Written by Stephen F. Moloney
“There he is!” said Travis, positively beaming with pride as Ray, finally, managed to guide Mustang through the throng of people gathered above the 18th who’d been fighting to get a picture with him or just a passing high-five. “C’mere, kiddo!”
A smiling Mustang jogged over to the practice putting green and proceeded to submit himself to one of Travis’ famous ‘bear hugs’, which, though not as strong as they used to be, still had the desired effect of shaking him around like he’d just been thrown inside a tumble dryer.
“So, I guess I did it, huh?!” laughed Mustang, as Travis’ continued efforts to rattle him around made his voice vibrate like he was barrelling down a pockmarked dirt track in an SUV with crummy suspension.
“You’re darn right ya did!” replied Travis, still unable to wipe the smile from his face as he stopped squeezing Mustang and, instead, held him out at arms-length from himself. “Though, for future reference, next time you plan on pullin’ off a shot like that? Maybe give your old Grandpa a heads-up, alright? Cause this old ticker of mine ain’t built for that kinda excitement no more!”
“Ok, I’ll try, Grandpa,” smiled Mustang.
“‘At a boy,” winked Travis, coupling it with a hearty rustle of Mustang’s hair.
Having deliberately held back to allow them to enjoy their moment together without an audience, Ray finally walked over to Mustang and Travis.
“Ah and the other hero returns!” said Travis, still smiling excitedly as he turned to look at Ray. “Put ‘er there, Sergeant!”
Seeing he’d stretched out his hand for a handshake, Ray promptly popped Mustang’s bag down onto the ground and took hold of Travis’ heavily-wrinkled hand.
“Well, thank you, Travis …” Ray replied, humbly, before glancing over at Mustang. “But the only hero here is this grandson of yours.”
Knowing Ray wasn’t expecting him to say anything in return, Mustang just smiled bashfully and nodded his head – his own way of saying ‘thanks’.
“Anyway, though …” continued Ray, letting go of Travis’ hand and looking to change the subject in order to avoid embarrassing Mustang any further. “As great a result as this is, we still got work to do – or, as my old ‘CO’ used to put it, ‘You can get a stool and a bucket but that won’t milk the cow’; so, Hiro and Byron – any word?”
“The last I saw Byron was 3UP thru 15,” answered Travis, steadying himself, once again, on his cane. “But then I heard the cheer coming from 17 and … well, needless to say, I became somewhat ‘distracted’ as to what was happenin’ elsewhere.”
“Understandable,” smiled Ray, himself getting the faintest hint of residual goosebumps at replaying the tape in his head of that spine-tingling roar – a roar which was then swiftly outdone less than ten minutes later when Mustang’s ball dropped for eagle at the last. “Well, if they haven’t finished already, they should be comin’ up 18 anytime soo-…”.
“Ray …” said Mustang, quietly interrupting him mid-sentence just as he’d taken to straining his neck in an effort to see back down the 18th fairway.
“What?” he asked, turning to look at Mustang.
Upon being greeted by the sight of him pointing silently off in the direction of the pro-shop, Ray followed the direction of his finger and, quickly, saw what Mustang was wanting to show him – or, more accurately, who he was wanting to show him. With the mere presence of one of the two security guards he’d seen yesterday enough to create a halo of space around her as she moved, Kiko had just exited the pro-shop, as evidenced by the bottle of water in her hand.
“Well, I guess that answers our question,” said Ray, eyes still on Kiko, who had now stopped to scroll through her phone as her security guard kept watch.
“Yeah …” sighed Travis, he, too, looking in Kiko’s direction. “And somehow I doubt that answer is ‘Hiro won’.” He looked at Mustang. “You should go talk to her.”
“Yeah, I probably should, shouldn’t I …” said Mustang, somewhat hesitantly.
“What do you mean ‘probably’?!” scoffed Travis, turning to look at Mustang. “That’s the girl you were on a date with last night, right?”
“Ok, first of all, ssssshhh!” hissed Mustang, feeling as though Travis had been speaking unreasonably loudly. “And, secondly, it wasn’t a date! It was just …”
He trailed off as he tried to find a word other than ‘date’ to describe what he and Kiko had gotten up to the previous night – but none would be so polite as to step forward and make themselves known to him.
