Hanging Lies

By R Bruce Walker

In a word, Legacy Ridge is paradise. An exclusive master planned community located at the crossroads of the fictitious town of Hattesboro, North Carolina and the bottom of the Blue Ridge Mountains, it is a gated Eden that is home to an assembly of newly minted millionaires and one the most magnificent golf courses ever built. Yet something is rotten in this private preserve of the retired rich.

Clayton Palmer Bennett is an unscrupulous lawyer who has constructed the entire community upon a foundation of deceit. As the trusted consultant to a West Coast microchip manufacturer who has diversified into land development, Bennett pieced together the parcel upon which Legacy Ridge has risen through a series of underhanded real estate deals.

Pete Strickland is the disillusioned and dissolute Head Professional who, at midlife, has clearly squandered his considerable gifts for the game of golf. With a past forever intertwined with Clay Bennett, his present responsibilities consist of teaching the game to the club’s hapless members, padding their billing statements and marauding his way through the handsome ladies of the neighborhood. It is a corrupt but comfortable existence.

Enter Billy Prentice, a brilliant young golfer who accepts a position as an assistant in the Pro Shop. In the course of a single summer, Billy comes of age as a player and a man; helps the wayward Pete Strickland find redemption; and pries loose the manipulative grip that Bennett has on both his beautiful and talented daughter and the community that he controls.

The novel is a humorous satire of the gilded lives of the country club set. Moving between past and present, the story explores how interwoven fates can shape unexpected futures and ill-considered choices can have a lifetime of consequences.

While much of the action centers around golf, the message is universal. It uses the strict honor code of the game as a stark counterpoint to contemporary values. In the end, Hanging Lies is an old fashioned morality play in which good triumphs over evil; truth and honesty are fairly rewarded; and love, eventually, conquers all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R Bruce Walker
• Release date: Jun 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939337993

R Bruce Walker

Bruce Walker is a twenty-five year veteran of the advertising industry. As a Copywriter, Creative Director and Senior Executive with two leading global agencies including Ogilvy and BBDO, he has earned numerous accolades and awards for his work. Having recently departed the business for an author’s life, he currently resides near Savannah, Georgia with his wife, Lynne, and two irrepressible Labrador retrievers. JESTERS’ DANCE is his debut novel.

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Hanging Lies

by

R. Bruce Walker

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

HANGING LIES

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Copyright © 2013 R. Bruce Walker. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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ISBN: 978-1-939337-99-3 (eBook)

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Version 2013.06.01

For Lynne and houseboats and dreams.

"The cruelest lies are often told in silence."

~ Robert Louis Stevenson ~

Virginibus Puerisque

Hanging Lies

Before

You may want to pay closer attention, Dick Everton advised as he veered right from the main road and aimed the big white Range Rover towards the bottom of the deep cul de sac they had just entered. Suddenly anxious that he may have offended his two distracted passengers, he softened this instruction by adding, I think you’re really going to love this one.

As he completed the turn, the late afternoon sun flooded the truck’s interior and he quickly dropped the visor to shade his eyes as they descended the steep slope leading to a heavily wooded lot marked with its tastefully lettered ‘For Sale’ sign.

At the bottom of the hill, past a lone mailbox that offered the only other sign of habitation in this secluded corner of the development, lay their final destination. As they got to within twenty yards or so, the salesman gently applied the brakes and they coasted to a stop in front of the vacant property.

"You should probably put your window up, Everton said, pointing to the dense curtain of bush ahead. We’re going in there." Thus informed, the handsome woman opposite pressed the button on the door handle until the smoky glass pane slid snugly into place—the vehicle now filling with silent expectation.

It was getting much harder to do now that the community was very nearly built out, thought the weary realtor. He’d gotten off to an early start this morning, as well. But there were just so few prime properties still available and his clients were clearly fading. He definitely had to show them something that would get them excited again—and give them lots to talk about over dinner.

Just like everybody else who made the quick weekend jaunt to the Carolina backwoods and then insisted on going right out to have a look, his clients were now wearing the fatigue of their early morning flight and long day of travel visibly. Reaching for the burnished metal knob that controlled one the expensive import’s many ingenious mechanical features, he dialed up an off road setting and easily mounted the curb.

It was a trick that he had figured out early on in the selling of Legacy Ridge and one that seldom missed. Immediately, the chatter between Mr. Pennington in the back seat and Mrs. Pennington in the front ceased and both stared with anticipation into the untamed veil of vegetation before them. As they met the first young branches, Gloria Pennington grabbed for the safety handle that was molded into the roof of the rugged British-made sports utility vehicle while Chuck, her heavy-set middle-aged husband, used his knees to brace himself between the seats in order to get a better look at what might lay ahead.

