Chapter 6: Tee Time

“Fore!”

It could have been the accident call or the number.  To say Mr. Hallett was having a bad game was an understatement.  The first hole took him twelve tries.  The second took fourteen.  He was already up to six on this hole, and that was his fourth lousy shot.  It was a good thing there wasn’t anyone right behind him.

“You should try it backwards,” said Schlegel, “You’re pretty good in that direction.”

“I told you I was terrible at this,” said Mr. Hallett.  “You know how long it’s been since I golfed?”

“How long?” asked Mr. Blaine, lounging against a stack of clubs.

“Seventeen years,” said Mr. Hallett, prepping for another swing.  “My wife and I tried it—real golf—when we went to Miami.”

“She beat you?” asked Bourdon.

“Yes, but not by much,” said Mr. Hallett, “and I wasn’t any better back then.”  He swung and missed the ball totally.

“Heh heh, heh heh, ha ha ha ha!” chortled Bourdon.  “I wish you all played like that.  This game would be so easy.”

“Pearson looked good compared to you,” commented Schlegel.

“Pearson?” asked Mr. Hallett.

“My guest that disappeared last week,” said Mr. Hallett.  “I mentioned that to you, didn’t I?”

“I think you said something along those lines,” said Mr. Hallett.  “What happened?”

Mr. Blaine shrugged.  “No one knows.  Last Tuesday evening, he went for a walk.  No one saw him again after that.”

“If you ask me,” said Schlegel, “he probably fell off a cliff and drowned.”

“Fell?” said Mr. Hallett.  “Just like that?”

“Yes,” said Schlegel.  “Just like that.  It wouldn’t have been too surprising.  Pearson enjoyed going for walks along the cliffs at night.  He said it relaxed him.”

“How long were they?” asked Drew.          

“Usually about an hour,” said Schlegel.  “If they were shorter, we could have searched the coast more easily.”

“We did have it searched,” said Mr. Blaine.  “Nothing turned up.”

“Pearson was an oddball,” said Bourdon.  “He’d get all sorts of whims.  One day, he invited me to go on a fishing trip with him.  Funny thing was, it was in the afternoon.  We sat just off the shore for an hour without catching a thing.”

“Afternoon?” said Mr. Blaine.  “That’s not a great time for fishing.”

“It’s not,” responded Bourdon, “but that’s the type of guy Pearson was.  Doing crazy things on whims.  What a character.”

“I will say one thing about Pearson,” said Schlegel.  “He was intimately familiar with my government.  We discussed names, places, dates—things that were common knowledge to an ambassador but should have been foreign to him.  For instance, you haven’t heard of the Graz Conference, have you?”

“The Graz Conference,” said Mr. Hallett, taking a swing.  “Doesn’t that have something to do with energy?”

Schlegel looked startled, but before he could say anything, Mr. Blaine called out, “Hey, good job, John!  You finished the hole!”

Mr. Hallett looked.  Sure enough, the ball was somewhere it had been avoiding all game long—the hole.  It was a beautiful sight “after only fifteen this time,” sighed Mr. Hallett.  “Your turn, Drew.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Drew, taking the ball.  The group walked back to the starting tee, in silence.  It was one of those awkward lulls in conversations that come about when everyone has run out of things to say.  No one spoke again until they got back to the tee.

“Warm today, isn’t it?” said Bourdon.

“It’s Los Angeles, Bourdon.  It’s always warm,” said Schlegel, dourly.

Drew was sizing up the ball.  The rest of the golfers saw a small tee and a distant flag.  In his mind, Drew saw several complicated lines with numbers on them arcing through the air until they converged at the hole.  He lifted his club in the air and came down on the ball.  The ball flew up into the air, and Drew made a face.

“Good shot!” called Mr. Hallett, standing behind Drew.  He watched the ball fly through the air.  It landed about a foot away from the flag and rolled closer to the hole, stopping about three inches away.

“Marvelous!” said Mr. Hallett.  “It’s a good thing you don’t get your golf talent from your dad.

Drew had known almost instantly that it wasn’t a hole in one, but he smiled.  “The elements play a role too,” he said, walking over to the ball.

“Did Pearson do anything else besides going for walks?” asked Mr. Hallett.

Bourdon laughed.  “Of course.  He spent some time in town, though I’m not sure where.”