“Ok, well, I dunno exactly what it was!” continued Mustang, not sounding any less flustered. “But it wasn’t a date!”
“Alright, well, in that case …” began Ray, attempting to be a much-needed voice of calm and reason. “Last night you were just two friends hangin’ out and talkin’ in a diner, right? Well, now, you can just be two friends hangin’ out and talkin’ in front of a pro-shop. It’s the exact same thing – except instead of havin’ Jeanie floatin’ around, it’ll be a large, Japanese security guard … and a few hundred or so people.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” asked Mustang, dryly.
“That was the intention, yeah,” replied Ray, smiling. “Did it work?”
“Oh yeah!” said Mustang, sarcastically. “I mean, now I can’t wait to go over there!”
“Well, if you’d prefer …” offered Ray, a mischievous note now colouring his voice. “Me and Travis could go over there for you and find out what happened if ya want? What do you think, Travis?”
“You know what? That sounds like a great idea,” smiled Travis, instantly joining in with what Ray was up to. “Though, when I introduce myself, do you think I should go with Oscar’s ‘grandfather’? Or his ‘Pop Pop’?”
“Alright!” snapped Mustang, near laughing, as he moved in-between a chuckling Ray and Travis. “I’m going! I’m going! Jeez …”
At that, Mustang began to make his way across the crowded rear of the clubhouse to go speak to Kiko as Ray and Travis continued to laugh. Suddenly conscious that he had no idea how he was looking after his match with Skip, however, Mustang quickly stopped in his tracks and looked off to his left at the clubhouse. Using the reflection of one of the windows, he hurriedly tucked in his shirt and began to run his hands through his hair in a bid to make himself look some way presentable.
“Mustang?”
Knowing full well he’d been caught preening himself by Kiko, Mustang, temporarily, froze on the spot like a raccoon before turning to face the music.
“Kiko! Hey!” he said, trying his best to just blow past any potential awkwardness with a brash display of confidence. “You ok?! You good?!”
“Yes, I’m fine,” replied Kiko, sounding a little thrown by the somewhat frenetic energy Mustang was projecting. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m … I’m …” began Mustang, before trailing off as he realized how weird he was being. “Sorry,” he continued, sounding more like his regular self as he decided to just go for the honest approach. “I was just coming over to talk to you and realized about halfway there that I should probably try to, at least, not look a complete mess, so that’s why I was-…”
“Rummaging through your hair like you’d lost something in it?” joked Kiko, her huge brown eyes glinting teasingly.
“Pretty much, yeah!” smiled Mustang.
After sharing a laugh that completely eradicated any remaining tension, Mustang – wanting to ensure he wasn’t overheard by the man-mountain of a security guard standing no more than ten feet behind her – whispered to Kiko, “So, last night – did you manage to … you know … sneak back in without anyone noticing?”
“You don’t have to whisper …” she replied, candidly, and gesturing subtly over her shoulder at the security guard. “Fuji doesn’t speak a word of English.”
Having heard his name mentioned, Fuji glanced over at where they were standing just as Mustang happened to look over at him. He fixed him with a glare so stern and ominous-looking that, ‘English’ or ‘no English’, Mustang made a mental note not to get on Fuji’s bad side.
“To answer your question, though …” said Kiko, her voice a welcome reason for Mustang to break his most unwelcome eye-contact with Fuji. “Yes, I managed to sneak back into the hotel without being seen; luckily, mother was quite tired after all of the walking yesterday, so she was asleep by the time I got back. And as for Hiro? Well, he was in his own room, but I presume he was asleep as well ahead of his match – as much good as it ended up doing for him, unfortunately”
“Yeah, we were thinking Byron had beaten him when we saw you here,” replied Mustang, sounding a touch apologetic.
“We?” asked Kiko.
“Oh, sorry – Ray and my Grandpa,” answered Mustang, pointing back over at where the pair of them were still standing.
Seeing Mustang was singling them out for some reason, Ray and Travis waved over at him and Kiko – with Travis even going the extra mile of doffing the rim of his ever-present cowboy hat.
“Oh, I see,” said Kiko, smiling warmly and waving politely back at Ray and Travis.