As Everton deftly guided the big truck past a fallen tree, the withered boughs gave way to reveal a set of tire tracks and a narrow trail pointing forward. Though this attractively wooded parcel was scarcely more than three acres in size, once off the paved street, the forest seemed to close behind them. The realtor drew their attention to a stout white stake that marked the property line on the left. It had been his idea to have the stylish logo of the community that was embossed on each lot marker repainted in time for the final sales push and he took pride in pointing this out each time one was passed.

Now the path twisted back the other way. Inching ahead, the needle-sharp catbrier and tangled creepers that trailed from the hollies raked the sides of the SUV like nails on a chalkboard. Suddenly, there was a loud thump as a sapling, bent double by the weight of the three-ton vehicle above, finally gave way and its splintered stem slapped hard against the floorboards. Dick Everton gave a quick wink and reassuring smile to the startled woman beside him.

At the same time, Everton made a mental note to carefully inspect the undercarriage when he got home. He didn’t want any problems when it came time to buy out the lease at the end of its term. Over the years he’d become quite fond of the steady handling and luxurious feel of the top-heavy trucks that Platinum Pines Development Corporation had supplied to each of the senior sales team members when the community was first being pioneered and he intended to make this one his own. It was his second since that heady time a half dozen years before. The consulting team had insisted that the added cost of the versatile vehicles for showing prospective clients around the rugged terrain would be worth it and they obviously knew their market well.

By Dick’s own estimation at least half of the customers he had shepherded through the development had commented on the fleet of ‘Rovers’. The retiring businessmen from up north seemed particularly fond of them, comparing them favorably to the BMWs and Mercedes country wagons they’d left in their garages back home. He was also sure that the first impression these spare-no-expense vehicles made when he picked up couples at the airport down in Asheville had helped clinch many a deal even before he’d made his first serious sales overture. Despite the recent softening in the market, only forty-one lots remained in the exclusive master planned community.

The Penningtons were typical of the kind of people who had already chosen to retire to Legacy Ridge—even if they were showing up a little late in the game. The property had, after all, been fairly aggressively marketed up and down the eastern seaboard for the past several years—right through the downturn. Perhaps they were a little younger than the other residents as well. She most certainly was. Whether this was indeed the case for both would become clear later this evening when they chatted with the welcoming members who would stop by their table during dinner as Dick had so thoughtfully arranged. Or maybe it was just that Everton was feeling his years and was getting ready to pack it in himself once the last few lots were gone.

In fact, it was the ‘Final Phase’ advertisement that had run a month ago in the Sunday Times that had prompted Chuck Pennington to pick up the phone and call the Legacy Ridge Sales Center. As was procedure, his inquiry had been followed up promptly with a handsome literature package that bespoke the endless virtues of this remarkable development located in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains amid some of the most picturesque and unspoiled beauty of the North Carolina backwoods.

The brochure was lavish—packed full of magnificent photos of the land, the seasons, the spectacular houses that had already been built and, of course, the ample lifestyle amenities to be enjoyed by the fortunate few lucky enough to be able to afford such unparalleled luxury. Initially, the Platinum Pines management team had balked at the cost of such expensive sales literature. But when the senior partner from their advertising agency, Lowenstein Holiday, explained that this follow up mailing would be carefully cross referenced with the prospects’ Zip Codes to ensure that it would only be sent to the right kinds of people, the committee had relented.

And sure enough, that’s exactly what had happened with the Penningtons. The package had been FedExed overnight to their tony Connecticut address and four weeks later here they were at Legacy Ridge, eager to own one of the last remaining pieces of this particular corner of paradise.

Everton continued to inch the big truck forward. As he did, the front right tire dipped into a rain-softened pothole causing Mrs. Pennington to spill the contents of the fat file folder that had been resting in her lap. Dick slowed down and glanced sideways as she leaned forward to gather up its contents.

The Legacy Ridge site map was there, of course, and he couldn’t help but notice the sales brochures of his competitors splayed at her ankles, too. He stopped briefly to let her shuffle them back together. Lofted Peaks, Pine Crest and The Retreat were there. So were Mountain View and The Oaks. She had certainly been doing her homework—the wives always did. The good news was they were definitely in the right ballpark. When it came time to talk numbers, The high nines … maybe a million or so, that Dick Everton would casually float by back at the Sales Center would not seem at all out of line.

