Amen Corner (20 page)

He wrote a check to Dwight for four rounds plus tip—Dwight told him it was too much, but Sam insisted he take it—and then jogged back to the clubhouse, where he found Caroline sitting at her table drinking coffee.

“Can you still read greens?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she said, looking up at him in surprise. “That's my specialty. Why?”

“My caddie blew a tire. How'd you like to loop for me?”

Caroline didn't say anything. Instead, she pulled her cigarettes out of her purse and lit one. She put her hand on her chin and stared down at the table, shifting her mouth from side to side.

“Now. Today.”

“I'm thinking,” she said. “Shane is going to be a real dick about it. You know that.”

“I don't care. This is strictly business. I can't think of anyone else to ask.”

“Well, when you flatter a girl like that, how can she say no?” Caroline said, getting up from the table with a sigh. “I suppose I've got to wear one of those horrible white suits.”

“The caddiemaster said he could find one for you.”

They walked back to the bag room. The caddiemaster took a look at Caroline and scratched his head. He thought they might have something small enough for her, but it would take some makeshift alterations. Sam told her he'd meet her at the first tee and carried his bag to the practice range.

On the way to the range, he put on his iPod earphones over his golf hat. He needed some strong musical interference to ward off all the distractions he was facing today. He selected the playlist from April 1970, the year Billy Casper won the Masters. The first song up was “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” The sweeping piano intro seemed appropriate for the grand setting—thousands of golf fans everywhere you looked, most toting plastic bags of souvenirs and carrying folding chairs, binoculars, or periscopes. He could hear the muffled sound of encouragements as he walked down the path to the range, signing a few autographs as he went. The music was doing its job. By the time he got to an open hitting station, he was dialed in on golf. He stretched, hit a number of half-wedges, and then worked through his bag to the driver. He was hitting the ball well.

He tried to keep the image of Billy Casper in his mind, along with the smooth melody Art Garfunkel was singing. Casper had been perhaps the best putter of his time; the ball seemed to flow gently from his putter to the hole, and that was the feel Sam wanted.

Caroline was waiting for him at the first tee, clad in a white jumpsuit with the name skarda spelled out in green letters, squeezed into the small space between her shoulder blades, an Augusta National logo over the right breast pocket, and Sam's number 55 over the left breast. The pants cuffs had to be turned up several folds, but otherwise it wasn't a bad fit. He would definitely prefer to look at her legs, but sacrifices had to be made. Caroline had pulled her thick, dark hair back into a ponytail, which now protruded above the adjustable strap on the back of her green Masters cap—part of the standard caddie uniform.

“I feel like Bozo the Clown,” Caroline said.

“Just don't caddie like him,” Sam said.

“It's hot in this thing.”

“What do you have on under there?” Sam asked, putting his index finger inside the neck of the jumpsuit and pulling it toward him. She slapped his hand away.

“You don't need to know.”

The leaders were already at 3 under par when he and Caroline made their way through the ropes to the first tee. He introduced himself to Frank Naples, who seemed loose and relaxed.

“Isn't this a special place?” said Naples, a leading-man type with dark, bushy hair and a deep tan. “No matter how many times I play here, I always get goosebumps.”

Caroline handed Sam his driver and put her mouth close to his ear.

“Frank Naples gives me goosebumps,” she whispered.

Sam wished he had a photo of the look on Rockingham's face when he and Weed emerged from the crowd surrounding the first tee. His public relations smile vanished when he saw Caroline. He walked directly up to her and put his nose a few inches from hers.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he hissed at her.

“Making a little extra money,” she said, refusing to back away. “You were late with your half of the mortgage payment again this month.”

“Uh-oh,” Naples said to Sam. “That's Shane's wife, isn't it?”

“Soon to be ex,” Sam said. “My caddie pulled his hamstring. Caroline's filling in. This won't be a problem, I promise you.”

“Hell, it might be fun,” Naples said with a grin.

Rockingham was still fuming when the three players exchanged scorecards and identified their golf balls, but he said nothing to Sam. Instead, he seemed to take his anger out on his ball. His drive down the first fairway must have gone 360 yards.

With “Bridge Over Troubled Water” playing like a tape loop through his mind, Sam managed to make the turn in 38—an acceptable score, considering that he hit only five greens. Even though she had never caddied at Augusta National, Caroline proved to be adept at calculating the speed and the break on the greens. Naples chatted with them from time to time, but Rockingham ignored them. He was four under at the turn, with a look in his eye that said he was only getting started.

Sam's game began to come apart at Amen Corner, beginning with a bogey at 11. He couldn't help but think about Harmon Ashby as he stood on the 12th tee—Where had the killer come from? Where had he gone?—and the lapse in concentration caused him to fly one well over the green. He then three-putted after a poor chip from the downslope. The double-bogey put him five over par, and he followed that with a triple on 13 when his attempt to reach the green in two bounced off the creek bank and back into the water.

“You're taking this well,” Caroline said as they walked to the 14th tee.

“I promised myself I'd enjoy this, no matter what I shot,” he said.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“Some holes more than others.”

“But, in general?”

He stopped walking and looked her in the eye.

“This is the most fun I've ever had on a golf course,” he said.

“Then I suppose you've never…”

“Well, not counting that.”

With Art Garfunkel's angelic voice once again floating soothingly through his head, he managed to par 14 through 17, and hit his best approach shot of the day into 18. He needed to make a seven-footer for birdie and a 79, but he left the putt an inch short.

The crowd moaned, then gave him a good laugh as he circled the cup to see if the ball had a chance of falling in by itself. It didn't; he tapped in as the crowd applauded.

