Oh, man. I needed to leave, or Lamar Burks and Randy Hartwick were quickly going to become forgotten goals of the afternoon.
“I’ve got to go, Rebecca,” I said. “But promise you’ll miss me.”
“I promise,” she said, and laughed. I left the hotel. I was starting to like South Carolina just fine.
The Sweetwater Bay Golf Course was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel. There was a map on the brochure, and I found the course without trouble. The pro shop was a small, white clapboard building surrounded by palm trees. If you’ve just spent a winter in Cleveland, palm trees rank among the most welcome sights in the world. Signs pointed down golf cart paths toward the “Championship Course” and the “Executive Course.” I parked and went inside. An overweight man in khaki shorts and a Nike polo shirt was seated behind the counter. I asked him if he’d seen Lamar Burks.
“You the guy who called earlier?” he said, not taking his eyes off the small television suspended from the ceiling. The Golf Channel was on, and someone was demonstrating the art of chipping. Fascinating stuff.
“Yeah, I called earlier. Is Lamar around?”
“Uh-huh.” He waved his head toward the front of the building without looking at me. “He’s on the range. He’ll be going out on the executive course soon.”
I looked out the window and saw the driving range at the far end of the parking lot. There were only six people there, and three of them were women. There were two young white men and a middle-aged black man.
“Can I get a bucket of balls?” I asked.
“Grab one from the rack,” he said. “It’s five dollars.”
“Okay. Got any clubs I can use?”
He finally looked away from the screen, staring at me as if I’d asked to borrow his underwear. “You don’t have any clubs?”
“I’m from out of state. Wasn’t planning on playing.”
He shook his head as if this were stunning news. “Well, there are some beaters on the stand against the wall. Grab whatever you’d like.”
I paid him for the bucket and selected a seven-iron, pitching wedge, and driver from the stand of clubs on the wall. The “beaters” were nicer than any clubs I’d ever owned.
I went outside and walked up to the range. The white guys had left, leaving only the women and the black man. As I approached, one of the women said, “Nice shot, Lamar.”
Lamar Burks was hitting off the grass. I emptied half of my bucket beside him, and he smiled and nodded at me. He was about forty, a short, powerfully built man, with shoulders like gigantic hams. He was wearing white shorts and a white shirt, and under the shorts his thighs and butt were massive. Not fat, either, just thick. It was the kind of backside that would have made for a hell of a post game in basketball.
I found a tee lying in the grass and placed one of the balls on it, then took the driver and got into position. I’d never been much of a golfer. The game was a little too slow for me, and certainly not athletic enough to compensate for a good workout or game of pickup basketball. I played occasionally but planned on saving most of my outings for my retirement, when my aging body would no longer take the basketball games and workouts but would certainly be up to golf. It had been nearly a year since I’d even swung a club. I took a few practice cuts, trying to get the feel of the driver, and then stepped up to the tee.
My first shot went about a hundred and fifty yards, but all of them came on the ground. I’d sent the ball whistling across the grass, bouncing occasionally but never rising more than a foot in the air. I put another ball on the tee and swung again. This time I got it in the air, but it sliced horribly. So did the second shot. And the third.
Beside me, Lamar Burks chuckled softly. “Boy,” he said, “maybe I should move down a bit, keep out of the line of fire.”
“No need for sarcasm, Lamar. I’m just shaking off the rust.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Uh-oh. It knows my name.”
I offered my hand. “Lincoln Perry,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to you about one of your employees.”
“Which one?” he said as we shook.
“Randy Hartwick.”
His eyes narrowed. “And who exactly are you, Mr. Perry?”
I got out my wallet and showed him my license. He studied it carefully, then nodded. “Well, all right. We can talk. But you’d better believe I’m going to finish hitting my bucket first.”
“Fair enough.”
“Go ahead and hit your bucket, too, and I’ll try not to laugh. Won’t be easy, though. That might be the ugliest swing this county’s ever seen.”
I set down the driver and picked up the seven-iron. “Tell you what, Lamar. I’ll bet you fifty dollars I can hit this seven-iron farther than you can hit yours.”
“You gotta be kidding me, son! Oh, yes, yes, yes. If there’s anything I like more than a betting man, it’s a betting fool,” he said, and laughed loudly. “How many swings?”
“Your call.”
“Three swings, then.”
“Deal.” I wasn’t too concerned about losing my money. I’d seen Burks take several swings now, and, while he was a hell of an accurate golfer, he wasn’t much for distance. His arms were short, and his swing was very controlled. He’d been hitting his five-wood when I arrived, and he’d hit that only about two hundred yards. He also had a driver with an enormous, oversized head, the kind that was so popular among golfers who struggled to hit a long drive. I couldn’t hit woods well, but I was pretty decent with clubs that had more loft. I didn’t have much of an aptitude for the game of golf, but my length and strength usually allowed me to hit very well for distance.
Burks took his seven-iron out of the bag and took a few practice cuts. I liked what I saw. He had a short swing.
“I’ll go first,” he said. He hit his first shot right down the middle, but only a hundred and forty yards. A pretty ball, but not a long one.
“Damn,” he said. “I hit that like my grandmother. Next ball.” He swung again, snapping the wrists through a little quicker this time, and got an extra fifteen yards out of it, although the ball tapered off to the right.
“One fifty-five,” he announced happily. It was a pretty long shot for a seven-iron; most golfers would take it. He hit the third ball, but this time he was back at one forty again.
“You’ve got to beat one fifty-five,” he said, stepping back. “And I know that ain’t going to happen.”
“We’ll see.” I used the club head to pull a ball into position and then took my first swing. I pulled my chin up as I made contact, and the ball sliced again, going about a hundred twenty yards, and almost an equal distance to the right. Burks laughed loudly. I set another ball up and rolled my shoulders, trying to relax. The smoother the swing, the better it would work for me. This time, I kept my head down and swung through the ball smoothly. It was the closest thing to a straight shot I’d hit yet, with just a slight slice, and I put it almost to the one seventy-five marker. I turned to Burks and smiled.
“Bullshit,” he said. “You didn’t just do that! Damn, and it was on an ugly-ass swing, too. I mean an ugly-ass swing.” He shook his head.
I laughed. “The bet wasn’t about swing quality, it was about distance. You owe me fifty, but I’ll probably let it slide if you’re cooperative.”
“I’ll tell you only what I think I should tell you,” he said seriously. “I’m an honest man, but I’m not the type of man who encourages trouble. If you’re looking to cause Randy some sort of hassle, you’ll need to look elsewhere.”
“I won’t be causing him a hassle,” I said. “Nor will anyone else. Mr. Hartwick was murdered in Cleveland yesterday, Lamar.”
He’d been taking practice swings with his pitching wedge. Now he dropped the club and turned to me, surprised. “Is that the truth?”
“It is.”
He stared across the course, and I could see true sadness and compassion in his eyes. Lamar Burks had liked Randy Hartwick. Eventually, he picked his club back up and put it in the bag.