The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

  Josh was seated in a booth across from a middle-aged man and a blonde woman. She wore large, dangly earrings and a low-cut dress. She looked up as Buck approached. There was a glint in her eyes and impish smile on her lips.

  The man next to her was in a dark suit. He stood to greet Buck.

  “Mike Perryman, vice-president of marketing for StraightLine.” He took Buck’s hand in a two-fisted grip. He wore thick, rimless glasses and his expensive suit covered a womanish body—thin shoulders, lumpy waist, and wide hips. Buck was in the only sports jacket he owned, a navy, four-season, synthetic job. But he wouldn’t trade bodies with Mike for a lifetime of fancy suits or a fleet of wet-dream sports cars.

  “And this is LeeAnn Gaines.”

  LeeAnn waved from the inside seat next to the wall.

  Mike sat down and motioned to a waiter. Josh slid further into the booth, making room for Buck to take the outside seat across from Mike.

  The waiter appeared, took Buck’s order—draft beer—and Mike ordered another round for the table.

  LeeAnn put her elbows on the table. “Has Josh told you we have an opening in the Pro-Am next week in Tucson?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure.” Buck glanced quickly at Josh.

  He was glaring at LeeAnn. “We’ll get back to you.”

  “Well, we’d love to have you.” LeeAnn leaned in, showing a little more cleavage.

  Buck looked at Mike. “You playing in the Pro-Am?”

  “Uh, no,” Mike said. “But, we pay two thousand dollars for the round. Would that help clear your schedule?

  Buck could certainly use another loop on the Lone Wolf course. “Yes, I believe it would.”

  LeeAnn clapped her hands.

  “Good,” Mike said. “It will give you a chance to play our new ball.”

  Josh frowned and glowered at Buck. There was a lull in the conversation, and Buck wondered what had pissed off Josh. He was sitting with his arms tight across his chest.

  It didn’t seem to register with Mike though. He asked Buck, “How much has Josh told you about the new line?” he cocked his head when he said it, as though he actually thought Buck had spent hours pondering the question.

  “You know I play Hickenlooper,” Buck said.

  Mike fondled a nearly empty tumbler, lifting his eyes when he asked, “And what have they offered you?”

  He may have a wimp’s body, but Mike knew how to throw a punch. Maybe this was somebody Buck should get to know better.

  Buck smiled. “We should play a round in Tucson next week.”

  “Sorry. I’m booked to the max,” Mike said. “Maybe LeeAnn has some time.”

  The waiter arrived and Buck picked up the menu. LeeAnn took her elbows off the table.

  After the drinks were distributed and dinner orders placed, Mike started in on an obviously rehearsed pitch about the magical qualities of StraightLine’s new ball. He droned on about spin rate analysis, expansion margins, dimple configuration.

  Josh asked an occasional question and LeeAnn played cheerleader while Buck sat silent. When the dinners arrived he put away an aged filet cooked to perfection, ignoring most of the conversation.

  After the waiter removed their plates from the table, Mike cleared his throat and then asked, “So what do you think?”

  Buck crossed his arms and settled lower in the booth. He gave Josh a sideways glance. Surprisingly, Josh perked up as if they’d planned a sort of good cop/bad cop handoff.

  “All depends,” Josh answered.

  LeeAnn winked at Buck.

  Then Mike went through some contract terms that Buck didn’t quite follow.

  “How does that sound?” he asked.

  Buck shrugged.

  Josh answered for him. “Let’s see how the new ball performs.”

  When the check arrived, Buck slid from the booth. “Excuse me.”

  “Wait. I’ll come with you,” LeeAnn said. “The little girls room for me, of course.”

  Mike moved to let LeeAnn out of the booth. Her boobs jiggled as she shimmied across the seat.

  Buck waited for her to walk in front of him. Instead, she linked her arm in the crook of Buck’s elbow.

  After they were away from the table, she said, “Mike can be a little stuffy. Once we have a contract, you won’t have to deal with him much. I’ll be the one taking care of you.”

