SIX MONTHS LATER – APRIL 1st, 2021
“Alright, thank you, gentlemen …” said Ray, dropping the flag back into the cup. “Good playin’.”
“Thanks, Ray,” said Malcolm, moving towards where he was standing after shaking hands with the fourth and final member of his playing group – all of them, like himself, police officers. “So, what ya think? We got a chance at the trophy this year?”
“Maybe …” replied Ray, not sounding overly confident as he took off his baseball cap and wiped away the sweat that had gathered on his brow with the sleeve of his overalls. “I mean, that birdie just there might get y’all in the runnin’, for sure. But goin’ on what I heard from one of the boys? The fire crew from New Malo put in a hell of a performance this mornin’; as in, lit up the course – if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” sighed Malcolm with a rueful shake of his head. “Well, Pompeo’s gonna love rubbing that one in – again.”
“Pompeo …” said Ray, the name ringing a bell. “He’s the Captain in New Malo, right? Heavy-set dude?”
“That’s the one,” Malcolm answered, the exasperated look on his face reflecting the friendly rivalry there was between himself and the Captain of the New Malo Firehouse. “He’s the guy who suggested that bet between him and me a few years back – you know, whoever’s team bags the highest finish whenever this tournament rolls around, the loser has to wash the other’s ride?”
“Oh yeah, I remember that,” said Ray, his eyes darting off past Malcolm and clocking the next group just beginning to make their way down the 18th fairway. “But haven’t they finished higher than y’all the last few years?”
“You don’t need to tell me that!” laughed Malcolm. “I mean, do you know how much it sucks to know exactly how long it takes to wash and wax a fire truck by yourself?! Cause I do, ‘cause I’ve spent the last three years having to use one of the few days off I get to do just that!”
“So, why not just call off the bet then?” said Ray, smiling, as he began to move away from the pin in anticipation of clearing the green for the next group.
“Cause!” replied Malcolm adamantly, following Ray’s lead in walking slowly towards the exit of the green. “One of these years I’m going to see Ralph Pompeo washing my squad car, and, darn it, I’m not gonna stop until I do!”
“Well, if you wanna make that a reality before you retire?” joked Ray, picking up Malcolm’s bag from where he’d left it on the ground at the bottom of the steps that led up off the 18th. “I’d suggest bringin’ in some ringers for next year.”
Malcolm smiled as he took his bag from Ray and slung it over his shoulder. “You know what? That’s not actually a bad idea …” he said, jokingly mulling over Ray’s proposition as he began to climb the steps. “And if people start to get suspicious about where they are after the tournament finishes? We can just say they’re gone undercover or something!”
“See?! It’s perfect!” laughed Ray, following Malcolm up the steps, though feeling a tad strange that he wasn’t carrying anything. “Pompeo will be washin’ your car in no time!”
Having spent the rest of the time needed to climb the steps joking about which PGA Tour players looked as though they could play the most convincing cop, Malcolm and Ray finally reached the area at the rear of the Creek’s clubhouse.
“Well, thanks again, Ray,” said Malcolm, still chuckling at their conversation. “A pleasure as always.”
“That it was,” replied Ray, burying his hands deep inside the two front pockets of his overalls and feeling the collection of spare tees he had perennially tucked away in there gently poking the pads on his fingers. “And, hey, if you need any tips on good car wax for cleaning Ralph’s truck?! Don’t be a stranger, alright?!”
“And here was me feeling guilty for not tipping you more at Christmas!” laughed Malcolm, now taking to walking backwards in order to be able to look at Ray. “Looks like I gave too much!”
“No refunds!” grinned Ray. “Now, go on, get outta here! I’ll see ya later!”
“Alright, man!” said Malcolm, now turning back around and carrying on his way, the irons in his bag clanging loudly off one another with each step. “And, hey, say ‘hi’ to Mustang for me too – haven’t seen him in a while!”
“Will do …” replied Ray, trying his best to maintain his friendly demeanour despite the mention of Mustang’s name throwing him slightly.
Once Malcolm had disappeared around the corner of the clubhouse, however, Ray could finally drop the act. Malcolm hadn’t been the first person to inquire about Mustang lately, and odds were he wouldn’t be the last either. Of course, Ray had become pretty adept at changing the subject whenever the topic of where Mustang had been or how he was doing came up; generally, doing so with an elegant sidestep that followed some vague statement like, “Yeah, he’s good”.
The truth is, though, Mustang was far from good. And he hadn’t been for quite some time.
“Ray!”
