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Woodlands Club in
Falmouth, Maine
Thinking of what I'd say and who I'd
thank, I stopped at my Suburban, popped the back door, and changed into
sneakers. I put my spikes in the trunk, shut the door, and turned to go
back to the clubhouse. When I did, something exploded into my stomach.
I doubled over.
"We got to talk, Jack." The voice was
Pulchuck's. Either he was lucky or his timing was perfect: No one was in
sight. He steered me to the side of the Suburban, out of view from the
clubhouse, between two rows of vehicles. He tossed the straw hat and
sunglasses aside. The glasses clicked and skittered along the pavement.
"Why leave town?" he said. "Why bother? I
mean, I knew you had to be here. Boston Globe gave your
tournament a lot of press. Or did you think I ain't gonna do what I
say?"
I didn't answer. I hadn't vomited, but it
had been close. I stood and faced him.
"Where'd you go?" he said.
"What do you want?"
"Sorry about the punch," he said. "Just
wanted to get your attention. You have four inches on me, but that don't
mean much, now does it?"
"Not when you sucker-punch me. What do
you want?"
"Wednesday, a cop came to see me, a guy
named Cronjagger. I got the impression that he knew I was interested in
the pictures. Any idea how he knew that?" He lunged, attempting to hit
me in the stomach again.
I got a forearm down. His fist felt like
a sledgehammer. I put out a straight left.
He deflected it and looked amused. "Want
some of this, golf boy?" He threw a straight left, which I moved away
from--and directly into his right cross.
It caught me on the right cheek, and I
went down, amid a bright white flash and chimes sounding in my ear. It
was only a few seconds later, but I came to--to the sounds of Pulchuck's
laughter.
He was standing about me. "Jesus Christ,"
he said, "if I knew you can't take a punch, I'd just slap your wrist. We
need to talk about Cronjagger."
I got up and flailed at him, a lunging,
over-the-top right that he easily sidestepped. Then he hit me on the
back of my shoulder, knocking me down again.
"You're outmatched, golf boy."
I didn't have any legs, but I wasn't
staying down. I climbed to my feet and stood, wobbly, looking at him.
"Cronjagger can make my life difficult,"
he said. "Have you seen the pictures?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
I'd been sucker-punched and beaten. I was
pissed, and Pulchuck was offering a speck of daylight. I ran for it.
From what, and into what, I didn't know. "I've seen the pictures," I
said. "And you're fucked."
"You're full of shit, asshole."
Like a gambler with only a single low
pair, who'd already bet everything, I kept the bluff going. "Cronjagger
knows about New Brunswick. He knows what Owen Henley was doing up there
and who sent him. And who killed him."
Pulchuck's eyes narrowed. He looked at me
for a long time, appraisingly. "You're still alive because Cronjagger is
on my back. When this blows over, he won't be, and you won't be."
Then he turned on his heel and walked
away.
I leaned over and vomited. Then I walked
into the clubhouse with a red golf ball on my cheek and knots in my
stomach. |
