When he dropped him off at the crossroad at the bottom of the foothills, Bob White immediately began walking. As he turned the car around, he saw him turn and stick his thumb out to the first two cars that passed him. He drove to the parking lot of a supermarket a few blocks away. The lot was already half full, and he parked between two cars. He got out, opened the trunk, and transferred the four clubs he had used the day before into his own brown-and-white vinyl golf bag. He folded the limp Sunday bag and stuck it in the left wheel well. He checked the larger golf bag, the small zipper compartment, to see that he had enough balls and tees. Satisfied, he got back into the car and drove out of the parking lot.
He thought three of the six courses in the Tucson area were possible. One was a public course, and he only toyed with trying that one for a moment. One of the others seemed good, but when he checked its location on the map he saw it was close to a retirement section of the city, and he decided against it. The third was called Tucson Hills. It was a par-seventy, sixty-three-hundred yard course, and it was rated as having average difficulty in Golf Digest. It was located fairly close to the residential areas that were in turn close to the professional and business complexes of the city.
At the entrance, a few yards in from the blacktop road, was a crushed-stone drive with a wooden archway at the foot of it. Hanging from the crosstie was a piece of wood that swung free on screw eyes and woodburned into it were the words: Tucson Hills Country Club (Private). He passed under the sign and along the drive, which was lined with a hedge high enough that from his car he could not see beyond it. The drive went on for a quarter-mile, and when the hedge ended, it opened up onto a crushed-stone parking lot to the left. At the end of the parking lot was a low rectangular building, adobe, in the Spanish style, with a red tile roof. There were three archways, equally spaced, in the side of the building, and above each was a sign: Restaurant, Patio, Pro Shop. He parked and walked across the gravel through the archway marked Patio and into a space open to the sky in which there were a few metal picnic tables with umbrellas in the middle of them. At the left end was a bar that led both into the patio and the restaurant on the other side of it. Three men sat on stools on the patio side of the bar with their backs to him, and facing him was a man in a white jacket behind the counter. The man looked at him curiously as he entered. He paused for a moment, then walked to the right through the open courtyard to a screen door with a small sign above it: Pro Shop & Office. He opened the screen door and entered. The pro shop was large and carpeted in green.
It contained the usual gear. There were two metal tables to the left of the door, a couple of easy chairs, and a TV set on a platform attached to the wall. A man in his early thirties, muscular and blond, wearing an expensive tan knit shirt, stood behind the glass case of the counter, a hand resting on the case, a low modern cash register to his right.
“Hello,” he said, not smiling. “Can I help you?”
“Thought I might play a little golf,” Allen said, reaching into his back pocket as he crossed to the counter. He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to the man.
“Redwood?” the man said. “Never heard of it.” He reached under the counter to his left and took out a small printed pamphlet. “These are the course rules; we keep them here. Green fees are eighteen dollars for guests. You’ve got to take a power cart; that’s twelve bucks for eighteen. It’ll cost you thirty to play. You still want to do it?”
He reached into his wallet and took out a twenty and a ten and handed them to the man.
“Okay,” the man said, his spirits rising a little. “Carts are to the left as you go out; they don’t need keys. First tee around the back.”
“Might have a cup of coffee first?”
“Sure. The way you came in. Juan’ll take care of you.”
He took a score card and wooden pencil from a container on the counter. The card had a small, rough map of the course on the back of it. He folded the card and put it and the pencil in his shirt pocket and went out into the patio to the end of the bar. He ordered a cup of coffee when the Mexican waiter walked over to him. He took the score card out of his pocket and opened it on the counter with the map facing up. Then he checked the three men. Two of them looked to be in their early fifties; their golf clothes were conservative, and they were very well-groomed. One had a thin mustache and graying hair. He was the larger of the two, and his hands suggested that he had once done physical labor. The other was short and stocky, thick through the chest and arms. He had a small paunch pushing out over his belt against the edge of the bar. The third man was younger, maybe thirty. His clothes were a little flashy. He had a golf cap tilted back a little on his head and a mod haircut. He was more animated than the other two, a little ingratiating and brash at the same time.
He would laugh at a statement made by one of the others, then he would get quickly serious. Both of these behaviors were slightly exaggerated. On occasion he glanced down the counter in an automatic way, looking for approval, simply because there was someone there. He also seemed a little curious.
“Hey,” he said after a few minutes. “I see you’re checking the card. You from around here? You’ll like the course, if you’re lucky that is — it’s a tough one. Ever play it?”
The other men looked over at him also. The shorter one nodded and smiled slightly. The other just looked.
“I’m just traveling through,” Allen said. “Thought I’d get some golf in.”
“Good luck,” the younger one said, and laughed. “You’ll need it.” He glanced at the other two to catch their reactions. Then he returned to his conversation with them, but in lower tones.
After a few more minutes, Allen could see that the three were getting ready to leave. He got up, put a dollar bill on the counter, and walked through the archway and out to his car. He opened the trunk and sat on the edge of it and put on his golf shoes. He toyed with the shoes until he saw the three men come out through the archway. The younger one was moving his arms and leaning toward the other two as they walked to the side of the building. The carts were carefully lined up there, and two of them had golf bags in them. The larger man and the younger man got into one of the carts, and the stocky man got in the other.
He pulled his bag out of the trunk, shut it, walked over to the carts, and adjusted his clubs in a carrier. Then he drove around the building to the first tee. It was a large tee with a cart path beside it, and by the time he had pulled up to the path the three men were standing behind their carts, readying their clubs. The young man glanced over at him. Then he spoke to the others, softly, his head close to theirs. The large man nodded, and the stocky one shrugged.
“If you want you can play along with us,” the young man called over to Allen. “This is Steve,” he said, opening his hand in the direction of the larger man. “Frankie,” indicating the other. “I’m Lou.”
The young man had made the introductions before Allen had any chance to respond to his offer. He let it go. He said his name and shook hands with the three of them. The larger one remained a little reserved. The stocky one was looking him over.
“Throw your sticks on,” he said, indicating his cart. “Tim’ll take yours back.”
It was clearly the prerogative of the larger man, Steve, to hit first, and he did not rush it. He took his time washing his ball in the red container that stood on a post to the side of the cart path, and he wiped it carefully. Then he walked to the back of the tee, to the blue markers, and took some time looking for a spot. Finally, he teed the ball up.