But now the trees were thinning in front of the windshield. A cascade of kudzu first yielded and then whipped back across the truck’s wide front window momentarily obscuring their view. The sun, that was settling low in the west before it would disappear altogether beneath the ridge beyond, shot a single shaft of golden light through the trailing vine’s tender lobes and illuminated all three of the vehicle’s occupants in a flattering amber hue. Chuck Pennington, who had been quietly wishing he’d taken the front seat beside Everton after the last stop, was now leaning forward expectantly. He poked his head between the tall, upright seats with the ergonomically designed headrests so that as the branches parted they would meet the final destination of their little off-road excursion together. Then suddenly the forest parted and they were upon it.

It had the same effect every time. Everton stole a peek to his right where a flush faced Chuck Pennington was breathing heavily just inches from his ear. His client, a self-important investment banker who for much of the afternoon had been braying on about his professional accomplishments, had been rendered utterly speechless. Further to his right, the attractive and studious Gloria Pennington, her eyes sparkling with a light that erased a dozen years from her pretty face, was similarly enthralled. A quick look at the clock on the dashboard and Everton knew that he had timed his drive in perfectly.

What now stood before them was one of a half dozen man-made ponds that had been artfully integrated into the layout of an eighteen-hole golf course that ran along Legacy Ridge from one end of the development to the other. Everton had approached it from the opposite side to ensure that it would be bathed in long shadows and the final glow of the fast approaching dusk. Now, framed as it was by a stand of towering red pines that easily rose eighty feet above the fairway, the couple had their first truly close up look at the community’s most remarkable asset. The emerald green grass ended abruptly at the edge of a dark pool that caught a perfect reflection of all that surrounded it. Appearing as it had so suddenly, from the depths of the untamed woods, the effect was stunning.

After rehearsing this many times before, Everton knew that the best thing to do now was to remain absolutely quiet. Maybe a beautifully painted canvasback would dive down and shatter the glassy stillness of the pond. Perhaps one of the recently stocked rainbows would break the water’s surface with silent ripples. Or maybe, if he were really lucky, a deer would be stepping daintily upon the moss at the near edge of the pond. Any twilight golfers would have passed this portion of the course long before and the scene should have returned to its architecturally designed state of natural perfection.

It was in this special moment that most couples usually made their decision to buy. Whether it would be this particular lot, which had only recently been returned to inventory at one point one million, only time would tell. Just as easily it could be one of the other less expensive properties that were still available along the back ridge, where the views weren’t quite as good, but where the prices were much more reasonable. However, it was this prime piece of real estate that would clinch the deal and that would be remembered in their airplane whispers on the long Sunday night flight home. It was in this perfect moment of silence that the soon-to-be-retired couples projected a lifetime of dreams upon the landscape and saw a future far removed from their present day lives. Dick Everton knew the look and he could take it to the bank.

The salesman could tell from Chuck Pennington’s bemused expression that his client was already playing out the hole in his mind. No doubt in this particular fantasy, a career of glaring swing flaws and all other cruel reminders of the limitations of his game had been magically forgotten. In this private reverie, a perfectly struck wedge had sent a ball soaring majestically above the pines before it fell ever so gently to within inches of the limp scarlet flag. With a whisper of the name Pennington spilling from their lips and looks of unrestrained adoration lighting their faces, an imaginary gallery of spectators rewarded the brilliance of his effort with a burst of spontaneous applause and appreciative shouts of encouragement. Everton had seen it all so many times before.

And indeed, what made the pond truly spectacular from Chuck Pennington’s point of view was the way that the green was raised so sharply from the water’s edge on his left. Buttressed from the little lake by a wall of rough-hewn timbers that had already turned a soft dove gray, it was practically the most perfect putting surface he thought he’d ever seen. It was guarded at the front by a ledge so narrow that only a fool would try to land a ball short. On the sides it was flanked by a pair of bunkers that would eagerly gobble up anything hit too far left or too far right.

Intelligently, the designer had not made the mistake so many others seemed to these days and allowed the overall surface of the green to become too large. Instead, he’d protected the tiny stamp of Bermuda grass with a subtle cant from front to back, a wicked crease through its middle, and only a handful of potential pin positions that could be approached with any degree of safety. To score here would demand precise iron play.

