TY WAS PASSING the second-floor nurses’ station at precisely the start of visitation hours.
Blanchard had been waiting in the wings, ready to spring an ambush on her unsuspecting prey. When she caught sight of her victim, she bolted in front of him, blocking his path.
“Mr. Ryder, the director has forwarded your correspondence to me. The pathetic efforts you have put forth in an attempt to discredit me have fallen on deaf ears, for the reputation I have as a consummate professional precedes me. I find it ironic that you and Mr. Cooper have formed this weak alliance wherein you feel the urgent need to challenge my authority at every turn when the only requirement asked of you is complete compliance with the rules.”
“It is not the rules per se that we object to. Rather, it’s that you callously manipulate patients under your jurisdiction in a way that undermines their happiness and welfare.”
“Mr. Ryder, when in my house we play by my rules. ‘Happiness’ is not the prime objective here at Mercy. We are not running a resort. We practice medicine at this facility—nothing more and nothing less. The mental status of our patients is addressed in the psych ward and is of little concern to me. Is that clear?”
“Quite. You have emphatically stated your position in a most concise manner. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Dink wheezed a gentle snore, both lips working like bellows over his toothless gums. The patch over his eye socket was more befitting for a pirate than the landlubber he was.
Ty turned to leave the room when he heard a weak cry.
“Hey, sonny. Where you think you’re going?”
“Thought you were asleep.”
“At my age, you never sleep. Might not wake if you do.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“No more than the constant, ongoing battle I have with you-know-who.”
“Speaking of her, I sent a complaint to the Director of Operations.”
“Little good it’ll do. The lying wench has them all bamboozled.”
Ty removed the small digital voice recorder from his pocket.
“That may be true, but sometimes the spoken word actually does pinpoint and clarify areas of contention.” He briefly depressed the back button and then pressed play.
“Mr. Ryder, when in my house we play by my rules. ‘Happiness’ is not the prime objective here at Mercy. We are not running a resort. We practice medicine at this facility—nothing more and nothing less. The mental status of our patients is addressed in the psych ward and is of little concern to me. Is that clear?”
Ty smiled. “Coming directly from the horse’s mouth, the director might find Blanchard’s overall stance on patient well-being most interesting.”
He handed Dink the hooch. “Here. This ought to loosen your tongue.”
“Any looser, it’d fall out of my mouth,” the old man said while rimming the bottle.
Ty turned on the recorder. “You mentioned at one point there was a professional tournament held at Ocean Crest. Did you actually caddie in it?”
Dink belched an intoxicating, vaporous mix potent enough to sterilize the room.
“Darn tootin’ I did—and if there’s any discrepancy, look no further than the record book. Not only did I take Ginger’s advice to learn every blade of grass on that course, but I took it a step further and paced off distances from various points to the green.
“Now, it’s been said that Deane Beman was the first to pace off yardages beginning in ’54 when he was a junior golfer. His friend, a little-known fella by the name of Jack Nicklaus, adapted and popularized the practice at Pebble Beach in the ’61 Amateur after blowing away Dudley Wysong in the final.
“Well, I’m here to tell you that Beman was not the first. Little do those historians know, I had it down to a science over twenty-five years earlier.”
Dink sighed and slowly shook his head. “Sure as hell wish the PGA would get with the times and allow caddies to use range finders or one of those GPS gizmos. Slow play is the scourge of modern-day golf. But they’re so entrenched in the beloved traditions of the game they can’t see the forest for the trees.
“Anyway, back to the tournament held at Ocean Crest. The big show is about to roll into town, bringing with it all the stars of the era. The purses and payouts were so small in those days, it was necessary to play in as many events as possible in order to make a living.
“Sandy Langford, a little-known pro who had fared far better at the track than the course, arrived a day early. He makes his way over to the shack where me and the boys are rolling the bones. I’m hotter than a habanero, having rolled eight straight passes, when he interrupts my streak.
“‘Which one of you guys wants to ride a winner this week?’ he inquires in more of a cocky than confident way.
“Don’t know what it is about the guy, but I like what I see, so I pass the bones and say, ‘I’m your man if you’re serious about winning.’
“‘Serious as a heart attack but won’t need your services until game time. Have a small personal matter that needs my attention.’