Having been so busy thinking about Mustang, Ray started at hearing his name being shouted out of the blue. After giving his head a brief shake to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, Ray quickly spied the person who’d called out to him standing in the doorway of the pro-shop. Someone who, now that he actually found himself looking at him, he realized he hadn’t seen around the Creek in what felt like an eternity.
“Hey, Skip,” said Ray, taking in the sight of the always immaculately presented Skip Devereaux now striding towards him. “Long time no see.”
Skip landed in front of Ray, his pearly-white smile, as usual, on full display. “You’re telling me!” he said, reaching out and shaking Ray’s outstretched hand. “Spent the last seven months in New York working on a big case. Just got back yesterday.”
“Wow, seven months? Do they usually take that long?” asked Ray, the pleasant aroma from Skip’s cologne making him feel mildly self-conscious about the fact he’d worked up quite a sweat over the course of the morning and now smelled as such.
“They do when a client has done a good enough job of ticking off the wrong people!” smiled Skip teasingly.
“I see …” said Ray, sensing that it was probably for the best that he didn’t go fishing for any further details. “Did you, at least, win, though? You know, after havin’ to be there for so long?”
Skip lifted up his arm so that Ray could see the brand new watch strapped around his wrist, the name on the dial reading as ‘Audemars Piguet’. “That I did,” he grinned. “Used the bonus I got to pick this guy up – you know, a little treat for a job well done.”
“Very nice,” said Ray, sounding impressed as he took in all the refined, intricate details of the watch through narrowed eyes. “I used the bonus I got at Christmas to get a new microwave at Target. So … we’ve all gotten new stuff, Skip. ”
“That we have!” laughed Skip, letting his hand drop back down to his side. “So, come on, enough about me, though, how’ve you been keeping? How’s Mustang doing?”
Having been expecting that it would be but a matter of time before Skip asked about Mustang, Ray readied the party line. “Yeah, he’s, uh … he’s doin’ good,” he said, making sure to inflect his voice at all the right times and pair it with the obligatory ‘smile & nod’ he’d come to incorporate into the charade as well. “Doin’ well in school. Has a nice group of friends. So, uh … yeah. He’s good. Real good.”
As opposed to answering straight back like he’d come to expect from the other people he’d spun this story to over the past few months, Ray was surprised to find that Skip, instead, just stayed looking directly at him for a moment or two, his eyes never leaving him. It was as though he was being examined. Studied. In truth, though it lasted only a few short seconds, Ray found it surprisingly unsettling.
“Right, I’m buying you a beer,” said Skip, his declaration coming as he ceased his examination of Ray’s face and, immediately, turned and set off walking in the direction of the clubhouse.
“What?!” said Ray, sounding confused as to what exactly was happening. “Why?!”
“Two reasons. One, I want a beer as well, but drinking by yourself before noon is depressing,” replied Skip, matter-of-factly, as he pulled open the rear door of the clubhouse. “And, two, you’re lying to me about Mustang, and I wanna know why. So, let’s go.”
*
The door to the LaFleur Suite opened back, revealing Skip returning with, as promised, two bottles of beer.
“Here ya go,” he said, placing one of the bottles down onto the coaster in front of Ray in order to protect the antique table from the significant amount of condensation clung to the bottle.
“Thanks …” replied Ray, picking it up and clinking it against Skip’s bottle as soon as he’d sat down on the opposite side of the table. “Cheers, huh.”
“Cheers,” said Skip, returning Ray’s gesture before joining him in taking their initial sips to round out the ritual.
Once they’d both brought their respective bottles back down to the table, however – and after he’d let Ray savour that first mouthful after a long morning out under the early spring heat – Skip got right to his questioning.
“So, let me have it …” he said, looking across the table at Ray. “What’s the deal with Mustang? And, please, don’t say ‘nothing’ – after spending the last seven months cross-examining witnesses, I really don’t want to have to drag it outta you.”
Ray was torn. Part of him thought that he could maybe still throw Skip off the scent and convince him that everything really was fine with Mustang, leaving the pair of them free to just enjoy their beers and talk about, literally, anything else. Yet, another part – the one winning the argument – thought Skip might actually be able to help him out. Because he’d talked with Jeanie about this. Bill, too. Ray had even gone to Beau in search of advice. And while they’d all tried, in their own way, to get through to Mustang, none of them, to this point, had succeeded. So, realistically, what did Ray have to lose by seeing what Skip’s two cents were?
“Ugh … he’s not in a good way, man …” sighed Ray, deciding to just take the plunge. “Hasn’t been for months now.”
“Since the Walker Cup?” asked Skip, knowingly.
