The Feathery (25 page)

The burly uniformed officer sitting behind the desk said, "a chap by the name of Rocco Vitale was under surveillance, as ordered by Scotland Yard Chief Inspector Bradshaw and—"

"What happened to the surveillance?" Beth interrupted. "We were shot at by that guy."

The dispatcher blushed with embarrassment before he answered. "Vitale slipped the man tailing him early this morning in Glasgow, but when gun shots were heard out at Sand Niblick our police responded in force by vehicle and helicopter. They’re out there now, as we speak."

Just then a coded message came over a radio speaker somewhere nearby. After the message was complete, the dispatcher said, "they have Rocco Vitale down on the ground and in handcuffs."

After they left the police station Scott looked the Land Rover over for bullet holes before he headed for Sand Niblick Road. He found two holes in the hood that didn’t appear to be lethal to any of the vehicle’s working parts.

On the way out to Sand Niblick, Beth said, "my parents and friends will find this story hard to believe." When Scott gave her a puzzled look, she continued. "I’ve been dashed at breakneck speed by the British Open Champ next to the surf on a Scottish beach to escape a gunman, because someone wants to own an old golf ball."

"That story would be kind of hard to swallow if you left out the good parts, Beth."
She shook her head and laughed, and Scott joined her. It was a relief to laugh after the events of the last 30 minutes.
When they arrived out on Sand Niblick Road, Rocco was sitting in the back of one of the three cruisers. He glowered at them. His BMW was stuck at an angle about halfway up a sand embankment.
"Fortunate for us, Beth, that Rocco had the wrong car at the wrong time for his chase over the dune," Scott said.
The officer in charge called Scott over to him. "You’re Scott Beckman. I recognize you from the Open. I’ve Chief Inspector Bradshaw on the line, and he’d like to speak with you." He handed Scott his cell phone.
"Hello Chief Inspector. What’s this all about?"
Bradshaw’s clipped accent came on. "We were alerted by Heathrow Immigration that Mario Carrabba and Rocco Vitale were in London. We tailed them to Sarah Covington’s Gallery, then Carrabba left alone for Heathrow and a flight to the United States. Rocco drove him there and returned to the Covington Gallery. After being at Covington for an hour, he took a train to Glasgow. We alerted the police in Scotland, but they lost track of him until the gunshots at Portpatrick led to his capture.
"I suggest you ask Sarah Covington why she told Rocco we planned to leave her cottage at ten this morning for Saint Andrews, Chief Inspector." Scott said. "And while you’re at it, you might ask Rocco who’s payroll he’s on now…Sarah’s or Carrabbas’?"
There was a pause before Bradshaw said, "I’ve considered those points, Scott. I’ll meet with Ms. Covington after the Scottish police interrogate Vitale and get back to you straight away with the results."
"By the way, Chief Inspector, the feathery is on the way to Saint Andrews where it’ll reside in the British Golf Museum, safely guarded."
"I say, that is a good idea, and a commendable gesture on your part, Scott."

ST. ANDREWS

F
our hours after leaving Portpatrick they were nearing St. Andrews, and Douglas showed his excitement by jabbering away until Scott’s cell phone rang to interrupt him. It was Bradshaw.
"Rocco Vitale spilled the beans, as you American’s say. When the Scottish arresting officers interrogated him he told them he had been hired for 200,000 pounds sterling by Sarah Covington to get the feathery away from you."

"Wow! I had a hunch Sarah was involved. But Rocco works for Carrabba. Was he involved in this?"

"No, Carrabba left for the United States after being told the feathery was going to the museum. Rocco stayed behind in London at Sarah’s urging, and she hired him to do the dirty deed."
"Why did Rocco spill the beans?"
"He doesn’t want to be extradited to the United States in fear of Mafia retaliation for deserting Carrabba. Evidently, the long arm of Carrabba’s connections extend into the prison system there. So, a deal was made during Rocco’s confession and his implication of Covington. He’ll serve his time in Scotland, when convicted."
"Good work, Chief Inspector. What happens to Sarah?" "She’ll be tried and most likely convicted. She’ll spend a long time in jail to pay for her feathery obsession.

Have a good time playing the Old Course, Scott. Cheers."After Scott touched the
end
button on his cell he thought again about Sarah’s display that held the golf balls used by Beck, Geiberger and Duval. That empty slot inscribed with the name Hugh McNair would never be filled.

They arrived a half hour before their appointment with the British Golf Museum curator. Scott carried the box with the feathery inside, and Douglas carried the McEwan driver wrapped in bubble pack tucked under his arm. Beth walked along with them and commented on the historic atmosphere of the town of St. Andrews bordering the course. Scott and Douglas listened politely, but their attention was mainly on the mystique and tradition of the Old Course.

Scott checked their tee time and asked permission of the starter to walk out on the 18thfairway. He wanted to feel the Old Course’s last hole as Hugh McNair might have during his record-breaking round…Also, he’d walk the same ground where Sandy learned his golf. The starter was so in awe when he recognized the British Open Champion he would’ve very well cleared the whole course if Scott had requested it. The first players out of the morning were only on the 16
^th
hole, so the 18
^th
was void of players. They headed out toward the 18
^th
tee.

Scott stopped in the middle of the famous stone bridge over the Swilcan Burn "Douglas, this was where Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and others said good-bye to British Open competition," He said, then he whispered something in Douglas’ ear that brought a devilish grin to the boy’s freckled face.

They reached a place near the 18
^th
tee and Scott paused again to speak to Douglas. "And this was about where McNair drove this feathery with the club you’re holding on the day he scored a seventy-eight to break the record."

