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Titanic Tuesday arrived for Resource Jones, holding the promise of a new life or a new life sentence.
He was on the course at the usual time—7:15, worked his way methodically from the bunkers on 3, then 2, then finally the bunkers on 1 fairway. His hands shook, his brow poured, his lungs barely cranked in anticipation of seeing Mr. Malcolm Baker, the man in the Panama hat, playing golf gloriously by himself.
He went over for the one hundredth time all the things that could make him abort the Malcolm Mission:
1. The Prison View starter could’ve put a single with Malcolm Baker—or put Baker into some other group.
2. A guard could wander by for no reason and against all of Resource’s planning and time schedules.
3. Baker could’ve brought somebody else to replace Mr. Hornbecker.
4. The tower guard could suddenly and inexplicably decide he wanted to make like Jim Nantz and watch golfers that morning.
5. Malcolm Baker could have one of those rare butts that doesn’t succumb to a well-placed needle.
Resource rattled his head back and forth to shake the toxic thoughts out of his mind, took three tai chi breaths, and tried to relax. And within ten minutes he saw a very lovely sight, a lone stocky golfer bobbing along in a golf cart, coming over the steep hill toward No. 1 green, a Mr. Malcolm Baker, dressed in khaki shorts, a blue-and-yellow golf shirt, and big straw Panama hat.
Just my colors, thought Resource Jones.
When playing in a twosome, Malcolm Baker was fast, but by himself, he was nearly invisible. He looked like a man who was double-parked somewhere. He took a whack at his ball, lying as it was about eighty yards from the 1st green. Resource figured it for his third shot. It ended up in the bunker left of the green, and he skulled it out of there in no time, straight into the bunker on the right side of the green, the bunker Resource Jones happened to be standing next to, flopsweat streaming off his brow. He had planned to get him as he planted the flag back in the hole, but this was even better. The guy was coming straight to him! Baker quickly raked the one bunker and stomped across the green to the other one. He climbed into the new bunker and Resource circled discreetly behind him. As Baker prepared his shot, Resource prepared his, a syringe filled with Rohypnol, otherwise known as a “roofie,” only ten times the usual dose.
If Resource Jones had called Acme Victims and asked for someone to knock immediately goofy with stolen drugs, they couldn’t have sent a better setup. Baker had a habit of sticking his butt out like a football center on his sand shots. It was like Hannibal Lecter meeting Star Jones. Resource checked 360 degrees again for anybody and found nothing. The time was now. Just as Baker made contact, so did Resource. Sadly, Baker never saw one of the best sand shots of his life. It rolled up to within five feet.
The big man went down like a redwood—his knees buckling and his face pitching nose-first into the soft sand. Again, no sound made there. He did not even make a groan. He was either dead or very, very asleep. Resource checked again for witnesses, hopped into the bunker, took Baker by the arms, and started to drag. This was tough sledding. Baker’s bulbous ex-offensive-guard body just sank deeper into the sand every foot. Resource hadn’t accounted for this. Time was wasting, as the next group would be coming to the crest of the hill very soon. Resource was practically hyperventilating the entire thirty seconds it took to get Baker out of the sand, the twenty seconds it took him to schlep Baker into the cart, the ten more it took to drive the cart behind the lightning shelter, and the twenty more it took to get him out of the cart and into the shelter.
Inside, Resource worked feverishly, stripping Baker down to his Calvin Klein orange-striped undies, himself down to his prison-issue white briefs, putting all of Baker’s togs on himself, including the shoes, which were a size too big. He gagged Baker, just in case, and emerged again into the harsh sunlight. He admittedly forgot to check whether Baker was living or dead. You know, time constraints.
He peeked around the corner of the shelter and saw, to his horror, that the next group was driving toward the green from about seventy-five yards away. And then he saw his colossal mistake. He’d forgotten to rake the bunker. And it was a very big rake job: It looked suspiciously like somebody had dragged a moose through the sand. He fetched the ball, then jumped in and raked as fast as he could without looking desperate.
“I know what you did,” hollered one of the foursome descending upon him, an older gentleman.
Resource’s heart fell into his feet.
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. Do it myself. From the looks of that bunker, you must’ve left a few in there.”
Resource remembered to breathe again.
“Oh! Yeah! Isn’t that how it always is? Well, I’ll just finish raking. Then I’ll buzz out of your way!”
The old guy waved thanks. Resource jogged to his cart and drove to the No. 2 tee box, trying to drive with black spots in front of his face.
