Tonight there were patrons, though-two of them, huddling in a back booth facing one another. The bartender, the only other man on the premises, had never seen them before. And they apparently didn’t want to attract any attention. Why else would they choose the most out-of-sight booth in the darkest corner of the bar? They weren’t looking for fellowship, and they weren’t trying to pick up tail. They wanted to be left alone. So, like any good bartender, he gave them what they wanted.

One of the men was much taller than the other; he seemed to be in command of the discussion. When the two customers finally waved the bartender over to refill their Scotches-neat-he overheard enough to gather that the tall man was making the other fellow some sort of proposition. But exactly what was being proposed he couldn’t say. And he didn’t ask, either. Because whatever it was, it was clear they didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

The bartender returned to his station and pretended to be toweling off glasses. It was only about ten minutes later, when he made a necessary visit to the men’s room, that he heard more. Turned out the men’s room was the perfect place to eavesdrop on that booth; the sound came in through the air vent just above the sink. He still didn’t hear enough to know what they were talking about. But he heard enough to pique his curiosity.

“What if we get caught?” the shorter of the men said. His voice had a tendency to squeak when he was nervous. And at the moment, he sounded very nervous.

“Who’s gonna catch us?” the tall man said confidently. “The police? The tournament officials? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t know if I have the stomach for this. I’ve never had anything to do with-violence.”

“Don’t be squeamish,” the other man said. His voice was reassuring in a way that made the bartender’s skin crawl. “I promise you-I’ve thought of everything. There will be no mistakes.”

“Suppose I say yes-what’s in it for me?”

The bartender heard the tall man taking something out of his pocket, followed by a fast rippling noise. Money, he reckoned. Lots of it.

“This is just a down payment,” the tall man said. “Think of it as earnest money.”

The bartender heard another noise, a shuffling sound-as if the bills were being transferred from one hand to another.

“Then you’ll do it?” the tall man asked, with a bit of a twinkle.

There was no merriment in the other man’s voice when he replied. “I don’t have any choice.”

3

Tuesday

Tuesday morning Conner was back on the course, hoping to complete as many practice strokes as possible before the official tournament activities began the next day. Conner tried everything he could think of to improve his score. Nothing worked. He was playing like some duffer who got out twice a year for the Rotary Club scramble, not someone with a PGA card in his back pocket.

“Glad to see you changed your attire,” Fitz muttered, as he and Conner and John approached the third tee.

Conner grinned. Today he was wearing black golf shoes, purple calf socks, overalls cut off as shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt with cigars stuffed in the pocket.

“Personally, I like it,” John said, suppressing a smile. “Although I miss the Panama hat.”

Conner’s eyebrows rose. “You thought it brought out the sparkle in my eyes?”

“I thought it covered up your bald spot.”

“I do not have a bald spot.”

John looked at him nonchalantly. “Thinning, then.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way.”

Conner whirled around. “Fitz, am I balding? Or thinning?”

Fitz couldn’t have looked less interested. “Relax, Conner. You’re still the macho stud of the PGA. A girl in every port-isn’t that what the sportswriters say? Women drool when they see your handsome visage.”

“But seriously.”

“It might be time to start wearing a cap.”

Conner bounced back to John. “This is an elaborate joke, right? You two cooked this up in advance. Your idea of sick humor.”

John smiled beatifically. “If it makes you feel more secure to believe that, then fine.”

Conner folded his arms across his chest. “You guys are just jealous because you can’t wear purple calf socks.”

“I am not jealous of anything about you, sonny,” Fitz retorted, “but I am worried that you’re going to be sacked from the tournament before you have a chance to play. Which will not only make you look like a fool, but will reduce my earnings to seven percent of nothing!”

Conner selected a club and approached the tee-off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not! You think this hasn’t happened before? You think you’re the first smart aleck who ever made it into the PGA? Think again. The Augusta National tossed out Jack Whitaker for referring to the fans as ‘a mob.’ They banned Gary McCord for that stupid remark about the fairway being so smooth it looked bikini-waxed. They yanked Freddie Haas for raising his voice! And you’re working overtime to see if yours can be the next name on that distinguished list.”

“Excuse me,” Conner said, stepping aside. “I have a game to play.” He took a deep breath of the sweet nandina in the air. “And I’m not going to zombify myself just to please a doddering pack of country-club snobs.”

“Even though they follow the official golf rankings, participation at the Masters is by invitation only.” Fitz huffed. “You should respect the privilege you’ve been given.”

Conner raised the head of his club beside his ball. “I’d respect it a lot more if I were making more money.”

“You’d be making more money if you improved your attitude,” Fitz shot back.

“No, I’d be making more money if I could get this stupid dimpled ball to go in that tiny hole.” He started to swing.

“Wait!” Fitz shouted.

Conner jerked around in mid-swing. The head of his club drove into the grass. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.

Fitz crouched down and retrieved Conner’s ball from its perch on the tee. “What is this you’re playing, anyway?”

Conner’s expression did not improve. “As I recall, it’s a Magfli 6.”

“Magfli 6? I thought you were playing a Pro Z1 Titleist. Titleists are the best golf balls in the world. Each one is precision-tested and balanced for premium performance. I bought you a whole box of them.”

“Yeah…” Conner averted his eyes. “I, uh, gave those to Barry Bennett, actually.”

“To Bennett? Why?”

“Well… I lost a bet and I, uh, didn’t have the cash on hand…”

“You’re joking.”

“See, I bet that Tom Kite would three-putt the eighteenth, but wouldn’t you know it, the old shanker ended up pulling it off in two. So…”

Fitz’s face reddened with fury. “So now you don’t have any balls?”

“Of course I have balls. Well, a ball, anyway. You’re holding it.”

Fitz glanced at the palm of his hand. “A Magfli 6? That’s a duffer ball. Where’d you buy this thing?”

“Didn’t. Found it in a sand trap yesterday.”

Fitz slapped his hand against his forehead. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

Conner continued playing his practice round, but the game didn’t improve, not for him or John. Neither of the two pros was in the zone. Conner knocked the ball into the rough so often he wished his bag contained a machete. John had been in the water traps so often he considered investing in scuba gear.

“Damn this stupid game, anyway,” John groused, as they marched toward the fifteenth tee. “Who’s idea was it to start playing golf?”

“As I recall, it was the only way we could get out of trig with Mr. Imes.”

John laughed. “Right, right. Good ol’ Imes-stein.”

“Just think,” Conner said. “If we’d stuck with him, we might be, like, nuclear physicists.”

The two men exchanged a long look, then spoke with one voice. “Or not.”

After the laughter faded, Conner jabbed his friend in the side. “Look. Up ahead.”