The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

  Buck pulled a twenty from his wallet, and handed it over to Art. Buck didn’t need another beer, but it would give him a few more minutes without Art’s everlasting presence.

  When Art returned with the Shiner and a soda cup for himself, Carla was with him. She stood by the table, not making a move to join them. Buck left the second beer untouched.

  “Thanks for helping.” She looked at Buck. “How did you play?”

  “We played best ball.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Hard-ass.”

  She laughed.

  “I meant it as a compliment,” he said. “Uh, by the way, where did you find those girls?”

  “I hope you’re not going to tell me how I’m wasting my time.”

  “Was I starting to sound like a dick again?”

  “You were heading that way.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Want to join us for dinner?” Buck asked her. “My treat.”

  “You can pick the restaurant, if you want,” Art told her.

  “I can’t tonight.” She smiled and placed a hand on Art’s shoulder. “But thank you for the invitation.”

  “Big Saturday night date?” Buck asked.

  “I’ll leave a key under the doormat in the back.”

  Buck watched her walk away. Only then did he reach for the second beer.

  Art stared down at his phone.

  “A lot of guys would give away their left nut to ace a hole,” Buck said.

  Art shrugged.

  “I think one of the girls in your foursome took a shine to you.” Buck reached over and nudged Art.

  “Don’t.” Art scooted his chair away.

  “Don’t be a pussy. What’s wrong?”

  Art glared up at him. “Carla didn’t come to dinner with us because you made her mad.”

  “I seem to have a talent for it.” Buck took a swig from the bottle.

  “She might not let us stay tonight.”

  “She won’t kick us out. She’s too nice for that.”

  “Why do you have to ruin everything?” Art turned his head up and did his baby bird move.

  “Okay, knock it off. I promise to be on my best behavior. But don’t get your heart set on Carla. We’re leaving in the morning.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Life ain’t fair.”

  “It should be,” Art said.

  “If it was, then I’d have aced the hole today, not you.”

  “You could have it. I want Carla.”

  “Forget her,” Buck said. “What about the other girl. The one that kept smiling at you.”

  “Roberta?” Art made a face.

  Buck rose to his feet. “Let’s go celebrate your hole-in-one. Even if you don’t think it’s a big deal, I’m proud for you.”

  Out of bounds

  “You coming?” Phil asked Josh.

  They were in the lobby at the Duchess Resort.

  Saturday night and the biggest party of tournament week was in full swing. Live music blared out from a distance. Every major sponsor hosted private, invitation-only parties for the industry insiders. The smaller brands did it on the cheap, using their corporate tent on the course. The bigger brands put on the dog at the Duchess.

  Josh and Phil both had tickets to the Zinger party.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Where you off to?” Phil asked.

  “StraightLine.”

  “You still beating that dead horse?”

  Josh didn’t answer. He’d decided to work the deal with Buchanan until it either grew legs and took off, or flamed out. Plus, he needed the distance, to not be seen two nights in a row following Phil around like a pet on a leash.

  A week with Phil, especially after Buck missed the cut, was the equivalent of ten years in a bad marriage. This was supposed to be Josh’s step up in his career as a sports agent, several notches above the teeny-bopper tennis players and their overbearing, almost freakish parents.

  He wasn’t a novice, or Phil’s assistant. He wanted to be seen as Josh Laird, a guy who made things happen.

  The air was cold under a brisk wind. Josh put his hands in his pockets and walked with the flood of foot traffic heading toward the Raven’s Roost. He passed the entrance to the large tent, where people milled in and out to the sounds of deafening music.

  Josh walked on to the StraightLine tent and LeeAnn waved at him from across the way. He picked up a vodka tonic at the bar and then passed by the appetizer buffet, fare that leaned more towards happy hour favorites—wings, nachos, spinach dip.

  He scanned the area again and saw Mike Perryman approaching. Mike opened his arms wide in a friendly display of disappointment, as though asking, “What the hell happened?”