My God, that was close, he thought to himself as he planted a tee in the ground. Trying to not look panicked, he took a very slow and deliberate pass with a 3-wood, his first swing of the golf club in three years and—lo and behold—it described the loveliest arc right down the middle, true and long. He laughed at that, actually laughed, like a little boy who, after years of trying, finally sticks the rubber dart right on his sister’s forehead. He peered over his shoulder quickly and allowed himself a cantaloupe grin. In all his meticulous planning, he had never once thought about that: The eight holes he was going to play—albeit in a mad rush—might actually be fun. He had always thought about the eight holes as a necessary evil to keep up appearances, the only way out, his fertilized escape route. He never once realized that he was going to actually get in some golf.
He floored it to his ball and eyeballed the distance. Baker never checked distances, so he couldn’t. Everything had to resemble Baker. Looked like about 160 yards. He tried 8-iron. No waggle, no practice swing. Just get this over with. But again, he hit it flush in the middle and the ball took off beautifully toward the pin as though he were in some Buick Open somewhere. It actually spun back a few feet and wound up within ten feet of the hole. Three years in the can and he had tour jizz? thought Resource. Incredible.
He walked the way Baker walked, ambling and stiff-legged up to his putt and, without a practice stroke—Baker never used one—knocked it cleanly and beautifully into the hole. Birdie.
Again, he laughed to himself and shook his head. He took a furtive glance around, but still nobody was watching. He got back in the cart and couldn’t help himself. He wrote “3” on the second hole and circled it. Been a long time since he’d done that.
At the next tee box he searched Baker’s bag for his car keys, wallet, and cellphone. They were right where Baker always put them, in the big pocket. The cellphone showed it to be 8:32. Baker’s tee time must’ve been 8:10, which meant he’d be through nine at about 9:55, in the Explorer by 10:00, at the Brockton bus station by 10:45, in a cab by 11:00 to a mall, where he’d buy new clothes, steal a car, and be hell-bent for paradise.
Preoccupied by these thoughts, he barely noticed himself hitting the 3-wood again on 3, but this, too, was creamy, a draw. From the fairway he hit 3-wood again—as this was a par-5—and this one was even more perfect than the last, eventually rolling onto the green in two. He laughed out loud at that. He nonchalantly two-putted for birdie.
What the hell? Take three years off and then birdie your first two holes? Where was Two Down when you needed him?
And so it went. He became so thrilled at unearthing this sapphire of a golf game, he actually forgot to take the buried food out of the bunkers on 3 and 4. On 5, he didn’t even notice that one of the inmates/groundskeepers gave him a rather long, quizzical “Don’t-I-know-you?” look. And why should he notice? Through five holes now, he was two under par!
On 7, two guards were sneaking in a game of gin and never noticed him. That allowed Resource to exult in the full joy of golf now. He spent a good deal of time lining up his forty-footer for birdie there, stroked it, and watched it disappear. He gave it the full Tiger fist pump. It was all he could do to keep from screaming like a little girl upon arriving at the Barbie factory. He was now three-under for six holes.
He made himself a lovely up-and-down out of a bunker on the 8th hole for par, actually hollering “Damn right!” when his twelve-footer went in, never once noticing the guard in the tower there.
And so, if you could’ve been sitting in that cart with Resource Jones as he came up to the 9th hole, you would have never guessed you were sitting next to a man who had just filled a man’s bloodstream with The Babe Roof of syringes, bound and gagged him, assumed his clothes and identity, robbed him of his wallet and car keys, and was in the midst of escaping from a federal penitentiary. All you would’ve thought was that you were with a golf maniac, one who, in fact, was wondering if it was too late to give the Senior Tour a try in fifteen years.
In all his planning, Resource knew the 9th hole would be the most dangerous, as cart boys and assistant pros near the clubhouse might get a look at him. He had even planned on not putting out on the 9th green to avoid the risk, keeping a wide berth around the clubhouse, and heading straight to the parking lot.
But now, all that was Alpo long inside Rover. Resource Jones was interested in only one thing on 9—making par. Looking at his scorecard, he decided to give himself par on the first hole. It killed him to break the rules, as Resource Jones was faithful to rules the way Lassie was faithful to Timmy. But it was such a simple hole and the way he was playing, par was a layup. Hell, the way he was playing, he might have birdied the hole. So that meant a par on the 9th could give him 32, the best nine of his life.
