Two Jakes (21 page)

Scarne,
thoughts elsewhere, said distractedly, “Your regular game is fine.”

Ballantrae
smiled like a barracuda.

“This
is the big leagues, my friend. I don’t usually play anything less than a $5,000
Nassau, front, back and overall. Hard to get my juices flowing for anything
less. Lost a bundle to Lee over there last week. Anxious to get it back. You
game?”

A
Nassau is the most traditional of golf wagers. Ballantrae was proposing three
separate matches over the 18 holes. The front and back nine holes would each
represent a $5,000 match, based on who won the most number of holes on the
respective nine. And the entire 18 holes, the overall, would be a third $5,000
bet. Scarne was no longer distracted.

“Victor,
Jake is your guest,” Alana said, an edge to her voice. “And he’s here on business.”

“I
know. I know. Truth is, he’s down here to give me the business. Just returning
the favor. Hey, if that’s too rich for his blood, I’ll understand. We can play
for drinks for all I care. I don’t need the man’s money.”

This
last was said so dismissively that the men at the adjoining table, who had been
talking animatedly, quieted. Scarne was being put down cruelly, in public. The
fact that Ballantrae threw such a huge bet in his face in front of a beautiful
woman was churlish. Ballantrae didn’t expect him to take the bet.

Scarne
heard himself saying, “I don’t like Nassaus. You obviously want to clean my
clock. Let’s make it an even $20,000 for a straight 18-hole match. If you’re as
good as you think, you’ll close me out six and five and we can go home early.”
It was his fee from Sheldon Shields. Easy come, easy go.

The
conversation at the next table had stopped completely. The four men were now
openly staring at Scarne and Ballantrae. There was obviously something else
going on between them. Probably the woman. A nice afternoon had turned
sinister.

Ballantrae’s
laugh was short and harsh.

“How
do I know you are good for the 20 grand?”

As
soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake. His hustler roots were showing. A
gentleman would rather lose money rather than question another man’s honor in
public.

“Victor!”
Alana’s voice was like a whip.

One
of the men at Rodriguez’s table said, “Jesus.”

Ballantrae
tried to recover. He looked at Alana.

“Hey.
I’m kidding. I’m not worried about it. What’s the matter, can’t anyone take a
joke. I know he’s good for it.” But he couldn’t leave it at that. “He can
always expense it to Sheldon Shields. Right, Jake.”

Scarne
took a deep breath and smiled. His voice was icy.

“I’ll
call my secretary and have her wire the money into one of your accounts. You’ll
know it’s there before we even tee off.”

“Jake,
that’s not necessary. Let’s drop it. We’ll just play for fun, OK?”

Scarne
continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“The
bet stands, Victor. And just so you know, I’m playing with my own money on
this. I don’t risk other people’s money to satisfy my own pride.”

The
inference was obvious. Ballantrae stood abruptly.

“I
have to use the little boy’s room. Then I’m going to take a few swings on the
range. I’ll have your bag put on Alana’s cart. You can ride together and talk
about what a pain in the ass I am.”

“We’re
only playing 18 holes, Victor,” Alana Loeb said sweetly. “That’s hardly enough
time to do the topic justice.”

Ballantrae
laughed again and slapped Scarne on the shoulder and walked away, stopping at
other tables to trade a jibe with the men and peck a few women on the cheek.
Once again the consummate charmer.

Scarne
looked over at Alana Loeb, who had a bemused look on her face.

“Men,”
he shrugged.

“Boys,”
she said.

CHAPTER
25 – THE WHEELS COME OFF

On
the way to the course Scarne stopped in the golf shop to buy some new balls and
a fresh glove. Like most golfers he was particular about the balls he played.
In his case, Pinnacles. Even though deep in his heart he knew it didn’t make a
damn bit of difference at his skill level. As the cashier rang up the sale, Lee
Rodriguez walked over to him.

“Watch
your ass out there,” the great golfer whispered. “He cheats.”

As
he walked to the starter shack, Scarne reflected on his consummate idiocy. He
was about to play a $20,000 match with a man who probably had tried to cheat
Lee Rodriguez. Scarne was by nature a gambler who reveled in pressure. Dudley
Mack frequently accused him of making bad situations worse, just to see how he
could get out of them. Oh, well. Ballantrae was right. If a golf game for
$20,000 with a beautiful woman watching can’t get a man’s juices flowing, what
could? I can take this jerk, he thought.

“What
are you smiling about?”

He
looked up to see Alana Loeb standing by their cart.

“Oh,
nothing,” he replied.

She
called one of the attendants over.

“Switch
the bags, please. I’m driving.”

“Yes,
ma’am. I just assumed…”

“I
know you did,” she said curtly.

She
turned to Scarne.

“I
hope you don’t mind. But I know the course and you don’t.”

After
the boy had switched the bags, she walked after him. Scarne thought she was
going to further berate him. Instead she reached into her pocket. He tried to
resist the tip, but she said something and rubbed the back of his neck. He
laughed and took the money. When she rejoined Scarne, she said, “He’s just a
kid. He’ll learn.”

