Part 41 (2/2)

Jake Harp heard himself pleading for coffee, please G.o.d, even decaf, but Kingsbury seemed not to hear him. Jake Harp blinked amphibiously and struggled to focus on the scene. It was early. He was outdoors. The sun was intensely bright. The Atlantic Ocean murmured at his back. And somebody had dressed him: Izod s.h.i.+rt, Sansibelt slacks, ta.s.seled Footjoy golf shoes. What could this be! Then he heard the scratchy click of a portable microphone and the oily voice of Charles Chelsea.

”Welcome, everybody. We're standing on what will soon be the first tee of the Falcon Trace Champions.h.i.+p Golf Course. As you can see, we've got a little work ahead of us....”

Laughter. These n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s are laughing, thought Jake Harp. He squinted at the white upturned faces and recognized one or two as sportswriters.

More from Chelsea: ”...and we thought it would be fun to inaugurate the construction of this magnificent golfing layout with a hitting clinic.”

Jake Harp's stomach clenched as somebody folded a three-wood into his fingers. The golf pro stared in disgust: a graphite head. They expect me to hit with metal!

Charles Chelsea's well-tanned paw settled amiably on Jake Harp's shoulder; the stench of Old Spice was overpowering.

”This familiar fellow needs no introduction,” Chelsea was saying. ”He's graciously agreed to christen the new course by hitting a few b.a.l.l.s into the oceana”since we don't actually have a fairway yet.”

Laughter again. Mysterious, inexplicable laughter. Jake Harp swayed, bracing himself with the three-wood. What had he been drinking last night? Vodka sours? Tanqueray martinis? Possibly both. He remembered dancing with a banker's wife. He remembered telling her how he'd triple-bogeyed the Road Hole and missed the cut at the British Open; missed the d.a.m.n cut, all because some fat Scotsman booted the ball....

Jake Harp also remembered the banker's wife whispering something about a b.l.o.w.j.o.ba”but did it happen?

He hoped so, but he truly couldn't recall. One thing was certain: today he was physically incapable of swinging a golf club; it was simply out of the question. He wondered how he would break the news to Francis Kingsbury, who was bowing to the photographers in acknowledgment of Charles Chelsea's effusive introduction.

”Frank,” said Jake Harp. ”Where am I?”

With a frozen smile, Kingsbury remarked that Jake Harp looked about as healthy as dog barf.

”A bad night,” the golfer rasped. ”I'd like to go home and lie down.”

Then came an acrid gust of cologne as Chelsea leaned in: ”Hit a few, Jake, okay? No interviews, just a photo op.”

”But I can't use a f.u.c.king graphite wood. This is j.a.p voodoo, Frank, I need my MacGregors.”

Francis Kingsbury gripped Jake Harp by the shoulders and turned him toward the ocean. ”And would you please, for Christ's sake, try not to miss the G.o.dd.a.m.n ball?”

Chelsea cautioned Kingsbury to keep his voice down. The sportswriters were picking up on the fact that Jake Harp was seriously under the weather.

”Coffee's on the way,” Chelsea chirped lightly.

”You want me to hit it in the ocean?” Jake Harp said. ”This is nuts.”

One of the news photographers shouted for the security officers to get out of the way, they were blocking the picture. Kingsbury commanded the troops of Pedro Luz to move to one side; Pedro Luz himself was not present, having refused with vague mutterings to exit the storage room and join the phony golf clinic at Falcon Trace. His men, however, embraced with gusto and amus.e.m.e.nt the task of guarding Francis X. Kingsbury from a.s.sailants unknown.

Having cleared the security force to make an opening for Jake Harp, Kingsbury ordered the golfer to swing away.

”I can't, Frank.”

”What?”

”I'm hung over. I can't lift the b.l.o.o.d.y club.”

”a.s.sume the position, Jake. You're starting to p.i.s.s me off.”

Tottering slightly, Jake Harp slowly arranged himself in the familiar stance that Golf Digest once hailed as ”part Hogan, part Nicklaus, part Baryshnikov”a”chin down, feet apart, shoulders square, left arm straight, hands interlocked loosely on the shaft of the club.

”There,” Jake Harp said gamely.

Charles Chelsea cleared his throat. Francis Kingsbury said, ”A golf ball would help, Jake.”

”Oh Jesus, you're right.”

”You got everything but a G.o.dd.a.m.n ball.”

Under his breath, Jake Harp said, ”Frank, would you do me a favor? Tee it up?” ”What?”

”I can't bend down. I'm too hung over, Frank. If I try to bend, I'll fall on my face. I swear to G.o.d.”

Francis Kingsbury dug in his pocket and pulled out a scuffed Maxfli and a plastic tee that was shaped like a naked woman. ”You're quite an athlete, Jake. A regular Jim f.u.c.king Thorpe.”

Gratefully Jake Harp watched Kingsbury drop to one knee and plant the tee. Then suddenly the sun exploded, and a molten splinter tore a hole in the golfer's belly, spinning him like a tenpin and knocking him flat. A darkening puddle formed as he lay there and floundered, gulping for breath through a mouthful of fresh Bermuda sod. Jake Harp was not too hung over to realize he could be dying, and it bitterly occurred to him that he would rather leave his mortal guts on the fairways of Augusta or Muirfield or Pebble Beach. Anywhere but here.

Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue had driven up to Kendall to break into a house. The house belonged to FBI Agent Billy Hawkins, who was still tied up as Molly McNamara's prisoner.

”Think he's got a dog?” said Danny Pogue.

Bud Schwartz said probably not. ”Guys like that, they think dogs are for p.u.s.s.ies. It's a cop mentality.”

But Bud Schwartz was wrong. Bill Hawkins owned a German shepherd. The burglars could see the animal prowling the fence in the backyard.

”Guess we gotta do the front-door routine,” said Bud Schwartz. What a way to end a career: breaking into an FBI man's house in broad daylight. ”I thought we retired,” Bud Schwartz complained. ”All that dough we got, tell me what's the point if we're still pullin” these jobs.”

Danny Pogue said, ”Just this one more. And besides, what if Lou takes the money back?”

”No way.”

”If he can't get to the guy, yeah, he might. Already he thinks we tipped Kingsbury off, on account of all those rent-a-cops.”

Bud Schwartz said he wasn't worried about Lou going back on the deal. ”These people are pros, Danny.

Now gimme the scroogie.” They were poised at Billy Hawkins's front door. Danny Pogue checked the street for cars or pedestrians; then he handed Bud Schwartz a nine-inch screwdriver.

Skeptically Danny Pogue said, ”Guy's gotta have a deadbolt. Anybody works for the FBI, probably he's got an alarm, too. Maybe even lasers.”

But there was no alarm system. Bud Schwartz pried the door jamb easily. He put his shoulder to the wood and pushed it open. ”You believe that?” he said to his partner. ”See what I mean about cop mentality. They think they're immune.”

”Yeah,” said Danny Pogue. ”Immune.” Later he'd ask Molly McNamara what it meant.

They closed the door and entered the empty house. Bud Schwartz would never have guessed that a federal agent lived there. It was a typical suburban Miami home: three bedrooms, two baths, nothing special. Once they got used to the idea, the burglars moved through the rooms with casual confidencea”wife at work, kids at school, no sweat.

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