“I rub the stubble on my chin and kind of squish my eyes, not knowing what to make of him. Then I thrust out a hand. ‘We got a deal.’
“‘Tee time’s at noon. Be on the range at eleven o’clock Thursday morning. Got that?’
“So I show up at the course around sunup, just as the maintenance crew begins setting the cups. I bird-dog them all eighteen holes, pacing how deep the pin was set that day. Through hundreds of rounds, I had already paced off yardages from just about any place on the fairway to the front, center, and back of the greens—and that was only the beginning. I had also carefully mapped out every green—the contours, breaks, grain, hogbacks, and plateaus—marking every little nuance in my black book.
“Langford is already on the range when I arrive. The thin young man in his mid-thirties looks rather dapper in his plus-fours, argyle socks, and flat cap.
“‘There you are,’ he says. ‘Was afraid you might not show.’
“‘And what? Miss out on carrying the winning bag?’
“He laughs and says, ‘I like your style, kid. You know just the right things to say. Hand me my niblick.’
“My heart sinks right then and there when I hand him the hickory-shafted club, knowing we were at a disadvantage right from the get-go. Most of the top-notch golfers had already jumped on the steel-shaft bandwagon since it was sanctioned in ’25. Our only saving grace was the fact that Nelson didn’t fully develop his revolutionary adaptive technique until the thirties in what was to become a model for the modern swing. Players were still being taught the same antiquated methods that had been passed down through the centuries. Unbeknownst to them, the flat, wristy swing necessary to square those twisting, wooden shafts was not needed.
“My fears ease somewhat after I observe him stripe ball after ball. Now, if he could only putt. Watching him bludgeon every putt he hit, it didn’t take long to see we were in dire straits.
“He looks to the heavens and shakes his fist. ‘If only I could putt. Could do just as well using a shovel,’ he declares.
“‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’ I run fast as my short little legs can carry me and retrieve Calamity Jane.
“Langford looks the club over. ‘What am I supposed to do with this piece of crap?’
“‘This, sir, is the most famous putter in the history of the game. It was given to me by none other than Bobby Jones himself.’
“‘The Bobby Jones?’
“‘Yes, the Bobby Jones. This putter becomes a lethal weapon to all who use it.’
“Langford made a few practice strokes. ‘Bobby Jones,’ he mouthed.
“It’s amazing what a positive influence the power of suggestion can have on the human psyche. This gorilla previously had the touch of a blacksmith, but now with the Holy Grail in his hands he has the sensitivity of a safecracker. That short, choppy smash of his is miraculously transformed into a long, flowing stroke similar to Bobby’s own.
“He nods his approval. ‘Haven’t felt nothing this good since Billie Jean Brady let me plow her field when I was a kid.’
“Coincidentally, I then spot Master of Ceremonies Bobby Jones making his rounds on the putting green.
“‘Be right back,’ I tell Langford.
“So I rush over and shake his hand. ‘Remember me, Mr. Jones?’
“‘Of course. How could I forget? Taking good care of Jane, I assume.’
“I look down and paw at the green with my foot. ‘Hope you can forgive me, but I lent it to Sandy Langford while I’m on his bag this week.’
“‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jones says. ‘The other competitors realize it’s the Indian, not the arrow, that matters. Good luck to you, kid.’
“When I return to Langford, he takes me off to the side. ‘You really do know Jones, don’t you? Thought maybe you were trying to pull something over on me, but I guess you’re on the up and up after all. That old putter of his is about to make history again,’ the braggart brays like a jackass.
“He steps up to the first tee all brimming with confidence and pulls out the big dog.
“I’m not about to let this guy throw away the tourney on the first hole because of his big ego and bad decision-making. ‘Can I see that club?’ I ask.
“He hands it to me and I exchange it for his spoon.
“Langford eyes me like I got a screw loose or something. ‘What the hell you think you’re doing?’ he asks.
“‘That fade of yours has a good chance of catching that trap on the right. Depending where it settles, you might have to lay up out of there. This will keep you short.’
“‘Is that so?’ he scoffs.
“The blowhard plays it left center but it cuts a bit too much. It’s now heading for the trap. It rolls forever but ends up stopping short of the hazard. ‘Good call,’ he says rather begrudgingly.
