William Bernhardt - Final Round

“Tonight’s debacle at the champions’ dinner was only the culmination of many violations that have come to our attention.”

“Such as what?”

“Destruction of tournament property.”

“I said I’d pay for the tee marker.”

“Use of foul and offensive language.”

“You try talking to Derwood without-”

“Disorderly conduct.”

“Well, maybe a little…”

“Violation of the tournament dress code.”

“The tournament hasn’t even started yet!”

“Need we remind you, Mr. Cross, that a strict code of dress and conduct applies to the entire PGA tour?” This came from someone behind him. Conner turned to face a man who was altogether too familiar to him.

“Richard Peregino,” Conner said, exhaling. “The PGA morals cop.”

“Vice president of Decorum and Image, thank you.”

“But it isn’t even a PGA tournament!”

“As the on-site representative of the PGA,” Peregino continued, “I must tell you that we take these charges very seriously.” Peregino wore a suit that was too small, too old, and was tacky even when it was new. Perched in the midst of this high-class office, he was like a walking-talking What’s Wrong With This Picture? “We’ve had you under close observation for some time now because we’ve suspected you of improper conduct.”

“Is that why you’ve been watching me everywhere I go? And here I thought you had a crush on me.”

Peregino’s jaw tightened. “You know perfectly well that the PGA demands that its members uphold high moral and ethical standards. Our regulations prohibit illegal or offensive behavior, improper or insufficient attire, sexual misconduct, profanity. We carefully screen all entrants to prevent any rogue bull from tarnishing the PGA image.”

“Someone must’ve been snoozing when I got my card,” Conner muttered.

“That mistake can be easily corrected,” Peregino replied, drawing himself up to his full height, which was still about six inches lower than Conner’s. “And believe me, if your conduct doesn’t change, it will be. You won’t finish the tour.”

“You won’t finish this tournament,” Spenser chimed in. “Here in Augusta, we have rules. And if those rules are not observed, you will be excused from the competition.”

“Wait a minute,” Conner protested. “I was personally invited to participate. You can’t toss me out now.”

“I can and I will,” Spenser shot back. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. One more disruption or violation, and you will be escorted off the property.”

Conner remembered what Fitz had told him earlier about Haas and the others. When the Augusta National wanted someone gone, he was gone. Which would definitely put a crimp in Conner’s plan to win big and pay off his trailer home.

Conner paused a moment before speaking. “I’ll try to behave myself.”

Spenser preened triumphantly. “See that you do.”

Derwood stepped out of the shadows. “And your attire?”

“Whatever.”

That wasn’t good enough for Derwood. “I will be at the first tee tomorrow morning to personally inspect your clothing. If you’re not dressed in compliance with our standards, I won’t let you on the course.”

Conner frowned. “Does this mean that Easter bunny suit I was planning to wear is out of the question?”

His remark was met by a room full of stony expressions.

“Damn,” Conner muttered. “I’m gonna lose my deposit.”

Later that night, a different conversation took place in another office in the clubhouse. The office was dark except for the illuminated glow radiating from a single desktop Tiffany lamp. The low lighting silhouetted the two figures standing on opposite sides of a desk. The expressions on their faces and the tone of their voices revealed that the discussion was anything but amicable.

“I want an explanation for this!”

“I’m afraid… I have none to give.” The man standing behind the desk had a slight catch in his voice. “Perhaps if you could give me some time…”

“Your time is up.”

“If you could just give me a week. A day, even.”

“I want an explanation now. Because if this means what I think it means-”

“Please.” The man behind the desk began to fidget with a paperweight. “I promise you. It’s not what it seems.”

“Then what is it?”

“It-It-It’s just a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I think I understand. I think I understand perfectly.”

“But-don’t-“ His head fell into his hands. “If you could just give me some more time.”

“I’ll give you until tomorrow morning.”

“But that’s not nearly enough-”

“Tomorrow morning. And if you can’t clear this up by then, I’ll go public.”

“No!”

“Yes. Then you can make your explanations to everyone.” He turned and started toward the door.

“Please wait-“ But it was too late. Before the man behind the desk could finish his sentence, his companion had left the office.

He collapsed into his chair. How had he gotten himself into this mess? It had all seemed so innocent at first, so harmless. And now-

But there was no point in wallowing in those ruminations. He had to do something. To do something quick. But what?

There was no way he could rectify this mess before morning. If the other man was as good as his threats, he would be ruined. Absolutely ruined.

His only hope was that the other man didn’t go public, that he kept his mouth shut. Not just tomorrow morning, but forever. Something had to happen. Something had to change his mind. Or something had to make it impossible for him to tell what he knew.

An idea flickered in the corner of his brain. A wild idea-a crazy one.

But just possibly the only one he had left.

He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to fight back the throbbing inside his head. He had no hope unless John McCree kept his mouth shut. Permanently.

Conner gazed out at the vast stretch of darkness surrounding him. The sky blanketed the horizon, creating an inky satin backdrop interrupted only by dim moonlight reflected by the white-columned clubhouse. Looked as though the stars could use a little help tonight, he thought to himself. Glad to oblige. He swung his club back, and the glistening white ball soared out across the driving range, adding, however briefly, another reflective speck to the sky.

The ball etched a perfect parabola before cascading down in front of the 300 marker-exactly where Conner wanted it. It was a beautiful stroke. The only problems were (1) strokes on the driving range don’t count toward your score and (2) there was no one around to appreciate it. Why the hell couldn’t he have done that today on the course?

There was no point in berating himself with that question. If he knew the answer, he would have acted on it long before now. He had barely snuck onto the tour three years ago, had a so-so first year, and had gone downhill since. Sure, he was still playing well enough to keep his card, even well enough to make a few bucks here and there. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was falling short of his potential. He couldn’t shake it because Fitz kept hammering it into his brain at every opportunity.

He checked his watch. Where was John, anyway? Conner had expected him to show up more than an hour ago. It was a tradition with them, knocking the balls around in the moonlight the night before a tournament began. They were the only ones he knew who did it, although everyone on the tour had some tradition, some good luck ritual. Perhaps because golf skills were so unpredictable, because the causes for the constant fluctuations in quality of performance were so elusive, golf pros tended to be a superstitious lot. On the night before a tournament began… Freddy Granger washed his lucky red socks… Ace Silverstone read from the Bible… Barry Bennett got drunk… Tiger Woods called home. As far as Conner knew, he and John were the only players who actually practiced, which was considered a radical idea in some quarters.