Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [38]
“Uh-huh,” Sonny said politely.
“You were managing the course just beautifully that day. I think you had a seventy for the round?”
Sonny blinked—who was this guy? “That’s right,” he said. “The next day it got a lot uglier, though.”
Hayden laughed. “General Myint tells me you were a tremendous hit at the tournament. The council couldn’t have been more pleased that you won.”
Sonny assumed that he was being schmoozed again. “Well, I was just playing my game.” He crouched over his putt. “So you know Myint?”
Hayden returned a smooth laugh. “Well, you might say that. He’s the godfather of my youngest son.”
Sonny double-clutched his putt, the ball rolling three feet wide of the hole.
“So how about if you and I partner up today?” Hayden proposed. “Civilians versus the military. Let’s see how much damage we can do.”
“Sure,” Sonny answered in a neutral voice. “Why not.”
They played six-ball that day, an old-fashioned Thai Crocodile: Sonny and Hayden took on two pairs of generals, Hla and Zaw on one side and Tun and Myint on the other, the Americans giving both twosomes a stroke a hole. It was an elite, top-heavy group, the council’s inner club, and yet the afternoon had a relaxed feel, more like going steady than a first date: there was the sense of things happening on an unspoken level, of an ease and mutual deference between Hayden and the generals that made Sonny careful about what he said. In the five hours it took them to go around, Sonny learned these things about Merrill Hayden: that he owned homes in Aspen and New York City; that he was an honors graduate of Princeton; that he had a high, possibly justified, regard for himself and ran his own merchant banking firm, whatever that was. He was also a three-handicapper with a factory-perfect swing, but after several holes Sonny was laying silent bets that he was even better than that. The man’s flubs were just too neat, too picturesque, and had a knack for coming when the press was on. More obvious was his habit of giving the generals every putt within four feet.
“Something stinks,” Sonny said. He and Hayden were poking around a monsoon drain on Number Thirteen, searching for Hayden’s errant drive. The grass was nasty, glutinous, snaky-looking stuff, nature’s nightclub for horny cobras. Sonny swagged his 3-wood to and fro like a minesweeper.
“I don’t smell anything,” remarked Hayden.
“I’m talking about the game,” said Sonny. “If you’re gonna roll over for these guys, do it on your own dime.”
Hayden was calm. “Come on Sonny, you know how this works.”
“I know we’re down eight hundred bucks and we shouldn’t be.”
“Power has its privileges. They expect to win.”
“Then they should play better. There’s your ball.” Sonny turned and walked away. “Hit.”
Sonny was out twelve hundred dollars by the end of the day—a month of private school tuition for Carla and Christie, or tennis camp, or a new computer with all the trimmings. He numbed the pain with a couple of quick Tsingtaos while Hayden briefed the generals on drilling activity in the Mekong Delta. Unocal and Royal Dutch were going in hard; British Petroleum was sniffing for prospects down the peninsula. By the time Sonny finished his third beer Hayden had moved into a silky pitch for Tesco Energy.
“They’ll pay five million for the seismic data on Block 8, plus a ten million drilling fee per well up front. Myanmar Oil and Gas would have a five-year option to buy in, up to twenty-five percent at the market rate. And if MOGE doesn’t exercise the option it still gets the standard royalty.”
“We have never done business with Tesco,” said General Tun, fondling his ivory cigarette holder.
“No, but you know my standards, and I can tell you they’re as solid as any company I’ve ever brought to you. With a field this size you want the strongest player you can possibly get.”
“Delivery,” said General Zaw, who was chewing ice. This was a long sentence for General Zaw.
“Delivery’s going to follow the Yadana pipeline, Unocal