vii

WHEN I WOKE up the next morning, I found $180 on the coffee table next to the sofa where I slept. For the briefest of moments, I thought of the beer I could buy with the money. But I knew that, instead of making restitution for me, Stewart was testing me again to see if I would do it myself.

He didn’t say anything about the money over breakfast, and I didn’t bring it up. Afterward, I told him that I had some business to take care of and that I’d be back before long. Stewart acted as if he understood.

As I wheeled the Explorer out of the parking lot, I felt my stomach begin to churn over the prospect of meeting Boo. But I knew I had to do it, so I drove quickly to his office before I had time to change my mind.

Swallowing the huge pride that had been such a big part of my problems, I marched into Boo’s office and informed the receptionist that I was there to see him. I was a little surprised when she told me moments later that I could go right in.

From the looks of his office, Boo was doing well in the insurance business. On one wall were four pictures of the LSU golf team, one for each year he played. On another were various certificates, all properly framed and matted. One was his diploma; the others looked like a bunch of awards and a license or two.

Boo was sitting behind a large and impressive-looking desk. He stood up when I walked in, but didn’t come around from behind his desk. In fact, he didn’t even extend his hand, but instead greeted me with a reserved expression. I guess he wondered whether I was there to make peace or war. He just said in a low voice, “Hello, Bah-bee,” and briefly paused before adding, “You look good.”

I smiled to let him know that I wasn’t there to make trouble. “Hey, Boo, it’s good to see you.”

Without saying anything more, I reached into my pocket and placed the cash on his desk. He looked down at it with a puzzled expression. When he returned his eyes to mine, I said, “I think that’s what I still owe you. You know, the difference between what I took and what the cops recovered.”

He mouthed the word “Oh” and picked up the cash. I knew I had to say more.

“Look, Boo, I’m not going to offer any excuse for what I did. I don’t expect you to forgive me, ever. Believe me, I wish it had never happened.”

He just looked at me, apparently trying to gauge my sincerity.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past. And the troubles I’ve had were my own fault. But I’m learning my lesson. I won’t do anything like this again—to you or anybody else.”

God, it was tough to stand there and feel so humiliated. That’s what false pride does to you. But I figured I had a pretty good ass chewing coming from Boo, and this was the quickest way to get it over with.

But my dear friend must have felt sorry for the pathetic fool who stood there before him. Not sorry enough to tell me it was okay but sorry enough not to make it any harder. So he just said, “Thank you for coming, Bah-bee,” and let me leave quietly.

Stewart looked up when I walked into the apartment. “That was quick,” he murmured. Then he got a closer look at me and said, “You’re as white as a sheet.”

I sat down heavily on the sofa. “I’ve been to Boo’s. I gave him the money.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much.” I fingered the arm of the sofa absentmindedly “I apologized to him.”

“Good.”

“What do I do now?”

Stewart sat down in a chair across from me. “Nothing. You’ve done what you can. The rest is up to Boo.”

He leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing, you know that.”

I shook my head. “You know, it’s tough to face some of the things I’ve done.”

Stewart said nothing for the longest time. Finally, he patted me on the knee and said, “It’s all part of the process, Bobby. You’re on the road back, even if you don’t know it yet.”

I had to admit, I did feel better. But it was like the way I felt better after throwing up: more relief than anything else. Anyway, Stewart announced that it was time for another day of practice.

We returned to the cow pasture for another session of ball striking. Stewart still avoided any discussion about mechanics. All he preached was relaxation and tempo. He kept telling me what a good swing I had, that my fundamentals were sound, and that all I had to do was think about where I wanted to send the ball.

I had to admit that I was hitting the ball as well as I ever had. Stewart even had me cut and draw the ball on alternating shots. Instead of making any mechanical adjustment, he told me just to visualize the ball flight I wanted and hit it that way. At first I couldn’t see how that would work, but a few swings later Stewart had made a believer out of me.

We had gotten a late start because of my visit with Boo, and it was almost two o’clock when we quit. Stewart wasn’t through with me, though. He announced that, after grabbing a sandwich back at our apartment, we would spend the rest of the afternoon chipping and putting.