“So, what happened in Hiro’s match?” asked Mustang, eager to regain Kiko’s attention before Travis or Ray took it upon themselves to try and embarrass him. “Did he just have an ‘off-day’ or something?”
“Not exactly …” replied Kiko, trying to find the words that best described why her brother had lost. “He started really well, was 2UP thru 5, and looked comfortable. As soon as Byron lost that second hole, though, you could tell he was trying to halt Hiro from building up any more momentum than he already had – and by any means necessary too.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” inquired Mustang, Kiko’s leading tone suggesting there may have been something nefarious afoot.
“Well, before he went 2DN,” she explained. “Byron’s pace of play had been the same as Hiro’s – which is to say appropriately brisk. As soon as Hiro made birdie at 5 to go 2UP, though, Byron, suddenly, began to play – how shall I put it? – very … ‘deliberately’.”
“Are you saying you think he started to play slowly on purpose?” asked Mustang, eyes widening.
“I’ll put it this way,” replied Kiko, laying out her argument with a cool, methodical precision. “Before he went 2DN? He and his caddie barely spoke. As soon he went 2DN, though? Suddenly, every shot and putt became like a meeting of the U.N.”
“I can’t believe Byron would do that!” said Mustang, shaking his head in disbelief, before then catching himself. “Well, actually, no – I can believe he’d do it, I just can’t believe he actually did.”
“And that’s not even the worst part,” warned Kiko. “To slow down the match even further, Byron had stopped giving concessions – even if Hiro had less than a foot to the hole. Well, at the 10th, Byron had already two-putted for par, leaving Hiro with a birdie putt to win the hole – a putt he then missed but left no more than a couple of inches from the hole. Now, according to Hiro, as he walked over to tap in for his par, he heard Byron say, ‘Take it away’ – so, he did exactly that. As soon as Hiro flicked his ball up into his hand, however, Byron suddenly starts complaining that he never told Hiro he could pick up his ball.”
“He didn’t!” gasped Mustang, unable to help himself.
“Oh, but he did,” confirmed Kiko, with a rueful shake of her head. “He even called in the referee. So, because Hiro’s or his caddie’s English isn’t that good, I went under the ropes and translated what was being said – which, essentially, boiled down to Byron demanding that he be given the hole because it wasn’t his fault if Hiro had ‘heard what he’d wanted to’.”
“And don’t tell me he got his way?!” said Mustang, more out of blind hope than anything else, as he could tell from Kiko’s tone how this particular story ended.
“Unfortunately, he did – and partly because, after talking in circles for nearly ten minutes, Hiro had grown so impatient and frustrated that he just gave in to Byron’s demands and had him awarded the hole so they could continue playing.”
“No wonder they were so far behind me and Skip then,” said Mustang, still sounding completely taken aback at Byron pulling such a stunt. “So, what happened after that?”
“They moved on to the 11th, but from the way Hiro was behaving on the tee, I could tell that he was still furious about what had happened at the previous hole – so much so, that he wasn’t fully concentrating on what still needed to be done,” replied Kiko, sighing slightly in the process. “And, sure enough, after Byron stuck his tee-shot to 3-feet, Hiro pushed his tee-shot into the bunker; wound up losing the hole when Byron tapped-in for birdie after he didn’t hole-out, and after that … well, after that, it was the beginning of the end. Byron – who was now, ‘magically’, playing much faster once again – won the next three holes to go 3UP, at which point Hiro, finally, snapped out of it; but after only managing two halves at 15 and 16 to stem the bleeding … the match was done.”
Mustang just looked off to the side and shook his head. He knew Byron was a fearsome competitor; the kind of guy with a ‘win at all costs’ mentality – hence why he’d won so many junior tournaments and been scouted to play with OSU. But to hear that, even with all his indisputable talent, he was not beyond employing the kinds of gamesmanship which Kiko had just described? It just made Mustang all the more determined to beat him in the final.
“But, hey …” said Kiko, her warm, congratulatory tone of voice drawing Mustang out of his head and away from thoughts of Byron. “I heard you beat Skip! That’s amazing! And with a walk-off eagle, no less!”