“We saddle up to his next shot. Having never seen the course, it’s apparent he’s undecided what to hit. After an inordinate amount of time, he pulls out a mashie niblick.
“‘What are you going to hit?’ I ask.
“‘What’s it to you?’
“I flip open my little black book. ‘It’s 140 to clear the front trap, 145 to the pin, 30 more feet of green past that, and there’s a slight breeze into you.’ I rummage through his bag and hand him a spade mashie.
“‘Who’s the pro here anyway? You got balls of brass telling me how to play golf.’
“‘Do you want to win this thing or not?’ I ask. ‘And by the way, the pin’s cut only ten feet from the right edge. Your miss is to the left.’
“He shrugs nonchalantly, bashes one up there pin-high six feet away, then cans the bird. ‘Kid, where the hell have you been all my life?’
“Next hole’s a long par-three over water and the pin’s cut front right. He looks over at me like he’s totally helpless, waiting for my guidance. I hand him a mid-mashie.
“‘Too much club,’ he says.
“I flip open my book again and go over all the particulars.
“‘If you’re wrong, I’ll have your ass,’ he threatens.
“‘Aim at that guy in red. Should give you a margin of safety if you either over-cut or push it. Water’s only ten feet to the right.’
“Bam! Another shot hole-high, twelve feet away, and he drains it for another bird. Had he hit his original club, he’d have been in the drink.
“He throws an arm around me. ‘We could make quite a team…Dink, is it? What do you think about joining the Sandy Show? Get to travel around the country, see the world, fatten your bank account, and there’re plenty of skirts out there we could pleat. What ya say?’
“‘Thanks, but no thanks. I got my eyes on the sweetest little girl any man could wish for.’
“‘Big mistake, pal. Broads are dime a dozen, and there’s a ton of cash to be made.’
“At the completion of the round, he’s tied for the lead with a sixty-six. He shoulders his clubs and sticks Jane in the bag.
“‘The putter stays with me,’ I tell him. ‘That’s my baby.’
“‘Oh sure, kid. What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?’
“‘You kidding? I don’t trust my own mother!’ I say with a straight face.
“‘Anywhere around here a man can wet his whistle?’ he asks while handing over Calamity Jane.
“I reassure him relief is just around the corner. He washes up, changes clothes, and I take him to the veranda. The ugly ape in black and white opens his little hatch after my coded three knocks and asks, ‘What’s the password?’
“I’ve got no stinking password, so I bluff the man. ‘You know who I am. The password is “Let me in or I’ll have Charles Conley fire your ass.”’
“He thinks it over for about two seconds and then opens the door.
“The joint’s hopping because of the tournament and all. Langford orders two shots of rye and a couple of suds for us. ‘Nice racket they got going here. Wish I had a piece of the action.’
“Speaking of piece, I notice he’s packing a rod beneath his jacket. ‘What’s with the hardware?’ I ask.
“He draws his coat open for a look-see and flashes his gun. ‘You’ve got your baby; I got mine. Sometimes it takes a mediator to get your point across. Know what I mean?’
“It wasn’t the first time I’d misjudged someone’s character, but this one is a real doozy. Now that he’s established himself as the alpha male, he leans on me and boldly asks, ‘How much for the putter?’
“‘You’re joking, right?’
“‘I’m a golfer, not a comedian.’
“I’m seriously wondering how I’m going to end this relationship before he puts an end to me. ‘That club’s like family,’ I say. ‘No way I can sell my only child.’
“‘Reconsider joining forces with me. That way, it’s a win-win.’
“‘Sorry, but after that last putt drops, I’m a free agent. I like to keep my options open.’
“‘Big mistake, buddy boy—big mistake,’ Langford says.
“About this time, I’m looking for the nearest exit. Was that a threat or just an innocent observation? I wonder. But as my eyes fixate on his gun, I begin to have reservations.
“‘You tell anybody else about that black book of yours?’ he asks.
“‘No, sir. Been top secret. Don’t want nobody stealing my idea and getting the edge.’
“‘Smart. Keep a lid on it, kid. What about that putter?’
“‘Couple of people I trust know about it. Don’t want some collector pinching it.’
“‘Good thinking. You’re all right, know that?’
“Well, I know I’m all right. It’s him I’m not sure of.
