“I don’t think so.”
“Man, I used to be a cop. I know the difference between murder and suicide.”
Pedro Luz turned around to lock the laboratory door. Joe Winder thought it would be an excellent moment to snatch his briefcase from the security man and make a run for it. He figured Pedro Luz could never catch him as long as he was attached to the cumbersome IV rig. Winder pondered the daring maneuver too long.
Pedro Luz glanced over his shoulder and caught him staring at the briefcase.
“Go ahead,” the big man taunted. “Just go ahead and try.”
Francis X. Kingsbury and Jake Harp had an early starting time at the Ocean Reef Club, up the road a few miles from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Kingsbury played golf two or three times a week at Ocean Reef, even though he was not a member and would never be a member. A most exclusive outfit, the Ocean Reef board had voted consistently to blackball Kingsbury because it could not verify several important details of his biography, beginning with his name. Infuriated by the rejection, Kingsbury made himself an unwelcome presence by wheedling regular golf invitations from all acquaintances who happened to be members, including the famous Jake Harp.
Reluctantly Jake Harp had agreed to play nine holes. He didn’t like golf with rich duffers but it was part of the deal; playing with Francis X. Kingsbury, though, was a special form of torture. All he talked about was Disney this and Disney that. If the stock had dropped a point or two, Kingsbury was euphoric; if the stock was up, he was bellicose and depressed. He referred to the Disney mascot as Mickey Ratface, or sometimes simply The Rat. “The Rat’s updating his pathetic excuse for a jungle cruise,” Kingsbury would report with a sneer. “The fake hippos must be rusting out.” Another time, while Jake Harp was lining up a long putt for an eagle, Kingsbury began to cackle. “The Rat’s got a major problem at the Hall of the Presidents! Heard they had to yank the Nixon robot because his jowls were molting!”
Jake Harp, a lifelong Republican, had suppressed the urge to take a Ping putter and clobber Francis X. Kingsbury into a deep coma. Jake Harp had to remain civil because of the Falcon Trace gig. It was his second chance at designing a golf course and he didn’t want to screw up again; over on Sanibel they were still searching for that mysterious fourteenth tee, the one Jake Harp’s architects had mistakenly located in the middle of San Carlos Bay.
As for his title of Falcon Trace “touring pro,” it was spending money, that’s all—tape a couple of television spots, get your face on a billboard, play a couple of charity tournaments in the winter. Hell, no one seriously expected you to actually show up and give golf lessons. Not the great Jake Harp.
In the coffee shop Francis X. Kingsbury announced that he was in a hurry because he was leaving town later in the day. The sooner the better, thought Jake Harp.
Standing on the first tee, Kingsbury spotted two of the Ocean Reef board members waiting in a foursome behind them. The men smiled thinly and nodded at him. Kingsbury placidly flipped them the finger. Jake Harp grimaced and reached for his driver.
“Love it,” said Kingsbury. “Think they’re such hot snots.”
Jake Harp knocked the ball two hundred and sixty yards down the left side of the fairway. Kingsbury hit it about half as far and shrugged as if he didn’t care. Once he got in the golf cart, he drove like a maniac and cursed bitterly.
“Our club’ll make this place look like a buffalo latrine.” The cart jounced heedlessly along the asphalt path. “Like fucking Goony Golf—I can’t wait.”
Jake Harp, who was badly hung over, said: “Let’s take it easy, Frank.”
“They’re dying to know how I did it,” Kingsbury went on, full tilt. “This island, it’s practically a goddamn nature preserve. I mean, you can’t mow your lawn without a permit from the fucking EPA.”
He stomped the brake, got out and lined up his second shot. Jake Harp asked: “You gonna use the driver again?”