William Bernhardt - Final Round

Truth was, knocking the balls down the driving range was not so much about practicing as relaxing. In the still of the night, hidden away under the cover of darkness, Conner and John shared some of their closest moments. It was one of the rare times when the superficialities disappeared and the two men could talk like they did when they were kids. It was these quiet moments, much more than the public carousing and debauchery, that kept their close-knit friendship going.

Or used to, anyway. Where the hell was he? This was totally unlike John. He was theoretically the reliable one. If Conner was late to arrive, no one would think anything of it, except perhaps to put in a call to the local hospitals and whorehouses. But when John was late, that was something else.

Conner heard a rustling on the patio directly behind him. Someone was moving his way. About time. “What happened? Jodie demand a quickie? Or did your-”

He stopped abruptly. The silhouette moving toward him was too short, too wide. Whoever it was, it wasn’t John.

“How’s it hangin’, Conner?”

How’s it hangin’ ? Wait a minute…

Conner strained his eyes, peering through the darkness. Freddy Granger.

“I’m fine, Freddy. Just trying to get in some practice strokes.”

Freddy nodded. “I heard about your score today. I don’t blame you.”

Conner tried to remind himself that he actually liked Freddy. “So what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in your room chanting your mantra? Or maybe in the locker room, hexing the other players’ clubs?”

“I’ve made a discovery,” Freddy announced, in his thick Southern drawl.

“A discovery? What kind of discovery?”

Freddy’s eyebrows danced up and down. “The best kind.”

“Meaning-?”

“The raunchy kind.”

Conner felt his lips involuntarily curving into a grin. He was reminded of why he liked Freddy: he didn’t take himself too seriously, which was a refreshing change after being lectured about how golf was the cornerstone of Western civilization. And Freddy was an actual member of this “bastion of tradition,” as was John, for that matter. Apparently it was possible to join the Augusta National and still not think of yourself as the “exemplar of excellence.”

Conner slid his club into his golf bag. “Well, lead on.”

Freddy led Conner off the driving range. A few minutes later, they were inside the clubhouse, heading down the central staircase toward the men’s locker room.

“I don’t want to disillusion you,” Conner said as he followed along, “but I’ve seen the locker room before. Smelled it, too.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t seen this.” Freddy led him past the lockers, past the stalls, past the showers, almost to the door that exited near the first tee. They jogged sharply to the left, where Conner saw a group of pros pressed against the tile-covered wall. Barry Bennett was there, as well as a few of the other PGA stalwarts. The wall was bare; as far as Conner could tell, they were all staring at nothing but blue bathroom tile.

“Didn’t there used to be a mirror there?” Conner asked.

“Yup,” Freddy agreed. “Carefully placed by some reprobate to hide the treasure that lay beyond. Till I had the sense to move it.”

“And you discovered-mildewed tile?”

“No. A peephole.”

Conner’s lips parted. Suddenly, all those pros pressing their faces against the wall took on an entirely new perspective.

“We think it was drilled for a phone line or something,” Freddy explained. “But you can see straight through to the ladies’ locker room!”

Conner rolled his eyes. “What a pack of juvenile delinquents you guys are. Get a life already!”

“When did you become such a stick-in-the-mud?” Freddy asked. “I thought you were the ‘gonzo player of the PGA.’ ”

“This isn’t gonzo. This is Porky’s II .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you disapprove. I’ll note that on the record.” Freddy winked. “Wanna take a look?”

“Well, if you insist.” Conner pushed the other pros aside and pressed his left eye against the tiny hole in the wall. “I’m having a hard time seeing anything…” He blinked and refocused, trying to let his eye relax. “Wait. I’m getting something. It’s… It’s…” He drew in his breath. “It’s the puke green doors to the women’s stalls! Be still my heart!”

Freddy jerked him away from the wall. “If you’re gonna be sarcastic, just leave.”

“Sarcastic? I’m serious. I saw the inside of the girl’s bathroom! Now I can die happy.”

“Yeah,” Freddy shot back, “you’re playin’ the wiseass now. But wait till some women show up. Then you’ll be beggin’ for a chance to peer through my peephole.”

“It’s going to be a long wait.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

Conner patted Freddy on the shoulder. “No women in the Masters tournament, remember? I think they give that locker room to the caddies.”

Freddy was crushed.

John paced around the green of the eighteenth hole. A damn fool place to be in the middle of the night. Conner must think he fell off the edge of the earth by now. He should have just said no and left it at that. Hadn’t he had enough aggravation for one night? And there was still that puzzling sight from yesterday to ponder. The last thing he needed was to be marching around the golf course after hours. Still, the note said it was urgent…

He turned around in a small circle, scanning the horizon, all 360 degrees. Why did it have to be such a dark night? The moon was mostly hidden behind the clouds. That could be a bad sign. Rain could really mess up a golf tournament, especially one as tightly scheduled as the Masters.

The thought brought a chuckle to his lips. What was he thinking? They couldn’t have rain at the Masters. The board of directors would never allow it. There were undoubtedly several regulations expressly forbidding it.

He heard a soft footfall several yards behind him. Or thought he did…

He whirled around. Was something moving? Or was it just the clouds behind the trees, creating the illusion of movement? It was so difficult to tell.

John suddenly realized he didn’t like being here and didn’t want to be here any longer. He should have known better than to come. The whole thing was starting to give him the creeps. He was going inside. Right now.

He started marching down the fairway. Maybe it still wasn’t too late to catch up to Conner, although odds were by now he’d picked up some floozy and fed her that song-and-dance about how he’d “waited all his life for a woman who could make him forget golf and dedicate his life to medical science…”

“Leaving so soon?”

John froze in his tracks. The voice came from somewhere behind him.

“Seems a shame. We haven’t even had a chance to chat.”

Slowly, John turned to face the person speaking to him. Why was he suddenly so damn scared? There was a trembling in his knees that he didn’t seem to be able to stop. It had been a mistake coming out here. A stupid, stupid mistake-

“So it’s you,” John said, when he saw who had joined him.

“Indeed it is. And we have the fairway to ourselves.”

“How lovely.” John pursed his lips, trying to mask his growing panic behind a shroud of anger. “What’s the point of all this, anyway? Why did you drag me out here?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“I suspect we have nothing to talk about.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll bet you are,” John replied. He strained his eyes, trying to get a better look. The person standing only a few feet away from him was holding something. Something that glistened faintly. “But I don’t think talking would accomplish anything.”