  Up close, Buck could tell she was pushing forty. She’d kept herself in shape, though. She felt like a plush pillow pressing against him.

  When they reached the entrance to the restrooms, LeeAnn didn’t let go of his arm. She looked up at him with that sly smile on her lips. The way she wore her hair swept over one eye sent out an alluring, I-have-a-secret signal. This lady was one-hundred-percent trouble. A guy might get first-degree burns messing around with LeeAnn, but Buck sensed some fun for the taking.

  “By the way,” she said. “We’re hosting a private party tomorrow night. Our CEO will be there. Think you could stop by? We’re at the Scorpion Ridge resort.”

  Buck hated making plans ahead of Friday’s round, fearful that if he took anything for granted, it would somehow disrupt his chances. He could assume a confident mindset, but not the outcome; he didn’t want to tempt fate with complacency or arrogance. Best to keep things tight and focused until he’d made the cut.

  “I’ll have to see,” Buck said.

  “Oh, but don’t say anything to Josh about the party. It’s players only.”

  She squeezed his arm before she released him. “I’m so excited to be working with you. And, don’t worry about playing a round with me. That’s not my forte.”

  Buck was afraid to ask what her forte was. He didn’t know a lot about business, but he was certain of one thing. LeeAnn Gaines was pitching more than a sponsorship. The attention from her was both flattering and uncomfortable. He was accustomed to occupying the driver’s seat when it came to women.

  He wondered if he could learn to play that game too.

  Buck put the question aside. At that moment, his only concern was surviving tomorrow’s cut; the merciless massacre that meant life or death.

  Making the Cut

  Friday morning, a thin mist covered the course and there was a nip in the air. Buck and Art were in the van, parked in the lot reserved for players.

  Art sat on the driver’s side with a tablet propped against the steering wheel. He worked a simulation of Gigi in a coffee shop.

  Buck smeared sunscreen across his cheeks and then rubbed it in. He squeezed out another glob for his neck, throat, and chest. When he finished, he nudged Art with his elbow.

  “C’mon. Quit playing that game and get moving.”

  “Do we have to play today?” Art’s eyes shifted downward with a furtive glance at Buck.

  “Don’t give me any shit. We’re on the bubble. Every stroke counts.”

  Buck’s phone vibrated. Starting time update flashed across the screen. He quickly read it. He’d been bumped into the next tee time, six minutes later on the schedule.

  A good omen.

  Buck breathing in deeply, trying not to think what could go wrong today. He had to take some risks; there was no way he’d make the cut without some birdies. Pressure? Just his whole career on the line.

  “You have your jock strap on, right?” Buck said. “And change shirts.”

  Art pulled a face. “It itches.”

  “What? The jock or the shirt?”

  “The shirt,” Art said.

  It was true. The polos from Big Tex Tires were made of cheap, rough cotton.

  “This is the last time you have to wear it.”

  Buck tossed the polo at Art and it landed on the screen.

  “Don’t.” Art raised his chin, his head quivering ferociously. “I can’t stop now.”

  “Calm down.” Buck wondered what he could say that wouldn’t sound demeaning, dismissive. He hesitated, staring out the windshield.

  A line of cars formed at the entry gate. The early birds and eager beavers arrivin
g, hoping to stake out a favorite spot on the course. These were the dedicated members of the Church of Golf, the silent force called the gallery, held at bay by a thin rope and the inflated authority of the tournament officials.

  What would it be like to be one of them? A spectator, a person happy with his non-identity, content with an anonymous life, with nothing to prove he was alive except the steady, honest habit of breathing in and out.

  Buck lowered his voice, still staring ahead. “I need you to be in the game today. If I don’t play well, I don’t make any money.”

  “So you do need me!”

  Buck shook his head. “Yes, I need you.” He turned to Art and there was a huge shit-eating grin on the kid’s face.

  “There’s no one else who can caddie for me. I’m at your total mercy right now.” Buck smiled. “So, if you put aside Gigi for a couple of hours, I’ll help you find a real girl to be friends with.”

  “Really? Promise?”

  “I’ll make it happen, one way or another.”

