replied.
âI made four fuckinâ point nine million last year,â Rockingham said, suddenly not smiling. âWhatâd you make?â
âLess than you make in a week.â
âYou need a better job,â Rockingham said, and headed for the locker room, whistling an unrecognizable tune.
Canât argue with him there, Sam thought.
Sam told Dwight theyâd play another practice round Tuesday morning around ten. Dwight said heâd 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 Samâs 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.
âSkarda? You Sam Skarda?â
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 beigeâor was it supposed to be white?âgolf 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, heâd rip cheerleaders and batboys.
âSkarda?â Daly asked again.
âThatâs me,â Sam said.
âRuss Daly, L.A. Times. How ya doinâ?â
âI didnât play too well this morning. A lot of distractions.â
âYeah, well, nobody expects you to make the cut, so whatâs the difference?â Daly said. âYou were going to be my column for tomorrowâbut I guess you could say things have changed a little since they found the stiff.â
âWhat have you heard?â Sam said.
âPress conference in about an hour,â Daly said. âDavid PorterâChairman Sphinxâis supposed to tell us that a member was found floating in the water at Amen Corner.â
âLooks like a homicide investigation to me,â Sam said.
âThe press guide says youâre a cop,â Daly said, pulling out a spiral notebook and a pen. âDid you talk to the local boys down there?â
âYeah, for a minute. They didnât tell me anything.â
âWhat did you see?â
âSomebody wrote this is the last masters in the grass where they found the body.â
Daly scribbled that down.
âSo, whatâs your opinion?â
âOff the record?â
âCâmon, youâve been interviewed by assholes like me before.â
âNone with a couple million readers,â Sam said.
âOkay, off the record, then.â
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.
âWell, one of two things: Either the guy made that message himself and then committed suicide, which isnât likely, or somebody else killed him to make a point.â
âYou heard that a member came out publicly last week in favor of admitting women to Augusta,â Daly said. âHell of a story.â
âI suppose it was your story?â
âI wish,â Daly said. âNo, it was hers.â
He jerked his
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