Toby Olson - Seaview

It contained the usual gear. There were two metal tables to the left of the door, a couple of easy chairs, and a TV set on a platform attached to the wall. A man in his early thirties, muscular and blond, wearing an expensive tan knit shirt, stood behind the glass case of the counter, a hand resting on the case, a low modern cash register to his right.

“Hello,” he said, not smiling. “Can I help you?”

“Thought I might play a little golf,” Allen said, reaching into his back pocket as he crossed to the counter. He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to the man.

“Redwood?” the man said. “Never heard of it.” He reached under the counter to his left and took out a small printed pamphlet. “These are the course rules; we keep them here. Green fees are eighteen dollars for guests. You’ve got to take a power cart; that’s twelve bucks for eighteen. It’ll cost you thirty to play. You still want to do it?”

He reached into his wallet and took out a twenty and a ten and handed them to the man.

“Okay,” the man said, his spirits rising a little. “Carts are to the left as you go out; they don’t need keys. First tee around the back.”

“Might have a cup of coffee first?”

“Sure. The way you came in. Juan’ll take care of you.”

He took a score card and wooden pencil from a container on the counter. The card had a small, rough map of the course on the back of it. He folded the card and put it and the pencil in his shirt pocket and went out into the patio to the end of the bar. He ordered a cup of coffee when the Mexican waiter walked over to him. He took the score card out of his pocket and opened it on the counter with the map facing up. Then he checked the three men. Two of them looked to be in their early fifties; their golf clothes were conservative, and they were very well-groomed. One had a thin mustache and graying hair. He was the larger of the two, and his hands suggested that he had once done physical labor. The other was short and stocky, thick through the chest and arms. He had a small paunch pushing out over his belt against the edge of the bar. The third man was younger, maybe thirty. His clothes were a little flashy. He had a golf cap tilted back a little on his head and a mod haircut. He was more animated than the other two, a little ingratiating and brash at the same time.

He would laugh at a statement made by one of the others, then he would get quickly serious. Both of these behaviors were slightly exaggerated. On occasion he glanced down the counter in an automatic way, looking for approval, simply because there was someone there. He also seemed a little curious.

“Hey,” he said after a few minutes. “I see you’re checking the card. You from around here? You’ll like the course, if you’re lucky that is — it’s a tough one. Ever play it?”

The other men looked over at him also. The shorter one nodded and smiled slightly. The other just looked.

“I’m just traveling through,” Allen said. “Thought I’d get some golf in.”

“Good luck,” the younger one said, and laughed. “You’ll need it.” He glanced at the other two to catch their reactions. Then he returned to his conversation with them, but in lower tones.

After a few more minutes, Allen could see that the three were getting ready to leave. He got up, put a dollar bill on the counter, and walked through the archway and out to his car. He opened the trunk and sat on the edge of it and put on his golf shoes. He toyed with the shoes until he saw the three men come out through the archway. The younger one was moving his arms and leaning toward the other two as they walked to the side of the building. The carts were carefully lined up there, and two of them had golf bags in them. The larger man and the younger man got into one of the carts, and the stocky man got in the other.

He pulled his bag out of the trunk, shut it, walked over to the carts, and adjusted his clubs in a carrier. Then he drove around the building to the first tee. It was a large tee with a cart path beside it, and by the time he had pulled up to the path the three men were standing behind their carts, readying their clubs. The young man glanced over at him. Then he spoke to the others, softly, his head close to theirs. The large man nodded, and the stocky one shrugged.

“If you want you can play along with us,” the young man called over to Allen. “This is Steve,” he said, opening his hand in the direction of the larger man. “Frankie,” indicating the other. “I’m Lou.”

The young man had made the introductions before Allen had any chance to respond to his offer. He let it go. He said his name and shook hands with the three of them. The larger one remained a little reserved. The stocky one was looking him over.

“Throw your sticks on,” he said, indicating his cart. “Tim’ll take yours back.”

It was clearly the prerogative of the larger man, Steve, to hit first, and he did not rush it. He took his time washing his ball in the red container that stood on a post to the side of the cart path, and he wiped it carefully. Then he walked to the back of the tee, to the blue markers, and took some time looking for a spot. Finally, he teed the ball up.

“We play the blues,” Lou said.

Steve looked over to where they were standing, and Lou shut up. Then he lifted his driver and took a look at the club face, flicking at it with his thumbnail. Then he addressed the ball, looked up a few times to check his line, and with a short back swing and a fluid motion struck it. The hit was straight and low. The ball carried about two hundred yards out in the middle of the fairway, and it came to rest a good thirty yards beyond that.

“That’s a good hit, Steve,” Lou said seriously. “Do it good, Frankie.”

Frankie scowled a little, as if the young man had been a little too familiar with him. He went to the back of the tee, teed up and took a practice swing. He had a full if slightly inside-out back swing, and when he hit the ball it hooked a little, coming to rest short of the first shot, near the rough to the left of the fairway.

“Good place to come in from, Frankie,” Lou said.

“Yeah?” Frankie said, and then as if to cover the sharpness of his response, “Could be worse, I guess.”

Allen figured the younger man for a hot dog, a fair to good college player who had lost some of the sharpness of the practice which went with that. When he saw Lou hit, he thought he was probably right. He outdrove the other two by a good thirty yards. He was straight but a little high, and he did not get as much roll as Steve had. He had gotten his shoulders through the shot a little too quickly. His swing was economical, but he had muscled it a little, trying for too much power.

Then it was his turn. The first hole was a par four. For all practical purposes it was straight; there was a slight dog leg to the left, but it would not come into play unless his shot was short and to the extreme left. The green, visible from the tee, was slightly elevated, with a trap to the right front. Along the left of the fairway was a stand of trees about two hundred yards out. He figured to come through nicely on the first shot but to get it high and short and play a bit of a slice. He started the ball off to the left in the direction of the trees; when it got near the top of its arc, it curled in a little. He had put a little less than he had wanted to into it, and it got closer to the trees than he had figured, but it took a good bounce, and when it came to rest, it looked to be sitting where he would have a possible shot, along the trees, around the slight bend, and into the right of the green. It was a bit shorter than the other three balls. Nobody said anything after he had hit.

When he got to his ball, he saw that if he brought it in slightly he could come around the edge of the line of trees and make the green; he would be right of the flag, but there was a down slope, and he figured it would, with a little bite in it, wind up close enough to the cup. The three waited for him to hit, Frankie sitting in the cart behind and to the side of him with his arms crossed over his chest; the other two were to the right and back in the middle of the fairway, in line with their balls. The proper club would be a five-iron, but he went back to the cart, took a four out of the bag, paused for a moment, looked toward the green, and then put the club back and took out a three.