Two Jakes (22 page)

In
the blink of an eye Scarne was now three down and the wheels were coming off.

***

The
two men in the maintenance truck watched the threesome pull away. They were
only able to get close to Ballantrae’s group on holes where there was water in
play. Fortunately, in Florida, that wasn’t a problem. The state is basically
one big aquifer draining into the Gulf of Mexico or Atlantic Ocean. Developers
advertise the beauty of the lakes on their golf course communities but the
truth is water naturally collects in the holes they gouge. The builders provide
a little landscaping, maybe add some fish and plants, but basically let nature
take over. The men were dressed in coveralls and occasionally got out of the
truck to inexpertly throw a net in the water. They were ostensibly clearing the
ponds of tilapia, a fast-breeding invasive fish. Although a staple in many
restaurants, tilapias were a nuisance to golf courses, where their nests –they
were prodigious and protective egg layers – eroded the banks of ponds,
occasionally collapsing greens and fairways. The men in the truck weren’t after
tilapia. In fact, when they accidentally caught a few, they surreptitiously
threw them back. They were after bigger, and less smelly, game.

***

Scarne
managed to win one hole out of the next four, halving the others. Ballantrae
had gone into a shell, playing conservatively. It was a good strategy. Scarne
knew he was being forced to be aggressive; he couldn’t afford to lose any more
holes. He coldly evaluated the front nine and comforted himself with the
rationale that he had not played that badly. The match could turn on a dime
with a bit of luck for himself and a missed putt or two by Ballantrae. That he
would leave to the gods. But Scarne would be ready to pounce. He had been
lulled by the beauty of the day and allure of his companion. Now he was
counting on his rival’s complacency. Blusterers and cheats believe their own
press. Ballantrae was probably feeling pretty good about the way he was
playing. But Scarne knew his opponent’s score had been inflated by conceded
putts and chicanery.

Still,
two down with five to play! The thought that he might have to write out a
$20,000 check to the big oaf – and Scarne could imagine Ballantrae telling
Alana to take it – brought acid to his throat.

CHAPTER
26 – PUBLIC HUMILIATION

The
14
^th
at Pelican Trace was a par 5, and a mirror image of the opening
hole. Alana’s drive landed only a few yards short of a fairway bunker about 220
yards out. She would have to lay up. Ballantrae was next. He hit an almost
perfect drive. But almost is the most feared word in golf. His ball landed hard
in the middle of the fairway and caught the down slope, running through the
dogleg and obviously into the lake beyond. It was a bad break.

“Pity,”
Scare said, without any.

Scarne
pulled his driver. He had used it sparingly on the front. But he wasn’t going
to hold back anything now. He placed his ball on the right side of the tee and
hit his drive down the left, at the lake in the distance. His natural fade
pushed his Pinnacle away from danger into the middle of the fairway.

“Where
the hell did that come from,” Ballantrae said.

“Even
a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while,” Scarne replied cheerfully.

Driving
to their balls, Alana said, “You’ve figured Victor out by now. He’ll do
anything to win. But I hope you don’t think I’m a party to all this.”

Scarne
looked at her.

“We
both know this isn’t about 20 grand. He’s playing to impress you.”

“What
are you playing for, Jake?”

For
the briefest of moments, she looked vulnerable. He smiled.

“Go
hit. The son of a bitch has his ball on the back of a turtle by now.”

She
recovered her composure almost immediately, pulled a club from her bag and hit
an excellent lay up. They drove in silence over to Ballantrae. His ball was
sitting tall on a severe slope leading into the water. There was no way it
could have stopped short of the pond. Bond reflected that playing with Alana
had one disadvantage. It meant that Ballantrae usually got to his ball first,
and unobserved. It was undoubtedly part of his plan.

Ballantrae
hit an excellent shot off a sloping lie to the back of the green, 30 from the
pin. Scarne had only 165 yards to the flag. His six-iron landed 10 feet below
the hole. Both he and Ballantrae were on in two. Alana hit a lovely wedge to
within eight feet. Ballantrae lagged his first putt to two feet, a virtual
gimmee. Scarne watched his own eagle putt slide past the hole by a few inches.

“Pick
it up, Ballantrae said, looking at Scarne for a reciprocal courtesy.

“Alana’s
away,” Scarne said. He’d make Ballantrae putt, hoping that all those short ones
conceded earlier would come back to haunt him.

Alana
two-putted and then Ballantrae stood over his birdie putt.

“For
Christ sake,” he muttered, “I’d concede this to Helen Keller.”

But
the hole probably looked like a thimble to a now-nervous Ballantrae. Muscles
tensing, he missed badly. Scarne was now only one down.

“Too
bad, Helen,” he said as Ballantrae angrily swatted his ball away.

