Back Spin (1997) (24 page)

The other golfers were finished for the day, many coming out and standing around the eighteenth green to watch the final act of golf' s greatest collapse.

Win started playing Mr. Merion. "The eighteenth hole is a four hundred and sixty-five yard, par four," he began.

"The tee is in the stone quarry. You need to hit it up the hill a two-hundred yard carry."

"I see," Myron said. Huh?

Tad was up first. He hit what looked like a good, solid drive. The gallery did that polite golf-clap thing. Jack Coldren took his tum. His shot climbed higher, seemingly pulling itself against the elements.

"Very nice golf shot," Win said. "Super."

Myron tumed to Esme Fong. "What happens if it ends in a tie? Sudden death?"

Esme shook her head. "Other tournaments, yes. But not at the Open. They make both players come back tomorrow and play a whole round."

"All eighteen holes?"

"Yes."

Tad's second shot left him just short of the green.

"A solid golf shot," Win informed him. "Sets him up nicely for the par."

Jack took out an iron and approached the ball.

Win smiled at Myron. "Recognize this?"

Myron squinted. DTja vu swarmed in. He was no golf fan, but from this angle even he recognized the spot. Win kept the picture on his credenza at the office. Almost every golf book or golf pub or golf whatever had the photograph. Ben Hogan had stood exactly where Jack Coldren now stood. In 1950 or thereabouts. Hogan had stroked the famous one iron that had made him the U. S.

Open champion. It was the golf equivalent of "Havlicek stole the ball!"

As Jack took his practice swing, Myron could not help but wonder about old ghosts and strange possibilities.

"He has an almost impossible task," Win said.

"Why's that?"

' 'The pin placement is brutal today. Behind that yawning bunker."

A yawning bunker? Myron did not bother asking.

Jack fired a long iron at the green. He reached it, but as Win had predicted, he still left himself a good twentyplus feet away. Tad Crispin took his third shot, a beautiful little chip that came to rest within six inches of the hole.

Tad tapped it in for par. That meant that Jack had no chance of winning in regulation. The best he could do was force a tie. If he made this putt.

"A twenty-two-foot 'putt," Win said with a grim shake of the head. "No chance."

He had said twenty two feet not twenty-one feet or twenty-three feet. Twenty two feet. Win could tell from a quick glance from over fifly yards away. Golfers. Go figure.

Jack Coldren strolled to the green. He bent down, picked up his ball, put down a marker, picked up the marker, put down the ball again in the exact same spot.

Myron shook his head. Golfers.

Jack looked very far away, like he was putting from New Jersey. Think about it. He was twenty two feet away from a hole four-and-a-quarter inches in diameter. Break out a calculator. Do the math.

Myron, Win, Esme, and Norm waited. This was it.

The coup de grace. The part where the matador finally drives the long, thin blade home.

But as Jack studied the break in the green, some sort of transformation seemed to take place. The fleshy features hardened. The eyes became focused and steely and though it was probably Myron's imagination a hint of yesterday's "eye" seemed to flint up in them. Myron looked behind him. Linda Coldren had spotted the change too. For a brief moment she let her attention slip and her eyes sought out Myron's, as if for confirmation. Before Myron could do more than meet her gaze, she looked away.

Jack Coldren took his time. He read the green from several angles. He squatted down, his club pointing in front of him the way golfers do. He talked to Diane Hoffman at some length. But once he addressed the ball, there was no hesitation. The club went back like a metronome and kissed the ball hard on the way down.

The tiny white sphere carrying all of Jack Coldren's dreams circled toward the hole like an eagle seeking its prey. There was no question in Myron's mind. The pull was almost magnetic. Several seemingly infinite seconds later, the tiny white sphere dropped to the bottom of the hole with an audible clink. For a moment there was silence and then another eruption, this one more from surprise than exhilaration. Myron found himself applauding wildly.

Jack had done it. He'd tied the score. .

Over the crowd's cacophony, Norm Zuckerman said, "This is beautiful, Esme. The whole world will be watching tomorrow. The exposure will be incredible."

Esme looked stunned. "Only if Tad wins."

"What do you mean?"

. "What if Tad loses?"

"Hey, second place at the U. S. Open?" Norm said, palms up to the sky. "Not bad, Esme. Not bad at all.

That's where we were this morning. Before all this happened.

Nothing lost, nothing gained.

Esme Fong shook her head. "If Tad loses now, he doesn't come in second place. He's just a loser. He would have gone one-on-one with a famed choke-artist and lost.

Outchoked the ultimate choker. It'll be worse than the Buffalo Bills."

Norm made a scofling noise. "You worry too much, Esme," he said, but his usual bluster had tapered off.

The crowd began to dissipate, but Jack Coldren just stood in the same position, still holding his putter. He did not celebrate. He did not move, even when Diane Hoffman began to potmd his back. His features seemed to lose their tone again, his eyes suddenly more glazed than ever.

It was as if the effort of that one stroke had drained every ounce of energy, karma, strength, life force right out of him.

Or maybe, Myron wondered, there was something else at work here. Something deeper. Maybe that last moment of magic had given Jack some new insight some new life clarity as to the relative, long term importance of this tournament. Everyone else saw a man who had just sunk the most important putt of his life. But maybe Jack Coldren saw a man standing alone wondering what the big deal was and if his only son was still alive.

Linda Coldren appeared on the fringe of the green.

She tried to look enthusiastic as she approached her husband and dutifully kissed him. A television crew followed her. Long-lensed cameras clicked and their flashes strobed. A sportscaster came up to them, microphone at the ready. Linda and Jack both managed to smile.