“Uh, yeah, it was pretty crazy,” replied Mustang, actually thinking back on what had just transpired for the first time since the match had ended. “I mean, there were a few times when I was really just tryna’ hang on and stay in the matc-…”
“Kiko …”
Having been interrupted mid-sentence, both Mustang and Kiko turned to see who had called her name – even though Kiko, herself, already knew well who she was going to be laying eyes on once she did. Looking more dishevelled than what Mustang had become accustomed to seeing him appear, Hiro was now, suddenly, standing alongside Fuji – and he didn’t appear to be all that happy with what he was seeing standing before him.
Hiro said something to Kiko in very stern-sounding Japanese. When he’d finished, Kiko turned to Mustang and said quietly, “He says we’re leaving now, so I have to go.”
“Aw, really?” groaned Mustang, unable to mask his disappointment. “You aren’t gonna stay for the final?”
“Our jet is leaving at 3 …” she replied, sounding just as disappointed. “So, if we’re to make it to the airport in time, we must leave now.”
“I understand,” said Mustang, nodding his head. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”
“As do you,” she replied.
Before he knew what was happening, Kiko leaned in and gave an unsuspecting Mustang a kiss on the cheek.
“Good luck, Mustang …” she said, leaning back. “It was … really cool meeting you.”
After flashing one of her trademark smiles that made her deep brown eyes sparkle, Kiko turned around and began to walk away from a heavily blushing Mustang, who was still reeling from the fact she’d just kissed him on the cheek.
“You too …” he said, hurriedly, after finally managing to get his brain and mouth synced back up after their connection had been temporarily fried. Kiko stopped and turned back around. “I mean … it was really cool meeting you too,” said Mustang, steeling himself. “Like … really cool.”
Now taking her turn to blush, Kiko smiled once more at Mustang before turning around and continuing on her way past a no-less-stern-looking Hiro. Having watched her walk past him and then listen out for the sound of her footsteps continuing to carry her around the corner of the clubhouse, Hiro turned his attention back onto Mustang.
After the exhilaration of what had just happened had served to make him feel as though he were floating, to suddenly find himself back on the receiving end of Hiro’s withering glare most certainly brought Mustang crashing back down to earth – and, especially so, when Hiro then proceeded to walk over to him.
“I know you were with Kiko last night,” he said, the words falling sharp, though somewhat stunted, from his mouth after he came to a stop in front of Mustang.
“You … you do?” stammered Mustang, trying and failing to keep his cool as he looked up at the far taller Hiro.
“My sister thinks that … because I am so focused on golf … I do not notice what she gets up to,” he answered, pausing at times to construct the next part of his sentence. “But I do.”
“Uh … well … sorry?” said Mustang, unsure as to what exactly Hiro was looking for from him.
“I do not need … an apology …” replied Hiro, dismissing such an idea. “I just nee-…”
Before he could finish what he was saying, the sound of a horn being obnoxiously beeped over and over again in a slapdash attempt at producing a melody cut across Hiro. Hearing that it was coming from somewhere off behind them, Hiro and Mustang both turned in the direction of the pro-shop just in time to see Byron come barrelling into view – and he made quite the entrance. Driving a golf cart with his cronies hanging off of it, Byron – continuing to beep the horn in order to ensure maximum attention was paid to his arrival by those gathered around the clubhouse – slammed on the brakes and pulled off a handbrake turn, sending the tyres on the cart scrambling to find whatever semblance of grip they could amongst the loose gravel covering the ground.
“Someone grab my bag,” instructed Byron, flippantly abandoning the golf cart in the middle of where everyone was standing and making his way towards the pro-shop.
Eager, as ever, to please, his cronies immediately jumped off the cart and rushed to be the first to fulfill Byron’s wish and curry his ever-elusive favour. Just before he reached the pro-shop, however, Byron glanced over in the direction of where Hiro and Mustang were standing and came to a stop.
“Hey, Hiro?!” he called out, a gloating grin spreading across his face. “Nice to see you’ve found a fellow loser to hang out with! Oh wait, you do understand that word, right?! Loooo-serrrr?! If ya don’t, though, just ask your little buddy there – ‘cause he knows all about being a loser! Ain’t that right, Seabiscuit?!”
Before Hiro or Mustang could say anything back, a snickering Byron strode in through the door of the pro-shop and out of sight.
