The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

  Buck continued loosening up, swinging the 1-iron at shoulder height.

  The woman pulled a club from her bag, a 9-iron. She wore a long-sleeved Zinger polo shirt and had shapely legs, muscular but not overdeveloped. Because she was left-handed, they were facing each other, awkward and distracting at the same time.

  Curious, Buck watched her set up a ball.

  Her backswing was slow and measured, the down-stroke lightning fast. The ball few out and disappeared into the glare of the overhead lights. She finished with a flourish, letting the club head come around fully. The follow-through almost lifted her off her feet, as though she too would fly away.

  “You’ve got a beautiful swing,” he said.

  She looked at him briefly and then rolled another range ball into place.

  He watched again for the spinal twist, the unleashing a breath before reaching the top of her backswing and the fearsome downswing that sent her ball into a high parabola, like an arrow reaching for the furthest target.

  “Why are you wasting your talent giving lessons to a guy like that?” Buck asked her.

  She raised her eyes to him. “What?”

  “That old guy will probably never break a hundred.”

  Buck used the 1-iron to tip the bucket of balls on its side. Half the balls spilled out.

  “You don’t know that. In six months, he might surprise you.”

  “Six months, huh? Does that mean you expect me to come back to find out?” He smiled at her.

  She pursed her lips. He wasn’t sure if she was stifling a laugh or giving him the stink eye.

  “Anyway, he didn’t seem very grateful.” Buck took a lazy practice swing. “You couldn’t pay me enough to put up with his attitude. Not for all the money in the world.”

  “I don’t do it just for the money.” She had one hand on her hip.

  “What else is there?”

  “To help someone enjoy the game, at whatever level that may be.”

  “You’re one of those, huh,” he said. His voice went into a higher pitch and he chanted, “Golf is a journey, not a game.” He scoffed loudly. “I’m not buying it. To me, there’s a level, like a minimum cruising speed, and if you can’t get to that speed, then you should go learn pickle ball or something like that.”

  “My goodness. When did you become the sole arbiter of who is entitled to play golf?” she asked.

  “That’s not what I meant, exactly.”

  “To set the record straight,” she said, “golf is not a journey, it’s a discovery of yourself and the world around you. I try to help players get out of their comfort zone long enough to forget their score. Because winning in golf isn’t about beating someone else, it’s about mastering your own ego.”

  “That was a mouthful.” Buck wanted to add, “Blah, blah, blah,” but he knew at some level she was right, although he’d never admit it.

  Buck started rounding up the loose range balls into a pile, thinking she was the same as all the other golf instructors he’d ever met. They had to have a philosophy.

  “Interesting club selection.” She pointed at the 1-iron.

  “This old thing.” He smiled. “I should have pulled out my real sticks, but I didn’t think I’d need to impress anybody tonight.”

  “Darn it. I was so hoping to be impressed.”

  He moved a ball into position atop a small island of turf. Then he grinned and waggled the club.

  He struck the ball clean and it whistled as it flew out, reaching the protective netting at the far end of the range.

  His next ball was a low draw, hitting the netting again.

  “A fade and a draw. Duly impressed. Especially with a 1-iron. I guess Lee Trevino was wrong.” Casually, as if out of habit, she kept the 9-iron moving in an easy, back-and-forth half-stroke with one hand. “Now use the three hundred flag as your target. Aim straight for it.”

  Pressure on. He was tempted to grab a better club from the van, but that would have been a pussy move. So he went through his set-up routine, addressing the ball with focused attention. It shot out low and rose higher, drifting right.

  “I’ve seen you around lately,” she said. “You here for the season?”

  “I’m playing the Open.”

  “I thought you might be.” She dipped her head and took a half-stroke practice swing.

  “What gave it away?” Buck asked.

  “The jock swagger and the arrogant attitude. Although I must say you have a bit more personality than most and the 1-iron is unusual.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “What time do you start tomorrow?”