She
busied herself with her bag, pulling a glove out of a side pocket and taking
the head covers off her woods. Her movements were clean and efficient. She
knows how to handle men, Scarne thought. Icy one moment, warm and caring the
next. The dichotomy would be irresistible to any male with a pulse.

At
the practice range, Alana began stretching, totally oblivious to the stares of
the men nearby. She bent from the waist and put her hands flat on the ground,
then did a series of leg and arm stretches. She stood on one leg and pulled her
foot to her delectable backside, then alternated with the other leg. She put a
short iron behind her neck and did several body twists. She tilted backwards
and not for the first time Scarne noted her high, tight breasts. Selecting a
wedge, she gave the club a slight waggle and hit a high arching shot toward a
red flag on the range that was about 100 yards out. She had an athletic golf swing
that nevertheless looked effortless. He noted that her hips were moving toward
the target just ahead of her downswing. Classic Hogan. Then like a well-oiled
machine, she worked her way down to her low irons. He looked in her golf bag.
No hybrid or “rescue” clubs. The woman was a player.

Scarne
was already pretty loose and didn’t want to overdo it, having spent much of the
previous afternoon at a range at a Miami municipal course using rented clubs.
Unlike the muni, where he’d pummeled 200 beat-up practice balls, each stand at
Pelican Trace was supplied with a large pyramid of brand-new Titlists.
Concentrating on the wedge, 7-iron and driver, and reveling in the feel of his
own clubs, Scarne grew more confident by the moment.

Alana
had switched to her driver. It was soon clear why she played with men. Despite
a tendency to push her ball to the right, she was very long and would kill any
male weekend player if she hit from the woman’s tees. Scarne objectively noted
that her power came from her excellent tempo. Less objectively, he noted
Alana’s taut buttocks, legs and flat stomach. She caught the look and smiled.

“See
any flaws ... in my swing?”

“You’re
perfect.”

Ballantrae
strode over. His gaze shifted between them.

“You
ready? Let’s play some golf.”

***

The
first hole was a dogleg left par 5, playing 517 yards. Lakes lined both sides
of the fairway. The golf carts were equipped with a GPS screen that showed the
position of a cart on an electronic replica of each hole. Hazards, traps,
trees, water and slopes were all depicted. A digital readout gave the exact
distance to the center of the green. Ballantrae pushed the button to start his
GPS and turned to Scarne.

“And
it took them 10 years to find Bin Laden.”

The
men flipped a coin to see who had first honors in their match and Scarne won.
But they agreed to let Alana lead off on every hole. She chose a driver and
split the fairway about 220 yards out.

“I
told you she could play,” Ballantrae said.

Scarne
glanced at his own GPS, pulled his 3-wood and hit a high fade just short of a
fairway bunker also about 220 yards out, but in the first cut of rough.

“Nice
shot,” Ballantrae said politely. “But I’m not afraid to use a driver.”

He
lashed a towering shot that ran through the fairway and bounded into the lake
bordering the right side. “Fuck!” He looked at Scarne and smiled. “Jake, do you
know how to make 30 old ladies say “fuck” at the same time?”

Scarne
shook his head.

“Have
one old lady yell out “bingo!”

On
the way to their balls, Alana said, “Victor can be disarming. He’d rather hit
it far than straight. Great short game. He’ll probably make par from there. But
don’t expect his good humor to last.”

Ballantrae
did make par after dropping outside the hazard with a one-stroke penalty. He
hit a beautiful fairway wood onto the green and two putted. Scarne, who laid up
to 90 yards with his second, also managed a rather sloppy par. Alana badly
misjudged her birdie putt and hit it three feet past the cup. She refused the
conceded putt and missed the come-backer for a bogie 6. She snatched the ball
up, eyes flashing. She looked at the men, who knew better than to say anything.

“Bingo,”
she said.

The
men laughed. But Scarne was annoyed with himself. Halving the first hole when
your opponent hits into the drink was an inauspicious start.

***

They
had reached the tee at the seventh hole next to a small pond.

“All
even after six,” Ballantrae said. “Good match.”

Scarne
was content. After blowing the first hole, he righted the ship. He
strategically conceded a few short putts to Ballantrae, not wanting him to get
in a rhythm making them. A short putt at a crucial time late in the match might
be daunting. Despite the underlying tension, Scarne was enjoying himself. Alana
Loeb was a wonderful golfer and often embarrassed both men with her precise
shot-making, particularly around the green. Suddenly Ballantrae’s golf bag
started playing Ravel’s
Bolero
. He reached in and pulled out his cell
phone.

“Jesus!
It never ends.”

He
walked off behind a towering ficus tree.

“I
thought they didn’t allow cell phones on the course.”

“There
are rules for Victor and rules for everyone else,” Alana said.

She
put her hands behind her head and leaned back, tilting her face toward Scarne.
The day had warmed and he could see a glisten of perspiration on her arms and
legs. In the close quarters of the cart, he caught an intoxicating whiff of
soap, sweat and sex. She stretched her long legs out over the front of the
cart. A greenish black bird with a sinewy neck broke the surface of the pond
with a large fish speared in its beak.