“We spent a lot of time on the putting green yesterday,” I complained mildly.

“Putting’s an everyday thing,” he answered quickly. After a few minutes, he added, “Do you really think the other guys who’ll be at Q-School are resting every other day?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Whether you want to believe it or not, right this very minute there are thousands of pros just as talented as you who are practicing with every club in the bag every day. If you think you can beat them without working harder than they do, you’d better start looking for a day job now.”

He then punched his finger into my abdomen. “All that beer drinking did was get you a nice, soft gut. We’re gonna have to work on that, too.”

“Golf’s not that kind of sport,” I said in protest.

Stewart growled. “If Arnold Palmer can do 500 crunches every morning at his age, you can get off your fat butt and do a little road work before breakfast.”

I wasn’t ready to concede defeat, but I knew better than to argue any further.

After a couple of sandwiches for lunch, we headed out to the Country Club of Louisiana. When the Jack Nicklaus design opened in the mid-1980s, it featured bentgrass greens. Needless to say, a grass that doesn’t volunteer south of the Canadian border was a bitch to maintain in the heat and humidity of south Louisiana, but the club was determined to make it work.

As a result, the Country Club of Louisiana had the only bentgrass greens in the area. And they were pretty damned particular about who got to play on them. But, since Q-School was usually played at courses with bentgrass greens, we obviously needed to spend some time there. While I wasn’t sure how we would get on, I knew better than to question Stewart as he turned down the drive to the entrance of the club.

As we stopped at the gate, a uniformed guard with a clipboard walked over to our car and said in a friendly voice, “May I help you?”

Stewart leaned across me and said, “Yes, my name is Stewart, and we’re here to see Mr. Mackey.”

The guard looked down at a list on his clipboard. He frowned slightly and said, “I don’t see your name on my list, Mr. Stewart.”

Without blinking an eye, my friend said, “Stewart is my first name. My last name is Jones.”

The guard’s face immediately brightened. “Ah, yes, I have it right here, Mr. Jones.” He reached over and punched a button that raised the gate. Pointing toward the clubhouse a distance away, he said, “Mr. Mackey’s expecting you. He’s in the pro shop on the other side of the clubhouse.”

Stewart thanked him, and I drove through the open gate.

“How’d you get to know Frank Mackey?”

He responded as casually as usual, “Oh, Frank and I have known one another for years.”

I was about to pursue it further when I saw that we had pulled up at the bag stand. An attendant trotted up to assist us, and we handed him my clubs. After I parked the car, I caught up with Stewart as he came out of the pro shop.

“We’re all set.”

“For what?”

“To spend some time on these bent greens.” He surveyed my face as if it would explain why I asked what he considered to be a stupid question. “Why do you think we came here in the first place?”

I pulled the 8802 from my bag and began to walk toward the putting clock. Stewart grabbed me by the sleeve. “Bring your eight-iron, too.”

I must have putted for the better part of an hour. During the entire time, Stewart spoke only sparingly. I don’t think he ever said anything more than “See the line, roll the ball,” over and over. Always standing with his arms folded, kicking the balls back to me with the toe of his sneaker. He didn’t let me quit until I made 25 three-footers in a row.

We took a short break for water. Then he shared his ideas about chipping with me. “Let’s keep it simple,” he intoned. “Play the ball back, press the hands forward. Then look at the line and make a short stroke down the line.”

My first attempts were a little stiff. “Don’t grip the club so tight. Remember,” he lectured me once again, “relax and feel the shot. All you really want to do is give the ball a little pinch off the turf.”

With that image in mind, I was soon rolling the ball smoothly, and each chip seemed to hunt the hole. I even made a few.

It was finally time to call it quits. In a short period of time, I could see real progress in my game. I was thinking about hitting the ball at the target instead of where my hands should be at the top of my backswing. The game was a lot easier to play without a foot-long mental checklist for every shot.

We arrived back at the apartment just before five o’clock. There was a message on Stewart’s answering machine from the East Baton Rouge Parish District Attorney’s Office. They wanted me to call them as soon as possible.

Hearing that message reminded me that there were scarier things in store for me than a four-foot downhiller for par.