Thumps was glad to be outside. The sky was high and blue, and the fresh air made him feel clean again. Sitting in the villa, listening to Gage explain covert government agencies and their rationales had been like sitting in a grubby theatre, watching a World War II propaganda film on civics and patriotism.
Thumps wasn’t a pedant. He knew that the law had spongy edges, places where it would bend, areas that were in shadows. Lines in the sand that were drawn, erased, redrawn, and then erased again.
Gage had been candid about Black Ice and guarded at the same time. She had told him just enough to stimulate his imagination, and then left him hanging.
Oneirataxia.
Thumps had come across the word in a novel, had had to look it up. The inability to tell fantasy from reality. The next time he talked with Gage, he’d watch for an opening, drop it into a sentence, watch for ripples.
Secret government agencies. Covert activities. Bad guys, good guys, money, money, money. Thumps suspected that much of what Gage had told him was true, and much of it was false. The truth and the lies so tightly wrapped around each other that you couldn’t find where the twisty thing began or ended.
A Gordian knot.
Maybe he could play the part of Alexander. Maybe Cruz could be the sharp sword.
But first he had to find the man from Pie Town.
A few years back, Vernon Rockland had torn down the old pro shop and built a combination pro shop and restaurant with windows that overlooked a new practice facility, complete with a putting green, bunkers, and a driving range.
The practice area was crowded. Golfing enthusiasts were milling about, watching the tournament players chip, putt, and hit golf balls into the late morning. There was a full house on the restaurant patio, more people drinking beer, eating french fries, telling golf stories about the time they were this close to Tiger Woods at the British Open or how they were greenside at the 2012 Masters when Bubba Watson hooked a wedge shot out of the pines and onto the green in his sudden death playoff with Louis Oosthuizen.
THAT SUMMER INTO the fall, Gabriel Garcia took the time to teach Thumps the game of golf.
“It’s dead easy,” Garcia told him. “Get the ball from the tee to the hole. Doesn’t much matter how you do it. Hit it straight, hook it, slice it, top it. Hit a tree, bounce it off a cart path, skip it across a pond, run it through a sand trap. Drive it, chip it, putt it. Keep track of each stroke. Person with the lowest number of strokes wins.”
Thumps enjoyed the driver best of all, the thrill of hitting the ball flush and watching it sail off into the sky.
“Driving’s a lot of fun,” Garcia told him. “But it’s the putter that’s money.”
Garcia had caddied for some of the big names in the game. He had photos of himself with Arnold Palmer, Lee Trevino, Payne Stewart, Raymond Floyd.
“I wasn’t their every-tournament caddy. I was the go-to guy when their regular caddy wasn’t available.”
“Like a substitute teacher.”
“Yeah,” said Garcia, “like that.”
Each evening, after the golf course cleared, Thumps would practise hitting balls over the cyclone fence onto the green. Then he’d crawl through the hole in the wire, retrieve the balls, and do it again.
“MR. THUMPS.”
Chintak Rawat and Stas Black Weasel materialized from the crowd. Wearing their Team Wutty T-shirts.
“You are not wearing your T-shirt.”
Thumps tried to remember where he had put the T-shirt. In a drawer? In the laundry? “I’m on duty.”
“Of course,” said Rawat. “To wear the T-shirt while on duty would be inappropriate.”
“Wutty is on driving range,” said Stas. “We are to help him with game.”
“The two of you?”
“I am bodyguard,” said Stas.
“Wutty needs a bodyguard?”
“He is celebrity,” said Stas. “Rawat is caddy.”
Thumps looked at Rawat. The pharmacist was a slight man with dark hair and an easy smile.
“Rawat is champion golfer when he is in India,” said the big Russian.
“Junior champion,” said Rawat. “But when my father died, I had to give the game up and find a career.”
“Which wasn’t golf.”
Rawat shook his head. “Sadly, I wasn’t good enough to compete at the highest level. But I will be a most excellent caddy.”