"I know
aboot
that, Mr. Beckman." Douglas took the box with the feathery in it from Scott and handed the ball to him. They both wore golf gloves on left hands that touched the feathery.

Scott’s eyes zeroed in on the number 78 inscribed below the pennyweight 26 and the name, HUGH, on the bull hide cover. He squeezed it, again surprised at how hard this ball stuffed with feathers felt against his palm. Scott released his breath slowly and said, "just think, this ball was made more than one-hundred-fifty years ago in Hugh McNair’s shop over there." He pointed to a group of buildings across the road next to the course. "McNair took it across the street to this old course of Saint Andrews and struck it only seventy-eight times. An outstanding score for the time he lived."

"Like today, Mr. Beckman, there would’ve been little wind and that’s why Mr. McNair played his twenty-six pennyweight ball." Douglas was down on one knee pinching up an earthen tee. He handed the thorn wood driver to Scott and took the feathery from him. He held it a half-inch above an ant-hill-like pinch of turf, and then he adopted the dialect most Scots slip into if the issue before them is important. He said, "knock tha feathery oot wi’ this McEwan club fer auld lang syne, Mr. Beckman.
"

Beth jumped quickly in between them. "Scott Beckman, don’t even think about hitting that ball. That feathery and thorn wood driver are worth millions."

Scott’s and Douglas’ grins were wide.

The international lawyer thumped them each playfully on the arm with her fist saying, "You were both putting me on."

Later, they looked around the museum before their meeting with the curator. A niblick club used by Willie Park when he won the first British Open was on display in one glass case. Feathery balls made in the nineteenth century by Alan Robertson of St. Andrews were encased in another. Other feathery balls by Gourley and Alexander of Musselburgh and Marshall of Leith were there. One case held feathery balls made by Hugh McNair, but none of those were as famous as the one inside the box Scott carried. Douglas stood for a long time in front of a display of golf clubs made by his namesake and great-great-grandfather.

They met with the curator of the British Golf Museum. He’d prepared a display case to accept the McNair feathery and the McEwan thorn wood driver. It was appropriately inscribed:

WITH THIS McNAIR FEATHERY BALL AND McEWAN DRIVING CLUB

HUGH McNAIR OF ST. ANDREWS SCORED A RECORD FOR THE TIME

OF 78 ON THE OLD COURSE, JULY 8, 1849

EPILOGUE

The Masters

The azaleas and dogwoods were blooming. It was a Sunday in April and the final round of the Masters. The green jacket was draped on a hanger in Butler Cabin waiting for last year’s winner to assist the new champion slip his arms into its rayon-lined sleeves. The last group to finish included Scott Beckman with his caddie,
Matt Kemp, carrying his golf bag. They were walking down the 18th fairway on the Augusta National course approaching the green where Scott’s golf ball rested 21 feet from the cup. If he sank the putt he’d win the Masters by one stroke.
Continuous cheering from the gallery accompanied their walk to the green. It came from those captivated by Scott’s rise from obscurity to this opportunity for victory in his second major tournament. Scott beckoned for his friend, following behind, to catch up and join him. Matt was wearing the loose-fitting white coveralls mandatory for all caddies at the Masters, and Scott wore the color-coordinated shirt and slacks prescribed by his clothing sponsor. A visor with the golf club
manufacturer, Linksking’s, logo on it captured most of Scott’s blond hair. Matt caught up and matched Scott’s long stride. They made eye contact for a few seconds…then both flashed tension-relieving smiles.
When Matt turned his head to speak, his dark red ponytail shifted from one shoulder to the other, exposing a scar where his left earlobe had once been. He had to raise his voice above the loud cheers of the gallery lining the 18
^th
to be heard. "It wasn’t all that easy getting here, Scott."

Scott nodded, then his sun-browned face straightened from smile to serious. "Yeah, you got that right, dude…some weird stuff came down on
us along the way. "Could that lovely lady I saw you talking to behind the putting green ropes be Jennifer Lawton, the LPGA’s rising star?"

"You got it. She’s between tournaments and wanted to be here the final day."
"How’s that working out?"
Matt’s smile was wide. "It’s working—it’s working."

They approached the 18th green, and Scott prepared to stroke a putt that would win the green jacket, the money, and arguably, the most prestigious of the four major golf tournaments. His tanned face held an expression of concentration while he studied the path his putt would take to the hole. Matt handed him the ball after he cleaned it with a towel.

Scott squatted behind his marker and placed the ball carefully in front so the edge of the dime barely made contact. He lingered, hunched down behind the Titleist for a few seconds, looking first at the ball and then at the hole. He slid the marker back from the edge of the ball and dropped it into the right hand pocket of his slacks. He stalked the green around the ball, focusing on his objective…a steel cup four and one quarter inches in diameter sunk in a hole, twenty-one feet away.

Matt bent down behind Scott and whispered his estimate on how much the ball would break on the way to the cup. Scott took his stance with knees slightly bent and his left eye directly over the brand name inscribed on the dimpled white cover. He traced the line to the hole, once, twice and then a third and last time…It was a phantom line only visible in his mind’s eye. He heard the silence of the crowd around the green and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He was ready to putt.

The putter came back with both arms as one, hinged in a pendulum motion. His head was stone-solid-still as the milled steel face of the putter moved toward the ball, directed by muscle and memory. He calculated the speed of the putter at impact to roll the ball a distance of twenty-one feet. The putter and golf ball made contact. Scott’s head remained still. Four seconds later he looked up slowly and saw the ball disappear. The roar of the crowd masked the grand sound a golf ball makes as it drops in the cup and rattles its way to the bottom.