I had originally planned to walk to Gorin’s, a sandwich and ice cream shop downtown, for lunch. I had wanted my last lunch on earth to be at one of my favorite places, and Gorin’s had the best chicken fingers I’d ever tasted.
Instead, without much conscious thought, as if my mind had turned on autopilot after learning about Darby, I ended up driving to the Twickenham Country Club. Though my law firm provided few fringe benefits to associates, the partners had offered me, as the firm’s only accomplished golfer, a corporate membership to the club. In return for this perk, which netted me ten rounds a year and access to the course and practice facilities for my children, I was expected to entertain clients and hustle new business.
Since our money troubles had begun three years ago, the only golf I allowed myself to enjoy other than obligatory outings with current or prospective clients was the few hours I was able to spend out here with Davis in the early evenings after work. Watching my beautiful, spunky daughter hit balls until her face and neck were covered with sweat and her brown hair was matted to the side of her head was about the only thing that gave me peace anymore.
Today, however, given the news I had just received and what I was planning to do tomorrow, I decided to go rogue. I went to the nineteenth-hole lounge and, in an ode to my dead friend, ordered a gin and tonic.
“Taking the day off, Mr. Clark?”
I turned to see Cary Harvella, the club’s young assistant professional, who smiled and added, “Don’t see you out here much anymore.”
I nodded and took a sip of gin. “I know, but today . . .” My mind flashed images of Darby Hays wearing a white golf shirt and green slacks and striding down the thirteenth hole at Augusta ten years ago. Darby had gotten me a badge for Saturday’s round that year, and I had followed him every hole. On thirteen, he’d strolled over to me, whistling as he was prone to do, and said, “Randolph, if I’m going to make any noise in this tournament, I need an eagle. Get your camera ready.” He had then walked up to his ball, taken two drags off the cigarette he’d been puffing on, and launched a three wood right at the flag. The ball had landed on the front of the green, barely clearing Rae’s Creek and coming to rest five feet from the pin. Darby had turned to me and taken a bow. It was the greatest golf shot I’d ever seen.
“Mr. Clark?” Cary’s voice sounded like it was coming from a mile away, but, seeing his eyes crease with concern, I remembered myself.
“Today’s my birthday, Cary. I figured I could squeeze in eighteen holes.”
“Sounds good. I think the Big Team is going out at one o’clock. You might try to get in on that.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, draining the rest of the glass.
Cary looked at the empty cup and then at me. “You okay, Mr. Clark?”
“Fine. Just rewarding myself for making it to forty.” I gestured at the bartender for a refill and smiled up at Cary. “Don’t worry about me, son.”
I took another long sip of gin from my refilled glass.
“Hey, Clark,” a raspy voice yelled from over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said, taking another sip and not turning around.
“The whole team’s not here, but we got seven. We need another A player for one o’clock. You in or just drinking?”
“Who would be the players in my foursome?” I asked, making eye contact with Moq through the glass mirror above the bar.
“Simpson, Vowell, and Boone.”
“And yours?”
“Coach, Finger, and Mule.”
I smiled. Generally speaking, on the rare occasions when I played Big Team, I tried to avoid playing against the all-nickname group. It was bad for the bank account.
“You in or not, Clark?”
I drained the rest of the gin in one long sip and whirled around on the stool. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this before. My last afternoon in this godforsaken world ought to be spent on the golf course. I felt a twinge of regret about missing the office party that Debbie was throwing for me, but she would understand.
Thanks, Darb, I thought. Then, hopping off the stool, I pierced Moq with a glare. “So, what’s the bet?”