pleasant experience.
He smiled and said, 'Nice to see you too, Bert. Is Mr. Porphyry here? Won't be long now, promise.'
'Better not be. No, sir, I haven't seen him.'
Joe moved on to Latimer's table.
'Joe, good to see you again!' said the vice-captain.
The guy should be in movies. He really looked and sounded like he meant it.
'Hi, Tom. I was just asking Bert if Chris was around. I'm supposed to be meeting him.'
'Story of your life, waiting for Chris, it seems. Like waiting for Godot. He was here earlier, I think. Pull up a chair till he shows.'
'Thanks. Don't mind if I do.'
He sat down and nodded a greeting at Rowe and Sur- tees, both of whom regarded him narrowly, but there was nothing about them that suggested the jitters. He guessed that after Rowe had reported that, contrary to expectation, Sixsmith was still sniffing around this morning, King Rat had assured them there was nothing to worry about, he'd now make absolutely sure that any potential problem was nipped in the bud. Way their minds worked, seeing him here not walking on crutches probably meant he must have accepted a sackful of banknotes from the ProtoVision petty cash.
He decided to encourage this misconception. Dipping into his back pocket, he pulled out the YFG's notes, which still managed to retain some of their crispness.
'Buy you gents a drink?' he offered.
'Thanks, Joe, but not allowed, not till you're a member,' said Latimer. 'But let me get you one. Bert!'
The steward materialized at the table.
'Joe?'
'Thanks. I'll have one of them ice coffees.'
'Wise man. Alcohol and sun don't mix. Thank you, Bert.'
'You not having any more?' said Joe as the steward moved away.
'No, these will do us. Such a lovely evening we thought we'd play a few holes shortly. Can't do a full round, more's the pity. Arthur and I have a meeting at eight.'
Now he felt their eyes hard on him, looking for his reaction.
He said negligently, 'This that discipline thing? Chris mentioned it. Shame, but rules is rules, that's what I say.'
He almost felt Latimer and Rowe relax, but Surtees with his lawyer's cynicism liked his judgments handed down signed, sealed and bound with scarlet ribbon. He emptied his glass and said, 'Better get going or it's not going to be worth it.'
He wants to get away from here and as soon as he's out on the golf course with no one in earshot but the other two, he'll get his mobile out and check with King that I've been truly nobbled, thought Joe.
By then it probably wouldn't matter. If Woodbine had got his finger out, they'd be trawling through the lock basin now, and once they found Waring's body in Rowe's bag Willie would be all over them like galloping shingles. Surtees' legal nimbleness might keep him clear for a while, but Joe would have put his own money on Rowe crumbling like meringue and spreading the blame like runny butter.
On the other hand, if the police didn't find Waring…
But they would find the body, Joe assured himself. What else could the evidence possibly mean?
He pushed aside all the previous examples of fatal misinterpretation that came swimming out of his past. No time for a faint heart now. He had to be true to himself. And when this bunch of bastards got what was coming to them, he wanted to be there and he wanted it to be in public. Had to think of a way of delaying them here, certainly of keeping them in sight.
Latimer said, 'You're right, Arthur. Joe, what about you? Why don't you keep Chris waiting for a change and join us for a few holes?'
He was taking the piss, like they'd all done from the start. To them he was a sad little snoop who'd probably let himself be bought off for what in their eyes was a pittance. Joe didn't mind. The brightest and the best had often discovered the price of justice was humiliation. And in any case he'd made it clear from the start he was a crap golfer with a zero handicap.
He said, 'Sure, why not?'
They looked at him in amazement which rapidly turned to amusement.
He added, 'But I don't have any gear. Last time you said you could kit me out. That still on?'
His thinking was that he could probably drag out the process of being kitted out long enough for Woodbine to get in touch.
Latimer said, 'No problem. In fact, it might give the rest of us a bit of a chance if you have to play with borrowed clubs, eh?'
They all laughed. There was malice in their laughter.
The bastards are really enjoying themselves, thought Joe. It made him uneasy. Seeing a bad golfer play badly couldn't be all that funny, could it?
In any case, he had no intention of actually trying to hit a ball!
He glanced around the terrace, hoping to see Porphyry with the look on his face that said Woodbine had rung to say their search had turned up a body. But there was no sign of him.
Latimer was urging him to his feet and the next moment they were walking down the steps from the terrace in the direction of the pro's shop.
It was now that Joe began to feel his will and muscle power melting. All he had to do of course was say, Hey, let's end this farce; you know who I am and what I'm doing here, and before very long you are going to be in deep doo-doo.
But somehow he couldn't utter the words. No great gambler himself, he recalled Merv Golightly, who would bet on the next bit of bird crap to hit his windscreen, saying, Never show your hand till the last card's dealt. Did that really apply here? Maybe, maybe not. All he knew was that his thoughts were flitting like a bat in a cellar trying to find a way out and coming up against stone walls and locked doors in every direction. In the shop, Chip Harvey looked slightly puzzled to see Joe in Latimer's company, and even more puzzled when the vice-captain explained what was happening. Latimer said, 'Joe, I'm just going to go and get my own gear together. Chip, don't go digging out any fancy clubs for Mr. Sixsmith. He's scratch, you know, so we want to give him every disadvantage.' He moved away, laughing. Joe looked after him with a distaste that, unusual for him, bordered on loathing. 'Real funny guy,' he said. 'Why do they say 'scratch' anyway? Because guys like me would be better off not starting? Or maybe because the way we play looks like scratching around?' Chip ignored the question and said anxiously, 'Joe, what's going on?' 'It's OK, Chip,' said Joe, feeling sorry for the boy. 'Really, everything's going to be sorted soon. Nothing for you to worry about. You just do as Latimer said, get me kitted out, but you needn't rush the job, OK?' The assistant pro brought him a selection of golf shoes that he tried on, some of them twice, till he found a pair that felt more comfortable than his own slip-ons. He stomped around the shop in them, then selected a club at random from a display rack and waggled it about. Chip said, 'You're left handed then. That'll make things a bit harder.' 'No,' said Joe. 'I ain't a leftie.' 'You're not? Well, that's a left-handed club you've got.' 'Is it? Thought it felt kind of funny.' He picked up one with the head facing the other way. It felt only slightly less funny. Chip had been watching him with growing unease. Now he burst out, 'Joe, are you really scratch?' 'Yeah, unless you can get worse than scratch, in which case, that's me.' The young man let out a pained sigh and looked heavenward like a curate who's just been told that the ten commandments only apply where there's an F in the month. He said urgently, 'Joe, you've got it so wrong. Being scratch means you're a very good golfer indeed. The worse you are, the bigger your handicap. So if your handicap's, say, eighteen, it means that a scratch golfer would give you a shot start on every hole!' 'No, that can't be right,' said Joe with confidence. The door opened and Tom Latimer called, 'You about ready, Joe?' 'Coming,' Joe replied. 'Just choosing my clubs.'
'OK.'
The door closed and Joe repeated, with less confidence this time, 'That can't be right. Can it?' 'You'd better believe it,' said Chip in a low voice as he set a couple of golf bags before Joe. 'You ever play golf before? Ever?' 'Once went on a putting green in the park,' said Joe, adding as he sought desperately for evidence that he was misinterpreting the young man, 'You trying to tell me that scratch means you're good?' 'It means you're very good. Very very good. Very very very good.' There's no arguing with three verys. 'Oh shoot,' said Joe. 'Never mind,' said