“As I was saying …” said Hiro, turning back around and, out of nowhere, holding out his hand for a handshake. “I do not need an apology … I just need you to beat him.”
“I’ll try …” replied Mustang, determinedly, as he reached out and shook Hiro’s hand. “You have my word.”
*
“And then, just like that, Hiro was gone – as was Kiko, obviously,” said Ray, sweeping the UTV around the dogleg of the 15th fairway.
“Man, so Byron really was hellbent on drumming up as much bad blood for the final as possible, huh?” said Maggie, his comments still leaving a bad taste in her mouth.
“That was just part of the arsenal that made him so difficult to beat,” replied Ray, stating it so matter-of-factly it was like he was narrating a nature documentary. “He had plenty game – as his career has proved – but when you were goin’ up against ‘im? As in, head-to-head? That’s when the trash talk started; ‘cause he wanted you angry, and he wanted you riled up – basically, he wanted you thinkin’ about how badly you wanted to shut him up as opposed to just focusin’ on what you actually needed to do in order to beat him. Cause he wasn’t invincible – no golfer is – so he was just tryna’ make sure he was always givin’ himself the best opportunity to be the one in the driver’s seat settin’ the tone.”
“And did Mustang know that?” asked Maggie, as they approached the 15th green.
“As soon as he told me what had happened after he finished speakin’ to Hiro, I told him exactly what I just told you,” confirmed Ray, pushing the UTV straight down the side of green without stopping. “Told him there was no point bein’ mad ‘cause that would be playin’ right into Byron’s hands; so, he just had to let him do all the talkin’ he wanted – let him go hoarse, for all we cared – ‘cause the only talkin’ Mustang needed to worry about was the talkin’ he’d be doin’ with his clubs once 3 o’clock came and the final started. And, goin’ on how he reacted, that seemed to have the desired effect in calmin’ him down.”
“So, given the final was due to start at 3,” said Maggie, thinking aloud, as a sign they passed at the rear of the green told her they were heading for the 16th tee. “What was your plan for how to pass the time? Cause, at this stage, it was what? 1? Just after?”
“Yeah, I think it was ‘round 1:15 …”
“Alright, so, that’s what? An hour and 45 minutes before the final? I mean, that’s a long time to start thinking about the fact you’re about to play in a match where there’s gonna be $160,000 on the line, right?”
“It is,” agreed Ray, slowing down the UTV in order to guide it around a small bend in the path. “But in the time Mustang had been talkin’ to the Nakamuras, me and Travis had come up with a plan. See, like you said, we knew with the amount of time we had to kill between then and the final that there was scope there for Mustang to possibly start overthinkin’ what was about to happen. So, we decided our best play was to just get him away for a bit – away from the clubhouse, the crowd … everythin’. So, I got us all some food from the clubhouse, we headed to the workshop, and just hung out there – ate our lunch, played some cards, and …”
Though clearly having more that he wanted to say, Ray, suddenly, fell away into silence, leaving nothing but the sound of the engine and the wind rushing past them to fill the void. Maggie considered asking him if he was alright in an attempt to lure his voice back out, but, in the end, she recognized that she just needed to wait it out.
Ray would continue speaking when he was good and ready.
She just needed to be patient.
“And that was all good …” he said, eventually picking back up where he’d left off, but his tone now sounding noticeably more tense than what it had done previously. “Until Reginald Pinkly walked in through the door of the workshop and said me and Mustang needed to come back down to the clubhouse with him …”
*
Having driven from the workshop in near-total silence after his point-blank refusal to tell Ray and Mustang why they had been summoned back to the clubhouse, Reginald brought the golf cart he’d ferried them in to a gentle stop in front of the porch fronting the clubhouse.
“Alright, kid, you stay here while I run in and see what all this is about,” said Ray, turning around from where he was sitting in the front seat alongside Reginald and looking back at Mustang.
“Uh, well … actually …” sputtered Reginald, nervously. “Thing is, Ray … the tournament committee … they want, uh … well, they want to see both you and Mustang, so … he has to come in as well.”
Having not liked the sound of this whole thing from the moment he’d first opened his mouth after creeping in through the door of the workshop, Ray, having heard what Reginald had just said, was now finding those feelings of ‘dislike’ were rapidly turning into ones of ‘anger’.