“We must go,” said Stas. “Watch Wutty hit balls, offer advice, do the cheer, encourage confidence.”
Thumps hitched his pants. “You think he has a chance?”
“In golf,” said Rawat, as he and Stas started off for the driving range, “anything is possible.”
ONE EVENING, in the early fall, Garcia came out to where Thumps was hitting balls over the fence.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Garcia dragged his set of clubs through the hole in the cyclone fence and down the fourteenth fairway. Thumps followed behind.
“We’re not supposed to be here.”
“No one’s on the course,” said Garcia. “They’re all at the clubhouse, drinking and watching the Ryder Cup.”
Garcia set a ball on a tee and stepped back.
“Okay,” he said, “show me what you got.”
The fourteenth hole was a par four, 395-yard, dogleg left with a small creek that crossed the fairway 225 yards off the tee.
“Golf is about decisions,” said Garcia. “Which club to hit off the tee is the first one you have to make. If you think you can hit it straight and clear the creek, use the driver. If you’re worried you can’t carry the creek, then lay up with the three-wood or a long iron.”
“I’ll hit driver.”
“Just because it’s in your bag doesn’t mean you have to use it.” Thumps didn’t catch the ball cleanly. It landed short of the creek, rolled down the bank and into the water.
“Risk and reward,” said Garcia. “Try again.”
Thumps hit the driver again, this time clearing the hazard and landing in the middle of the fairway.
“Okay,” said Garcia. “Just one shot too late.”
The lie was good. From here, the course ran uphill to the green. Thumps could see the top of the flag.
“It’s 145 yards,” said Garcia. “It’s an elevated green, so you’re going to have to carry the ball all the way.”
Thumps’s second shot landed in a greenside bunker.
“Didn’t plug,” said Garcia, “but you don’t have much green to work with.”
The third shot was a blast out of the sand that sailed over the green and disappeared into the thick rough near the fence. The fourth shot dribbled onto the green, and Thumps two-putted from there for a six.
“Double bogey,” said Garcia. “See how much fun golf is? Let’s try it again.”
CRUZ WASN’T on the patio drinking beer, and he wasn’t hanging around the driving range watching the golfers practise. There was a large merchandise tent that had been set up behind the pro shop. If he couldn’t find the ninja assassin, he could at least look at the latest equipment that manufacturers had to offer.
Cruz was at the Callaway display, a driver in hand.
“Took you long enough.”
“You play?”
Cruz gave the club a couple of waggles. “You must be kidding. Five hours of your life wasted chasing a ball around a field? Only thing more boring is cricket.”
“And where did you play cricket?”
Cruz put the club back, stepped over to the TaylorMade display, helped himself to an iron.
“And the equipment.” Cruz gripped the club, lined up an imaginary shot. “Every year, the manufacturers bring out a new line of drivers and irons guaranteed to have you hitting the ball farther and straighter.”
Thumps took a three-wood off the display. It was lighter than he remembered.
“So how come in the last twenty years, the average score of the average golfer hasn’t gone down a single stroke?”
“Equipment’s better,” said Thumps, “the golfers are the same.”
Cruz put the club back. “All this shit is like cellphones and cars. Each new model is supposed to be light years ahead of the last, but in reality, they’re just the same old, same old, but in higher heels and a shorter skirt.”
There was a price list. Thumps read it a second time. Someone had to have made a mistake.
Cruz strolled over to an Astroturf green, selected a putter from the rack, rounded up four balls.
“With putters,” said Cruz, “you’re mostly paying for the brand. This Scotty Cameron is six hundred dollars. That Odyssey over there is three hundred.”
Cruz stroked a putt that rolled out across the carpet, broke a little left, and curled into the hole.
“To hear golfers talk about putters, you’d think they were Harry Potter wands that you can wave over your game.”
“We need to talk.”
“Don’t you want to hear my treatise on golf balls?”