  “Ten-twelve.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you.” She paused. “I’m a volunteer scorer.”

  “Small world.”

  “Uh,” she said, hesitating. “That slice of yours.”

  Buck shifted his stance.

  “I know a little something that might help. I’d be happy to share it with you. Of course, I might be wasting my time.”

  Buck laughed. “Touché.” He glanced away for a moment and then said, “All right. Lay it on me.”

  She leaned her club against her golf bag before moving into the slot with Buck.

  “Watch me.” She placed her left hand on her right shoulder and then slid her fingers inward. “You do it. Follow under your collar bone.”

  Buck used his hand and tried to replicate the move she’d made. “Like this?” He didn’t feel anything special or different.

  She took his hand, directing his fingers until they reached a slight indentation near his breastbone.

  “Feel that little hollow?” She pressed in hard.

  He felt a pleasant pain that radiated all the way to his shoulder.

  “Finding that pressure point and massaging it activates the subclavious muscle. If you do that before you practice or play, you won’t be prone to overusing the larger muscles, especially when you’re tired.”

  She moved her hand to his opposite shoulder, delicately tracing under his clavicle to the tender spot on the other side of his breastbone.

  He glanced down and caught her eye. “Will I be able to break seventy tomorrow?”

  The skin around her eyes crinkled when she smiled, making Buck wonder how old she was. Early thirties, maybe.

  “Since you’ve already moved to second base with me …”

  Buck gave her a smile and then held out his hand, saying, “Buck Buchanan.”

  She fit her hand into his. “Carla Davila.”

  Her voice had a cadence that held a hint of Spanish. She met his gaze for a moment and he thought she was going to say something important.

  “Well, good luck.” She walked back to her slot and returned to hitting the last few balls left in her bucket.

  Buck touched the soft spot she’d shown him, wondering if it really could make a difference in his swing.

  He set up another ball. This time, when he took his stance, he felt a peculiar intention. He wanted to impress her. To stay precisely on plane and find the sweet spot. She was watching, he was sure of it. He hit one ball, then another before he glanced up to check her reaction.

  The slot was empty. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the range and the parking lot.

  She had disappeared.

  Obstructed View

  Josh had planned to follow Buck in the first round on Thursday morning, but the best he could manage after a late night at the Raven’s Roost was a lounge chair on the patio at the Duchess Resort. The eastern side of the property held a prime view of the No. 4 green and No. 5 tees.

  He repositioned his long legs, trying not to spill the Tequila Sunrise in his lap.

  “When’s your new boy starting today?” the man next to Josh asked.

  Phil Hix had a monk’s ring of ash blond hair clipped short. He held an unlit cigar between two fingers while his Bloody Mary perspired on a small table between them.

  Josh looked at his watch out of habit.

  “He’s in the group af
ter this one.”

  Colleagues at a boutique sports management firm out of Atlanta—Josh the neophyte, Phil the seasoned veteran—they were in the clique of insiders who made their living following the PGA tour: event sponsors, tournament officials, PGA staff, media hotdogs, and the obscenely compensated CEOs of the golf trade. Along with a sprinkling of wealthy, die-hard fans with dollars to spare, each week of the season, the group descended en masse at a tournament, like a flock of seagulls with generous expense accounts, eating and drinking until the last player holed out. By Sunday night they were flying off to the next event.

  “What’s his name again?” Phil asked.

  “Buck Buchanan.”

  About two weeks ago, Buck had called in a hurry to sign with SGI. He didn’t try to negotiate on any terms, making it obvious there was no attorney involved. Easiest new contract Josh had ever done, which was saying something since this was the first PGA player he’d brought on board.

  And, now that he was representing an active pro on the tour, it justified Josh attending the Phoenix Open on the company dime. It was a step up from hustling the newbies and has-beens at the backwater mini-tour events. Before that he’d worked the women’s tennis circuit and hated it.

  “We’ll see how he holds up under pressure today,” Phil said.