“That’s fine, Mr. Pinkly,” said Mustang, jumping in before Ray could say anything, as he could tell by the colour his neck was turning that he was getting increasingly mad with each passing second. “You can tell them we’ll be right in.”
Delighted to have been given any excuse that would get him away from Ray – even if meant being, essentially, dismissed by a 14-year old – Reginald nodded his head and said, “Just come to the Members’ Bar when you’re ready – that’s where everyone’s waiting.”
With his piece said – and able to tell from the stony manner in which Ray was glaring a hole straight through him that there would be no answer forthcoming from him – Reginald quickly clambered out of the golf cart and darted inside the clubhouse.
“Look, I know you’re not happy about this,” said Mustang, sitting forward and leaning on the front seat so that he could make easier eye contact with Ray. “But it could just be nothing, right? Like, maybe we just need to fill out some … I dunno … paperwork or whatever.”
“Paperwork?” repeated Ray, unable to stop a smile from curling his mouth despite his agitated state.
“Well, whatever it is!” laughed Mustang, not taking too kindly to having his suggestion ridiculed. “There’s no point being mad about it before you even know what it is, otherwise you’ll just end up going in there like a bull in a china shop and that can only end badly – so, just … you know … chill out, yeah?”
Ray looked out through the windshield of the golf cart. The people still milling around the clubhouse and laying out on the grass to try and pass the time before the final were now beginning to look over towards the cart as they recognized that it was, indeed, Ray and Mustang who were sitting inside it. After giving himself a moment to enjoy how surreal it was to see those people getting genuinely excited at seeing Mustang up close, Ray – in an effort to ‘chill out’, as he’d been so plainly instructed – took a breath in and let it go.
He knew Mustang was right in one sense, there really was no point going into the clubhouse preemptively wound up when he didn’t even know what was happening. On the other hand, though, what he knew that Mustang didn’t was that Mr. Denby was the long-running chairman of the tournament committee; and whenever he was involved with something, it was always past to err on the side of caution and pessimism – not that he was going to tell Mustang that, of course.
“And here was me thinkin’ I was meant to be the one givin’ out the advice,” said Ray, painting a convincing smile across his face as he turned back to look at Mustang.
“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on doing it that often – way too much work, ” replied Mustang, smiling brazenly, before stepping out of the cart and into the sunshine. “Now, come on, let’s go get … whatever this is … over and done with.”
“Yeah …” said Ray, replacing his smile with a more worried expression as Mustang bounced energetically up the steps of the porch and disappeared in through the doors of the clubhouse. “Let’s go …”.
*
The hinges gently creaked as Ray opened back the door of the Members’ Bar, causing the ever-present aroma of stale cigar smoke and aged leather which lived inside the bar to waft out through it and fill his and Mustang’s lungs – the oddly intoxicating smell practically beckoning the pair of them inside with a warm sense of familiarity. They walked in through the door – feeling the plush, burgundy-coloured carpet soft beneath their feet once they stepped beyond the threshold – and took in the scene lying before them.
Though he’d been inside the Members’ Bar on a few occasions previously, the decadent surrounds of the space – which, after the ‘LaFleur Suite’ on the floor above, was the most exclusive room inside the clubhouse as you had to have been a member of Crescent Creek for ten full years before you could enter it – never failed to have an impact on Ray.
The walls split between mahogany panelling and rich burgundy wallpaper decorated with gold trefoils and accented perfectly with antique, gold sconces that emitted a warm, golden glow once night fell. The armchairs and chesterfield sofas dotted around the room in no particular pattern, the leather covering them now worn and smooth looking from decades of being sat upon. The large, octagonal poker table tucked away in the corner, the felt covering it acting as a green canvas for the semi-stained glass windows lying beyond it to project its rainbow of colours across. And then there was the bar itself; mahogany-made (to mirror the wood panelling on the walls) with intricately-carved panels depicting the club crest; the row of matching mahogany stools topped with red and gold-coloured cushions evenly spaced all the way along the brass foot-rail which ran the length of the bar; and, of course, the massive collection of gleaming crystal glassware and umpteen bottles of liquor all perfectly placed and on display behind the bar – just waiting to help toast a fantastic round or, more-often-than-not, help you forget a terrible one.
