“You got that dead right. You oughta write an article on the caddy masters of America. They’re all corrupt — bookies, pimps, and worse. They’re all tyrants and shitheels and Hot Rod Ralston is the worst.”
There was a general uproar inside the caddy shack, the sound of boxes slammed down, followed by excited voices. Pops got up from his trash can and rushed into the fray. I joined him. Boxes full of clothes were laid out on the concrete floor, and dozens of old suits covered two of the picnic tables. A horde of loopers had descended on them like a pack of wolves, gathering them indiscriminately, irrespective of size. Pushing and shoving ensued, and the caddies’ favorite verb, noun, adjective, and modifier, “cocksucker!” was heard many times with many different inflections. Within two minutes everything was snatched up and the loopers were proudly examining and displaying their booty.
Pops came back out on the porch gleefully bearing an old sharkskin suitcoat. He took off the ratty cardigan he was wearing, threw it out in the direction of the oil digs, and donned the suitcoat, strutting like a rooster. “Them Hebes is all right,” he said. “They take care of us! This is a three-hundred-dollar coat. Look inside here, it says ‘Made in U.S.A.’! This ain’t no Taiwan piece of shit, this is the real goods! Goddamn,” Pops went on, “now all I need me is a loop to make my day. Then I’ll be hopping.”
A loudspeaker crackled inside the caddy shack. “Augie Dougall, first tee, right away.” That was interesting. There were dozens of hardier looking loopers around to pack bags. Pops thought it was interesting, too. “Cocksucking Hot Rod,” he said. “I been here since six-thirty this morning. That beanpole gets here at noon, and he loops before me. Cocksucker.”
I went back into the caddy shack in time to see Augie Dougall walking out the front door toward the first tee, stuffing his comic book in his pocket. I followed. The first tee was evidently a squat one-man cubicle where Hot Rod made his caddy assignments and sent players off. It was at the end of the large putting green I had passed by earlier. I stayed well behind, not wanting Ralston to see me. Dougall joined Ralston, and after a moment’s conversation they walked together downhill past rows of parked golf carts to a large barnlike building. I followed again, slowly.
I could hear what had to be Ralston’s voice as I came up on the side of the barn. It was slow, deep, and explaining patiently: “Trust me, Augie. I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?” Dougall muttered something in answer that I couldn’t quite hear.
I decided to risk a look inside. I flattened myself up against the corrugated iron side of the barn and craned my head inside. The barn was for storing golf carts, and there were dozens of them neatly lined up, with long rubber cords attached to electrical chargers that were mounted on hangers suspended from the high ceiling. Ralston and Dougall were sitting together in a cart midway down the line, with their backs to me, too far away from me to hear. I hunkered down and crept into the barn, then squatted behind a cart several rows in back of the two men. From my vantage point it looked like a bizarre father-son relationship — Ralston the father speaking in placating tones to his outsized ungainly son, Dougall. Dougall’s head was turned sideways to catch every well-measured word Ralston offered. I found myself reluctantly admiring Ralston. He was a formidable manipulator. I picked their conversation up in midsentence: “So... things are changing, Augie. It’s nothing we can’t handle, though. But Fat Dog got himself in some big trouble. He fucked with the wrong people and he got hurt. You’re not going to see him again, Augie. Not ever.”
“What did he do, Rod?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. A long time ago he got away with a heavyweight scene. Some people got hurt. I took care of Fat Dog. A friend of mine got him out of some heavy shit. This was years ago when you and Fat Dog were tight. Heavy-duty shit, Augie. Heavy-duty. Did he tell you about it? He told someone, because it got back to the wrong people. And the only people who knew about it before were my friend and I and Fat Dog, of course. And he wouldn’t tell the wrong people, Augie, because his ass would be up shit’s creek if he did.”
“He didn’t tell me no heavy-duty shit, Rod. Just loopin’ and racetrack stuff. Nothin’ bad.”
Ralston put an arm over Dougall’s bony shoulders and squeezed tightly. “You’re sure of that, Augie? You knew Fat Dog better than anyone. You were the closest thing he had to a friend.”
“I’m sure, Rod. Honest.”
“Because someone told a Mexican guy about what Fat Dog did. The Mexican guy hated Fat Dog. The Mexican guy went looking for Fat Dog and he got hurt, Augie. Hurt badly. Whoever told the Mexican about Fat Dog wanted to see Fat Dog hurt, Augie, and I’ve always thought you carried a lot of hatred around for him, even though you hung out together. Fat Dog made fun of you, Augie, I know that. You were his lackey, kind of. Did you want to hurt him, Augie?”
“I never wanted to hurt Fat Dog, Rod. He was my friend. Sometimes he was nasty, but I just got used to it. I never told no one nothin’ about Fat Dog. You got to believe me, Rod.” Dougall’s voice was rising to a wail and his shoulders were shaking.
Ralston tightened his grip around them. “Because if you told anyone about Fat Dog, you could get hurt, too. You could get hurt as bad as Fat Dog or the Mexican guy. You read me, Augie?”
“Yes. I read you, Rod. I didn’t tell nobody nothing.”
“Okay Augie. Now, I happen to know that Fat Dog kept a scrapbook. A scrapbook that told about all the bad things he did in his life. He also ripped me off for a ledger, Augie, with writing in Spanish. I need that ledger. You know that Fat Dog was rich, don’t you, Augie? Loaded. Heavy bread. And it’s rightfully mine. I want that money. What do you know about that, Augie?”
“I know he used to have this scrapbook where he kept these clippings from all these tournaments he looped. Is that what you mean, Rod?”
“No, Augie, not that. You’re sure you never saw any other scrapbook? A big thick one full of clippings and writing? Or a leather ledger book?”
“No, never.”
“Okay, Augie. There may be some other guys Fat Dog hung out with who remember it. We’ll let that one slide for now. One more thing, Augie, then I’ll let you go. I’ve got a juicy nine-holer waiting for you. There’s a detective nosing around. He’s very interested in Fat Dog and his dealings. His name is Brown, do you know anything about that?”
“I seen him, Rod. I seen him. He was at the Tap and Cap askin’ about Fat Dog. Said he was lookin’ for him, that Fat Dog hired him. I...”
Ralston cut in sharply. “When was this, Augie?”
“Maybe two weeks ago.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Fat Dog’s a tough man to find. That he sleeps outside. That’s all, Rod, I swear.”
“That’s good, Augie.”
“But I know more, Rod. Once me and Fat Dog was out on this loop at Lakeside and this car guy, the one who does them commercials on T.V. with the dog, was telling Fat Dog about this private eye he knew who was a real fuck up, who wasn’t a real private eye, but was good for rippin’ niggers off for their cars. That’s what he said. He was real nasty about it, like the guy was workin for him, but he was laughin’ at the guy. You know what I mean? Anyways, later Fat Dog tells me, ‘Someday I’m gonna have a use for that fuck-up private eye, yes sir.’ That’s what he said, Rod. Honest.”
“That’s good, Augie, and very interesting. You keep quiet about that, and everything else we’ve talked about. You’re a good man, Augie, and a good caddy. I’ve never regretted taking care of you. Don’t do anything now to make me regret it. Keep your mouth shut and life will be smooth. A lot of people have gotten hurt recently by talking too much and fucking around with the wrong people. Don’t let it happen to you, okay?”