  “Will she come live with us?” Art’s eyes widened. “Will my girlfriend sleep in the bed with me?”

  “No, no girlfriends. This is girls as friends. There’s a big difference.”

  Art slanted his eyes at Buck. “Are you tricking me?”

  “No. Here’s the deal. Girlfriends are nothing but trouble. They can burn through cash faster than lightning. Might as well put a match to that savings account of yours. You wouldn’t be able to buy any new video games.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “Exactly. But girls as friends are awesome. You hang out with them, have some fun, and then you go about your business. You don’t have to live with them or see them every day.”

  “I want the kind of girl that I can live with.”

  “There’s your problem. If we don’t do a good job today, then you don’t have a chance of getting paid. No dough, no girl.”

  Art turned off the tablet.

  Buck squeezed Art’s shoulder and then stepped outside. He went to the back of the van to gather his clubs and gear and then locked the van. Buck led the way to the sign-in tent and Art trailed behind him with the bag.

  While signing in, Buck learned the reason for the change in his tee time. A player had signed the wrong scorecard, an automatic disqualification. Buck was now paired with Sterling Dawson, III.

  The knot in Buck’s stomach grew tighter. He’d met Dawson freshman year at Baylor during an early fall tournament with Ole Miss.

  Dawson was captain of the Mississippi team. He’d strutted around in his starched khakis and crystal white polo as though he owned the place, reminding everyone his father was the pro at the most exclusive golf club in Georgia.

  In the locker room, after Baylor lost by a stroke, Dawson waltzed over in a fake show of sportsmanship, moving down the Baylor line, cutting every player off at the knees. He begrudged a few with condescending compliments, but called Buck a redheaded sharecropper and told Denny, “Alice, nice playing with you.”

  Freshmen were fish bait, so Buck had understood the razzing. Now, what irked him was that by the time Dawson was Buck’s age, he’d already made the Ryder Cup team, and was flying his own jet to events.

  Buck stomped to the driving range.

  He warmed up for half an hour. The practice green was crowded, so he and Art walked to the No. 1 hole and waited for their starting time.

  About ten minutes before they were to tee off, there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere as a rustling noise rippled through the gallery. Buck glanced over his shoulder.

  Dawson and his caddie appeared. His entourage streamed behind them—a knockout wife, devoted parents, and three well-dressed children.

  Dawson was covered head to toe in top brand sponsor apparel. On his shirt breast and sleeve was the logo for a global bank, the crown of his cap had an accounting firm’s initials emblazoned on it, and the pro-bag had Zinger in big lettering across the side.

  Dawson had been in a slump for the last few seasons, but by the look on his face, he’d not lost his sense of entitlement.

  Buck wondered if the guy remembered him. From a short distance he watched the marshal schmoozing with Dawson. The two teen-age boys charged with carrying the scorecards for the group hovered close by like satellites orbiting the sun. Dawson looked over at Buck, practically sneering. He remembered.

  It made Buck angry, but that was good. Being mad brought out the competitiveness in him. Anger had fueled Ben Hogan’s game. If it was good enough for Hogan, then Buck was more than happy to fill his tank with the same dark fuel.

  Buck asked for his 3-iron and stepped safely to the side, swinging loosely at shoulder height.

  Hole No. 1 was 410 yards to the pin.

  The layout required 100 yards of carry off the tees, enough to clear a wide bank of open desert. There was no water in play, but a deep left-side sand bunker hugged the fairway 225 yards out. The strike zone on the tee box offered no sightline to the pin.

  When their time came up, the starter called out Dawson’s name, reading off a string of tournament wins, including the Masters.

  Dawson swung hard; his ball flew out low and then slid into a high arc, landing in the middle of the fairway. He had a nice lay-up for his approach shot.

  When it was Buck’s turn, he handed Art the 3-iron and asked for his driver. He went through his routine, then teed up the ball, stepped back, and selected a near target. He took one more easy practice swing before he addressed the ball. He tightened his grip then relaxed it. His eyes found the near target one final time, and then he set his body in motion.