  Josh didn’t respond. It was too early in the day to have his balls busted. Phil seemed to enjoy the mentor role far too much. Since Monday, Josh had put up with a constant barrage of advice, to the point of having the opposite effect, doing more to erode his confidence than build it up. At times, he’d felt like a sitting duck, as though his supposed mentor was actually a predator in disguise, ready to pick Josh’s bones clean the moment he stumbled.

  “I heard he’s a power hitter,” Phil said. “Who’s sponsoring him?”

  “He’s got a short term deal with a tire company out of Texas. If he makes the cut, he’s up for grabs.” Josh reached into his pocket for his pack of Dunhills. “StraightLine’s teed-up when it happens.”

  “Who are you working with?”

  “LeeAnn Gaines.”

  “You should be talking with Mike Perryman.” Phil held out his hand for Josh’s lighter.

  Josh tossed it to him.

  “LeeAnn’s more trouble than she’s worth,” Phil said.

  Soon the smoke from the cigarette and cigar commingled in a mild breeze, drifting upward and away.

  At a distance, the first ball from the next group thumped onto the green.

  Josh settled his cigarette in the ashtray.

  The next ball fell short and bounced into a front-side bunker. The pros and their caddies appeared around the green. Josh recognized Buck standing in the bunker.

  After Buck took his stoke, Phil asked, “Where’d he pick up the looper?

  “Don’t know.” Josh took off his sunglasses and rubbed bloodshot eyes. “It’s not the same guy he had at the Midvale.”

  Josh watched Buck’s caddie rake out the trap as Buck approached his ball on the green.

  “Is he married?” Phil asked.

  “Who?”

  “Buchanan.”

  “Single, far as I know.”

  “Strike three.” Phil sniffed and pulled a bit of tobacco off his tongue and placed it in the ashtray.

  “What’s the third strike? I counted two,” Josh said.

  “He’s twenty-six. It’s a late start.”

  “Cut him some slack.”

  “Sponsors want superstars, not journeymen.”

  Josh flicked his ash.

  Another ball bounced onto the green and now the pros and caddies stood behind their balls. The furthest out player was Buck. He dropped onto his haunches, eyeing the line on what looked to Josh to be a forty-foot putt. Off the green, his caddie shifted from one foot to the other, his hands fidgeting around his crouch.

  “If this Buchanan fellow can’t find a decent caddie.” Phil pointed his cigar at the green.

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “At this level of competition, it comes down to more than skill and talent. Real contenders always have the right people surrounding them. A good support system is what sustains a player.”

  “I’m his agent. I can’t tell him how to run his life.”

  “You’re wrong. That’s exactly what you need to do,” Phil said. “All we’re selling is our time and energy. Don’t fill the stable with a bunch of lame horses. You can’t make money that way.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Josh mumbled. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Phil lowered his eyes and glared at Josh. “If he makes the cut, he’ll have the opportunity to trade up. It’s your job to make it happen. If you can’t, well, there’s your sign.”

  Out of habit, they stopped talking when a player addressed his ball on the green. Then Buck’s group walked off to the No. 5 hole amid mild applause. Within seconds, a ball dropped on the green from the next pairing.

  When the players could be seen, Phil rose to his feet. He walked a few yards closer to the course, stood staring for a moment, and then returned to the lounge chair, shaking his head.

  Another of Phil’s tricks, always make the other guy ask the question. Josh couldn’t resist.

  “What is it?”

  “Sterling Dawson, III. And, Carla Davila is the marker.”

  “Who’s she?” Josh asked.

  “LPGA. She lives here.”

  Josh didn’t even try to find her.

  Phil relit his cigar. “I made a run at her a while back.” He puffed hard. “Says she doesn’t need an agent. She’s been with Roger Lambert from the beginning.”

  They were silent again when Sterling Dawson III took his stance over his ball.

  “You heard Sterling’s not happy.”

  “With who?” Josh asked.