“He went to Don’s Drive-In a lot,” said Schlegel.  “My wife and I saw him there once.”

“A movie theater?” asked Mr. Hallett.

“Restaurant,” said Schlegel.  “Karla had never been to one of your American ones before.  Most of them have that weird—what do you call that style?”

“Googie?” volunteered Mr. Blaine.

“Googie,” said Schlegel.  “Sounds like Google.  What a weird name.  Why did they call it that?”

“The guy who gave it that name saw a business named that in a building built in that style.  Nice job, Drew!  Your turn, Schlegel.”

“Shh,” said Schlegel.  “I’ve got to concentrate.”

“You’ve got to concentrate?” said Bourdon.  “I’m trying to win here.  Hey, everybody!  Let’s make as much noise as possible!”  He gave some playful hollers.

“You shut up, or I’ll stuff this club down your throat!” glared Schlegel.  Bourdon immediately stopped.

An embarrassed grin crossed Schlegel’s face.  “I’m kidding, of course!” he said.  “Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Bourdon grinned, but it was a nervous one, and he was quiet this time.

Schlegel wound up and with a powerful swing sent the ball flying—over the hole.  It rolled down a hill into a sand trap on the other side.

Schlegel said something in German and wandered out to fetch the ball.

“Nice view,” said Mr. Hallett, staring out at the ocean.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Blaine.  “I’ve played this course for years, but I didn’t realize until recently it might be for sale.  It’s a challenging one, but it’s relaxing at the same time.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Hallett.  Just then, the golf ball flew out from behind the hill and landed smack in the hole.  Schlegel appeared at the top and glanced around for the ball.

“It’s in the hole!” called Drew.

Startled, Schlegel looked in, then grinned.  “A sand wedge masterpiece,” he shouted, pumping his fist.  “What would I do without you?” he said, hugging his club.  “Onward!  To the next hole!”

“He takes this pretty seriously,” said Mr. Hallett.

“All serious players do, John,” said his host, laughing.  “I can see you’re not one of them.  Good thing you know more about property law than you do about golf.”

“How long have you practiced law in—where were you from again?”

“Des Moines,” said Mr. Hallett.  “I’ve practiced for—oh, I can’t think of how many years right now.  A while.”

“In the firm of Hallett and—”

“McCauley.  That was my partner.  Ray was his first name.  I’m mostly retired now, though.  I’m just out here to help my friend.”

“How’s Bourdon’s doing?” asked Drew.

“Bourdon’s?  Oh, fine, fine,” said Bourdon.  “Yes, we’re—uh, we’re stocking up on hats.  The Canadiens are having a good year.”

“Not that good, though, are they?” said Drew.  “I mean, not good enough to be a significant factor in your sales.  Wouldn’t you get more out of the Nordiques?”

“Nordiques, Nordiques—oh, of course, the Nordiques.  How could I forget the Nordiques?  They’re doing even better than the Canadiens.”

Drew laughed.  “You must be quite a hockey fan.  Did you see Weiss’s goal last night?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I haven’t kept up with it nearly as much as I would have liked.  I just know what teams are doing well and whose merchandise to stock.”

“I see,” said Drew.  He glanced over towards the ocean.  “What a nice scene,” he said.  “I think I’m going to take a picture of it.”

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Hallett.

Drew walked to the edge of the course and held up his phone, but he didn’t snap a picture.  Instead, he quickly typed two messages—in code—and sent them.  Only then did he pull up the camera feature and take the shot.

“Blurry on the first few,” he explained, when he got to the next hole.

Bourdon, first up, proceeded to land a hole in one.

“Oui, Oui, Oui!” he shouted, jumping up and down.  “How’s that for a shot?”

“Nice job, Jean-Luc,” said Mr. Blaine, before walking to the hole to retrieve the ball.  Schlegel said nothing but just stared.

Mr. Blaine took three shots to get the ball in.  That brought up Mr. Hallett, who nervously walked over to the ball with his club.  He swung and delivered a line drive—right over Schlegel’s head!

“Fore!” he shouted, too late to do anything good.  Had Schlegel been a foot taller, it would not have been pretty.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Hallett asked, running over to the diplomat.  Schlegel glowered back at him.

“I’d suggest you work on your aim, Mr. Hallett,” he said.  “Bad golfers don’t stick around for long.”

Mr. Hallett didn’t like the way he said that.  There was something too permanent about it.