“Under my guidance, he continues with his stellar play throughout the week, pushing his lead to four strokes with three holes to go on the last day. Standing in the middle of the sixteenth, I pull out my book.
“He’s feeling pretty cocky about then. ‘Stow it,’ he says in a harsh tone. ‘Who’s the pro here anyway? Think I don’t know how to play golf?’
“He proceeds to hit the wrong club. The ball goes over the green and then out of bounds. Four strokes later he records a double. I leave the book in my back pocket on the next hole and he dumps one short, buried under the lip of a bunker. Three strokes later, it’s a bogey.
“It’s obvious he’s getting a little antsy on eighteen with only a one-shot lead, but his ego gets in the way. He makes another bad decision and comes up way short for his second. He’s sweating bullets now as he inspects a very tight lie with no green to work with. I clam up, not saying a word to Mr. Big. I’ll let this clown dig his own grave. He rushes the shot, bellies it twenty feet past the pin, and now he’s looking for answers.
“‘What does this look like to you?’ he asks.
“I can see his hand shaking as he wipes sweat from his brow. In a flash, I’m pacing around the hole while glancing at my book. The putt’s a toughie, all right—a downhill slider that’s slicker than snot.
“‘It’s going to break a foot to the right at the very end,’ I tell him. ‘It’s fast, so choke up a couple of inches, lighten up on that grip, and let Jane do her thing.’
“He seems to have gained his confidence back and lays down a pretty stroke that would make Bobby proud. The ball rolls and rolls. Just when you think it’s going to stop, it rolls some more, takes a right-hand turn at the end, and drops into the cup for the victory.
“The crowd erupts and he takes off running with Calamity Jane, slapping hands with the gallery à la Hale Irwin at the Open. At first I’m thinking his celebration is a little over the top, but when he continues on toward the parking lot, I give chase. It’s apparent he’s willing to sacrifice his prize money for a chance to own the goose that lays the golden egg.
“I’m running fast as my short legs will carry me, but I’m no match for this speedster with strides of a gazelle.
“Then, from out of nowhere, Jones makes an open field tackle The Gipper would’ve been proud of. He’s got the pillager’s legs wrapped up in this bear hug and is holding on for dear life.
“‘Hold him! I’m coming!’ I yell.
“Bobby spits out a mouthful of sand and dirt. ‘Do I have any other options?’
“I high-step over the entangled bodies and plant my bony knee in the middle of Langford’s back.
“Billy Bob…remember Billy Bob, my buddy back at Black Sands that got me started caddying? Well, he fancied himself a wrestler and taught me this slick move he called the sleeper. So I jerk Langford’s head back and commence to apply the sleeper to the shyster.
“Lo and behold, he goes out like a baby. Later, I find out he’s wanted by the police in a dozen states for various infractions of the law, including attempted murder.
“‘I’d be a bit more discerning regarding my associates and who I lend that putter to,’ Bobby hedged.
“‘A lesson well learned, Mr. Jones—believe me.’
“Me and Jones share the spotlight, us being heroes and all, but truth be told, without him I’d be up shit creek without a paddle.
“I’m feeling a bit down seeing as how Langford stiffed me for my week’s work when Bobby approaches me after the awards presentation.
“‘If I’d known you and Calamity would be in cahoots with that charlatan, I might not have so readily discarded the old girl,’ Jones says with a chuckle.
“‘Mr. Jones, I never meant any disrespect. Here. You can have her back.’
“‘The putter is yours, son. Keep it. I gave it to you.’
“Jones tucks a wad of bills into my pocket. ‘By reason of Langford’s default and your heroic endeavor, the tournament committee feels it’s only right that you be compensated for your efforts this week,’ he says to me with a wry smile.
TY SCOOTED HIS chair a little closer to Dink. “That’s a pretty tall tale. Sure you aren’t spinning a yarn?”
“Tale! What the hell, boy? Have I ever lied to you? Check the record books. It’s all there, and I’m sure there was plenty of newsprint that’ll verify every word I’ve said, too.”
“Sorry, Dink. Not sure what I was thinking. Your word’s gospel to me. Up for another session tomorrow?”
“Does a bear… Never mind. I think you get my drift,” he said, closing his eyes.
Ty pulled the covers nice and snug over Dink’s chest and patted him on the shoulder. “Sleep tight, my friend.”