Searching the fairway to his right Chuck spied the narrow chute that must surely be the tee box. At the back of the teeing area, which seemed to have five distinct plateaus from which to hit, was a tasteful planter’s bench that was obviously placed to afford what must be an absolutely enchanting view of the entire hole before it. The bench, too, had weathered to a most pleasing shade of gray—a thoughtful detail that was not lost on the critical eye of the prospective buyer. It was only with more careful study that Chuck could make out the shadowy forms of the houses he knew must line the edges of the fairway.

Gloria Pennington, too, was captivated by the simple perfection of it all. She wasn’t half the golfer that her husband was, but she could still chase it around fairly adeptly having played the game for a dozen years or so herself—even if it was just with the Wednesday morning ladies at the country club back home. Instead, she marveled at the pristine majesty of the entire scene.

She noted the way that several large granite boulders had been carefully cast at the water’s edge to frame, with perfect symmetry, a pretty white house that was only slightly visible directly across the pond. Her trained executive wife’s eye sought out any offending objects—an ill-considered landscaping detail, a tasteless lawn ornament, or anything else that would cause her nose to wrinkle with displeasure and that would become a source of irritation over time. But there were no such blemishes in sight.

As if sensing the question that was taking shape in her mind, Dick Everton chose to break his own rule and fractured the silence between them. With a quiet murmur directed specifically toward the raven-haired woman seated to his right, but with an inclusive nod to her spouse, he reverentially intoned, Of course there are strict development covenants and architectural guidelines in place. Especially here on the golf course. Thus satisfied, Mrs. Pennington turned expectantly to her husband in the back seat. He nodded his approval. In all their years of marriage they had seldom been in more agreement about a single thing.

"Lets go back and make sure nobody’s put a sticker on this little gem while we were out this afternoon," volunteered Dick Everton. This was in reference to the big map in the Sales Center where each lot purchase was dutifully recorded with a red dot from the Office Max that meant, ‘Sold’. With that he slipped the big four-wheeler into reverse and turned at his shoulder to back out the vehicle. Chuck Pennington shifted to the other side of the bench seat trying to catch one last glimpse of the fairway as it disappeared behind the brush. Gloria Pennington had a marker out and was circling the location on the map.

Done deal. Maybe even the pond lot, Everton thought as he bumped the Range Rover back onto the blacktop while at the same time allowing himself a quick calculation of his commission on the sale.

"We can come back and walk it tomorrow … before you go out to play, the realtor volunteered, correctly anticipating the question that was forming on Chuck Pennington’s telegraphic brow. I’ve also got a couple of other properties I’d like to show you, he added. Sensing his clients’ delight at what they had just seen and with the proposed plan for the next day, Everton couldn’t resist one more presumptuous offering, I know you folks will be truly happy here," he added with a manufactured sincerity that betrayed his lengthy career in sales.

Their satisfaction thus assured, he confidently shifted the vehicle back into gear and started climbing the hill in the gathering shadows. In his rear view mirror he noticed one of the magnificent bald eagles that were becoming increasingly scarce atop the ridge as it swept into the highest branches of the giant pine that stood sentry at the head of the street. He didn’t bother to point it out.

Chapter 1

Pete Strickland stood at the pro shop window. Squinting into the bright morning sunshine, he could make out the dark silhouettes of the Bishop foursome gathered on the first tee. Someone, likely Fred Borman, appeared to have buried his ball in the thick rough short of the fairway and was getting ready to reload. Even from behind the glass of the wide panoramic window Pete could hear the cackles and good-natured ribbing that he was receiving from the other old tigers awaiting their turns.

Mulligans all ‘round had obviously been declared. There were few purists here at Legacy Ridge and these gentlemen were no exception. It was unheard of that anyone should be forced to play three from the tee on the opening hole. He knew why they did it, of course, but part of him still chaffed at their blatant disregard for the game’s most basic rules. Now that the computer was turned on and the new season was underway, he quietly wished that they wouldn’t take quite so many liberties with the scores they were posting. But then who was he to spoil their fun?

It wasn’t that Rod Bishop and the others in the seven-thirty group that teed it up every Sunday morning at this time weren’t decent enough guys. It was just that their games didn’t deserve the coveted early slot that they claimed each week. At every other club where Strickland had worked, the choice starting times between seven and eight on the weekends were unofficially reserved for serious players only. It had been an unwritten rule that the guys who still had good golf games, but who were locked in an office or who could only spring themselves occasionally with the grudging permission of their wives, deserved the first swift passages around the course. Not a group of old choppers like these ones.

