'Good point.'
Nick gestured at the screen. 'This was down in Acapulco, back in April. Tour's trying to expand into Latin America. Nice weather and great beaches, but it's a little unnerving to see Federales with AK-47s walking down the fairways. They got into a shootout with some cartel gunmen at the resort down the beach while we were there.' He chuckled. 'Vacationing in Mexico these days is like starring in a fucking Schwarzenegger movie.'
Nick started the DVD. The scene went into motion. Goose tossed some grass into the air then consulted a little notebook like a preacher reading the Bible.
Goose: 'Two-twelve to the hole, two-oh-two to clear the front bunker. Uphill into a breeze.' Goose pulled a club out of the bag and held it out to Trey. 'Five-iron.'
Trey: 'Give me the six.'
Goose: 'Big lip on the front bunker. Come up short, it's a bogie. Hit the five.'
Trey: 'Six.'
Goose: 'Five.'
Trey: 'Give me the goddamned six.'
Goose shook his head and swapped clubs then yanked the golf bag out of view. Trey made a smooth swing then posed on his follow-through. The camera cut to the ball in midair, rising high above the course then arching majestically-and diving down into the front sand trap. The camera cut back to Trey and Goose in the fairway.
Goose: 'Bunker. Probably buried.'
Trey: 'Damnit!'
Goose took a thoughtful puff on his cigar then blew out a cloud of smoke.
'Good decision, to go with the six.'
Trey flung the iron at Goose, who ducked under it. He gave Trey a long hard look, then stared down at the club as if trying to decide whether to pick it up. After another long puff on the cigar, he leaned over and retrieved the club. He put the club in the bag then grabbed the strap and hefted the golf bag onto his shoulder. Trey and Goose walked side by side up the fairway. Goose did in fact waddle like a duck. The cameraman followed close behind like the cameras on that reality dating show Scott had caught the girls watching one night.
Trey: 'You gave me the wrong yardage.'
Goose: 'You hit the wrong club.'
Trey: 'I hired the wrong caddie.'
Goose: 'When in doubt, blame the caddie.'
Trey: 'No-fire the caddie.'
Goose: 'What?'
Trey: 'You're fired.'
Goose dropped the golf bag. 'You're firing me?'
Trey stopped and faced Goose. 'You can't count… Are you deaf, too?'
Goose: 'Who's gonna carry your bag the last four holes?'
Trey pointed off-camera. 'I'll get a Mexican. They can't be any worse than you.'
Goose glared at Trey then abruptly pushed him hard in the chest. Trey stumbled back then jumped at Goose. The two men grabbed each other like pro wrestlers, went down to the ground, and rolled around on the lush green fairway. Nick was laughing so hard he was crying.
'A pro golfer and his caddie fighting in the middle of a round-you can't make that shit up.'
Back on the screen, other players and caddies were trying to separate Trey and Goose. Trey brushed himself off and walked over to the rope that lined the fairway and kept the fans away from the players. The cameraman followed. Trey pointed at a beautiful Mexican girl and said, 'You want to caddie for me?'
Someone interpreted for her. She broke into a big smile. ' Si.' She ducked under the rope and walked with Trey over to his bag. She was voluptuous and billowing out of her tight shirt. Trey stuck his hand out to Goose.
'Give me the yardage book.'
'Go to hell. It's mine.'
Trey grabbed at the book. They struggled a moment then Goose pulled away with the book. Trey puffed up.
'Fine. Keep it.' To the Mexican girl: 'Pick up the bag.'
Trey stormed off. The girl struggled to lift the heavy golf bag, then tried to catch up to Trey, but not before turning back and waving to her friends outside the ropes, as if she had just won the bachelor. Goose stood alone on the wide fairway with the camera in his face; his expression was that of a fired auto worker. He put the big cigar in his mouth, sucked hard, and blew out another smoke cloud. He then turned slowly to the camera and made a quick movement; the picture was suddenly of the blue sky.
'What happened?'
'Goose decked the cameraman.'
'No. To Goose and Trey.'
'Oh. Tour fined them both, but it only aired on a few cable outlets, got posted on YouTube, but golf sponsors aren't exactly the YouTube demographics. So no big PR problem.'
'What's Goose doing now?'
'He's a good caddie, got picked up by another player. Pete Puckett.'
'What'd Trey do without Goose? Who caddied for him?'
'He tried to bring that Mexican gal up, but she couldn't get a visa. Fucking Homeland Security. He only played three tournaments after Mexico, so he picked up local caddies. I was trying to get one lined up before the Open next week.'
'So if Goose hired on with another player, why was he mad at Trey?'
'Because Trey won that tournament and a million bucks. He never paid Goose his ten percent.'
'Caddies get ten percent?'
'For a win. Seven percent for a top ten finish, five below that. Tiger's caddie makes a million a year.'
'That's a lot of money. Might be a motive for murder.'
'I don't think he'd kill Tiger.'
'For Goose to kill Trey. The hundred thousand.'
'Oh. Well, Goose sure as hell wanted to strangle Trey that day.'
'Where can I find him? Goose.'
Nick clicked off the TV. 'Let's go.'
'Where?'
'To the tournament.'
FIFTEEN
Nick Madden drove a BMW convertible, and he drove it fast. They were on a highway heading north out of downtown in the fourth-largest city in America. Only two hundred fifty miles apart, Dallas and Houston couldn't be more different. Dallas was plains land, Houston swamp land. Dallas was white collar, Houston blue collar. Dallas was the Cowboys, Highland Park, and Neiman Marcus; Houston was Urban Cowboy, Enron, and a rocket ship to the moon. The only thing the two Texas cities had in common was that each claimed an ex-president named Bush as a resident.
Nick yelled over the wind noise. 'You were a star football player in college?'
Scott nodded.
'Why didn't you go pro?'
'Wasn't big enough.'
'You never heard of steroids?' Nick laughed. 'Tour started testing golfers for steroids, like those pudgy bastards wearing stretch-waist Dockers are juiced. Hell, they should be testing them for cholesterol, number of Big Macs they put away. Course, steroids wouldn't help those fat boys anyway-they hate to work out. More wives in the fitness trailer than players. Like your wife.'
'Ex-wife.'
