maybe I could get interested in cribbage.
Of the many choices that were vying for the Most Sickening Thing About Losing, there seemed to be three front-runners: (1) Coming to another huge moment in my life and getting my neck stepped on again. (2) Coming to another huge moment in my life and getting my neck stepped on again by the one man on the entire planet I didn’t want to have anywhere near my neck. (3) Seeing Ponky as I knew it go down the tubes.
If a T would’ve come by at that moment, I would have gladly gotten under it.
Instead, only Two Down limped by, with what looked like a larcenous gleam in what little sliver of eye he had left.
“How we doin’?” he asked.
“We’re just about over Lockerbie now,” I said.
“Don’t give up yet,” he said.
Then he walked away, mysteriously. Meanwhile, Concorde was about to tee off at the 5th, a simple enough 147-yard par 3, probably the easiest hole on the course. He lined up the shot, stepped up to it, waggled and was just about to draw it back when …
BBBBRINNNNNNGGGGG!
“Shit,” he said, falling away from the ball without swinging. “Probably my office.” He went to his cart and picked up his cellular phone.
“Hello?… Hello?…” He flipped it off and went back to the tee box. “Idiots.”
Concorde set up again. This time, just as he was beginning his downswing …
BBBBRINNNNNNGGGGG!
Concorde lurched at his ball, sending it screaming off to the right and into what looked like maximum-security prison.
“Goddamnit!” he roared. “Who the fuck is it?” He ran over, flipped open his cellular, snapped off a hello, but, again, nobody was there. “Fucking idiots!”
“Just turn it off, Stone,” said my father. Concorde, livid, did better than that. He turned it off and slam-dunked it into the little basket on the back of the cart.
That’s when Two Down walked out from behind the tree and slipped back into the crowd, unnoticed.
My father and I hit decent shots and even Hoover laid it up short and left of the green, no problem. Concorde realized he’d never find his ball and teed up another one.
Just as he was at the top, somebody in the crowd said, “Call for Mr. Concorde!” and he stabbed another one in the exact same place.
That caused some pushing and shoving among the Chops and the Numerals.
“This is a motherfuckin’ golf course, motherfuckers!” said Thud, whipping a Chinese semiautomatic pistol out of his black leather waist pouch. “Let’s show some fucking civility!”
The Chops were very impressed.
“You do not meet a lot of twelve-time losers who know their way around both a Chinese semiautomatic and the word ‘civility,’ ” I said to my father.
Thud put the gun back where it came from, but it had hushed the crowd.
“That man has done more for slow play at our course,” Two said to nobody in particular.
Suffice it to say, we won the hole. I told Hoover to simply putt onto the green from 20 yards away, and even though he missed a 3-footer, he made a 5 and Concorde conceded on account of he was well on his way to enjoying a 9.
Hope never dies.
Two down. Four to play.
“How’d you know his number?” I whispered to Two.
“I still have a job at the phone company, for Chrissakes,” he whispered back.
“You were the one calling Mr. Concorde?” Cementhead said.
“Of course, you moron.”
“Well, he’s right over there. I’ll get him for you. Mr. Concorde!”
Thud put a cross-body block on Cementhead before he could get two feet.
“I’ll handle this,” Dannie said, finally speaking up. “I speak fluent Cement.” And she dragged him off to the side to explain it all to him.
The win gave Hoover confidence, and as he stepped up, he actually put a slow swing on one and wiggled that sweet little aerodynamic Titleist 8 right down the middle about 190 yards. I stepped up and caught one a little thin down the left, but the Numerals busted good drives, too. Still, I wound up making birdie from a lucky lie and my father made a par and Stone made a bogey and it all came down to Hoover’s 8-footer for a bogey to win.
Now, Hoover sinking an 8-footer for bogey is not something you want to put your house on. Hoover sinking a 4-footer for anything is not something you want to bet your pocket lint on. The only 8-footer Hoover has ever sunk is maybe a fence post.
In his whole life, Hoover had never made a big putt. He tried putters with level bubbles built into them. He tried putters with guitar-string faces. He tried putters with rollers on the bottom. He tried putters with rubber-band faces. He tried putters with mirrors on them, so that he could look down and see not only the ball but the hole at the same time. He tried putters that looked like Romulan space cruisers, with two giant-winged appendages, putters with convex faces and putters with concave faces. He tried a putter that was only four inches high, which he used on his knees. He even tried putters that stood up by themselves to allow him to misread the line better. Absolutely nothing helped.
And so as he stood over this one that we absolutely, positively had to have, I felt nauseous. Hoover had looked at it from every side but under, had backed off it twice and was now sweating on a 58 degree day. The only thing he hadn’t done was bring in a surveying crew. That’s when I had a very good idea.
“Hoover, hold on a second,” I said.
I walked over to Two Down and had a little heart-to-heart.
At first, he shook his head, no, no, no. Then I got him to shrug a maybe, maybe, maybe. And then finally, reluctantly, yes. He walked to his bag and, as though it were radioactive, he carefully, gingerly, remorsefully extracted … Arnie.
Hoover’s eyes bulged as Two Down walked slowly toward him. He didn’t speak, only silently held back tears the way a first-time mother takes her kid to the bus stop on the first day of kindergarten.
“No!” yelled Crowbar to the Numerals. “Don’t let him. Do not let him use Arnie!”
“Who the fuck is Arnie?” asked Concorde.
“Two Down’s putter,” said Crowbar. “The thing is deadly. It’s unnatural. It’s part of the occult. It came from behind the green fucking door! Just, look, I’m telling you, don’t.”
“Don’t worry, Demetrius,” said my father. “It’s quite illegal anyway. It’s against the rules.”
Oh, God, the 14-club rule.
I turned quickly to Hoover. “How many clubs do you have in your bag?”
He looked.
“Nine,” he said.
“Nine?” three of us said.
“Yes, well, it’s a new theory the Japanese have come up with,” Hoover explained. “According to Feng Shui, which is the science of creating positive energy flow through geomancy, having odd-numbered clubs in the golf bag blocks the clubs’ ability to draw in positive life force. It is the same reason you should never stand near a lake, as it reflects negative energies. Through many hours of research, I became convinced that the odd clubs were drawing in negative qi, so I now carry only a harmonious grouping—my driver, 4-wood, 8-wood, 4-iron, 6-iron, 8-iron, wedge, sand wedge and putter. Nine.”