Some of the younger members here had legitimate single digit handicaps. A handful had played scholarship golf and competed at very high levels before getting on with the serious business of their lives. They loved the game, but not the time required to play it. The other guys who had probably earned the right to play early on weekends were the divorced and single ones. After all, these were fellas who’d traded away wives and kids for alimony payments or who had managed to avoid marriage altogether—anything for the chance to play more golf. Like himself, they certainly deserved a break, Strickland allowed himself to imagine.

More importantly, they were also the ones who, if you gave them a couple of strokes a side, could be coaxed into wagering some serious money on a match. They could also usually be shamed into a couple of sucker bets as well. Unfortunately, there were few of these types of guys at Legacy Ridge. Most were like the older gentlemen in the tee box right now—aging retirees who played nearly every day without serious competitive or financial consequences.

As Borman corkscrewed himself into position to hit his second ball, Strickland turned from the glass. He had spent three hours on the range with Mr. Borman since the beginning of April to no apparent effect. Another golf professional would be discouraged if his student continued to play as poorly, but Pete had long since stopped worrying about the games of the wealthy members of the country club who paid top dollar for lessons and equipment, but then never bothered to practice.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try. Pete’s typical half-hour lesson was loaded with invaluable advice. It always started with a check of the grip, some basics on set up and stance, and as the student progressed, some nearly foolproof keys for solid ball striking. Leaning on the signature seven-iron that he took to the range like a cane, he would patiently study the mechanics of his students’ flailing efforts. Then, using the grip end of the club like a pointer, he would gesture to various places that he wanted the player to find on the mystical plane called the golf swing. Invariably, the result would be pure magic.

If the student allowed himself to follow Pete’s advice, many more times than not, the dimpled white sphere would leap from the clubface and soar towards the heavens in a way that it seldom ever had before. Having found the eternally elusive sweet spot for the first time in their golfing careers, the owners of the unfamiliar instruments that they now held in their hands would stare dumbstruck at such incredible results. This ability to provide a glimpse into the well-concealed secrets of the game was something at which Pete Strickland truly excelled.

For these thirty minutes, the Head Professional of The Links at Legacy Ridge would charge seventy-five dollars, dutifully recorded to the member’s account and billed on the twenty-eighth day of every month. It was small compensation for instruction from a golfer of his considerable talents. But then the revenue from teaching golf was just a fraction of what Strickland took in at Legacy Ridge. They say a smart pro can make a small fortune if he keeps his eyes and ears open. For the length of his tenure, Pete Strickland had been watching and listening to the members very carefully.

Unfortunately, even with all of the money he had invested in lessons, Borman still had a stiff, unnatural swing that barely made it half way to parallel. More typically he would take an angry waist-high swipe at the ball that inevitably produced a looping slice. After achieving such a result he would mock himself cruelly. His current favorite gag was to put a meaty paw to his head like a puzzled primate, scratch it, and then shuffle away from the blocks with the unsteady gate of an ape. Looking as he already did, like an aging silver back, the routine always earned a laugh. Casually, Pete would have to suggest to Mr. Borman that they should find a little more time next week.

Mel Kaufman had the lowest handicap in the group. He was a solid seven from the white tees. At last count the other two guys in the foursome, Bishop and Stratton, were playing in the low teens. But with Fred Borman it was so difficult to tell. His game was so full of gimmes, rulings and ‘revisionals’, as he liked to call them, the number that he eventually posted to calculate his handicap bore very little resemblance to what had actually occurred on the course. Pete reminded himself that he’d have to go in and do a little adjusting of Borman’s number before the Club’s next big competition.

Reg Stratton, nicknamed Briggsy by his buddies because his swing had more moving parts than a small engine, had a game that was more typical of the membership. He also had the curious temperament that Strickland had found among so many of the wealthy residents of Legacy Ridge who sought him out for instruction. That was to say that he was very nearly unteachable. It was as if these people had always been so in charge of the other parts of their lives that it was impossible for them to surrender control long enough to actually learn something.

Inevitably, Stratton would show up with a page he’d clipped from a golf magazine or an idea he’d picked up on the Golf Channel and ask Strickland to show him how to execute it. It had never occurred to him that his own club professional might have another way of doing things. After their sessions there would always be plenty of talk about making a serious commitment to his game, but there was never any meaningful practice later. Quietly, in the company of the guys he usually played with, Stratton often groused that Pete’s lessons weren’t really worth a shit.

Finally, Ted Bishop hit his drive and the group turned towards their waiting golf carts. It had been nearly fifteen minutes since Pete had signaled them to the first tee. But what the hell, he mused. Other than the slow play, it was a pretty good gig. Where else, he figured, would they let him keep his hot little Porsche parked up front at the clubhouse and not rag him incessantly about charging too much in the shop?