  Mike shook his head; a sheen of sweat coated his brow. “He had it in the bag. It was painful to watch Buchanan throw it away like that.”

  “It’s his first rodeo.” Josh tried to sound unconcerned.

  Mike cleared his throat. “About the Pro-Am next week. There was a mix up and we don’t have an opening. Can you let Buck know next time, maybe?”

  “Sure, sure,” Josh muttered. “But if you change your mind.”

  “LeeAnn will let you know.” He glanced over Josh’s shoulder. “Hey, I’ll see you around.” Mike shook Josh’s hand and then slipped away.

  Josh headed for the exit but LeeAnn caught him by the arm. “Terrible what happened to Buck.” She dragged him towards the bar. “But, I’m so excited he’s playing in the Pro-Am with us.”

  “Uh,” Josh said, “Mike told me you didn’t need Buck.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about what Mike says. If Buck wants to play next week, leave it to me.”

  She stood close, pressing herself against Josh’s arm. He refused another drink and untangled himself from her grip.

  Crap. How was he going to get a deal if neither side knew what they were doing? Buck choked and missed the cut, Mike just gave him the brush off and LeeAnn sounded drunk and horny. Josh had thought pro golf would elevate the type of people he’d be working with. Maybe Phil was right. Perhaps he should dump Buck and shift his attention to finding a better player to represent, one with some staying power.

  He walked back to the Duchess with a biting wind in his face. The Zinger party was crowded. He checked out the bar, picked up another vodka tonic, and then strolled by the shrimp and stone crab atop mounds of cracked ice.

  He spotted Phil at the back of the room with a small group that included Sterling Dawson, III.

  Josh injected himself into the circle and let Phil introduce him to the others. Sterling, his wife, Roger Lambert, Jr. And a dark-haired woman. Josh didn’t catch her name, but he was really only interested in Sterling.

  Josh had obviously interrupted a conversation because Sterling immediately said, “He was a train wreck waiting to happen.”

  “Was his caddie really that much of a distraction to you?” the dark-haired lady asked.

  “He was whacking his sack every chance he could get,” Sterling said.

  Sterling’s wife tilted her head. In a soft, gentle tone, she said, “Honey, that’s gross.”

  “Sorry,” Sterling said. “But it’s true. And Buchanan needed to learn a lesson. You don’t bring a clown into my house.”

  Everyone shook their heads and Josh squirmed, waiting for Phil to drop the dime that Buck was Josh’s client.

  But he didn’t.

  The dark-haired woman handed her wine glass to Roger, Jr. “Well, I’m afraid I need to leave.”

  She turned to Phil and offered her hand. “It was good to see you.”

  Phil took her hand. “Next time I’m in town, let’s get together. I want to hear more about what you’re doing. It sounds intriguing.”

  She nodded at the group in general and then said to Roger, Jr., “Tell your father I can be in Tucson if he needs me.”

  “He’ll need you. You coming tomorrow?” Roger, Jr. asked. He placed his hand around her shoulders a
nd walked away with her.

  Soon, Sterling and his wife moved off, leaving Josh and Phil alone.

  “Appreciate that you didn’t announce I’m representing Buchanan.”

  Phil removed a cigar from his pocket without responding.

  “So you’re going after Dawson?” Josh asked him.

  “He’s all yours, pal,” Phil said. “The one I’m after is Carla.”

  “The lady with Junior?”

  “Last year she won by seven strokes at Mission Hills. She’s taking a breather, but she’ll be back soon. She’s too competitive to stay on the sidelines coaching.”

  Phil started for the door. “Tell me about StraightLine.”

  As they walked to the patio outside, Josh groaned, “They don’t know what they’re doing. Mike’s not interested, but LeeAnn acts like she’d hump an elephant to bring Buchanan on board.”

  “She’s one pussy on the prowl.” Phil lit the cigar and puffed to get it going.

