Maria DaRosa placed the bright yellow ball on one of the dimpled bumps on the rubber mat and assumed a solid putter’s stance, feet shoulder wide, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other to settle in, holding the putter straight out, pointing down the course and picking her spot.
Cassidy watched, entranced.
Her tanned legs were set off nicely by a yellow, black, and red madras wraparound skirt, white cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and thin, white leather sandals. She was all concentration as she took a couple of practice swings. Cassidy watched carefully, and sure enough, right before she struck the ball, the little pink tip of her tongue appeared in the corner her mouth. It was outrageous.
Her backswing was short, so it always surprised him how loud the thwack was when she connected. The ball flew into the right side of the chute, did a complete loop-de-loop, and shot out the other side heading straight for the angled board in the corner of a sharp dogleg right. The ball hit it dead center, making a beeline for the hole. At first it looked like it would go in, but it was off just a hair to the right and came to rest two inches past the cup.
“Damn,” said Cassidy.
“Don’t swear,” she said.
Cassidy saw that the group playing just ahead of them had taken to watching her shots. It was date night and the place was full of couples. Cassidy and Maria between them knew about half of them.
“I just want to know how the dickens you do that,” he said.
“I tell you every time. You don’t listen every time.”
He placed his ball on the tee mat and knocked it through the loop-de-loop with plenty of force, but it came out crooked and caught just the edge of the angled board in the corner. It sputtered down the green hugging the side rail and came to rest ten feet from the hole.
“Do you mind if I putt out?” she said. “Just so I can be out of your way.”
“Oh, sure, why not. Go ahead and putt out by all means. Very considerate of you.”
Giggling, she tapped in and watched with feigned sympathy as he two-putted from where he was.
He picked both balls out of the hole and deliberately handed her the wrong one. She waited, hand on hip, giving him the cocked-head look he associated with Willie the parrot.
“Yours is luckier. I think we ought to switch,” he said.
“Think again,” she said, taking her ball back.
The next hole was a giant clown’s head with a big laughing mouth that you had to go through to get to the hole, but otherwise a perfectly straight shot. The Cracker Jack surprise in this hole was that when your ball went through the clown’s mouth, a loudspeaker blasted you with maniacal laughter.
“I don’t see what’s so damned funny about what’s going on here,” Cassidy said.
“You haven’t shot yet either.”
She had honors and placed the ball on the center dimple. She addressed the ball, sighted down the club, took two practice swings, stepped forward, and smacked the ball through the middle of Clarabelle’s pie hole. The crazy laughter erupted as the ball exited the back of the clown’s head and beelined into the cup like it had eyes.
“I don’t believe this,” he said.
“Believe it or don’t, but put me down for a one, Roscoe,” she said, smiling. “That’s pretty funny, isn’t it?”
He fished the little stub of a pencil out of his breast pocket and wrote “1” for her. She was three under par on the seventh hole. He was three over, so it was a symmetrical trouncing.
“How did you get so good at this?”
“I told you the last time. My parents used to drop my sisters and me off here every Saturday morning at eight and would come pick us up at noon. It cost a dollar each and was the cheapest babysitting deal in town. Try to imagine how many rounds of this stuff you can do in four hours. We’d get so bored we’d be wading in the water hazards when they got back.”
“Where did your folks go?”
“They said they were going grocery shopping, but I think they went back home for hanky-panky. Ewww, I don’t even like to think about it.”
“Mine always took a ‘nap’ on Sunday afternoons. Interruptions for anything less than missing limbs were dealt with harshly.”
She laughed, showing white teeth. Next up was the windmill.
As she was placing her ball, Cassidy saw Harry Winkler, one of the football captains, at the next hole over. He waved and Winkler walked over, shaking his head.
“Hey, I heard,” he said. “Unbelievable.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do?”
Cassidy shrugged. “Looks like my roundball days are over.”
“Do you have anything lined up collegewise?”
“Not really. A little interest, but I think they were waiting to see how this year was going to go.”
“Well, it bites a big one, man. Wanted to tell you.”
“Thanks, appreciate it, Wink.”
“Hang loose.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Maria was standing next to the hole and her ball was nowhere in sight.
“Not another hole in one, for crissakes,” he said.
“No cussing. And I got a two, thank you. I just went ahead and putted out since you were busy with your big friend.”
Cassidy aimed carefully, but his timing was off. His ball whacked the big blade as it swept by, sending it right back toward the tee.
“Do-overs!” he called, and hooked the ball back with his putter. She rolled her eyes but didn’t object.
The next shot went through and actually ended up a foot from the hole. He putted in and put himself down for a highly questionable par two.
They decided to take a break before the waterfall hole. Cassidy went for french fries and root beers while Maria grabbed the last available picnic table.
“So what did Harry want?” she asked, picking through the french fries for one that met her standards.
“Just commiserating. Wanted to know what I’m going to do.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I said ‘beats me,’ or words to that effect.”
“Oh, come on. You’re the one who’s always saying, ‘Harumph. Gentlemen, we must have a plan. We have to have a plan, even if it is wrong.’ ”
“Okay, what we’ve come up with—”
“We?”
“Trapper and I. What it is, is that I will run track for Mr. Kamrad, but I will be coached by a guy in Kansas.”
“Now you are kidding.”
“Hey, you asked. But it gets better. The guy in Kansas will coach me through a local proxy who lives in a shack in the jungle without electricity.”
She looked at him with those big, dark eyes.
“What else?” he said. “Oh, yeah, this guy lives on snakes and turtles.”
She studied him closely, looking for any signs of frivolity, but then brightened suddenly.
“Say,” she said, making her voice sound hollow and grainy, like a character from a ’40s B movie, “it’s a crazy idea, but it just might work.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.”
“I thought it was puns.”
“Okay, puns and sarcasm are the two lowest forms of humor.”
“The one in Kansas I assume is this Archie person, what is it . . . Santorini?”
“San Romani. Santorini is an island off Greece.”
“What does he think about this?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“And Mr. Kamrad?”
“We don’t know yet.”
She again looked for signs of teasing and saw none.
“I’m just wondering how you come up with these schemes.”
“Plans, not schemes,” he said. “Schemes connote something sneaky. This is a plan.”
“Yeah, and you think it’s a good plan because . . .”
Cassidy offered her the last french fry. She shook her head and he popped it in his mouth and smiled.
“Because it worked once already,” he said, chewing happily.