Everywhere he’d worked there was always an unwritten rule that you weren’t allowed to outshine the members at anything but golf—and most certainly not with your car. Whether it was a courteous Yes sir, Mr. So and So, that had to be extended to some guy a dozen years his junior, or blowing a putt or two to keep a match alive on Play With The Pro days, the members were always right and their on course efforts, regardless of how pathetic, were always deserving of enthusiastic encouragement. While this was, for the most part still true at Legacy Ridge, the bulk of the guys here were so well off that allowing Pete to have a decent set of wheels was something they were willing to indulge.

And that was the rub. Here he was, a fifty-four year old club pro with his best golf long since behind him, worrying about a couple of duffers messing around in the first tee box when he really didn’t have to care. Two seasons ago he’d encouraged the Golf Committee to hire a ranger and since then, Pete no longer had to take responsibility for prodding the members to get around in four hours or less. But the Club had been getting steadily busier as the posh real estate development got closer to completion and lately he’d had to quietly mention to some of the foursomes to pay a little more heed to groups that were backing up behind them.

In truth, Pete was more like a long tenured professor than the Club’s pro. Ever since he’d snagged the top job, he’d only had to fend off a couple of serious challenges to his lucrative position. Once or twice, an incoming Board member had tried to rattle his chain by complaining that he’d become too complacent. And, a few seasons back, they had even gone as far as to audition a once popular touring professional for the role of Director of Golf. But right now, after a Saturday night of playing cards and shooting the shit with a bunch of the guys in the Men’s Lower Spike Room, the head professional of Legacy Ridge was feeling quite secure.

Pete took a long, lazy stretch and then looked over at Teddy Lassiter who had the phone cradled on his shoulder and was pecking names into the computer. Pete shook his head. His older partner truly hated the machine and the reservation program that they’d installed a few seasons back. It was so much easier when no tee times were required. Unfortunately, that era in the Club’s nascent history had since passed.

Ted was a distinguished looking man who appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties, but was actually several years older. He had a shock of silver white hair and a tan the color of tobacco. Hell, he looks more like a member than most of the guys who belong here, thought Strickland of his longtime associate.

Lately, Pete had begun to worry that he wouldn’t look anywhere near as good at a similar age. While he stood nicely over six feet and had always carried his weight well, his belly was getting a little soft and, towards the end of last season, he’d had to start combing some extra color into his sandy brown hair. After a career outdoors, his handsome face was etched with the deep lines and creases that were a natural hazard of his profession, though he still had the playful grin and smiling eyes of a man half his age.

What he was definitely going to have to do was start laying off the stiff vodkas that Jack Brady and his pals always insisted on buying for him. Pete could feel a dull ache at the back of his skull and he knew that his breath was stale. When he’d glanced in the mirror in the locker room earlier, he’d noticed that his slate gray eyes were rimmed with red. He really hadn’t wanted the cigar that somebody had thrust at him late in the evening, but he’d smoked it any way and now his tongue tasted like crap. His bowel was also signaling its displeasure with the previous night’s abuse. Better to wait awhile before slipping into the clubhouse kitchen and attempting breakfast, he decided. Or maybe he would sneak out and play a bit and try to clear his head that way.

Hey Ted, he called across the shop as his old friend hung up the phone. Did anybody go off real early?

Nope. Only Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs. And they were just ahead of Bishop’s group. Strickland could detect just a hint of impatience in the reply. Teddy obviously knew what he had in mind.

Why? You gonna play? his old friend inquired, peering over the rims of the pair of tortoise shell half glasses he’d recently started wearing when working behind the counter.

Maybe, Pete ventured tentatively. Yes, his partner was definitely going to disapprove, he decided, as he paused before committing fully to this unpopular course of action.

He and Teddy Lassiter had worked together off and on for nearly three decades. They’d first met at Cypress Greens. It was a scuffed up pay-as-you-play track just off the Interstate outside of Clearwater. It was there that Pete had served his apprenticeship as an assistant pro shortly after leaving school.

Then there’d been a good long spell together at that resort club over in Myrtle Beach. Ocean Dunes was the kind of place where good golf was easy to find, but trouble was even easier. He and Teddy had shared shop duties, but together they had spent much more time chasing money games and skirts. Those were the days when Pete still entertained the fantasy of showing up as a late bloomer on the Tour.

He had tried Monday qualifying for a few events immediately after starting out, but it just wasn’t meant to be. Usually his scores would soar in the steaming pressure