It was a room that served as a beacon of southern hospitality and all things relaxation – or, at least, it usually did.
Now, though, as Ray and Mustang stood a few paces in from the door, mentally ticking off the people dotted around the room who were looking back at them with serious, stony expressions plastered across their faces, the atmosphere inside the bar felt so tense you could cut with a spoon, nevermind needing a knife.
There were the members of the tournament committee, obviously – made up entirely of some of the more senior members of the club. Reginald was behind the bar serving as a makeshift bartender and looking as though he were struggling to get one of the beer taps to work. And as for Mr. Denby? Well, he was sitting in one of the large armchairs placed directly in front of the grand fireplace which was set into the wall directly opposite the bar – looking, it must be said, noticeably pleased with himself as he nursed a glass of red wine.
As much as the sight of a happy-looking Mr. Denby was enough in itself to put him back on edge, however, when Ray laid eyes on who was sitting in the armchair across from him, that edge suddenly began to feel all the sharper.
“Ah, well if it isn’t Mr. Thackett and the talk of the Memorial!” announced Truman Ballas, sounding far too friendly, as he turned around in his chair and looked over at Ray and Mustang. “Hey, congratulations on your win over Devereaux, kid – heck of a finish, by all accounts!”
“Thanks,” replied Mustang, all thoughts of what he’d said out in the cart now completely vanished as he, too, got the feeling something just wasn’t quite right with the picture he was seeing before them.
“I didn’t realize you were on the Tournament Committee, Mr. Ballas?” said Ray, not caring in the slightest how firm his tone sounded.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not on the Committee, Mr. Thackett …” replied Truman, swirling what little ice remained in the small glass of whiskey he was drinking from. “I’m merely here in the capacity of … well, of that of a concerned member of the club.”
“Concerned member?” repeated Ray, scornfully, as his suspicions began to grow all the stronger that he and Mustang had just walked into a trap. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” interjected Mr. Denby, the grin on his face growing ever wider by the second. “There’ll be plenty of time to discuss the relevant … minutiae, shall we say, once all the necessary parties have arrived-…”. Suddenly, the sound of purposeful footsteps walking along the wooden floorboards which approached the Members’ Bar in the hall outside began to fill the air. “Speaking of which …” continued Mr. Denby, sitting back in his chair in anticipation of greeting whoever was about to enter the Bar. “That should be him now.”
A few seconds later, who other than Skip Devereaux strode in through the door of the Members’ Bar and revealed himself to be the owner of the footsteps everyone inside the room had come to be listening to so intently. Though still in the golf clothes he’d been wearing whilst playing Mustang, Skip had switched out his golf shoes for a pair of expensive-looking brown leather loafers that, of course, perfectly complemented his outfit.
“Ah, Mr. Devereaux!” chimed Mr. Denby, gleefully. “Thank you for joining us! Would you like a drink?”
“No, I’m good, thanks – I’m driving …” he replied, looking a tad confused as he took in the rather unusual-looking menagerie of people gathered before him. “Uh … what’s all this about?”
“I’m wonderin’ the exact same thing,” growled Ray, who hadn’t taken his eyes off either Mr. Denby or Truman in the entire time between Skip entering the room and asking his question.
“Well, if you gentlemen would like to take a seat-…?”
“What I would like Mr. Denby …” snarled Ray, gritting his teeth as part of a Herculean effort to control his temper. “Is for you to cut to the chase and just tell us what’s goin’ on.”
“Yeah,” said Skip, rowing in behind Ray as he, too, was not in the humour for pointless formalities. “Get to the point.”
“So, it’s the abridged version you want …” muttered Mr. Denby, popping his glass of wine down onto the coffee table sitting between himself and Truman. “Very well …”. He looked back over at Ray and Skip. “As you know, gentlemen, the Memorial Matchplay is – and always has been – about bringing together some of the very best amateur golfers and, over the course of two days, seeing who comes out on top in some straight, good ole’ fashioned competition. However, as we also know, ‘competition’ is only as good as the rules of said competition.”
Ray, suddenly, began to feel a tight, knotting sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had a feeling he finally knew what this whole charade was in aid of – and it definitely wasn’t paperwork.