But his sand wedge into 9 left him only six feet from the hole, and as he walked to the green he didn’t even think to pull his Panama hat low for protection. In fact, in reading the putt, he took the glasses off—too dark to get a good look at the break—and even putted with them hanging from his shirt collar. His golf mind had bound and gagged his criminal mind. The putt went in the hole as if pulled by a string for a birdie. He’d just shot 31 on a single round of golf.
He looked to the heavens. This was . . . unfathomable, preposterous, maddening! He had played golf his whole life. It was his one true passion. He loved it more than sex, food, even grifting. And now, the day when he had no possible chance to play eighteen holes, he was a dead mortal lock to break the impenetrable 70, the Holy Grail of his life. It seemed too cruel to be possible.
And then a very horrible thought occurred to him, a very self-destructive, stupid, and insane thought.
Does anybody know why murderers return a half hour later to pump one last bullet into their victims? Why ex-boyfriends climb lattices just to see their true love humping their best friend? Why fat women suddenly see tight red Capris and think, “I’d look good in that!” No, these are mysteries to us. And so there is no reason why Resource Jones would think the unthinkable, at the worst possible moment: Why not play all eighteen?
And the more Resource Jones thought the unthinkable, the more thinkable it became. Well, why not? he said to himself. He could do it! There had not been a single second glance at him. No guard had so much as taken his eyes off his cards, much less recognized him. Nobody was pushing him from behind or holding him up from in front. Baker was not scheduled to come back from Roofundland for another four hours. And don’t forget, he was bound and gagged. It wasn’t like he was going to suddenly jump up and begin singing Rodgers and Hammerstein tunes. Plus, the cellphone said it was only 9:45. He was well ahead of schedule. He’d played that nine in 1:35. He could play the next in 1:30 and be in the Explorer by 11:15. Baker wouldn’t even have been knocked out for three hours, really. And was anybody calling on Baker’s cell? Anybody asking questions? No! And didn’t Baker usually play eighteen? Wouldn’t playing just nine be suspicious? How could he let a 31 just sit there like that? He knew he’d never have this chance again, as long as he breathed, as long as he played golf. He owed it to himself. He owed it to everybody who’d ever dreamed of playing like this and never had! Goddammit, it was his duty!
And so, Resource Jones did not go to the Explorer and escape. He did not give a thought to the fact that if he were caught, he’d be seeing striped sunshine the rest of his life. He instead went straight to the 1st tee, kept his head low, and teed off again.
There were no eyebrows raised by anybody, of course. The tee was open. Baker had paid for eighteen holes. No point in waiting. He hit his 3-wood right down the middle. What he didn’t know is that the head pro couldn’t help but notice something.
“Damn!” the pro said to his cashier. “That big black guy must’ve gotten a lesson or something. That was a sweet move!”
He parred 1. He didn’t even spin the cart by the lightning shelter to see if he heard rumblings. He had only one thought on his mind—69. Onward. He made a bogey on 2, a par on 3, and another bogey on 4, which might explain why coming through 5 again, he didn’t see a friend of his from the inside, an inmate who worked weeds.
“’Source?” he said, shutting down his Weed Eater. “That you?”
It rocked Resource out of his trance. He looked quickly at the inmate and then away.
“Shhhhhhh,” he pantomimed, finger to lips. “I just had to play this course once, dude! It was drivin’ me crazy!”
“I dig,” said the inmate, “but ain’t you playin’ it twice?”
Resource shrugged. “The handicap computer won’t take partial scores,” he said, and moved on, making a shaky bogey on 5. He was now one-under. He had to par the last four holes to shoot the revered 69.
Resource’s nerves were starting to fray like a Goodwill sweater. And now he ran into more peril. For two holes now he’d been playing behind a turtlish foursome—two young bucks and their two girlfriends, who were hitting it so hideously they all seemed to be using the wrong side of the club. After parring 6, he came to the 7th tee only to find them still standing on it. There were waggles, changings of clubs, discussions, more waggling, some hugging, laughing, more waggling. Resource slowly began to lose his previously facile mind.
“Hey!” he said to the kid. “You ever use that driver before?”
“Sure!” the kid said back with a smile.
“Then step up and hit the motherfucker already!”
The teens were stunned into silence. The kid didn’t know what to do, so Resource did it for him. He grabbed Baker’s 3-wood, marched to the tee, and played through. Then he scorched off in the cart.
If he was going to serve a life sentence, it wasn’t going to be on a fucking tee box.
