By the time Chip and Sammy were back to the path across the road from the clubhouse, five others had joined the three in their practice on the ninth hole, and the Chair was getting ready to go out there himself. The sun was moving away, but it was still very pleasant and dry, and the light breeze had shifted to the bay side, toned down a bit, and became warmer. Bob Days had finished his electrical work and had gone out to sit on the park bench and watch the casual players. Some of them were not playing at all but were standing around, joshing the others occasionally and talking, their putters and irons hanging along their sides, an occasional can of beer in hand.
As Sammy and Chip got to the road, a large silver Cadillac with Texas plates drove slowly in front of them, heading up to the parking area at the lighthouse. A man and a woman were in the front seat, both wearing cowboy hats.
“Hey! That was Roy Rogers in that car!” Chip sang out, grabbing Sammy by the arm and pointing after it.
“Texas plates, a Cadillac, and those hats,” Sammy said, “but that was not Roy Rogers.”
“Yes it was!” Chip said, “Yes it was! Old Roy and Dale on the move! Rhythm away from the range! Good old Roy and Dale for sure!” And he dropped Sammy’s arm and trotted off up the road after the car.
“Roy Rogers, my ass,” Sammy said to himself, shaking his head and smiling, watching Chip trot up the road, slapping his thighs in little-boy horse-riding-play fashion. Then he crossed the road and went into the clubhouse, where he saw the Chair taking a seven-iron and a putter out of the club rack in the pro shop.
“What’s up, Chair?” he said, still smiling.
“Going out back to hit a few,” the Chair answered, “no business while you were gone. Have a good round?”
“Okay, Chair. Hey, see you out there in a minute.”
Sammy went into the pro shop as the Chair left it, and by the time he got to the window and saw the crew gathered out on the ninth, the Chair had come around the side of the building and was already greeting this one and that one, asking about wives, children, putts and iron shots, complimenting and judging.
Sammy went back to the cash register, checked the day’s receipts, and locked it. Then he got a beer from the refrigerator and headed out the door himself. Before he could go around the building, the Texas Cadillac pulled up in one of the parking places next to the clubhouse and Chip hopped out of the back door. He was grinning and winking; he opened the door on the driver’s side, and a rather short and broad Texan got out.
“Sammy, this here is Bobby Lee Bando,” Chip said, “and this here is Melda Bando.” He indicated the rather squat woman in the squaw dress who got out of the other door. Sammy noticed the woman did look a little like Dale Evans, but he could see nothing of Roy Rogers in the man.
“Hi,” he said, and the man extended his hand.
“How you be?” the man said. “Nice spread you got here. Course looks good. Is it on the pro tour?” His wife smiled and looked around, nodding in agreement with her husband’s comment. Sammy glanced at Chip. They both figured they would have to get that pro tour question on The List. Chip was a little off to the side and behind the Texans. Sammy could see him bobbing and winking, making furtive gestures.
“No, not on the tour yet,” Sammy said. “Come a long way?”
“All the way from Texas,” Bobby Lee Bando answered. “All right to look around a spell? Maybe hit a few?”
“Just closing,” Sammy said, “but you’re welcome to come out back and chip a bit.”
Chip jumped a little when he heard Sammy’s offer, and he stepped up and took the man and the woman by the arm, putting himself between them, and led them behind the clubhouse to where the others were gathered. Sammy was watching Chip introduce the two around when he heard a loud sputtering motor. He turned to the road and saw Manny Corea pull his old pickup into a parking place beside the Caddy.
“Hey, Manny!” he said as he went to the truck. Manny indicated the truck bed with his head, and when Sammy looked he saw four good-sized buckets, two of mussels and two of quahogs, in the back.
“Can you use these?” Manny asked him.
“Hell yes!” Sammy said, “let’s take ‘em around back,” and the two lifted the cans out of the truck bed and carried them over to the park bench where Bob Days was sitting.
The day was beginning to fade away, and the shadows of the three pines were extending over the fairway and touching the edges of the green. The Canadian geese were still pecking over on the eighth, but they were hard put to find patches of sunlight in which to shine. Though some of the men still pitched and putted, most were by this time standing in small groups and talking. A few came over to see what was in the buckets. Chip was herding the two Texans from group to group, and when the shellfish appeared, he brought them over to the park bench. They had not seen quahogs before, and Melda Bando wondered if they were good to eat. The men standing around the buckets assured her that they were better than that even, and Manny Corea suggested that they steam them up in the clubhouse.
“Anybody for mussels and chokers?” Sammy yelled out to the crew on the fairway and green, and he was answered with assenting calls. Bob Days said he would fix some lights, and he went to his truck. Bobby Lee Bando said he had some music, one hell of a stereo tapedeck in his Caddy, and while Bob Days hooked up some spots and floods and fixed them to the trees, Bobby Lee went to his car to select tapes. Chip and Sammy went in and put two of the buckets up to steam on the small stove in the snack-bar area. When they got inside and were alone, Chip let his agitation go.
“That’s him! Old Roy!” he said, “That’s him! That’s him!”
“Hell, look at how short and fat he is,” Sammy said, “that’s not him.”
“He’s in disguise!” Chip said. “Traveling incognito! But pretty old Dale can’t hide her cowgirl charms and beauty! That’s her, did’ya see her?!”
“Looks like her,” Sammy said, “but, hell, that’s not her.”
“Old Roy and Dale. Who — ha!” said Chip.
“You’re nuts,” Sammy said, getting the buckets of shellfish going over the flame.
“Come here!” said Chip. “Watch this!” and he pulled the mildly protesting Sammy over to the door of the clubhouse, stuck his head out, and yelled.
“Trigger!”
Bobby Lee Bando was on the front seat of the Caddy with the door standing open, going through the tapes. When he heard the sharp yell, his head jerked up. Chip ducked back into the clubhouse, dancing around.
“See that! See that! Sound of the old hoss name! Dear old Trigger! Those little pistolas along his snout, stuffed and waiting for re-incarnation! My, oh my! Old Roy and Dale at Seaview!”
“Okay,” Sammy said, “I give up.”
They fixed the mussels and quahogs, adding some white wine to the broth and a few herbs that somebody managed to come up with. Bob Days got the lights up and on and carefully adjusted so that they lit the bench, the green, and a part of the fairway. Earl came in from his mowing, got his gallon jug of iced tea out, and joined the group. Bobby Lee Bando put a quiet Neil Hefti tape in the deck, with a Frank Sinatra backup. Chip was surprised at Roy’s choice of music, but figured him for a low profile. The cases of beer were brought out to the park bench. A few of the men’s wives, wondering why they had not come home, showed up and joined in. Chip and Melda Bando were the first to dance. They did a slow foxtrot, very gracefully and with considerable skill, around the flagstick on the lighted green. Eddie Costa grabbed his wife and joined the couple, but he kept just below the apron on the fringe, not wanting to spoil the green’s integrity. They ate the shellfish and drank the beer. A small cluster of men, with the Chair at their center, practiced and talked about various short-chip techniques in the middle of the fairway, at the edge of the lighted place. Bobby Lee Bando showed them a Texas grip he knew.