“And, as has been the case for many years now …” continued Mr. Denby, clearly adoring his moment in the spotlight. “Of the few rules which govern this fine tournament, perhaps the most important one of all, is that each competitor is in the possession of an official handicap of scratch or better …”
The tight, knotting sensation now began to feel as though someone had doused it in gasoline and thrown a match to it, engulfing his insides in a searing, white-hot flame.
“Something which, thanks to the research of Mr. Ballas here …” said Mr. Denby, gesturing in a fawning manner down at a smug-looking Truman. “It appears “Mustang” here does not have – contrary to what you, Thackett, told me on the phone this past Friday night.”
And there it was. The big reveal. The reason why Mr.Denby and Truman had been as giddy as two schoolboys since Ray and Mustang had walked in through the door.
And, worst of all, Ray knew there was still, undoubtedly, more to come.
“If I might just say something?” said Skip, jumping in as he saw an opening.
“By all means,” replied Mr. Denby, sounding excited at the prospect of Skip entering the fray. “The floor is yours, Mr. Devereaux.”
“Thank you,” said Skip, stepping forward so that he was now standing in front of Ray and Mustang. “Well, all I want to say is … uh … who the hell cares?!”
Having not been expecting that this was the way things were going to go once Skip opened his mouth, a now slightly panicky-looking Mr. Denby glanced down at Truman, clearly searching for some indication as to what he should do next – a look which wasn’t lost on Ray. ‘So, that’s what you were “concerned” about,’ he thought to himself, as he glared over at Truman now silently trying to convey a message of ‘hold firm’ to his lackey, Mr. Denby.
“Handicap or no handicap …” continued Skip, giving everyone in the Bar a rare glimpse at what it was like to see him in full flow inside a courtroom. “This kid right here has beaten everybody who’s been put in front of him the past two days – including yours truly – and seen the 18th hole just once in the process. I mean, you said it yourself, Mr. Denby, this tournament has always been about bringing together the best amateur golfers, right? Well, the way I see it, this committee should be jumping for joy right about now. Because Mustang Peyton? Not only is he, indeed, one of the very best amateur golfers that I’ve ever had the pleasure to compete against – but, years from now, there’s no doubt in my mind that we’ll be looking back on this weekend as that time we all got to see the best golfer in the world play in front of us before the world even knew he was.”
From the reaction of the other committee members, Ray could tell Skip’s words had struck a chord with them – but, as had become blatantly apparent through their complicit silence all the way throughout this debacle, their opinions mattered little in the grand scheme of things.
“Well, while you’re perfectly entitled to your … opinion, Mr. Devereaux,” sniped Mr. Denby, nervously clearing his throat as Truman grumpily scoffed at Skip’s bold assertion about Mustang. “As both the Chairman of the Tournament Committee and Head Golf Professional of Crescent Creek, I have been entrusted with a duty of care by Mr. Henri LaFleur himself to ensure both the integrity of the Matchplay and the good name of this golf club is preserved above all else.”
“Which means what exactly?” said Ray, finding his voice once again as the fire grew in intensity.
“Well, Thackett, it means the rules are the rules,” replied Mr. Denby, his previous confidence slowly returning. “And as the de facto custodian of those rules, it falls upon me to ensure that they are adhered to … to the letter.”
“Don’t do this …” pleaded Ray, quietly, knowing full well in his heart of hearts that this was only going in one direction. “Please …”
“Ray? What’s going on?” asked Mustang, the worry which had been steadily growing inside him for the past few minutes now becoming just too much to bear. “What’s happening?”
“So, with that being said …” continued Mr. Denby, completely ignoring Ray’s pleas and raising the volume of his voice authoritatively as if he were a judge about to pass his sentence. “Given Mustang has been shown to not be in the possession of an official handicap recognized by any governing body in the game of golf, the Tournament Committee and I have come to the decision that – effective immediately …”.
For full effect, Mr. Denby pushed himself up out of his chair and got back to his feet. This was his moment, and he was going to make sure he made the very most out of it.
“Mustang Peyton?” he grinned, his beady, little eyes glinting excitedly. “You are hereby disqualified from the Memorial Matchplay.”