there in two minutes. Train felt his insides getting ready to heave up again, moving right to the edge.
Sweet had another glance at the picture he made, and then the phone rung again and he picked it up. He listened a minute and then hung up and sent Henry Disharoon and three other caddies back out to the first tee.
A few minutes later Henry Disharoon came back in. Sweet looked up from his desk, staring out through the wire, annoyed to see this nigger back in front of him when he just sent him out. “You sick, man?” he said.
Henry Disharoon shook his head. “Cat says he wants somebody else.”
“Who?”
Henry shrugged. Sweet picked up his telephone and dialed a number. He said, “Is they a problem up there, Mr. Dugan?”
He listened a minute and then shook his head. “No sir, he ain’t available. No sir . . . All I could do was to sent up somebody else for him in his place.” He listened a moment longer, then hung up the phone.
“Arthur,” he said, “go on up to the first and see if you can’t make these people satisfied.”
Arthur paused a minute, then set what was left of his sandwich on the bench and got up, wiped his mouth and hands on his shirt and headed out. About half the flies went with him; the other half stayed with the sandwich. Five minutes later he came back in, never said a word, just went back to the sandwich and resumed where he left off. There was a wet spot on the bench where he’d laid it.
Sweet’s phone rung again. “I told you, sir,” he said, “he ain’t available today. Yessir, I’m sure. I’m settin’ right here. . . .”
Over on the bench, Arthur had finished eating and taken a knife out of his pocket and closed his eyes and was running his finger along the length of the blade. Train thought he heard him humming.
Sweet put the phone back in the cradle and looked over at Plural. He said, “No-Tank, go on up and scare these fucking white people off the tee.” But before Plural could get up off the floor, the starter, who was supposed to keep the pace of play going, was standing in the doorway. Another man waited just outside. The starter was from Scotland, a people that was always angry anyway, and he stepped inside and turned to the man behind him and motioned him in. Train saw who it was.
“Is he here, then?” the starter said.
The Mile Away Man nodded at Train. “Over there,” he said.
“He’s right bloody there,” the starter said to Sweet, pointing. “What the devil’s got into you, man? He’s right there. . . .”
Sweet come out of his chair, as if to check for himself. “Aw, shit, Mr. Dugan,” he said. “I forgot his name was Lionel, everybody just call him Train. . . .”
But the starter didn’t have no time for that. “Come on, lad, come on,” he said, and Train got to his feet. “We’ve backed up one foursome already, waiting on this business.”
Train staggered in the sunlight but then got himself right and walked up the path to the first tee. The Mile Away Man was up ahead with Dugan, the starter, who was saying malfeasance of some sort was all you ever got when you gave the Negro authority, even over other Negroes. You had to expect it, he said.
It was the fat man again, and two players that Train never seen. They’d all hit their shots and were standing around with their caddies when Train finally got to the tee. Nobody looked too happy about waiting all this time while Mr. Packard handpicked his caddy, but it didn’t look like none of them were going to say it out loud.
Mr. Packard walked straight to the box, got ready to hit, and then stopped. “Have I introduced you all to Mr. Walk?” he said. Nobody thought it was funny but Mr. Packard himself. He chuckled the way he did and dropped a ball on the ground and then swung without even teeing it up, and was walking after it before it
Sweet had another glance at the picture he made, and then the phone rung again and he picked it up. He listened a minute and then hung up and sent Henry Disharoon and three other caddies back out to the first tee.
A few minutes later Henry Disharoon came back in. Sweet looked up from his desk, staring out through the wire, annoyed to see this nigger back in front of him when he just sent him out. “You sick, man?” he said.
Henry Disharoon shook his head. “Cat says he wants somebody else.”
“Who?”
Henry shrugged. Sweet picked up his telephone and dialed a number. He said, “Is they a problem up there, Mr. Dugan?”
He listened a minute and then shook his head. “No sir, he ain’t available. No sir . . . All I could do was to sent up somebody else for him in his place.” He listened a moment longer, then hung up the phone.
“Arthur,” he said, “go on up to the first and see if you can’t make these people satisfied.”
Arthur paused a minute, then set what was left of his sandwich on the bench and got up, wiped his mouth and hands on his shirt and headed out. About half the flies went with him; the other half stayed with the sandwich. Five minutes later he came back in, never said a word, just went back to the sandwich and resumed where he left off. There was a wet spot on the bench where he’d laid it.
Sweet’s phone rung again. “I told you, sir,” he said, “he ain’t available today. Yessir, I’m sure. I’m settin’ right here. . . .”
Over on the bench, Arthur had finished eating and taken a knife out of his pocket and closed his eyes and was running his finger along the length of the blade. Train thought he heard him humming.
Sweet put the phone back in the cradle and looked over at Plural. He said, “No-Tank, go on up and scare these fucking white people off the tee.” But before Plural could get up off the floor, the starter, who was supposed to keep the pace of play going, was standing in the doorway. Another man waited just outside. The starter was from Scotland, a people that was always angry anyway, and he stepped inside and turned to the man behind him and motioned him in. Train saw who it was.
“Is he here, then?” the starter said.
The Mile Away Man nodded at Train. “Over there,” he said.
“He’s right bloody there,” the starter said to Sweet, pointing. “What the devil’s got into you, man? He’s right there. . . .”
Sweet come out of his chair, as if to check for himself. “Aw, shit, Mr. Dugan,” he said. “I forgot his name was Lionel, everybody just call him Train. . . .”
But the starter didn’t have no time for that. “Come on, lad, come on,” he said, and Train got to his feet. “We’ve backed up one foursome already, waiting on this business.”
Train staggered in the sunlight but then got himself right and walked up the path to the first tee. The Mile Away Man was up ahead with Dugan, the starter, who was saying malfeasance of some sort was all you ever got when you gave the Negro authority, even over other Negroes. You had to expect it, he said.
It was the fat man again, and two players that Train never seen. They’d all hit their shots and were standing around with their caddies when Train finally got to the tee. Nobody looked too happy about waiting all this time while Mr. Packard handpicked his caddy, but it didn’t look like none of them were going to say it out loud.
Mr. Packard walked straight to the box, got ready to hit, and then stopped. “Have I introduced you all to Mr. Walk?” he said. Nobody thought it was funny but Mr. Packard himself. He chuckled the way he did and dropped a ball on the ground and then swung without even teeing it up, and was walking after it before it
Similar Books
