William Bernhardt - Final Round

“No improvement.”

Conner knew what that meant. Freddy’s career had been in the dumper of late. Not only was he lower on the money list than Conner; he barely qualified for an invitation to the Masters.

“I had delusions of restarting my game here,” Freddy said. “You know. Winning the tournament in a dramatic surprise upset. Or at least placing. Now I’m afraid I won’t even make the Friday cut.”

Conner nodded appreciatively. “I’ve had similar concerns myself.”

“Aww, the hell with it, anyway.” He laughed quietly. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this stupid game. My daughter’s gettin’ married.”

“I heard something about that. Congratulations. You must be very happy.”

Freddy beamed. “We are. We truly are. This isn’t the first time my baby girl’s tied the knot, but last time she ran off with some loser and we didn’t get to have a real wedding. This time we’re throwin’ her the party she deserves. We’re gonna do it up right. Havin’ a great big gala affair. And you’re invited. All the pros are. It’s Friday night, down at the Magnolia Glade Country Club.”

Conner raised an eyebrow. “Not at the Augusta National?”

“Couldn’t get in,” Freddy said. “It’s all booked up with some stupid golf tournament.”

“Right, right. I hear those big weddings are a lot of trouble. You must be drowning under all the details.”

“Hell no,” Freddy said. “The womenfolk never let me near any of the details. The only time I see them is when they drop by to tell me how much to make the check for.” He smiled, but Conner thought the smile had an edge to it. “And there’s been a hell of a lot of checks, believe you me.”

Conner eyed Freddy carefully. He seemed uneasy, almost jumpy. But he supposed the man had been unnerved by John’s death. Weren’t they all.

“Anyway,” Freddy said, pushing himself to his feet. “I meant what I said. You need anything, just call me.”

“Appreciate that, Freddy.”

“See you Friday night, if not before.”

Conner nodded, but he thought it unlikely in the extreme that he would want to attend a gala wedding anytime in the near future.

A few minutes later, the empty space at Conner’s table was taken by yet another pro, Harley Tuttle. Conner glanced up from his martini. “I hope you’re not here to complain about that Tom Kite bet.”

Harley half-smiled. “Nah. Forgot all about it. I-just wanted to offer my condolences.”

“Thanks, Harley.”

“I didn’t know John well, of course. Hadn’t met him till you introduced us. And now I suppose I never will.”

“You would’ve liked him,” Conner said. “Everyone did.”

“That’s what I hear. That’s what I hear.” Harley nervously fingered the edge of the tablecloth. Conner could tell there was something on his mind. “Conner… how long have you known John’s wife? Jodie, is it?”

“As long as I’ve known John. Longer, actually.”

“Really? Wow. Well, look. I don’t know the woman at all, but I know she must be going through a rough patch.”

“She is,” Conner said. “But Jodie’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

“That’s good. Would you tell her something for me?”

“Sure. What?”

“She probably doesn’t need it but-well, I know how complicated things were when I lost my mother. And expensive. And John hadn’t been playing so well lately and-oh, hell. Just tell her if there’s anything she needs, all she has to do is ask. And I mean anything, including money. Just let me know.”

“Okay.”

Harley would be the one to call, too. He’d only started on the tour this year, but he’d already lined up an impressive list of finishes. He hadn’t won a tournament yet, but he’d placed in the top five in every single tournament this year except Pebble Beach, which he didn’t play. Conner would’ve preferred to hate the man, but unfortunately, he was just too damn nice. “I’ll pass the word along.”

“Thanks, Conner. And the same goes for you. I can imagine how you must feel. Like my daddy used to say, ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.”

“I thought that was Joni Mitchell.”

Harley gave him a shy smile. “All the greats stole from my daddy.” He wandered off, and Conner was relieved. He knew these people were trying to be kind. But he didn’t want to be on at the moment. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to stew in his juices and wallow in his martinis. He wanted to remember John the way he was, not the way he’d found him in that sand trap.

A flood of memories surged through Conner’s brain. Growing up poor as dirt, wondering what it might be like to get out of town, make some real money. Junior high, high school. Golf at Watonga’s Dusty Duffer. Everything John had done for him. All the times he cared, when it seemed no one else did.

Conner’s reverie was interrupted, not just once, but repeatedly, by boisterous activity behind him. What insensitive jerk-? Conner forced his muddy brain out of the past and focused on the source of the disturbance.

It was Barry Bennett, that stupid blowhard. He’d obviously been drinking again. He was standing at the bar, talking to no one in particular, but doing it in a voice everyone could hear.

“Sure, I’m sssorry he’s dead,” Barry said, slurring the words so badly they were nearly incomprehensible. “But I haven’t got amnesia. I hated that ssson-of-a-bitch.”

Conner whirled around, staring at the man with wide-eyed amazement. He was actually trashing John. John hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours, and the creep was dissing him in public. He’d always thought Barry was an asshole, but this was beyond the pale.

“Course I kept quiet about it,” Barry droned on. “I was a good boy. But I didn’t forget. Hell no. I didn’t forget. And I never will.” He hiccuped. “Ssson-of-a-bitch.”

Conner felt his bile rising. Barry’s behavior was inexcusable, and Conner wasn’t going to sit still for it. He’d ram those words down that sorry drunk’s throat-

“Kind of a jerk, isn’t he?”

Conner peered across the table and saw a kid wearing a green flak jacket, soiled T-shirt, and torn blue jeans. His first question was how someone looking like that ever managed to be admitted onto the Augusta National grounds. His second question was why someone who looked like that was talking to him.

“Bennett has a problem with alcohol,” the kid said. “Everyone on the tour knows it.”

Conner cocked an eyebrow. Was that a fact?

The kid brushed his long straggly black hair out of his face. “You’re Conner Cross, aren’t you? I recognize you from your pictures. Everyone knows you were John McCree’s best friend. And here I am, face-to-face with you. Wow.”

Conner’s eyes narrowed. He was getting the distinct impression this kid was not part of the Augusta National staff. “Who are you?”

The kid slapped himself on the forehead. “Didn’t I say? Oh, wow. Duh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ed Frohike. President of the John McCree Fan Club.”

The light began to dawn in Conner’s eyes. A golf groupie. “I see…”

“I came here to meet John. I’ve corresponded with him by e-mail-even talked to him on the phone. But I never met him. So I blew my life savings-everything I made working at Taco Bell for six months-to come out here and meet him. But before I could-”

“I’m sorry, kid. That’s rough.”

“Yeah. Tougher on you, though. I mean, you actually knew him. Knew him well.”

“Yeah. That I did. That I did.” He glanced back at Ed. “So how’d you get in here, kid? The Augusta National prides itself on its security.”

Ed grinned, like a kid caught dipping a girl’s pigtails in the inkwell. “Can you keep a secret?”