  Phil looked down, raising his eyebrows. “Not sure. Might be speculation or there may be something to it.”

  Josh puffed up his chest and raised his head like a prairie dog sniffing the wind. “Sterling, baby, I’m your man.”

  “You’ll need to get in line. He’s also on Team Roger.”

  “Is the talk that he’d leave Zinger?”

  “Like I said, it might just be talk.” Phil’s phone vibrated. He glanced down at the screen and then said, “Roger doesn’t lose a player unless he wants to.”

  Phil rose from the chair. “You coming?”

  Josh dragged himself into a standing position. “I want to stop by the bar on our way out.”

  Phil popped a breath mint into his mouth. “Let’s pace ourselves today.”

  #

  The weeks hitting balls on the beach helped Buck save par more than once. He carded par for the first round, like a dozen other players. The leader was five under.

  When Buck emerged from the official’s tent, Josh nailed him.

  “Great round,” Josh said.

  Buck kept walking and didn’t stop until they were out of the flow of people traffic. Art stood behind him with the bag.

  “You have a minute?” Josh asked. “I’m staying at the Duchess, we could chill on the patio. Get some brewskis.”

  “No, sorry, not now.” Buck rubbed his neck and glanced over at Art. The kid already had his phone out.

  “Okay, yeah.” Josh shifted his shoulders. “So, how’d it feel out there? Good?”

  “Yeah, awesome.” Buck felt tight as a box and until he made the cut, he’d be in a state of high alert.

  “You available for dinner tonight?” Josh asked.

  “Uh, maybe.” A free meal was something Buck could afford.

  “I’ve been getting some interest from StraightLine.” Josh averted his eyes.

  “Their balls are crap.”

  It just slipped out. Buck should be jumping at the prospect of some extra cash. But it wasn’t worth the money if it kept him from playing his best game.

  “Hold on. They’ve built a better mousetrap. And it’s just dinner.” The corner of Josh’s lip curled up when he added, “Trust me.”
>
  Buck had a low tolerance for schmoozing. It was a weak spot. He knew if he were going to stay in the game, he’d have to learn to deal with it.

  “As long as they know I’m not making a commitment.”

  Buck was about to start walking when Josh said in a lower voice, “Hey, something else…”

  Josh’s eyes flicked toward Art and he dipped his head. “The guy on your bag, he’s kind of antsy out there.”

  Buck shifted his position, turning his back to shield Art from the conversation.

  “This topic is not up for discussion.”

  “But it will be easy to trade up if … uh, after the cut.”

  Buck gritted his teeth and leaned in. “Your job is to find me a sponsor with a product I want to play.”

  Josh put his hands up in defense. “Just a little advice, that’s all.”

  They stood in silence until Josh blinked.

  “I’ll text you where to meet for dinner. Seven o’clock good?” Josh backed away. “Reply to my text, okay?”

  Buck waited a moment, watching Josh disappear into the crowd. He knew Art had moved around more than he should have on the course today. But the kid could do the job and he had a talent for drawing maps, better than any Buck had ever seen.

  “Are you wearing that jock strap I gave you?”

  Art waddled his throat. “I couldn’t find it.”

  “Make sure you find it tonight.” Buck started for the parking lot.

  “It makes me feel nasty,” Art said.

  “Nasty?” Buck shook his head and waited for Art to catch up with him.

  “And it itches too,” Art said.

  Buck looked at Art. “Dude, put some powder on it. You have to wear it tomorrow. You were bouncing around too much today.”

  #

  On Thursday evening, Buck skipped the valet and parked in the regular lot, about a quarter mile away. He arrived feeling the sweat on his neck and face. According to the waitress, Buck was the last in the StraightLine party to arrive.

  Waiters hovered discreetly on the sidelines as Buck followed the receptionist through the dining room. He spotted a few of his competitors with their entourages, filling up the downtime before Friday’s round. During tournament week, there was play time, practice time, and the dead space waiting to get back on the course.