Scott now noticed that the fans were in fact white and most were middle-aged men. There were no people of color in sight. It looked like Highland Park Day at the tournament.
"What about football, basketball, baseball? Those are popular with white men."
Nick snorted. "Working-class white men. WM squared are lawyers, doctors, CEOs-white men with incomes in excess of two hundred fifty thousand-the white guys Obama's raising taxes on." He chuckled. "This place could pass for the fucking Republican National Convention, especially the players. They hate paying taxes more than making a double-bogie." He shook his head. "You ain't gonna find anyone out here who voted for Obama, except maybe the guy shining shoes down in the locker room."
They walked on, Nick pointing out the sights, past the white tents-"Merchandise tent… margarita tent… media tent"-the first tee and the ninth green, and white, well-dressed, and well-behaved fans. This was not the raucous atmosphere of a pro football or basketball game with loud drunken fans painted in team colors and taunting the opposing players with profanities. These fans waited patiently for their favorite golfers' autographs and politely fell silent when a player teed off or putted. Genteel applause greeted putts that dropped and empathetic groans putts that did not. The scene seemed from another sports era, perhaps not quite like the old newsreels of Yankee games with white fans dressed in their Sunday best, but the fans were still-
"White and polite," Nick said. "That's the way WM squared want their sports, Scott. And that means golf. Go to a major league baseball game today, it's like you're at a fucking bullfight in Juarez. All the players are named Rodriguez and speaking Spanish. WM squared don't speak Spanish, Scott."
Nick waved to a young golfer strutting past followed by his entourage.
"And football and basketball players, they're all homeboys from the 'hood, foul-mouthed, chest-pounding, crotch-grabbing, gun-packing, tattooed-and-taunting homies who brought the 'hood culture to the pros." Nick shook his head. "WM squared don't like homies, Scott."
Nick acknowledged another golfer trailed by kids seeking autographs.
"Course, what do you expect? You give a twenty-year-old black kid from the ghetto ten million in cash 'cause he can dunk a basketball or catch a football, what do you think he's gonna do? Invest in a retirement account with Schwab? Hell, no. He's gonna bling himself out with a chrome-plated Hummer and gold jewelry and high-powered guns, then go back to the 'hood and show off to his homies. He ain't suddenly gonna start wearing Tommy Hilfiger."
Nick was amused by his own words.
"Which leaves pro golf to provide the white-and-polite, English-speaking, non-violent, suburban sports experience for WM squared."
"Tiger's black."
Nick dismissed that comment as if he were annoyed by a gnat.
"Tiger transcends race. He's the best there ever was and he's a marketing machine because he's programmed like a fucking computer-at least until he drove his life into a tree." Nick shook his head. "I preach to my athletes all the time: 'Never text your mistresses!' Do they listen? No, they don't." He sighed. "But Tiger, he'll be back. WM squared will forgive him because he ain't a homie-no trash talking, no tattoos, no guns. He always acted polite, and he endorsed white man products-Nike, Tag Heuer, Gillette, Buick, American Express." Nick grinned. "Homies wouldn't be caught dead behind the wheel of a Buick and they don't carry American Express when they go shopping-they carry Smith amp; Wesson."
He thought that was funny.
"White and polite-that's the key to success in golf marketing, Scott. Boy scouts, not homeboys." Nick's attention was suddenly diverted. He called out to a player. "Yo, Jake! My man! You seen Goose?"
The player's cap and clothes sported logos for a dozen different sponsors. He yelled, "Practice tee!" Nick waved a thanks to the player.
"Jake's one of my guys, looks like a goddamned NASCAR driver. Why? Because advertisers are chasing WM squared onto the golf course. Nike started off selling sneakers, now they sell golf clubs, balls, shoes, and clothes. Under Armour, they made their name selling sports underwear endorsed by pumped-up black football players. Now they make golf clothes for fat white guys. Hell, even Clint Eastwood's got his own golf apparel company, Tehama. Good stuff."
Nick Madden, sports agent, paused and inhaled his world.
"This is the whitest place on the planet-a pro golf tournament. We're not at a muny course down in the Fifth Ward, Scott. We're in the suburbs, baby-because that's where WM squared lives. White men with money."
His expression changed, as if he had had an epiphany, and he turned to Scott.
"Can I trademark that? WM squared?"
"Probably."
Nick smiled. "Might be some money in that."
"Let's find Goose."
They found Goose on the practice range, drinking beer from a can, jotting in a little notebook, and sitting on a red golf bag with Pete Puckett stenciled down one side.
"Hey, Goose," Nick said.
Goose didn't look up at Nick or smile at Nick. Clyde "Goose" Dalton was a squat man with muscular legs protruding from baggy shorts and thick arms from a white T-shirt with "Who's Your Caddie Now?" printed across the front. His cap was pushed back on his head, revealing a sunburned forehead beaded with sweat. His hair was gray and pulled into a ponytail, and his matching goatee needed trimming. He had the complexion of a construction worker-
"The fuck you want, Nick?"
— and the vocabulary.
"Jesus, you're still pissed off? Give it up, Goose-he's dead." Nick turned to Scott. "I got him caddied up with Trey, now he blames me because Trey stiffed him." Back to Goose: "Where's Pete?"
"Eating lunch." He held up the beer can. "I'm on a strict liquid diet." He nodded at Scott. "Who's the spectator?"
"That the infamous yardage book?" Scott said.
"Got one for every course on tour. Make 'em myself, walk off the exact yardage from every tree and sprinkler head to every pin position on every green." He glanced up at Scott. "Who are you and what the fuck does infamous mean?"
"It means notorious, and I'm Scott Fenney."
"Rebecca's husband."
"Lawyer."
Now Goose smiled. He stuck a hand out, and they shook. Goose had big hands.
"I'll contribute to her defense fund," Goose said.
"Better save it for your own lawyer."
Goose pulled his hand back and frowned. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Where were you last Thursday?"
"Caddying for Pete, at the Atlantic Open."
"Where's that?"
"Orlando," Nick said. "Pete played Thursday and Friday, didn't make the cut. Means he didn't play the weekend."
"Well, actually," Goose said, "Pete didn't play Friday either. He DQ'd Thursday."
" DQ'd? "
"Yeah, he seemed real out of sorts at the pro-am and right from the git-go on Thursday. Opened with a four-putt snowman-"
Nick, to Scott: "An eight… number eight looks like a little snowman."
— "then threw his putter all the way to the second tee. I knew we were in for a long day."
"Why'd he DQ?" Nick asked.
"Wrote down the wrong scores for two holes, signed the card."
Nick, to Scott: "Automatic disqualification." Back to Goose: "Why didn't I hear about that?"
"Maybe because Pete's a grown man and don't figure he's gotta report in to his snot-nosed agent every fuckin' day." Goose shrugged. "That, or he forgot."
Goose's attention was diverted by a flashy girl in a short skirt and a halter top slinking by on high-heeled wedges. Goose leaned over as if trying to look up her skirt.
"She's gonna make a golfer happy tonight," he said.