Kingsbury swung like a canecutter, topping the ball noisily. It skidded maybe eighty yards, cutting a bluish vector through the dew-covered grass.
“Keep your head down,” advised Jake Harp.
Kingsbury hopped back in the cart and said: “Grand-fathering, that’s how I did it. The guy I bought from, he’d had his permits since ’74. I’m talking Army Corps, Fish and Wildlife, even Interior. The state—well, yeah, that was a problem. For that I had to spread a little here and there. And Monroe County, forget it.”
He shut up long enough to get out and hit again. This time he switched to a four-wood, which he skied into a liver-shaped bunker. “Fuck me,” muttered Francis Kingsbury. He remained silent as Jake Harp casually knocked his second shot thirty feet from the pin.
“What was that, a five-iron? A six?”
“A six,” replied Jake Harp, pinching the bridge of his nose. He figured if he could just cut off circulation, it would starve the pain behind his eyeballs and make his hangover go away.
Kingsbury punched the accelerator and they were off again. “You know how I got the county boys? The ones giving me a bad time, I promised ’em units. Not raw lots, no fucking way—town houses is all, the one-bedrooms with no garage.”
“Oh,” said Jake Harp, feeling privileged. He’d been given a double lot, oceanfront, plus first option on one of the spec homes.
“Townhouses,” Kingsbury repeated with a laugh. “And they were happy as clams. All I got to do, it’s easy, is sit on the titles until Phase One is built. You know, keep it off the tax rolls for a few months. “Case some damn reporter shows up at the courthouse and starts looking up names.”
Jake Harp didn’t understand the nuances of Francis Kingsbury’s scheme. The man was proud of himself, that much was obvious.
When they pulled up to the sand trap, they saw that Kingsbury’s golf ball was practically buried under the lip. It appeared to have landed at the approximate speed and trajectory of a mortar round.
Kingsbury stood over the ball for a long time, as if waiting for it to make a move. Finally he said to Jake Harp: “You’re the pro. What the hell now, a wedge? A nine, maybe?”
“Your only prayer,” said Jake Harp, forcing a rheumy chuckle, “is a stick of dynamite.” Miraculously, Kingsbury needed only three swings to blast out of the bunker, and two putts to get down.
While waiting on the next tee, Jake Harp said he thought it would be better if he didn’t do any more speaking engagements on behalf of Falcon Trace.
Kingsbury scowled. “Yeah, I heard what happened, some broad.”
“I’m not comfortable in those situations, Frank.”
“Well, who the hell is? We got her name, the old bitch.” Kingsbury took out a wood and started whisking the air with violent practice swings. Jake Harp could scarcely stand to look.
“One of those damn bunny huggers,” Kingsbury was saying. “Anti this and anti that. Got some group, the Mothers of some fucking thing.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Jake Harp.
“The hell it doesn’t.” Francis X. Kingsbury stopped swinging and pointed the polished head of the driver at Jake Harp’s chest. “Now that we know who she is, don’t you worry. This shit’ll stop—it’s been taken care of. You’ll be fine from now on.”
“I’m a golfer is all. I don’t do speeches.”
Kingsbury wasn’t listening. “Maybe these assholes’ll let us play through.” He hollered down the fairway toward the other golfers, but they seemed not to hear. Kingsbury teed up a ball. He said, “Fine, they want to be snots.”
“Don’t,” pleaded Jake Harp. The slow-playing foursome was well within the limited range of Kingsbury’s driver. “Frank, what’s the hurry?”
Kingsbury had already coiled into his backswing. “Yuppie snots,” he said, following through with a ferocious grunt. The ball took off like a missile, low and true.
Terrific, thought Jake Harp. The one time he keeps his left arm straight.
The other golfers scattered and watched the ball streak past. They reassembled in the middle of the fairway, shook their fists at Kingsbury and began a swift march back toward the tee.