Read Online Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik - Free Book Online Page A

replied.
    â€œI made four fuckin’ point nine million last year,” Rockingham said, suddenly not smiling. “What’d you make?”
    â€œLess than you make in a week.”
    â€œYou need a better job,” Rockingham said, and headed for the locker room, whistling an unrecognizable tune.
    Can’t argue with him there, Sam thought.
    Sam told Dwight they’d play another practice round Tuesday morning around ten. Dwight said he’d be there early, but he was walking with a limp as he and Chipmunk headed for the bag room with the clubs. The steep 18th fairway had been hard on both of Sam’s knees; he could only imagine how tough it was for Dwight, who had to be at least 10 years older and 100 pounds heavier than Sam.
    Sam made his way through the throngs of spectators, hreen jackets, reporters, photographers and club employees milling around the 150-year-old oak tree that shaded the southwest corner of the clubhouse. Its tentacle-like branches extended horizontally at least 40 feet from the trunk and were held aloft by a network of steel cables. There was a buzz in the air that had to be connected to the body that had been found in the 10th fairway.
    â€œSkarda? You Sam Skarda?”
    Sam heard a gruff voice call his name through the commotion on the lawn. Sam turned to see a dumpy, sweaty man with thinning, unkempt hair and a press badge hanging around the frayed collar of his beige—or was it supposed to be white?—golf shirt. There was a mustard stain on the lapel of his ratty tan sports jacket and an ink smudge that ran from the cuff of his left sleeve almost up to the elbow. He was wearing baggy jeans and dirty white sneakers.
    The name on the badge was R. Daly. Sam recognized him: Russ Daly, sports columnist for the Los Angeles Times and a frequent guest commentator on ESPN. He wrote acerbic columns about players, managers, coaches, and owners, and when he was bored with his usual targets, he’d rip cheerleaders and batboys.
    â€œSkarda?” Daly asked again.
    â€œThat’s me,” Sam said.
    â€œRuss Daly, L.A. Times. How ya doin’?”
    â€œI didn’t play too well this morning. A lot of distractions.”
    â€œYeah, well, nobody expects you to make the cut, so what’s the difference?” Daly said. “You were going to be my column for tomorrow—but I guess you could say things have changed a little since they found the stiff.”
    â€œWhat have you heard?” Sam said.
    â€œPress conference in about an hour,” Daly said. “David Porter—Chairman Sphinx—is supposed to tell us that a member was found floating in the water at Amen Corner.”
    â€œLooks like a homicide investigation to me,” Sam said.
    â€œThe press guide says you’re a cop,” Daly said, pulling out a spiral notebook and a pen. “Did you talk to the local boys down there?”
    â€œYeah, for a minute. They didn’t tell me anything.”
    â€œWhat did you see?”
    â€œSomebody wrote this is the last masters in the grass where they found the body.”
    Daly scribbled that down.
    â€œSo, what’s your opinion?”
    â€œOff the record?”
    â€œC’mon, you’ve been interviewed by assholes like me before.”
    â€œNone with a couple million readers,” Sam said.
    â€œOkay, off the record, then.”
    Sam took off his sweat-stained golf hat and ran his hand through his hair. The sun was high enough now that the huge oak provided some welcome shade.
    â€œWell, one of two things: Either the guy made that message himself and then committed suicide, which isn’t likely, or somebody else killed him to make a point.”
    â€œYou heard that a member came out publicly last week in favor of admitting women to Augusta,” Daly said. “Hell of a story.”
    â€œI suppose it was your story?”
    â€œI wish,” Daly said. “No, it was hers.”
    He jerked his