Sam had a drink as he considered what he’d just heard. They were sitting at a corner table in the clubhouse, having just come in off the course. It was late afternoon and the PGA stop was on the big screen against the far wall.
“And who told you this?”
“Ann McCoy,” Burt replied. He was looking at the menu.
“She told you he was supporting Welles?”
“According to her, he’s introducing him at an event this week.”
“Why would he back Welles?” Sam asked.
Burt put the menu aside and took a drink of rye. “You’re going to have to ask him that. He’s out on the course.”
“I will ask him.”
“Don’t say you heard it from me,” Burt said.
When Paul Sinclair came in a half hour later, Sam called him over and bought him a beer.
“How was your game?” Sam asked.
“The front was bad,” Paul said. “The back was okay.”
“What did you shoot?”
“Eighty-five. You?”
“Seventy-seven.” Sam saw Burt’s eyes widen at the lie but Sam ignored him, leaning forward for the rock glass of liquor. “You didn’t happen to see Ben Rourke out on the course?”
Paul shook his head slightly, not happy with the question, it seemed.
“But you obviously know Ben,” Sam said. “You both have been members here forever. You know each other.”
Paul nodded.
Sam settled back, his drink in both hands. “Burt here tells me you’re supporting this yahoo Welles for Congress.”
Burt shook his head, pissed at the betrayal. Sam smiled at him. Don’t roll your fucking eyes at my score.
“I am supporting him,” Paul said. He’d ordered a light beer and now he took a drink. His hand shook slightly as he raised the glass. He looked thinner than Sam remembered. Something frail about him these days. “But I don’t consider him a yahoo.”
“Do you consider him a liberal?”
“I consider him a capable man, Sam. I’m not interested in labels. That’s more your game.”
Sam sat looking at the older man for a moment, his head cocked. “Why would you suddenly decide to back a young, black, liberal candidate who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground? You’ve been a die-hard party man all your life.”
“Your research is faulty, Sam. I was a registered Democrat in my twenties.”
“Sure. But then you smartened up.” Sam smiled at Burt before turning back to Paul. “And now you’re dumbing down. But you’re not a stupid person, Paul. Why are you pretending to be?”
Paul bristled. “Anybody who disagrees with you qualifies as a stupid person, Sam. Isn’t that right? If we all just acquiesced to your greater intellectual capacities, the world would be a better place. Isn’t that how it is?”
“Pretty much,” Sam said. “That doesn’t explain why you’d endorse this—whatever the hell he is. Community organizer—isn’t that what they call them? That’s what they called the one from Chicago and he became president. Took us eight long years to send him packing.”
“The two-term limit sent him packing.”
“Whatever did it, he’s gone. And now you’re backing another one.”
“Careful,” Paul said. “Is that what this is about?”
“This is about you switching sides, Paul,” Sam told him. “Tell you the truth, I’m just interested in this on a human nature scale. Why are you doing this? You feeling guilty about being old and rich, like Buffett?”
“I’m not as rich as Buffett,” Paul said. “Even you are not as rich as Buffett. And I’m not particularly guilty about anything. I pay my taxes, I give to charity. I don’t even lie about my golf score.”
“You’re a fucking saint,” Sam said.
“And I don’t curse for shock value,” Paul added.
“What are you going to say to Ben Rourke when you see him?” Sam asked. “He could walk in here any minute. How long have you known Ben—thirty years? How you going to tell him you’re backing his opponent? Or do you and Ben have a problem?” Sam hesitated, watching Paul. “Sonofabitch, that’s it. You and Ben have a problem.”
Paul stood up. “I would thank you for the drink but that might suggest that I enjoyed it.”
Sam sat there drinking for a couple hours, thinking that Ben Rourke might come in. He played a round most Sundays when he wasn’t down in Washington and the fact was that he wasn’t in Washington all that much these days. After a half-dozen single malts, Sam gave up. However, as he walked out of the clubhouse heading for the parking lot, he spotted the Congressman himself on the putting green, standing over some alignment gizmo with arrows pointed toward the target hole. Ben was wearing bright red pants and a black Callaway shirt. His broad face was ruddy, the face of a man who spent time outdoors. Or drank a lot.
“That thing will be tucked away in the corner of your garage in a week,” Sam said as he approached.
Ben smiled without looking up. “With all the others.” He putted the ball and missed then glanced at Sam. “One of these days I’ll put it all in a yard sale. Everything must go.”
Sam was drunk enough to dispense with the small talk. “What’s going on with Sinclair?”
“What do you mean?” Another stroke, another miss.
“He’s supporting this Welles kid.”
“So I hear.” Ben missed again and gave up.
“Do you know why?”
Ben regarded the face of his putter a moment, as if it might be the source of his woes. “Officially I have no idea why Paul Sinclair would turn on me. But off the record, between you and me, Sam?”
“Yeah.”
Ben shook his head. “Well, shit. Helen and I had a little thing once, twenty odd years ago. And I mean little. We fucked in their pool a couple of times when Paul was gone on business. She thought there was more to it than that. Women, right? I think she saw herself down in Washington, rubbing shoulders. She was pretty upset when I told her that wasn’t happening. But she got over it.”
“And now Paul finds out.”
“That’s it.”
“How?”
“How do you think? She told him. She went into rehab, you knew that?”
“No. I don’t know the woman. I’ve seen her around here a few times, that’s all. She always looks like she has a stick up her ass.”
“She’s fun in a swimming pool,” Ben said. “Or was anyway. But now she’s in AA and you know how they got that thing about making amends.”
“She spills to Paul and he decides he’s going to help get you voted out of office.”
“Apparently so.” Ben tossed a ball onto the green and addressed it, ready to try again. “He could just wait. One more term and I’m packing it in anyway. Why wouldn’t he just wait?”
“Because there’s no revenge in waiting,” Sam said.
“True.” Ben drained the putt, dead center.
“There you go,” Sam told him. “You worried about Welles?”
“Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been. Things have changed though. The district is thirty-eight per cent minority now. Black and Hispanic. Those people are voting these days.” He gestured toward the clubhouse, the bastion of rich white folks. “Whereas sometimes these people forget to. I’d like one more term, Sam. Take my pension and ride off into the sunset.”
“You’ll be okay,” Sam told him. “As long as you don’t figure on making any money playing golf.”