  Swoosh.

  He knew he’d pushed his stroke.

  The ball took off in a low trajectory and then, while rising, it drifted beyond the fairway, dropping in the rough. He’d outdriven Dawson, but the ball wasn’t where he wanted it to be. Buck was starting at a deficit, but it was still early.

  #

  Besting Dawson became Buck’s marker. When they approached the sixteenth hole, they were both two under.

  The No. 16 was a short par-3. During the tournament, bleachers surrounded the entire area. Players entered through a tunnel, like gladiators striding into the Coliseum. This was the signature hole that gave the Phoenix Open its reputation for being laid back and friendly, or rowdy and raunchy, depending upon your persuasion. It was the polite way of saying the Phoenix fans were more apt to behave like college-aged football fans, yelling out for their favorites, or worse, hurling abuse at a player. It was more raucous than the usual fare at PGA tournaments, save for the Ryder Cup.

  Today the bleachers were packed with salivating spectators who seemed primed for a blood fest. The gallery buzzed like a hive of human bodies agitated with anticipation. Buck purposefully kept his eyes averted from the large scoreboard next to the grandstands. He didn’t want to start playing the mental math game on what number it would take to make the cut.

  Trust your swing and let it rip.

  He turned to Art. “Six iron.”

  Art scratched his neck and dropped the club. Buck bent and picked it up.

  Art’s skin was red on his upper arms and on his neck around the collar.

  Dawson had honors. His tee shot fell short of the green, and the gallery moaned loudly. In a rare show of anger, Dawson swatted at the ground with his club as he walked off the tee.

  Buck stepped forward, taking his time. He took a couple of practice swings with the club at shoulder height. He picked out a target behind the flagstick and then eased into his stance.

  Nice, smooth, soft-as-a-baby swing. There was the tingle of a beautiful smack to the sweet spot. He didn’t see it, but he felt the ball fly away.

  It landed on the green with a quick bounce toward the hole. The crowd hooted and hollered.

  Buck was breaking ahead of Dawson.

  As Buck and Art walked around the fringe, the sense of the crowd pressed closer, a boozy hum radiating off the bleachers. He felt his chest pumping and his pulse throb
bing at his temples. He watched as Dawson stood behind his ball, still on the fairway. His caddie was talking to him. Dawson took a few half practice swings and then traded off for a shorter club.

  A momentary sense of camaraderie crept over Buck—he understood the dithering over club selection. Hitting around the green was the weakest part of Buck’s game. There was a time when he had an innate fear of over-hitting, and it would sometimes make it impossible to get a clean stroke, particularly out of the sand. For the longest time, he’d favored a bump-and-run instead of lofting the ball into the air. But all those evenings popping balls into the surf had given him more ease and confidence with his short irons.

  Stop thinking about the past.

  Dawson took his stroke, but it fizzled out a good twelve feet below the hole. The gallery booed and hissed. Dawson tossed his club at his caddie, and then stalked over to mark his ball.

  Buck peeked at the leader board. Eleven under was the best score. It was still early in the round—scores would go lower.

  Dawson was up next, again. He and his caddie studied the line, and then Dawson was alone behind his ball.

  Right after he swung, it was clear Dawson’s alignment was off. The ball made the distance but veered to the right, too far for a courtesy tap in. Dawson had to mark his ball again.

  It was Buck’s turn now. He picked up his marker and set his ball in place. Art was useless on the green, leaving Buck alone as he studied the seven-foot, downhill lie.

  He took a few practice strokes. He went through his normal set-up routine—grip, weight in the heels, eyes focused on a specific dimple on the back of the ball. Then he took an easy swing.

  The ball picked up speed as it moved downhill, appearing for a moment as though it were off line by a fraction. As it rolled closer, the ball seemed to find the hole. It caught the lip and circled the cup before dropping in.

  The crowd erupted—catcalls, whistles, applause all booming in Buck’s ears as he bent down to retrieve his ball. He lifted it high in the air, a gesture of victory to the gallery, and they responded with another round of clapping and yelling and screaming.