28

 

 

“Tell me, Boz, what do you know about Tommy Scannell?

The player in question had reached our tee on sixteen. It was late in the afternoon on Friday. Scannell, the first-round leader, was still leading as the second round was coming to a close. He was two under today, nine under for the tournament. He’d played the front nine in even par and dropped a couple of nice putts on the back nine to keep what was currently a two-shot lead over the rest of the field.

“Southern California kid,” Boz said. “Played his college golf at Oklahoma State. I think he made it to the quarter-finals of the U.S. Amateur when he was a junior.”

“So the kid’s got game?” I said.

“Hacker, my man,” Boz said reprovingly. “The kid is leading the PGA Championship. On Friday afternoon. Yeah, I think he’s got game.”

We watched as Scannell selected a fairway wood from his bag and prepared to hit his tee shot.

“Three wood,” I said. “Smart play.”

“He just has to find the fairway between the river on the left and the bunkers on the right,” Boz said. “Straighter is better than longer. But the way these kids today hit the ball, there’s not much difference on the longer part.”

Scannell made a nice pass at the ball and the FlitePath camera behind him showed us the parabolic flight of the ball. It was right down the middle with a tiny draw on the end.

“That will play all day long,” Bosworth said.

The camera followed the ball as it bounced on the fairway and rolled out another twenty yards or so.

“He’ll have an easy nine-iron into this green,” Boz said. “He looks relaxed and in control.”

“It’s good to be a twenty-something kid,” I said. “They don’t know what nerves are at that age.”

“So true, pard,” Boz said. “At that age, every shot is a green light.”

Ben Oswald’s voice buzzed in my ear and I and threw the live feed over to Van and Jimmy at eighteen, where Dustin Johnson and Patrick Reed were putting out. Both were within five shots of Scannell’s lead.

Boz pulled his headphones off his ears and sighed.

“Man, what time is this thing over?” he said. “I need a drink.”

“After last night?” I said. “You probably still have most of the alcohol you pounded floating around inside you.”

“That’s why I need a drink,” he said. “It’s starting to wear off.”

“What’ll you have?” came a voice behind us, We both jumped a little and spun around in our chairs. Digby Allen was standing there, smiling at us. “I can get you something from the hospitality tent down there,” he said.

“Geez, Digby, don’t sneak up on us like that,” Boz said. “I almost crapped my pants.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “Guess you didn’t hear me with your headphones on.”

“What do you need, Digs?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Bill Weaver’s camera had an indicator light fail.” He motioned upwards toward the camera platform on the top of our tower. “Had to replace the bulb. Just thought I’d stop in here for a sec and see how you guys were getting along.”

“We’re fine,” Boz said. “Now that my heart rate has subsided to just under coronary level.”

“Okey doke,” Digby said. “Well, carry on.”

He stepped back and ducked through the flap to climb down the scaffolding ladder. A second or two later, he poked his head back in.

“This belong to either of you guys?” he said. He held up a manila envelope. It was letter size, plain brown. There was nothing written on the outside. “It was taped to the scaffolding.”

“Not that I know of,” I said. I was keeping an eye on the live feed monitor. Johnson and Reed were still putting out on the last hole, but Tommy Scannell was getting ready to hit his approach to our green.

“OK,” he said. He tossed the envelope down on the floor of the booth and ducked away again.

Ben Oswald’s voice buzzed again and we were back on live.

“Scannell is looking at a nine iron for his approach,” I said. “Trying not to look at the water behind and to the left of the green.”

“But he knows it’s there, Hack,” Boz said. “He can focus on his target on the green all he wants, but he knows that any kind of a tug left means he’s not in the lead any more.”

Scannell made his swing. The timing at impact looked a little late to me.

“Fore right,” I said.

The ball flew high into the air and hung there a long time before dropping down into the greenside bunker on the right. The crowd around the green groaned in unison.

“Rookie mistake,” Boz said.

“Rookie guarding against a bigger mistake,” I said. “But we’ve seen a dozen guys in that bunker today and I think only one hasn’t managed to get up and down. It’s a pretty routine shot for these guys. So he should be okay.”

“Still, he missed the green with a nine iron,” Boz said. “Back home, the guys would be all over me if I hit a shot like that.”

“And deservedly so,” I said. “Pro like you should hit the green with a nine iron from the fairway every time. Especially playing on the podunk muni where you spend all your time. But this is the PGA Championship, and Scannell knew that going left meant bogey or worse.”

“Podunk muni?” Boz said, his voice sounding insulted. “I’ll have you know that Goat Acres is a fine, fine golf course. Except for the occasional bad lies we get on the greens. Those armadillos can be pesky little bastards.”

Ben Oswald buzzed at us again and I tossed the feed over to seventeen.

“Goat Acres?” I said.

“That’s actually what we call it sometimes,” he said with a smile. “But it’s home.”

I laughed. Looking around, I noticed the envelop Digby had dropped and bent over to pick it up. The flap was open, so I reached inside and pulled out a single piece of paper inside.

It was a white sheet of bond. Somebody had scribbled something on one side using a pencil.

NO MORE QUESTIONS ON SAVANNAH OR U DIE!!

I showed the paper to Bosworth. He read it and his eyebrows arched.

“Two exclamation points, Hack,” he said. “I think they mean business.”

“They?”

“Hell, it’s obvious this is from the Mob,” he said. “Didn’t you watch Goodfellas? They were always sending out letters with multiple exclamation points. Just before they’d blow someone away and go bury them in some nearby forest.”

“I must have missed that part,” I said. I re-read the sentence, thinking about it. On the live feed monitor, one of the South Koreans was lining up a birdie putt. Twelve footer.

“Whaddya think, Hack,” Boz whispered. “Fifty bucks ole Wan Hung Lo sinks it. You in?”

I smiled at his unpolitically correct reference. “Nah,” I said, “I think he’ll drain it too.”

Lee Kyung-Ju rammed the putt home. It put him three shots behind the leader. The crowd went wild. Oswald tossed the feed back to us, where Tommy Scannell was shuffling his feet down into the sand at the bottom of the bunker, getting ready for his explosion shot.

He made a big, relaxed swing, thumped the sand at the bottom and watched as the ball floated up over the lip, landed ten feet from the hole, bounced once, checked, and rolled out to about a foot. The fans cheered, and Scannell waved his hand in acknowledgment as he smoothed the sand with his feet before jumping out the back of the bunker, slapping the soles of both shoes with his wedge and taking his putter from his caddie. He was smiling, mostly, it looked to me, with relief.

“Professional golf shot,” I said. “Beautifully judged, perfectly executed. And Tommy Scannell remains in the lead with two tough holes left in today’s second round.”

“Yup,” the Boz said. “Kid’s got game.”

Oswald sent the feed off to another hole. I looked at the letter that someone had delivered. It still said the same thing.

“You worried?” Boz said, watching me.

“What?” I said, “Worried? No, no. This is actually good news.”

“How do you figure?”

“He’s come out in the open,” I said. “For the first time.”

“Who has?” Boz said,

“The killer,” I said. “He feels the heat. I’ve been asking questions of people here and there. What do they remember about what happened to Parker Long. It’s gotten back to him. Or her. Heat is rising. Hence the warning. Stop or else.”

“You gonna?”

“Gonna what?”

“Stop asking questions?” Boz said.

“Oh, hell, no,” I said. “I’m finally getting close. I just wish I knew who I was getting close to.”

“Yeah,” Boz said. “That would help. So’s you’d know when to duck.”