“Gentlemen,” Greg said, nodding at them.
“Uh ... hi,” the oldest of the men stammered. The others then muttered their own greetings.
Greg then led Jake over to the model. Without another word of acknowledgment to the workers in the room, he explained to Jake the layout of the course being built and the plans for the surrounding land.
“All in all,” Greg said, “we have enough land to build at least four separate courses. We hope to construct them sequentially, using the profits from the previous courses to finance the subsequent ones. For right now, however, we’re just concentrating on the first course and the main clubhouse. This is what we have in mind.” He waved at the model.
Jake took it in with genuine interest. He was one to appreciate a good golf course, and the model indicated it was going to be both a nice one and a tough one. It was set up in the links style, with no adjoining fairways. All of those fairways were narrow, most of them with doglegs, many of varying elevations, all influenced by the dunes or the ocean to some degree. It was plain to see that most of the holes would enjoy views of the Pacific. In addition to the ocean, three large lakes and four smaller ones, all connected by a winding creek, were scattered throughout and one form of water or the other (or even all three) would come into play on fourteen of the holes.
“I like it,” Jake said, nodding approvingly. “I assume it’s going to be private?”
“Not private,” Greg said, “just exclusive. We’re planning green fees in the upper two hundreds per round for the on-season, eighty dollars during the off-season. Caddies will be a hundred per round, plus gratuity, all year. That should serve to keep the local riff-raff hackers away. Our target clientele will be wealthy individuals who have the means to fly into your airport by private aviation and stay in one of the exclusive lodges or the five-star hotel that some of the other investment groups are planning just outside Bandon itself. And, of course, our primary goal is to attract PGA and LPGA tournaments several times per year. Those can bring in millions of dollars in revenue if they are planned and carried off correctly.”
“That sounds very lucrative,” Jake said with a nod.
“It will be,” Greg assured him. “We plan to be operating in the black within six years of the initial course opening. And, of course, my group also has a large, though not controlling interest in the hotels and lodging to support the project.”
“And you’ll get to golf for free, right?”
“Yes,” Greg assured him. “As one of the owners, I will get to golf for free. As will you if you choose to play with me.”
“What if you’re not here but I am and I want to play a round?” Jake asked with a smile. “Do I get to play for free then? You know ... since we’re buds and all?”
Greg scowled at him a little. “You can afford to pay the green fees in my absence, Jake,” he admonished.
“Well, of course I can,” Jake said, “but don’t I even get a discount? Say twenty percent off?”
“No, you do not get a discount!” Greg told him.
“What a rip,” Jake said, shaking his head sadly. He turned to the construction workers, who were all monitoring the conversation while pretending that they were not. “Can you believe this guy?” he asked them. “We’ve been friends and business partners for years. I sang a song I wrote at his wedding. He never would have even found this place if it weren’t for me dragging him and his wife here a few years back, and he won’t even cut me a twenty percent discount.”
“All right, all right!” Greg said, exasperated now. “Mention my name and you’ll get twenty percent off! Are you happy?”
“Naw,” Jake said dismissively. “I would never do anything like that. You know I’m not a name-dropper.”
“Then why were you going on about it?” Greg asked.
“I was just fucking with you.”
Greg shook his head and headed to the closed door on the other side of the room that read FOREMAN. Jake followed him over, still smiling.
The foreman was a beefy, balding man in his early fifties, tough as nails looking, with a strong, gravelly voice. He shook hands with the two of them, welcomed them to the site, and offered to give them a guided tour of the construction in progress.
“No, we’ll just wander around on our own, if that’s acceptable,” Greg said.
“Well ... I guess,” he said, plainly reluctant. “But you’ll need to stick to the travel areas and avoid actually going into the dunes. And stay away from the actual places where there is work in progress. And keep a sharp eye out for heavy equipment on the travel areas.”
“Of course,” Greg said.
“And you’ll need to put these on,” the foreman said, holding up two construction helmets and two orange vests.
“Why do we have to wear helmets and vests?” Greg asked.
“It’s a construction zone, Mr. Oldfellow,” he replied. “O-OSHA requires it.”
“But...”
“It’s okay,” Jake interrupted, taking the helmet and the vest. “I’ve always wanted to wear one of these.”
“Really?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Hell to the yeah,” Jake said. “Didn’t you ever want to be a heavy equipment operator when you were a kid and watching them work a construction site? Didn’t you ever dream of being the guy who drives the tractor or runs the excavator?”
“No,” Greg said sternly. “I never wished to do that at all.”
“Not even when you were like twelve years old?” Jake asked.
“No,” Greg insisted. “I have always known I was going to be an actor. I have never wished to do anything else.”
Jake pondered that for a moment and then nodded. “That explains a lot about you,” he said, putting the helmet on his head, liking the way it felt there.
They spent the better part of two hours out on the site, walking around down the access roads that led in between the dunes, and then, despite the admonishment by the foreman, climbing over the dunes themselves until they were standing on the beach where the sixth and seventh holes would one day be. Greg viewed the trek as something akin to a religious pilgrimage, pointing out various hills, valleys, and channels and explaining how the construction crews were going to level or enhance them into the vision put forth by Norman Clark, the man who had designed the course.
“He’s a good golf course architect then?” Jake asked.
“He’s one of the best,” Greg said.
“No shit? What other courses has he done?”
“Well ... this is actually the first project that he designed himself,” Greg said.
“Really? Then how do you know he’s one of the best?”
“Because he’s from Scotland,” Greg said, as if that explained everything. And to Greg, it did.
“I see,” Jake said with a shrug.
By the time they got back to the office to drop off the helmets and the vests, they were both perspiring and thirsty.
“Let’s go get some beer,” Jake suggested as they climbed back in the BMW. “Is there a good place around here for that?”
“I’ve never actually patronized a business in the town,” Greg admitted. “There are some tourist-oriented bars along the highway though.”
“Let’s go check it out,” Jake said. “I’ll buy since you were nice enough to offer me that twenty percent discount at your course.”
“Deal,” Greg said.
They found a waterfront bar and grill called, appropriately enough, The Edgewater, that sat along the mouth of the Coquille River near the town of Bandon’s marina. Since it was still before noon—just barely—the bar was lightly populated as they entered, and they managed to find themselves a seat on the deck overlooking the river and the marina without any of the customers recognizing them. The waitress who came to take their orders, however, immediately became star-struck and tongue-tied when she saw who was occupying her table.