As
he was teeing up on No. 15, Scarne knew he had shaken Ballantrae’s confidence.
He couldn’t afford to let up. Using driver again, Scarne hit another long fade
just into the short rough on the right. He only had about 120 yards to the
green. Ballantrae angrily sliced his drive well into the woods. He found his
ball (or at least said he did, Scarne thought cynically) but lacking a chain
saw was able only to pitch it back sideways to the fairway. He made a
creditable bogey 5 from there; Scarne an easy par. They were even.

Scarne
had a bad scare on the next hole, a relatively straightforward Par 4. Both men
found the fairway; Scarne with driver, and Ballantrae with a 3-wood. My, how
things have changed, Scarne thought. Ballantrae was away. He fanned a 7-wood
into the right bunker. Scarne pulled out his 5-iron and lasered a shot 20 feet
past the hole. Alana, who had uncharacteristically hit her ball in the rough,
had come up short of the green with her second, but hit a nice chip to a foot.
It was an obvious concession, so she picked up.

“In
case you guys haven’t noticed, I’m having a hell of a round,” she said.

Her
good humor had returned. What a woman, Scarne thought. Ballantrae paid her no
mind. Once again his short game came through. Scarne’s heart almost stopped as
his blast out of the trap almost flew into the cup on the fly before stopping
two feet from the flag. Now Scarne needed to make his putt. It was severely
downhill. If he missed the cup, chances were he’d roll well past and be lucky
to get a par coming back. From birdie to bogie was the bane of every golfer’s
existence. He took a deep breath. His putt looked center cut. But at the last
second it slid a bit left and started heading to China. Miraculously it just
caught the lip and pirouetted 360 degrees before dropping in the front edge.
Ballantrae swore under his breath.

“Sometimes
you have to use the whole hole,” Scarne said.

Inwardly,
his heart was racing. That was as close as they come.

Ballantrae
still had his chance to tie the birdie. This time he took his time over the two-footer
and rattled it in. They were still even.

The
next hole was a devilish Par 3. It was only 148 yards long, but it was fronted
by a large pond that extended almost all the way back to the tee box. Its tiny
green sloped back to the pond and was surrounded by several deep bunkers. Golf
instructors are fond of telling their students to ignore the water. To imagine
it’s not even there and play their regular shots. That usually has the effect
of turning a pond into the earthly equivalent of a black hole. Scarne knew that
Ballantrae, with his great short game, had a distinct advantage.

The
hole’s dangers were soon evident, as Alana’s good-looking shot – straight at
the pin – was caught by a gust of wind and came up short. It rolled off the
front of the severely slanted green back into the water. She teed up another
ball and promptly hit that one into the water as well.

“The
hell with it,” she said. “You two finish the hole.”

Scarne
normally hit his 7-iron about 150 yards. After seeing what happened to Alana,
he decided to take an extra club. Hit his 6-iron dead flush, and straight. It
was a beautiful looking shot. He was momentarily elated. Then to his horror the
wind died. He was going to be long. He watched miserably as his ball flew over
the pin and sailed into the sand trap at the back of the green.

Golfers
are never supposed to wish ill luck on an opponent. But the thought of losing
to the boorish, cheating bastard overcame Scarne’s innate sense of
sportsmanship. He prayed fervently that Ballantrae would dunk his ball. For his
part, Ballantrae began to show his nerves again. He backed off twice before
settling in over the ball. Scarne was sure he would flub the shot. So he
watched in disbelief and despair as Ballantrae’s shot arched toward the green,
landed just past the cup and spun back about six feet below the hole. It was a
gritty play and for all his disappointment Scarne felt obliged to say “great
shot.” Ballantrae’s returning crocodile grin went right through his heart.

They
rode to the green together past a truck and two men who were throwing nets into
the water. Ballantrae was chattering away. He knew he had the match in hand.
With a straight uphill putt with no break to it, he had an easy par and a
possible birdie. Scarne would be lucky to get down in two. Ballantrae could
then play the last hole for a half and win the match.

When
Scarne got to his ball, he was further discouraged to see that it was lying on
a downslope in the sand. He now faced one of the toughest shots in golf. The
ball would come out “hot.” He stood a good chance of running it by the flag
right into the damn pond. Scarne dug his feet into the soft sand and opened the
blade of his club so it was almost facing straight up. His only chance was to
flop the ball just over the lip of the trap and hope it didn’t run out too far.
A slight miscalculation and the ball could pop straight up and stay in the
trap. Or he could blade it into the water on the fly.

His
shot landed just outside the trap and started rolling toward the pin. For a moment
Scarne thought it would actually go in! But the slope was too severe and the
ball glided past the hole and kept rolling. And rolling. It finally stopped
just short of the fringe, a good 15 feet past the cup. Scarne ordinarily would
have consoled himself by realizing that even a pro couldn’t have done much
better from his horrible lie. But the bitter ash taste of defeat prevented
that.

