William Bernhardt - Final Round

“Surely we can come to… some sort of arrangement.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is there nothing that would tempt you?”

“Not in the way that you mean.” John drew up his shoulders. “Look, if it’s just the same to you, I’d like to get out of here-”

“Please don’t rush. I’ve only just arrived. And it’s such a long walk back to the clubhouse.”

“All the more reason to start now.”

“Please-give me one more chance.”

John didn’t have to pretend any longer. His fear really was starting to be replaced by anger. This had gone on too long already. “One more chance for what?”

“To help you understand. To see things from my perspective.”

“That, my friend, is never going to happen.”

“You’re certain about that?”

“Absolutely certain.”

A sigh. “Then I guess there really is nothing more to say.”

John started to turn away. “Glad you’re starting to see things my way.”

“But there is one more thing I must do.”

The glistening shape rose up so quickly John didn’t know what was happening. He heard a sudden slicing sound, like someone was swinging a scythe through the air just beside his head.

And after that, John heard nothing at all.

Wednesday

After ten minutes of frustration and futility, Fitz tired of pounding on the door.

“I’m coming in! Like it or not!” Fortunately, Conner had failed to lock the door to his cabin. Fitz shoved the door open and pushed inside.

He was not particularly surprised to find that Conner’s cabin was a mess. Conner had, after all, been lodged here for over twenty-four hours. Coffee tables were overturned; chairs were upended. The floor was littered with dirty clothes, open pizza boxes, spilled beer cans.

Fitz kicked the pile of clothes nearest him. It capsized, spilling out a shirt, three socks, a belt, soiled boxers, a muddy golf shoe, and a bra.

A bra?

Fitz picked up the frilly black lace undergarment and let it dangle from his fingertip. He was beginning to understand why Conner hadn’t shown up in the locker room to collect his clubs.

Fitz stomped over to the closed bedroom door and pounded. “Conner! Are you there?”

A strained, barely audible voice responded on the other side of the door. “No.”

“Conner, get out here!”

“Don’ wanna.”

“Then I’m coming in.”

“You can’t. I’m not decent.”

“What else is new?” Fitz shoved the door open and kicked through the clothes and debris to the double bed. There were no heads visible, just two lumps under the top sheet-Conner, and a more petite lump to which Fitz didn’t believe he’d been formally introduced. “Conner, get your butt out of bed.”

“Don’ wanna,” the larger lump replied. “What time is it-five?”

“Five! It’s nine-thirty, you lunkhead! You’ve already missed the players’ roll call. And if you’re not on the first tee in twenty minutes, you’ll be disqualified from the par-three tournament.”

Suddenly, the larger lump sat bolt upright. Conner’s bronzed face and hairy chest poked out from the covers. “Twenty minutes?” He glanced at the lump on the other side of the covers, then ducked back under the sheet. “Sorry, sweetie.” Fitz heard a kissing noise. “Gotta go.”

“You’re leaving?” a softer voice under the covers squealed. “But you said I was the one who could make you forget golf and devote your life to medical science.”

“And you believed him?” Fitz shook his head. “The closest he’s ever gotten to medical science was when he bought a box of Band-Aids. He faints at the sight of blood. And when he has to get a shot-”

“That’s about enough of that,” Conner said, diving out from under the covers. He made a beeline for the bathroom and disappeared. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Ten?” Fitz raised his eyebrows. “To get ready? Normally only takes you two.”

Conner’s head reappeared in the bathroom doorway. “Today’s a special day. I want to look my best.”

Twelve minutes later, Conner emerged from the bathroom. Fitz almost didn’t recognize him.

“Wow,” Fitz said with admiration. He let out a slow whistle. “I’m impressed.”

“You should be.” Conner was wearing traditional golf attire-cotton Polo shirt, khaki pants, golf shoes. Even a sporty red baseball cap. “Took me two precious minutes to iron this stuff.”

Fitz pulled a face. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, it took me two precious minutes to find this stuff. Happy now?”

“I heard you got called to the woodshed last night. I see they made an impression.”

“Yeah,” Conner mumbled. “They definitely made an impression.” He checked his watch, then followed Fitz out of the cabin toward the clubhouse. “We don’t have much time. Have you gotten my clubs out of the locker room?”

“You left them on the driving range last night, you nincompoop.”

Conner slapped his forehead. “Damn. I was practicing, then Freddy lured me down to the locker room. Then on the way back up, I bumped into this coed golf groupie from Emory and one thing led to another…”

“I’ll bet.” Fitz offered his best disapproving look. “Don’t worry. I always check on your clubs before I turn in at night. When I saw they weren’t in the locker, I started looking around. I know you like to drive the night before a tournament, so they weren’t hard to track down. Once again, I pulled your butt out of the frying pan.”

Conner pushed through the clubhouse door and exited onto the walkway that led to the first tee. “That’s why I pay you the big money.”

Fitz grimaced. “Believe me, kid-seven percent of your winnings is not big money.”

Conner approached the first tee marker, which was flanked by officials anxiously looking at their watches. “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’ve made it, just in time. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

Conner inched forward, but the officials didn’t budge.

“Pardon me, boys,” Conner said, retaining his sunny demeanor. “See, I’m a player. Except it’s hard to play if you won’t let me on the course. So am-scray.”

The officials didn’t move. They looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“They don’t move till I say so.”

Conner’s face fell. “Derwood. How miserable to see you again. Why are you here?”

“I told you last night. You don’t play unless I say so. These officials have been instructed that you are not to approach the first tee until you are authorized to do so. By me.”

“Derwood, you are experiencing serious delusions of grandeur. A Napoleonic complex. But you have nothing in common with Napoleon, except of course your height.”

Derwood’s teeth clenched together. “Laugh all you want, clown boy. But you don’t play till you pass my inspection.”

“Fine. Inspect away, Little Corporal.”

Derwood did a slow circle around Conner, taking him in head-to-toe. “Shirt is regulation, slacks are regulation,” he muttered as he passed. “Shoes are tattered and tacky, but regulation. Even the cap is regulation.” He nodded officiously. “Very well, gentlemen. This entrant is authorized to participate in today’s tournament.”

The officials appeared keenly relieved.

Before he moved away, Derwood pressed close to Conner and smirked. “I knew we could whip your gonzo-ass into line,” he whispered.

Conner didn’t reply. He pivoted silently, took the club proffered by Fitz, passed through the gauntlet of officials, and approached the first tee. He placed his ball on a tee, pulled on his right-hand glove and, almost as an afterthought, removed his cap.

Gasps sounded in the spectators’ gallery.