But behind the smiles, Linda looked almost wary. And Jack looked positively terrified.

Chapter
22

Esperanza had come up with a plan. "Lloyd Rennart's widow's name is Francine. She's an artist."

"What kind?"

"I don't know. Painting, sculpture what's the difference?"

"Just curious. Go ahead."

"I called her up and said that you were a reporter for the Coastal Star. It's a local paper in the Spring Lake area. You are doing a lifestyle piece on several local artists."

Myron nodded. It was a good plan. People rarely refuse the chance to be interviewed for self-promoting puff pieces.

Win had already gotten Myron's car windows fixed.

How, Myron had no idea. The rich. They're different.

The ride took about two hours. It was eight o'clock .

Sunday night. Tomorrow Linda and Jack Coldren would drop off the ransom money. How would it be done? A 1

meeting in a public place? A go-between? For the umpteenth time, he wondered how Linda and Jack and Chad were faring. He took out the photograph of Chad. He imagined what Chad's young, carefree face must have looked like when his finger was being severed off. He wondered if the kidnapper had used a sharp knife or a .

cleaver or an axe or a saw or what.

He wondered what it felt like.

Francine Rermart lived in Spring Lake Heights, not Spring Lake. There was a big difference. Spring Lake was on the Atlantic Ocean and about as beautiful a shore town as you could hope to find. There was plenty of sun, very little crime, and almost no ethnics. It was a problem, actually.

The wealthy town was nicknamed the Irish Riviera.

That meant no good restaurants. None. The town's idea of haute cuisine was food served on a plate rather than in a basket. If you craved exotic, you drove to a Chinese take-out place whose eclectic menu included such rare delicacies as chicken chow mein, and for the especially adventurous, chicken lo mein. This was the problem with some of these towns. They needed some Jews or gays or something to spice things up, to add a bit of theater and a couple of interesting bistros.

One man's opinion.

If Spring Lake was an old movie, then Spring Lake Heights would be the other side of the tracks. There weren't slums or anything like that. The area where the Rennarts lived was a sort of` tract-house suburbia the middle ground between a trailer park and circa 1967 splitlevel colonials. Solid Americana.

Myron knocked on the door. A woman he guessed was Francine Rennart pushed open the screen. Her ready smile was shadowed by a daunting beak of a nose. Her burnt-auburn hair was wavy and undisciplined, like she'd just taken out her curlers but hadn't had time to comb it out.

"Hi," Myron said.

"You must be from the Coastal Star."

"That's right." Myron stuck out his hand. "l'm Bernie Worley." Scoop Bolitar uses a disguise.

"Your timing is perf`ect," Francine said. "I've just started a new exhibit."

The living room furniture didn't have plastic on it, But it should have. The couch was off green. The BarcaLounger a real, live BarcaLounger was maroon with duct tape mending rips. The console television had rabbit ears on top. Collectors plates Myron had seen advertised in Parade were neatly hung on a wall.

"My studio's in the back," she said.

Francine Rennart led him to a big addition off the kitchen. It was a sparsely furnished room with white walls. A couch with a spring sticking out of it sat in the middle of the room. A kitchen chair leaned against it. So did a rolled up carpet. There was something that looked like a blanket draped over the top in a triangular pattern.

Four bathroom wastepaper baskets lined the back wall.

Myron guessed that she must have a leak.

Myron waited for Francine Rennart to ask him to sit down. She didn't. She stood with him in the entranceway and said, "Well?"

He smiled, his brain stuck in a cusp where he was not dumb enough to say, "Well what?" but not smart enough to know what the hell she was talking about. So Myron froze there with his anchorman-waiting-to-go to-commercial grin.

"You like it?" Francine Rermart asked.

Still the grin. "Uh-huh."

"I know it's not for everybody."

"Hmm." Scoop Bolitar engages in sparkling repartee.

She watched his face for a moment. He kept up the idiot grin. "You don't know anything about installation art, do you?"

He shrugged. "Got me." Myron shifted gears on the ily. "Thing is, I don't do features normally. I'm a sports writer. That's my beat." Beat. Note the authentic reporter lingo. "But Tanya she's my boss she needed somebody to handle a lifestyle piece. And when Jennifer called in sick, well, the job fell to me. It's a story on a variety of local artists painters, sculptors . . ." He couldn't think of` any. other kind of artist, so he stopped. "Anyway, maybe you could explain a little bit about what it is you do." .

"My art is about space and concepts. lt's about creating a mood."

Myron nodded. "I see."

"It's not art, per se, in the classic sense. It goes beyond that. It's the next step in the artistic evolutionary process."

More nods. "I see."

"Everything in this exhibit has a purpose. Where I

place the couch. The texture of the carpeting. The color of the walls. The way the sunlight shines in through the windows. The blend creates a specific ambience."

Oh, boy.

Myron motioned at the, uh, art. "So how do you sell something like this?"

She frowned. "You don't sell it."

"Pardon?"

"Art is not about money, Mr. Worley. True artists do not put a monetary value on their work. Only hacks do that."

Yeah, like Michelangelo and Da Vinci, those hacks.

"But what do you do with this?" he asked. "I mean, do you just keep the room like this?"

"No. I change it around. I bring in other pieces. I

create something new."

"And what happens to this?"

She shook her head. "Art is not about permanence.

Life is temporary. Why shouldn't art be the same?"

Oooookay.

"Is there a name for this art'?"

"Installation art. But we do not like labels."

"How long have you been an, uh, installation artist?"

"I've been working on my masters at the New York Art Institute for two years."

He tried not to look shocked. "You go to school for this?"

"Yes. It's a very competitive program."