“That
was a wonderful shot from there,” Alana said sincerely. “You didn’t have much
to work with.”

“Yeah,
nice try, Jake,” Ballantrae said, with mock generosity. Then, cruelly, “But I
think you’re still away.”

Scarne
walked glumly over to his Pinnacle.

“Gonna
have to sink that, bucko,” Ballantrae said. Scarne took a deep breath and went
through his routine. He brought his putter blade back as Ballantrae started
whistling “Waltzing Matilda.” Scarne backed off and looked daggers at
Ballantrae. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry.”

Scarne
went through his routine again and blocked Ballantrae out of his mind. With
nothing to lose he hit a bold, firm putt that went in! It was a world-class par
from where he had been, but he knew it probably wasn’t enough. Ballantrae could
win with a birdie.

Scarne’s
face was rigid as he awaited the crushing blow. It never came. Obviously
remembering Scarne’s speedy second putt and worried that he might go long and
be faced with a tricky downhiller, Ballantrae babied his putt. It stopped an
inch short of the hill.

“Nice
lag,” Scarne said. “That one’s good. We’re still even.”

Ballantrae
swatted his ball into the pond. As they walked off Scarne hummed “The Marine
Corps Hymn.”

Alana
Loeb looked at him and just shook her head.

***

The
crosshairs settled on Scarne’s forehead and then slipped down to his smiling
mouth. The man in the truck adjusted the focus, took a deep breath and squeezed
a trigger. There was a series of rapid clicks. Then he swung the digital Nikon
with the telephoto lens to the others on the green.

“That
is one hot lady,” he murmured. “I don’t know how they can concentrate on golf.”

“Man,
he is pissed,” the other man said, focusing his binoculars on Ballantrae. “I
wonder how much they’re playing for. He looks like he wants to kill the other
guy. I wonder who it is.”

“That’s
what we’re here to find out,” the man with the camera said. “Come on. There’s a
pond near the 18
^th
green. We can get more shots there.”

“I’ll
get the nets. If I never see another fucking tilapia again it will be too soon.
Remind me never to order one in a restaurant.”

***

The
mood was poisonous on the 18
^th
tee. It had all come down to the
final hole, winner take all. Unless they halved, of course. But Scarne was
determined not to settle for a tie. This was a once in a lifetime match; the
closest he’d ever get to the pressure of the real tour. He didn’t even think
about Randolph or Josh Shields. All he wanted to do was beat the son of a
bitch. For himself? For the woman? It didn’t much matter at this point, he
realized. This is the only place on the planet I want to be right now.

The
last hole was a short but tricky Par 4, measuring a modest 340 yards on the
card. But it doglegged to the right around a lake and there were out-of-bounds
stakes along the left side of the narrow fairway. A diabolical layout. Alana’s
tee shot almost ended in disaster. The wind had picked up and was blowing
strongly from the left. It nearly pushed her ball into the water. Scarne
couldn’t afford to get wet at this point, so he aimed well left, counting on
the breeze to compensate. And, of course, the wind died and the ball held its
line.

“The
dreaded straight ball,” he muttered as the well-struck shot went out of bounds
left with sickening, unwanted accuracy. He’d have to hit another!

Scarne
couldn’t even look at Alana Loeb. He’d just lost the match, unless Ballantrae
also hit it out of bounds or put it in the lake. But he sensibly put his driver
back in his bag and hit a nonchalant 4-iron down the middle of the fairway. It
was short but he didn’t care if it took him two more shots to the green. Scarne
would be lucky to make a six or seven.

“Position
A,” Ballantrae gloated, his humor partially restored.

Scarne
glumly teed up another ball. Even if he hit a perfect drive, with the
stroke-and-distance penalty for going out of bounds, he’d be laying three in
the fairway and be lucky to get a bogie. It was over. He’d lost.

Unless.

Scarne
estimated that it was about 220 yards from the tee box to the green – if a
golfer hit directly over the lake and was suicidially inclined.

“A
faint heart never won the chorus girl.”

“What
was that?” Ballantrae said.

“Nothing,”
Scarne said, putting his driver away and pulling out a 2-iron.

Even
tour pros didn’t carry the notoriously hard-to-control 2-iron anymore. (Thus
the old joke: hold a 2-iron over your head in a lightning storm; even God can’t
hit it.) The look on Ballantrae’s face was one of relief; Scarne was giving up.
Only when he teed his new ball on the right side of the box and took his stance
was it obvious that he planned to get to the hole by sea, not land. He looked
at Alana and winked. Ballantrae’s jaw actually dropped.