He managed an up-and-down par on 7 and another on 8 and still there seemed to be no suspicion, no movement among the bulbous guards. He was going to pull this off! he thought. He hit a beautiful drive on 9, followed by a three-quarter sand wedge that was just so delicious he wanted to sniff the divot. He missed the eight-footer and settled for par and his glorious 69.
But something seemed hollow about it. Resource Jones may be a violent criminal, a dangerous weapons dealer, and an unscrupulous con man, but he is not a golf cheat. He was Ponky’s golf ethicist, and all arguments among men and women there had been settled by the simple sentence: “We’ll ask Resource.”
And now that honesty was sticking in his briefs like a tumbleweed. He had not played the first hole. He had lied to himself. He could tell himself the rest of his life that he broke 70, but he’d know that as long as he didn’t actually play the first hole, that 69 was as false as a plastic surgeon’s pool party.
Again, freedom beckoned. He wanted to get to the Explorer and go, but his scruples wouldn’t let him. If he was really going to accomplish his lifetime dream, he had to play that one last hole.
And so, against all reason and sense and self-preservation, Resource Jones snuck the cart over to the 1st tee and stuck it in the ground again. He hit it cleanly, if low, and jumped back into the cart, only to see a familiar face five feet from him.
It was the black second-string assistant pro he’d befriended.
“Wanna get a brew after work?” the man said with a slight grin.
It was too late. He had never put the sunglasses back on. They’d made eye contact.
“No,” said Resource, “just the golf, thanks,” and he lead-footed it down the fairway.
The assistant pro sprinted to the pro shop.
At that moment, Resource Jones’s expectations for success dropped well below 85 percent. In fact, the hounds were on him. The bust was coming and Resource knew it. There was only one thing left to do—par this one last hole, the last hole of his life, and at least take that 69 with him into that endless life of fuzzy cable and concrete meat loaf.
His heart was beating just slightly faster than a coked-up hummingbird’s. He tried to calm himself long enough to hit his wedge onto 1 green, but he thinned it and it ended up by the temporary home of Mr. Malcolm Baker in the lightning shelter. He raced there, urging the cart forward, rocking it forward, willing it so. As he looked back, he saw four golf carts coming after him, two with staff and two full of guards. The siren at the prison blared. Dogs barked. Cellmates put their cheeks to their bars.
He screeched the cart up next to the shack. From within, he could hear banging and grunting, probably coming from a groggy doppelgänger with a very powerful headache. He had to hit this chip close, but concentration was a little difficult just then. He popped up the sand wedge too high, but it got a lucky hop and lurched forward until it finished about five feet from the hole, nearly the same putt Baker would’ve had before Resource separated him from his consciousness three hours before.
Over megaphones from the pursuing carts, he heard, “Prisoner! Stop and drop immediately! We will not ask you twice!”
They were only fifty yards away and he still wasn’t to his ball. He was never going to make it. From the tower he saw that two guards were training rifles on him.
“I’m strapped with dynamite!” Resource screamed as he inched toward his ball on the green, putter in his right hand. “You shoot me and I blow up everything within five hundred yards!”
As he said it, he lined up the most important putt of his life. The carts were now surrounding him from the edge of the green, every one of them training guns on his temple.
“Where’d you get dynamite, prisoner?” said the megaphone.
“Man, can’t you see I’m putting here?” Resource said. “Just, you motherfuckers can just start meetin’ my demands! I want a chopper, $10 million in fifties, and a Learjet waiting for me at Brockton Airport! I’m not fuckin’ around here!”
“Settle down, prisoner. Let’s talk!”
Resource took one last tai chi breath, read the line again under the cruelest conditions possible, and stroked the putt. It wiggled right, then wiggled left, then hung on the lip, took a little look inside, considered for a moment, and then decided, reluctantly, to drop in.
“Goddamn right!” Resource screamed, throwing the putter twenty feet in the air, his head back, and raising his fists to the sky. It was the greatest single moment of his life: A legit 69, with borrowed clubs no less, under duress with armed witnesses. Suck on that, you slobs.
Unfortunately, what Resource Jones didn’t realize was that his exultant gesture revealed his midsection to be nothing more than Resource Jones—no dynamite, no guns, not even a money belt. Within three seconds of this sight, eight men had him under a dogpile.
At the bottom of the mass of men and guns and helmets, with clubs and boots and fists battering him, Resource Jones had just enough strength and presence of mind to reach into the hole and grab the ball.
Hey, even cell walls need memorabilia.