As he was in the process of taking another sip from his beer, Ray just nodded his head to let Skip know that his guess was, indeed, correct.
“Yeah, I caught what happened when I was in New York,” continued Skip, sympathetically. “To lose like that? Had to have been tough on him.”
“It was …” replied Ray, bringing his bottle back down from his mouth. “Problem was, though … I wasn’t prepared for just how tough it would actually be.”
“How do you mean?” asked Skip, looking to keep Ray opening up as he reached for his beer.
“Well, he just went totally back into himself,” answered Ray. “I could barely get a word outta him. He wasn’t eatin’ right. Not sleepin’. He just wasn’t himself. Now, at first, I thought, you know, it was just the sting of what had happened, right? The fact he’d missed the putt still buggin’ him or whatever. But when a few days of that turned into a week? And then a week turned into two? And he still wasn’t back to normal? Then I knew there had to be somethin’ else goin’ on – somethin’ I was missin’.”
Ray took a second to readjust himself in his chair. As pleasant as it was to be back inside the rarified surroundings of the LaFleur Suite, he’d learned from past experience that the delicately built wooden chairs – with their eloquently carved spindles making up the backrests – weren’t exactly made for a man of his size and build to kick back and enjoy a cold one on.
“So, when did you find out what the problem actually was?” Skip asked, now taking to slowly turning the base of his bottle against the smooth surface of the coaster he had it standing on.
“First week of October,” Ray answered, feeling slightly more comfortable in his chair – for now, at least. “The kid had a match with the golf team he’d joined after starting at St. Nick’s, the New Malo Pirates – you heard of ‘em?”
“Yeah, sounds familiar,” said Skip, nodding his head as he recalled some indistinct memory of idly reading about the Pirates at some point in the New Malo Journal.
“Well, they’d a road game against the Saint Mary Mariners, right?” said Ray, continuing with his story now that he knew Skip was, at least, somewhat familiar with the idea of the 66. “So, they were out at Marsh Island. Now, you’ve probably played there, yeah?”
“A few times,” said Skip, memories of those trips flashing before his eyes. “Nice track, actually.”
“Exactly. It’s nice, but for someone of Mustang’s ability you wouldn’t say it’s overly difficult, right?” said Ray, posing the question openly to Skip.
“Big fairways … generous pins …” mused Skip, rapidly running through the various challenges posed by the oceanside course that was Marsh Island and stacking Mustang up against each of them. “Yeah, presuming the wind wasn’t bad? I reckon it shouldn’t have caused him too many problems … but I’m guessing that’s not what happened?”
“For the strokeplay session of the match?” Ray answered with a sigh, the memory of that day, clearly, still painful to recall. “He shot +14 and finished at the very bottom of the leaderboard. And for the foursomes in the afternoon? He and his partner, Donny? They were cooked by the 12th – mainly, ‘cause Mustang couldn’t keep the ball in play. I mean, he was missin’ them everywhere –left, right, didn’t matter. Even when he was on the greens, he never looked himself. His distance control? Pace? Gettin’ reads? It was all gone. It was like he’d never held a club or been on a golf course in his life. He just looked like a completely different kid.”
“Yikes,” said Skip, grimacing at the thought of Mustang’s game being so out of sorts. “That definitely doesn’t sound like the kid who beat me, that’s for sure.”
“I know, right?” said Ray, agreeably, before continuing with his story. “So, we get to the drive home after the match, and it’s just the two of us in the car. I’ve tried makin’ conversation, but the kid’s havin’ none of it – just stares out the window from the minute he gets in. So, eventually, I say to myself that enough is enough, pull the car into the side of the road, and tell ‘im that I ain’t drivin’ another inch ‘til he tells me what’s up – say that I’ll stay there all night if I have to.”
“Ah, the ole’ game of ‘Emotional Chicken’, huh?!” smiled Skip. “A classic! Did it work?!”
“Not at first,” replied Ray, affording himself a smile at Skip’s reaction. “He sat there for about ten minutes without sayin’ a word. When I decided to pump up the radio and start serenadin’ him with my horrific singin’ voice, however, he finally cracked and told me everythin’.” The smile quickly faded from Ray’s face. “Mainly …” he scowled. “About Fletcher Rhodes.”
“The kid who Mustang replaced after he pulled out?” asked Skip, surprised that Fletcher somehow fit into this story.