THE SECOND TIME, Thumps hit a three-wood off the tee. The ball landed well short of the creek.
“Longer shot into the green,” said Gabriel, “but it’s uphill. Hit a long iron into the slope and let it run out.”
“What about the sand traps?”
“Hit it straight,” said Gabriel.
His second shot was well struck, and as the ball rocketed toward the hole, Thumps was sure it was going to carry over the putting surface and wind up in the woods.
But it didn’t.
As soon as the ball hit the false front, it lost all power, took one hop, and rolled out onto the green.
“Putting for birdie,” said Gabriel. “All you have to do is make the putt.”
Thumps didn’t make the putt. The ball stopped well short of the hole. The next putt rolled past on the low side. The third putt found the bottom of the cup.
“Bogey,” said Gabriel. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
THE RESTAURANT in the main building at Shadow Ranch was surprisingly empty. Cruz grabbed a table for four by a window.
“Okay, so what did Gage tell you?”
“Sorry,” said Thumps. “It’s classified.”
“Very funny.” Cruz searched Thumps’s face.
“She might have mentioned something called Black Ice.”
“But you don’t believe her.”
“Secret agency. Secret agents. Secret projects.” Thumps paused for effect. “Not a recipe for truth.”
“No such thing in our business.”
“And exactly what business is that?”
“You had lunch?” Cruz waved at a server. “I’m hungry.”
Thumps waited while Cruz ordered coffee and a piece of pumpkin pie.
“Coffee and pumpkin pie isn’t lunch.”
Cruz spread a napkin on his lap. “You’re just jealous ’cause you’re diabetic.”
WHEN THEY GOT back, Gabriel grabbed two soft drinks from his trailer, handed one to Thumps, eased himself into a folding chair under the sun awning.
“Careful with that one,” said Gabriel. “It’s got a wonky leg.”
The chair tilted to one side, and Thumps had to lean to the right to keep it level.
“The top golfers make a good living.” Gabriel took a sip. “The rest manage month to month.”
“Not sure I want to be a golfer.”
“Problem is,” said Gabriel, “if you’re born poor and raised poor, your choices are limited. All the talk about equal opportunities in America is bullshit.”
“We’re not that poor.”
“You and your mom are living in a trailer park,” said Gabriel. “Only thing below that is living in a car or living on the street.”
“We do okay,” said Thumps. “I’m going to get a job.”
Gabriel took a long pull on his bottle. “You want half a chance in this life? Get an education. Get a decent job. You won’t get rich, but you’ll eat regular.”
“What about you?”
Gabriel smiled. “I got a beat-to-shit pickup and a busted-up trailer, a bunch of framed photographs, and a set of golf clubs that I couldn’t sell for a tank of gas. I’m a big success.”
“You knew all the big names.”
“Good stories,” said Gabriel. “But they don’t pay the bills.”
THE FOOD ARRIVED. Cruz turned his attention to the pie. Thumps hadn’t been hungry before, wasn’t hungry now.
“This is great.” Cruz took another bite. “There’s nothing like good pumpkin pie.”
But now he was. Not hungry. Just curious. Thumps picked up a fork, reached across the table.
“Hey.” Cruz pulled the plate out of harm’s way. “Get your own piece.”
“It is good.” Thumps licked the fork. “So, if you’re not here to help with the real estate, you must be here for the money.”
Cruz made Thumps wait while he drank his coffee, finished the pie. “All right,” he said. “I’ll read you in, but it doesn’t go any further.”
“Have to tell Duke,” said Thumps. “And my team.”
“Then I have nothing to say.”
Thumps took a moment to get the server’s attention. “How about I make some educated guesses.”
“You’re going to order a piece of pie, aren’t you?”
Thumps settled in his chair, cleaned his fork with the napkin. “The answer to most of life’s questions is pie.”
“You know,” said Cruz, “you are one annoying gringo.”