  “If Buchanan shows up with the same caddie next week,” Phil said, “you’ll have your answer. He’s either serious about his career—or he’s a chump.”

  #

  After showering, Buck strode through the living room wearing his boots, jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy hat. It was not yet ten o’clock, still early for a Saturday night. His destination was a country-western bar in south Scottsdale.

  “Where are the keys?” he asked.

  Art sat fixated on the screen and didn’t respond.

  Buck bopped him on the head.

  “Ouch.” Art glared over his shoulder.

  “I need the keys,” Buck said.

  “I don’t have them.” Art’s eyes returned to the screen where Gigi sat on a bed.

  “You drove last,” Buck said.

  “Use the spare ones.”

  Buck walked in front of the screen.

  “All right.” Art leaned back and dug into his pocket. Then he rose and stomped into the guest room and returned with the keys.

  “Why do you have to make everything a production?” Buck asked.

  “Why do you have to be so mean?”

  “Cause you’re a drama queen, that’s why.”

  “Shut up.” Art turned away and plopped down on the sofa.

  The patio door opened and Carla poked her head inside. “What are you guys doing?”

  “Nothing.” Buck turned to her.

  Art focused on the screen but yelled over his shoulder, “Buck is being mean again.”

  “Well, if you’re interested, the moon is rising and it’s spectacular.” She disappeared, closing the door behind her.

  Buck left Art and walked outside. The moon was barely over the mountain ridge, but a soft creamy luminescence lit up the eastern sky. A few tiny stars twinkled high overhead.

  He went to Carla at the fence line.

  “Oh,” she said, her hand flying to her chest.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Buck said.

  She wore a coat over a dress and was in heels. He was tempted to ask where she’d been.

  “You look like you’re going somewhere,” she said.

  “Thought about it.”

  They stood together in silence as the exaggerated gibbous moon rose slowly, imperceptibly from behind the ridgeline.

  “One of the girls in my foursome hits the ball well.” Buck couldn’t think of anything else to say to start a conversation.

  “Jasmine.” Carla stared at the horizon.

  “She’s not into the game, though,” Buck said.

  “Her cousin Marissa isn’t into it, and they’re a pair. But, I’m glad you saw Jasmine has a natural ability. That’s why I put her with you.”

  She turned to him and smiled. “How did Lexi play?”

  “She made a few putts at the end.”

  “Good. She’s afraid to try too hard.”

  “Lexi said she has a foster father. What’s that about?”

  Carla breathed loudly, letting out a sigh. “I think she’s in a good home now, but this is like her fourth, or fifth foster home. That’s why she’s won’t let herself get excited about anything. She’s afraid that nothing good ever lasts.”

  She moved to lean against the fence, facing Buck. “I’m not an expert, but with that kind of attitude, I’m afraid Lexi will sabotage any chance she has to find out what she wants in life.” Carla sighed softly. “At some point,” she said, “I’ll group the better players together. Roberta is the long hitter. That’s why I put Art with her.” She looked down. “You probably think I’m wasting my time.”

  “No. I’m impressed. You really think about this stuff.” He laughed before he added, “Well, you might be wasting your time with Marissa. I don’t think she’ll ever give a hoot about the game.”

  “Maybe. Who knows, they’re just starting out. I want them all to learn to be comfortable and to have some fun.”

  “Boy, you’re really into the ‘fun’ thing.”

  “If you can’t have fun, then what’s the point?”

  Buck exhaled, feeling like someone had let the air out of a balloon. Then he said, “I thought I’d be having a blast on tour, but with Art and all…”

  She came off the fence. “It’s because you’ve lost your sense of play. Now, if you promise not to laugh, I’ll show you something I think could help you.”

  “What? Another one of those pressure point things?” The thought of her hands on his chest made his skin prickle unexpectedly.

  “No, it’s something I like to do in the dark. Promise me you’ll give it a chance and not blow it off, like you did this morning.”

  “I didn’t completely blow it off,” Buck said.

  He followed her to the patio.

