Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [93]
“That’s another two-stroke penalty,” Rufus said.
“Shut up!” the Greek roared.
“He’s playing like he couldn’t hit the side of a barn,” Gloria said under her breath.
Valentine leaned back in his seat, seeing the trick that Rufus had played on the Greek. Driving a golf ball required a lot of arm strength, and the Greek had exhausted his muscles by driving the ball three times each hole. The Greek could have beaten Rufus without the extra strokes, but had let his desire to win cloud his judgment.
The Greek continued to shank balls, ignoring calls from Marcy Baldwin and the suckers to take a break and rest his weary arms. Then a man wearing loud golf clothes appeared with a sheriff in tow. The man had a sizeable welt on his forehead, and angrily pointed at the Greek. “That’s him! He’s the one who hit me.”
The sheriff told the Greek to stop what he was doing. The Greek ignored him, and continued to shank his drives like a man possessed. The sheriff waited until he’d run out of balls, then arrested him. As the sheriff escorted him away from the hole, Rufus came up from behind, and tapped the Greek’s shoulder.
“I win,” Rufus said.
42
Valentine drove Gloria back to the clubhouse in a golf cart. Rufus was ahead of them in a separate cart, having collected his winnings from a sobbing Marcy Baldwin. Seeing Rufus win had ignited a spark in him, and Valentine was eager for the tournament to end so that Rufus could play DeMarco in a winner-take-all showdown.
“Can I ask you a question?” Gloria asked.
He glanced sideways at her. “What’s that?”
“Will you let me film you when you expose DeMarco?”
Valentine thought about it. It would be an ugly black eye for the tournament, and the governor of Nevada.
“Sure,” he said.
She smiled at him. He’d come to the realization that Gloria was about to become a part of his life. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect ending to his trip.
Up ahead, Rufus’s cart had disappeared around a curve, and they were alone on the course. It was a flawless morning, the air crisp and clean, and he slowed down so they could stare at the mountains. The sound of an electric horn ripped through the stillness.
He glanced in his mirror. “What’s this jackass doing?”
“Who?” Gloria asked.
“The guy behind me. He’s driving like a suicide bomber.”
She turned around. A cart had come up behind them, and was hugging their tail. She waved for the cart to come around, which it started to do. The trail narrowed, and the cart’s driver needed to punch it to pass them.
Only the driver didn’t punch it. Instead, he turned his cart into theirs, and pushed them off the trail and down into a steep sand trap. Moments later, their cart hit bottom and slammed onto its side, the wheels still turning.
“Ohhh,” Gloria moaned.
She’d eaten the dashboard, and Valentine jumped out of the cart, came around to her side, and pulled her out. He heard footsteps and looked up at the top of the trap. The guy who’d forced them off the road was coming down.
“Can you run?” he asked her.
“I think so.”
He gently pushed her forward. “Go get help.”
The other side of the trap was not as steep. Gloria ran up it, her hand pressed to her face. She stopped at the top of the trap.
“Tony!”
“Run,” Valentine told her.
“But…”
“Do as I tell you. Please.”
Valentine spun around to face their attacker.
Little Hands saw Valentine kick off his shoes and square off to face him. For an older guy, he had guts, and Little Hands remembered Billy Jack doing that in a movie instead of running away from a fight with about a dozen guys. On the other side of the sand trap, the blond woman had taken off. The golf course was quiet, and it would be a few minutes before she’d find any help. He came to the bottom of the trap and stopped.
“Remember me?”
Valentine squinted at him in the bright sunlight. “Al Scarpi.”
“That’s right.”
“Thanks for the postcards. You made my Christmas.”
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Valentine threw a handful of sand in his face. Little Hands ducked it, but not