Rockingham parred 18 for a 65, which gave him the lead. Naples shot an easy 68. When the last putt was holed, Rockingham shook Naples' hand but left the green without acknowledging Sam or Caroline. He wondered what CBS announcer Cameron Myers was saying about that bit of poor sportsmanship in the television tower.

“Never mind him,” Naples said, shaking Sam's hand as they walked off the green toward the scorer's hut. “You learned what it's like out here. You'll do better tomorrow.”

Another group was coming up the fairway behind them. One of the approach shots—it looked to be that of Bernhard Langer—nicked the flagstick and spun to a stop three feet from the hole as the crowd erupted. The cheers rang across the valley of the old fruit tree nursery, and were answered by a similar roar coming from a distant hole.

“You hit a lot of good shots today,” Caroline said, putting her hand on Sam's back at the door of the scorer's hut.

“And you're a great caddie,” Sam said. “You should still be out here.”

“I wouldn't mind doing it again tomorrow.”

“You're on.”

“I'll meet you at the bag room after you sign your card,” Caroline said. “You can buy me a drink.”

“Has to be a quick one. I've got some work to do this afternoon.”

“Your swing's okay. You just lost focus a couple of times.”

“No, it's something else.”

She shrugged and followed Weed toward the clubhouse. Rockingham had already checked his scorecard when Sam entered the scorer's hut, and was waiting for Sam to sign it. Naples went over his own card hole by hole, and so did Sam.

“Can we speed this up?” Rockingham said to Sam. “I want to get out of here.”

“I'd think you'd want to savor a 65,” Sam said.

“I do,” Rockingham said. “In the hot tub, with a bottle of champagne and two naughty houseguests.”

He shot a look at Sam that said, I've moved on. You're welcome to my discards.

When all the cards had been signed, Rockingham issued a curt, “See you tomorrow” and left the hut.

Chapter Twenty

Caroline walked past the roped-off clubhouse veranda where the members and their guests sat at tables under green-and-white striped umbrellas eating sandwiches and sipping gin-and-tonics. Above them, on the porch that ringed the second floor of the clubhouse, those with clubhouse badges enjoyed the club's courtly service while watching the players climb the hillside to the 9th and 18th greens. Caroline recognized many of the tour wives, but if they remembered her—or could even identify her in her caddie uniform—no one waved or made eye contact.

A crowd was clustered near the ancient oak at the southwest corner of the clubhouse, shading their eyes with their spectator guides to read the leaderboard. Caroline followed Weed past the oak tree and put Sam's bag down next to Rockingham's at the door to the bag room.

“Nice round today,” she said to Weed.

“Hey, thanks,” the caddie replied. “Can't wait to get out of here and celebrate.”

Weed cleaned the face of his boss' utility club with a damp towel, put it back in the bag and pulled out the two-iron.

“I didn't think Shane ever carried the two and the utility at the same time,” Caroline said. “He didn't when I caddied for him.”

“He still doesn't,” Weed said. “He—uh, oh.”

Weed let the two-iron slide back into the bag and pulled up the utility wood. He then quickly tapped the heads of each club in the bag, including the putter, and then did it again, counting silently. The third time, Caroline counted with him.

“Once more,” he said, this time counting out loud. The number was the same. Rockingham had played the round with 15 clubs in his bag.

“Shit!” Weed said, smacking himself on the side of the head with his open palm. When Caroline caddied for Shane, he was always going back and forth between carrying the two-iron or the utility wood for his 14th club, depending on the weather and the playing conditions. Maybe it was seeing Caroline in her caddie suit that had caused Shane to forget to take one of the clubs out of his bag, and Weed had forgotten to count.

He grabbed Caroline by the arm and pulled her into the breezeway, where other bags were waiting to be stored. He spoke in an urgent whisper.

“Look, he's leading the Masters. You know what that means—you're still married to him. You'll get a big chunk of the prize money. Don't let this happen.”

“I didn't let it happen,” Caroline said. “You did. And you're going to report it, or I will.”

“He didn't even use the two-iron,” Weed whined. “It's a four-shot penalty!”

“Only if you can catch him before he leaves the scorer's hut,” Caroline said. “Otherwise, it's DQ.”

She knew the rule by heart. Every caddie did. It was a two-stroke penalty for every hole that a player carried more than 14 clubs, up to two holes. After that, it didn't matter; the maximum penalty was four strokes. But if the player signed his scorecard without including the penalty strokes, it was automatic disqualification as soon as he left the scorer's area.

“You're just doing this to get back at Shane,” Weed said, glaring at Caroline.

“I'd turn in my own player. And you're going to turn in yours, or I will.”

“Don't do this,” Weed pleaded. “Your guy doesn't have a chance.”

“I have to protect the field—you know that,” Caroline said. “And if you ever want to work on the tour again, you'd better come with me.”

She turned and headed back to the scorer's hut. Weed waited a moment, then hurried to catch up to her.

“Bitch,” he muttered just loud enough for Caroline to hear.

“Weasel,” she muttered back.

They ran into Sam as he was about to go into the locker room.

“Where's Shane?” Caroline said.

“Probably in the locker room,” Sam said. “He's late for a hot tub party. I think suits are optional, if you want to go.”

Caroline put her hand on Sam's arm.

“This is serious.”

She explained what happened at the bag room, with Weed reluctantly nodding his head about the 15 clubs. Sam whistled, and told them to wait for him by the oak tree. He found Rockingham getting ready to take a shower, and told him they had to go back to the scorer's hut. He'd had an extra club in his bag.