  “You’ll have to take off your boots. She went to the rack holding a line of putters and took a sleeve of balls from a basket on the ground. “Grab a putter.”

  Buck removed the boots and then went to the rack. His 1-iron was there, so he grabbed it and walked along the path in his socks, leaving the cowboy hat behind too.

  The neighbor’s security light came on when Buck rounded the corner of the house.

  “It’ll go off in a second,” Carla said.

  After a moment his eyes adjusted and he could make out that she’d retreated to the far side of the practice green.

  She removed three yellow balls from the sleeve. They glowed eerily in her palm. She came to him and gave him the balls. “Drop back a few yards.”

  He was downhill from the cup. She stood directly behind it, saying, “Aim for my voice. Don’t try to see the hole. Touch and feel, that what we want.”

  Normally he’d scoff at this sort of mumbo-jumbo. But he’d promised and with the day gone and the moon above the ridge now, it felt as though the earth had exhaled and made room for something new and different.

  Room for what?

  He used the 1-iron to send the first ball uphill. The yellow blur ran towards her and then stopped silently, visible in the shadow cast by the fence line.

  “You’re about two inches to the left and short half a foot. Try to visualize the hole with your mind’s eye this time.”

  He snorted a half-hearted laugh, but without admitting it, he tried to feel the hole, and her presence behind it.

  He struck the next ball. A few moments later, he heard the plunk of a drop in.

  “Good one,” she said.

  Buck lined up the third ball and aimed in the dark, believing he could see the hole. Maybe he could because it dropped in.

  “Very nice.” She picked up the balls and walked toward him.

  The wind shifted and blew Carla’s long hair across her face. She grabbed at it. Not thinking, he helped her untangle a strand covering her eyes.

  The impulse to kiss her surprised him.

  “Now it’s my turn.” She dropped the balls at her feet and reached for his club.

  “Oh, your 1-iron.” She took it from him. “Did I tell you my dad had a 1-iron when we were young?”

  Buck mov
ed to stand near the hole. She dropped her head and took her stance, sending the ball uphill. It was off line, stopping close to Buck.

  “The other night at the driving range, in a way, you reminded me of my dad, the way he would waggle his 1-iron to make my sister and me laugh.”

  Carla pushed the next ball into place. “Buck.”

  “Yes?”

  “I saw Sterling Dawson tonight.”

  The hair on the nape of his neck rose. “Where?”

  “At the Zinger party.”

  Buck didn’t respond, and in spite of all the good vibes, now he regretted not leaving sooner. He stepped back a few feet.

  “Sterling said some things about Art.”

  “Like what? No, don’t tell me. Dawson is a dick.”

  “Sterling can be petty and he’ll complain about the least little thing. But…” She hesitated.

  He waited. When she didn’t go on, he asked, “But what?”

  “It’s kind of crude.” She sighed. “He claimed Art kept grabbing at, you know, his crotch.”

  Buck shook his head. “He wasn’t wearing a jock strap.”

  Carla giggled. “Why not?”

  “He says it rubs him funny.”

  “Can’t you find him one that fits better?”

  “I need to do that.”

  “There’s a mall on the way to Tucson.”

  Buck searched for her eyes in the dark. “You really do care, don’t you?”

  She came closer. “You’re a good brother. You’re taking care of Art and you stood up for him. Not everyone would do that.” Then she cast her eyes down. “I should have done more for my sister.”

  The moon was now halfway up the sky, its normal size again.

  “Besides,” she said, “I’d hate to see anyone miss the cut because of a silly thing like a jock strap.”

  “Thanks. You know, days like yesterday, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something holding me back, but I can’t see what it is.”

  She rested the 1-iron on the ground and said, “Give me your hand.”

  He drew nearer and offered his right hand. “You going to read my palm?”

  “In a manner,” she said. “But let me have your left hand.”

  Her fingertips gently took hold of his hand, grazing the palm, sending a pleasant shiver through him.