Augusta, April 1987
It was indeed a boisterous party. Under the white plastic tent, drinks flowed freely. The dusk was kept at bay with electric chandeliers overhead, and hurricane lamps on white-clad tables. Tired golfers mingled, their thoughts elsewhere, as VIPs bumped shoulders with young southern talent in skintight dresses. Hank Wright made an appearance. Unsurprisingly, he had nothing to drink, except the glass of dark brown liquid in his hand, and no one expected to learn from him whether that was Coca-Cola or Pepsi Cola. He would not risk affronting either of the giants on the eve of the critical round. If he won it, his managers could turn either to Coke or to Pepsi for future sponsorship.
That didn’t discourage anybody else. There were a hundred people crowded into the tent—family, sponsors, friends, celebrities. There was a special exultancy among the friends of Hank Wright and Larry Mize. Which of them would be festive twenty-four hours later depended on how those two players, and the two or three others within striking distance, performed the next day. But one of the two was likely to emerge as champion. That called for another drink.
The bartender had his own quickie version of a mint julep. Never mind. It was nearly as good as the real thing, Lucille said. Lucille was the principal hostess, in charge of welcoming the guests and directing them to the bar, and going back and forth to the console to increase the volume of the canned music or to decrease it. By seven o’clock it needed to be loud because everybody was speaking at the top of his lungs, just to be heard.
With the rich curves of a twenty-year-old and the confidence of twice that age, Lucille made her way through the crowd, her auburn curls bobbing slightly, her scarlet gown parting the gray, beige, blue. To be greeted by Lucille was to be assured a pleasant welcome.
Lucille had intended to welcome Senator Castle as simply one more VIP, pausing, as she did with other prominent guests, to chat for a minute or two before going back to the entrance to look after latecomers.
But she found she didn’t want to leave this alluring young senator. There were, to begin with, his striking looks, and the appealing cock to his head as he leaned forward struggling to make out what you were saying. “You have to try one of Ernie’s mint juleps, Senator.” She spoke in Deep South. “He’s famous for them. Can I bring you one?”
“Why not? But”—he extended his hand to the sleeve of her dress—“not if it means I’m going to lose you.”
“That won’ happen, Senator. I promise you that.”
And it didn’t happen. She was back in moments with a mint julep for him and, for herself, a cola.
“You didn’t tell me what to call you.”
“I’m Lucille. Lucille DeLoach.”
“Lucille, can I ask you for a favor?”
“You can as’ me for anything you want, Senator.”
“An aide of mine is in town to help me out. Would it be okay if he came down to the party?”
“Of course! Tell me what hotel he’s stayin’ in an’ I’ll call him myself.”
Fifteen minutes later Bill Rode was at Reuben’s side, mint julep in hand. It was past seven-thirty and Reuben was finding the juleps powerful. “Powerful like a powerful bull,” he told Bill. “But powerful matadors like powerful bulls—they like the challenge.”
“You’re liking the challenge of this julep, boss?”
“I’m likin’—see how I can adjust to local idiom, Bill?—I’m likin’ all kinds of challenges tonight.”
But he did not like the very immediate challenge he suddenly faced. A heavyset man, julep in hand, tie loosened, jaw thrust menacingly forward, stood squarely in front of Reuben. The sweat beaded on his flushed forehead as he unclenched his jaw to shout. “Heah me, y’all. Heah me. Heah me!”
Reuben turned his head to Lucille. “Who’s this?”
“Tha’s Bartle. Bartle O’Dwyer. Noisy genelman.”
The tent had now gone relatively quiet, and Bartle O’Dwyer pointed a finger at Reuben. “Ladies and genelmen, this is the guy—the creepy guy—I went to in Saigon during a Vietcong raid. The gooks had got raht into the embassy grounds and we needed defensive fire. I ast for volunteers. There were six men in the office there. Five of them volunteered. Not this guy. He wanted to stay where he was, the colonel’s toy lieutenant.” O’Dwyer dropped his glass on the floor and brought his right fist up in a roundhouse punch aimed at Reuben’s stomach. Reuben easily swerved out of the way. He thought quickly. He’d have to fight back unless—
Two guests, one of them a bulldog with huge shoulders and powerful arms, seized O’Dwyer and dragged him away, toward the bar.
The silence was momentary. In ten seconds everyone was talking again. Reuben’s face was white. “Get me another—” but Lucille was already there with the fresh julep. Reuben took it, but found he had no appetite for it, or even for Lucille.
He turned to Bill Rode. “Let’s go. Maybe get something to eat.”
Rode accompanied him out. Several of the partygoers looked at him inquisitively—then past him.
Rode extended the iced-tea pitcher but Castle didn’t extend his glass, as he had twice done after they had got back to the suite. “No more. Might interfere with my performance later on.”
Rode winked an eye. “You going out on the links to practice your stroke, Senator?”
“I’m thinking of exactly that, Rode—going somewhere to practice my stroke. Rode?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What time did—what’s her name? Gladys?—”
“Gladys, yes.”
“—tell you she’d get here?”
“Couldn’t make it before eight-thirty, she said.”
“You know,” Reuben’s mind was wandering as, thinking better of it, he extended his glass, “I was thinking of Lucille. But not after that scene at the party.”
“I’m sure Gladys will like your company, Senator.”
“Why not? Most women do. All women do.” He stopped and chuckled. “I say all women. Is there any woman I haven’t pleased?”
“No one who has complained to me.”
“I’m not sure they’d complain to you, and they certainly would not—the nice ladies you come up with—complain to Miss America. Who else would they complain to? The secretary of commerce?”
“You don’t hand out…weights and measures.”
“No. But I give them a hell of a measure of what I’ve got to offer. If they get all I’ve got, they don’t want anything more—they can’t take anything more.”
The phone rang. Rode picked it up. “Yes, this is Bill Rode, Gladys. I was just leaving; I’ve been up here with the senator having some iced tea. Hang on.” He cupped the receiver. “Should I ask her to come up?”
“No—bring her up yourself. Meet her in the lobby.”
Rode spoke into the phone. “He’s real anxious to say hello, Gladys. I’ll be right down. Should he order dinner?” Rode smiled. “I’ll tell him, Gladys. Just a little something. Bye-bye, Gladys.” He leaned over to put down the phone.