“
Phalacrocorax
auritus
,” she said. “Double Crested Cormorant.”

“You
don’t say.”

She
laughed and pointed.

“That
huge bird over there is a Great Blue Heron.
Ardea herodias
.”

“I
knew that.”

“Sorry.
I’m showing off.”

She
proceeded to describe, in scientific detail, the beautiful plants and animals
that surrounded them: brightly colored lilies, hibiscus, milkweed, sycamores,
pines, palmettos, palms, anoles, geckos, herons, alligators, egrets, ibis and
spoonbills.

“And
that’s only what we can see,” she said.

Scarne
asked her where she had picked up all her knowledge.

“I’ve
always loved nature,” she said. “Very close to it as a child. Almost a
Green
Mansions
upbringing. And when I came to Florida I studied botany and
biology at the University of Miami. Did you know that there are 4,000 species
of flowering plants in Florida? Even after I switched to business and law, I
kept up, with electives. Nature is so raw. Some of the most beautiful trees and
plants are the most malignant. See that pinkish-red flowering shrub over there?
Ricinus communis
, which sounds political but isn’t. It’s a castor bean
plant. Chew on its seeds and you would die a quick but very painful death.”

“I’ll
never look at a bean salad the same way.”

She
laughed and squeezed his knee playfully. He felt an electric jolt at her touch.
He hoped it didn’t show.

“Well,
it all is certainly beautiful,” Scarne said. “What are these flowers,
Rose-of-Sharon?” He pointed to some large pink-purple flowers just to the right
of their cart.

“Very
good. Many people confuse them with morning glories, which are vines and not
all that common around here. Rose-of-Sharon is a bush.” She paused. “We used to
call them pecker plants in school.”

“Excuse
me.”

“Look
at the unopened buds behind some of the flowers.”

Scarne
got out and walked over. The pink-to-purple buds did indeed look like small and
recently circumcised male organs. He got back into the cart.

“Well,
that explains the botany courses. But let’s talk about something more edifying
than peckers.”

Just
then Ballantrae walked up to them.

“Too
late,” Alana said, and burst out laughing. So did Scarne.

***

The
seventh was a short par 4, just 298 yards long, with trees along the entire
right side of the fairway and bunkers flanking a landing area 230 yards out.
The green was small and narrow and sloped towards a large pond on its left.
Ballantrae elected to go with a driver.

“I
drove this sucker once,” he said as he waggled his club.

Not
this time. He pushed his ball into a thick clump of the trees well right of the
green. Scarne considered his options. He wanted to leave himself a full shot in
so he pulled his 4-iron and hit a beautiful straight shot (where did that come
from?) right between the fairway bunkers 120 yards from the pin. From there, a
perfect wedge left him a relatively simple uphill 12-footer. He could do no
worse than a four, which should win the hole easily.

Ballantrae’s
ball had flown into a heavily wooded area. Scarne and Alana drove over to help
him look for his ball.

“It’s
like Guadalcanal in here,” Scarne commented as he hacked his way in with a
club. Ballantrae would surely have to take a penalty drop, even if he was lucky
enough to find his ball.

But
when they found Ballantrae he was ready to swing, with a clear shot to the
green from an open space in the thicket that had obviously been cleared by a
maintenance crew. The ground was sandy but it was the only spot within 30 yards
where a golfer would even have a backswing. And the ball was sitting up on a
little mound. Ballantrae’s shot was anticlimactic. He hit a sharp low pitch
between the bunkers that stopped in the fringe just short of the green, but
only eight feet from the hole. He could certainly putt from there. As they
walked to the green, Ballantrae stated the obvious.

“Got
a great break. Must have hit a tree and kicked straight left.”

“Did
I say Guadalcanal,” Scarne said to Alana. “I meant Lourdes.”

Alana
was away and two putted for a par. Scarne’s straightforward 12-footer now
looked about twice that length. He left it a miserable and unforgivable 18
inches short.

“Never
up, never in,” Ballantrae said. “There’s a little chicken left on that bone.”
He didn’t concede the putt, almost a tap in. Scarne made it.

“Nice
par,” Ballantrae said. Then he made a point of marking his own ball and showing
it to Scarne. It had a scuff mark consistent with a ricochet off a tree. “I’m
gonna replace it to putt, if it’s OK with you.”

Scarne
nodded and the ball went back into Ballantrae’s bag. He wondered how many times
that same ball had played the part.

Ballantrae
hit a strong putt. Scarne knew it was good from the start.

“Great
three,” Scarne said, without inflection.

But
he was seething. He had the hole won easily but for Ballantrae’s miraculous
recovery. The hell with it. Down one with 11 holes to play was nothing. Scarne
promptly lost the next hole, a tough par 4 on which Ballantrae’s bogie held up
when Scarne found a fairway bunker and took a double bogie 6. And he missed a
sweaty-palmed six-foot downhill sliding putt to lose the Par 3 ninth!