“The same one …” said Ray, taking another sip from his beer to extinguish the angry embers that had just begun to smoulder in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Fletcher. “Apparently, there’d been a whole spat between him, Byron, and Mustang throughout the week that started on account of some hazin’ thing that happened the Sunday we arrived in Florida, and then finished with Fletcher callin’ Mustang just before he went out to play Finn. And, Skip, honestly, the kid told me what he said …”
“That bad, huh?” said Skip, inferring from the disgusted look on Ray’s face and the somewhat bewildered fashion in which he was shaking his head that whatever Fletcher had said must have been particularly vicious.
“Worse,” replied Ray, as some of the particularly horrible things Fletcher had said to Mustang replayed in his head like some unwelcome recording. “I mean, for a guy who’s what? 18? 19? To come out with the kinda spiteful stuff that he did? I couldn’t believe it – I really couldn’t. But the fact Mustang then managed to actually get to 18 against Finn? Despite dealin’ with all that? I mean, yeah, Fletcher wound up gettin’ to him in the end, but, hell … that the kid came that close to actually pullin’ off the win regardless?”
“It’s impressive,” said Skip, finishing the point Ray was building towards. “But I doubt that was much consolation for Mustang?”
“Naw,” said Ray, sighing again. “As far as he was concerned, not only had Fletcher won, but it actually got him thinkin’ that maybe some of the things he’d said about him were actually true – that it was just in him to break under pressure.”
“Man …” sighed Skip, now taking his turn to shake his head in disbelief. “Fletcher really got value for money off that call, huh? It was like he dialled his number, Mustang picked up, and then he just flung a live grenade down through the phone that wiped out every scrap of confidence the kid had.”
“Yep …” said Ray. “And when I asked Mustang was there anythin’ I could do to try and help how he was feelin’? The only thing he said he wanted was to give golf a break for a while. Course, when I heard that, I was tempted to tell ‘im that would only be playin’ right into Fletcher’s hands, but if that was what the kid thought he needed to get his head right? Then that’s what we were gonna do. So, he stopped playin’ with the Pirates. Pulled outta the few junior tournaments we’d been eyein’ up for October. He even stopped comin’ to the Creek – not even to caddie. Thing is, though, I thought this was only gonna be a temporary deal, right? That he’d stop playin’ for a bit, realize how much he missed it, and then get back out there? Well, come Thanksgivin’, he still hadn’t touched a club. So, I think to myself, ‘Ok, by Christmas, things will have turned around.’ Sure enough, Christmas comes and goes, same with New Year’s, and the kid’s clubs haven’t seen a blade of grass since Marsh Island – not even messin’ around out in the backyard. And it’s been the same since.”
Skip suddenly leaned forward in his chair, a look of concern spreading rapidly across his face. “So, wait a minute, you’re telling me that Mustang hasn’t hit a single ball in … what … nearly six months?!” he asked, hoping that he’d somehow misconstrued what Ray had been telling him.
“Not a one,” answered Ray, sounding as though as he wished that wasn’t the case.
“But the Masters is next week!” said Skip, his panic only growing at the idea of Mustang being so unprepared for Augusta. “I mean, he got his invitation, right?!”
“Back in January …” said Ray, solemnly nodding his head. “I mean, you’d figure if anythin’ was gonna get him back playin’ it woulda’ been that, right? Nope. Envelope came in the mail, he tore it open, and it may as well have been nothin’ but coupons for the amount of a damn he seemed to give about it. Hell, if it hadn’t been for me RSVPing for ‘im, he wouldn’t even be goin’!”
Skip could only sit back and shake his head further in disbelief. Of all the ultra-exclusive courses he’d been fortunate enough to play over the years, Augusta National’s 18-holes were the only ones that had still proven frustratingly elusive for him to snag a tee-time for. So, to now hear that Mustang was, apparently, being so blasé about the fact that he could, potentially, get to play them four days in a row? Skip just found it positively baffling.
“So, what are you gonna do to get him back playing?” Skip asked, though going on how serious he sounded, it came across more like a demand. “Cause if Mustang turns up to the Masters cold? Then he’s going to regret it.”
“Why do ya think I’m tellin’ you all this?” said Ray, his desperation to somehow conjure up an answer to Skip’s question showing in the slight strain of his voice. “Cause you’re right. He will regret it – I know he will. Cause I know how excited he was to play at Augusta, even though he was tryna’ convince himself – and me – that he wasn’t. But right now? I’m all outta ideas and runnin’ outta time to come up with another one. So, whatever ya got? Let’s hear it.”
Skip took a deep, contemplative breath as he looked towards the two glass doors that led out onto the famous balcony of the LaFleur Suite. Going by the light filtering through the net curtains drawn across the doors, the sun that had been out all morning had now ducked behind a rogue band of rainclouds, no doubt bringing with them a tearing shower that would soak the course and then carry on its way as quickly as it had arrived. He’d missed those bursts of rain when he was in New York. The smell of wet dirt and grass left in their stead once they’d demanded that umbrellas be hastily opened by those who had them, and those who didn’t to go running for cover. It really had been a long seven months.
