Charles Chelsea’s well-tanned paw settled amiably on Jake Harp’s shoulder; the stench of Old Spice was overpowering.
“This familiar fellow needs no introduction,” Chelsea was saying. “He’s graciously agreed to christen the new course by hitting a few balls into the ocean—since we don’t actually have a fairway yet.”
Laughter again. Mysterious, inexplicable laughter. Jake Harp swayed, bracing himself with the three-wood. What had he been drinking last night? Vodka sours? Tanqueray martinis? Possibly both. He remembered dancing with a banker’s wife. He remembered telling her how he’d triple-bogeyed the Road Hole and missed the cut at the British Open; missed the damn cut, all because some fat Scotsman booted the ball….
Jake Harp also remembered the banker’s wife whispering something about a blowjob—but did it happen?
He hoped so, but he truly couldn’t recall. One thing was certain: today he was physically incapable of swinging a golf club; it was simply out of the question. He wondered how he would break the news to Francis Kingsbury, who was bowing to the photographers in acknowledgment of Charles Chelsea’s effusive introduction.
“Frank,” said Jake Harp. “Where am I?”
With a frozen smile, Kingsbury remarked that Jake Harp looked about as healthy as dog barf.
“A bad night,” the golfer rasped. “I’d like to go home and lie down.”
Then came an acrid gust of cologne as Chelsea leaned in: “Hit a few, Jake, okay? No interviews, just a photo op.”
“But I can’t use a fucking graphite wood. This is Jap voodoo, Frank, I need my MacGregors.”
Francis Kingsbury gripped Jake Harp by the shoulders and turned him toward the ocean. “And would you please, for Christ’s sake, try not to miss the goddamn ball?”
Chelsea cautioned Kingsbury to keep his voice down. The sportswriters were picking up on the fact that Jake Harp was seriously under the weather.
“Coffee’s on the way,” Chelsea chirped lightly.
“You want me to hit it in the ocean?” Jake Harp said. “This is nuts.”
One of the news photographers shouted for the security officers to get out of the way, they were blocking the picture. Kingsbury commanded the troops of Pedro Luz to move to one side; Pedro Luz himself was not present, having refused with vague mutterings to exit the storage room and join the phony golf clinic at Falcon Trace. His men, however, embraced with gusto and amusement the task of guarding Francis X. Kingsbury from assailants unknown.
Having cleared the security force to make an opening for Jake Harp, Kingsbury ordered the golfer to swing away.
“I can’t, Frank.”
“What?”
“I’m hung over. I can’t lift the bloody club.”
“Assume the position, Jake. You’re starting to piss me off.”
Tottering slightly, Jake Harp slowly arranged himself in the familiar stance that Golf Digest once hailed as “part Hogan, part Nicklaus, part Baryshnikov”—chin down, feet apart, shoulders square, left arm straight, hands interlocked loosely on the shaft of the club.
“There,” Jake Harp said gamely.
Charles Chelsea cleared his throat. Francis Kingsbury said, “A golf ball would help, Jake.”
“Oh Jesus, you’re right.”
“You got everything but a goddamn ball.”
Under his breath, Jake Harp said, “Frank, would you do me a favor? Tee it up?” “What?”
“I can’t bend down. I’m too hung over, Frank. If I try to bend, I’ll fall on my face. I swear to God.”
Francis Kingsbury dug in his pocket and pulled out a scuffed Maxfli and a plastic tee that was shaped like a naked woman. “You’re quite an athlete, Jake. A regular Jim Fucking Thorpe.”
Gratefully Jake Harp watched Kingsbury drop to one knee and plant the tee. Then suddenly the sun exploded, and a molten splinter tore a hole in the golfer’s belly, spinning him like a tenpin and knocking him flat. A darkening puddle formed as he lay there and floundered, gulping for breath through a mouthful of fresh Bermuda sod. Jake Harp was not too hung over to realize he could be dying, and it bitterly occurred to him that he would rather leave his mortal guts on the fairways of Augusta or Muirfield or Pebble Beach. Anywhere but here.
Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue had driven up to Kendall to break into a house. The house belonged to FBI Agent Billy Hawkins, who was still tied up as Molly McNamara’s prisoner.