“Well, clearly, the idea of playing golf right now isn’t appealing to Mustang …” Skip mused, still eyeing the glass doors as he formulated his plan. “So, if we try to force him into playing again, he’s only going to hunker down and resist even more – which means we need to somehow get him to remember how much fun golf can be and get him excited about it, without putting the burden on him to actually play it. That way he might actually want to pick up his clubs again and, you know, not drive down Magnolia Lane without so much as rolling a few balls across the carpet in your living room.”
Ray considered Skip’s proposal. It seemed like a simple enough concept – a touch vague, maybe – but, at this stage, he was in no position to be choosy.
“Alright …” he said, already trying – and failing – to figure out a way to put Skip’s plan into action. “Any ideas as to how we might actually go about doin’ that, though?”
Skip put his brain back to work. After only a few short seconds, however, his eyes lit up excitedly. “As a matter of fact I do …” he said, his voice taking on a definitive sense of urgency as he pulled his phone hurriedly out of his pocket. “You got your car keys on you?”
“Uh, yeah …?” replied Ray, reaching, as requested, into one of the pockets on his overalls to fish out his keys. “Why?”
“Cause …” said Skip, who’d already taken to busily scrolling through the contacts on his phone in the time it had taken Ray to find his keys in amongst the sea of tees and other paraphernalia filling his pockets. “I got a few calls to make, and you need to go bust Mustang outta school.”
*
Having swung his door closed, a disinterested Mustang trudged around the front of Maisie’s hood as he took in the sight of the clubhouse at the Creek. Though appreciating the fact he’d gotten out of school early – mainly, because Thursday afternoons saw him needing to endure a double period of history with the always volatile Mr Robbins – as soon as he’d realized that the reason Ray had been so eager to keep their ultimate destination a secret was that he was intending on bringing him to the Creek, Mustang had been less-than-pleased. Because he knew full well what this little excursion was about. The green elephant in the room that had made March feel as though it had lasted all of two weeks. The Masters.
The problem was, though, that Mustang still didn’t want to go to Georgia. He didn’t when his invitation came in the mail. Not when Ray said his RSVP had been confirmed. And not even when he’d been dragged shopping by Ray and Jeanie to pick up some new outfits for the week. Because the fact of the matter was, regardless of what anyone said or did, ever since the Walker Cup, whenever Mustang thought about going to the Masters, it wasn’t about how cool it would be to actually play at Augusta like it had been before he went to Seminole.
No.
Instead, the only thing that came to mind now when thinking about ‘the tradition unlike any other’, was Fletcher. The idea of seeing him again. Of being forced to stand and take pictures with him as he plastered that fake smile of his across his face and grinned at the cameras. Of knowing how miserable he’d make him feel when he would, inevitably, win the Silver Cup for being the low amateur of the week. The whole idea just made Mustang feel physically ill. But given he knew ‘just not going’ wasn’t a viable option – as he knew Donny and the rest of the Pirates, not to mention Rodney, would probably never speak to him again for passing up such a golden opportunity – he’d made his peace with the fact that, come Sunday night, like it or not, he would be in Augusta.
“Look, Ray, if this is something to do with the Masters?” said Mustang, falling reluctantly into step behind Ray, who was already marching purposefully towards the clubhouse. “Can we just forget about it, please? I mean, I know I said I’d go, but I really don’t feel like playing any golf – not yet.”
“Well, good …” replied Ray cheerily, his pace not slowing as he continued determinedly on his way towards the rear of the clubhouse. “Cause you aren’t playin’ any golf today.”
“I’m not?” said Mustang, his exasperation now turning to confusion. “Then what are we doing here?”
Ray and Mustang reached the rear of the clubhouse, itself now all but abandoned after the tournament earlier that morning. As soon as Mustang glanced in the direction of the 18th fairway, however – and he took care to not trip over his jaw that had just fallen open – he quickly realized just how greatly he’d misread the situation.
Because, just like that chilly morning back in August when, just a few short hours after getting back from the U.S. Amateur, he and Ray had been summoned to the Creek by Beau, Mustang now found himself, once again, trying to comprehend the sight of Dallas Rugger’s plane sitting in the middle of the 18th fairway.
“The same reason anyone goes to a golf course,” said Ray, now grinning from ear-to-ear as he, too, looked off at Dallas’ plane. “We got a flight to catch.”
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