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Final Round: A Novel - Softcover

Bernhardt, William

 
9780345449634: Final Round: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0345449630 ISBN 13: 9780345449634
Verlag: Ballantine Books, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

In the glamorous world of professional golf, one match is synonymous with excellence, tradition, and prestige. The Masters is played on the sweeping fairways of Georgia’s exclusive Augusta National Golf Club, drawing an annual pilgrimage of Lear jetting superstars, media, and throngs of fans. But this year, the tournament has attracted something else. A killer is coming to play a deadly game of his own.

For Connor Cross and John McCree, two pros who share a long friendship and a passion for golf, the competition is a chance to catch up on old times and calm each other’s nerves before the play turns serious. But when a killer strikes, things suddenly turn too serious. As Connor is drawn into the intrigue—in the company of an alluring female cop—he faces the greatest hazard ever. With one round left to play, and the body count rising while his scores are dropping, Connor Cross is the next in line to die. . . .

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

William Bernhardt is the author of fourteen books, including Primary Justice, Perfect Justice, Double Jeopardy, Naked Justice–which led Library Journal to dub the author “master of the courtroom drama”–Silent Justice, and Murder One. He has twice won the Oklahoma Book Award for Best Fiction and in 2000 he was presented the H. Louise Cobb Distinguished Author Award “in recognition of an outstanding body of work that has profoundly influenced the way in which we understand ourselves and American society at large.” A former trial attorney, Bernhardt has received several awards for his public service. He lives in Tulsa with his wife, Kirsten, and their children, Harry, Alice, and Ralph.

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The Day Before . . .

Monday

“It’s Silly Putty,” Conner Cross said with an air of finality that defied anyone to disagree with him. “I’m certain of it.”   “It is not,” John McCree replied. He’d been defying Conner since they were kids and had no trouble doing it again. “It’s a specially treated ball of monofilaments, packed and compressed for maximum durability and flexibility.”

“Monofilaments! Give me a break. It’s Silly Putty.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not. This is a subject on which I have a certain expertise.”

“You can’t even spell expertise.”

“I’m telling you, it’s Silly Putty. I was reading a magazine article about this just last week.”

“I find that highly unlikely, unless maybe it was mentioned as some playmate’s pet peeve.”

Conner raised his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Fitz!”

An older man sporting a shoeshine-boy cap and toting a large bag of clubs strolled toward the two men at the first tee. “You called, Master?”

Conner Cross smiled. “Look, Fitz, we need you to settle an argument.”

“Caddies don’t settle arguments.” Fitz, ever the dapper dresser, was attired in a Lacoste golf shirt, a Lyle & Scott cashmere sweater, and Italian gabardine light wool slacks—quite a contrast to Conner himself, who sported a bright floral Hawaiian shirt, yellow bicycle shorts, and a tattered Panama straw hat. “We counsel. We strategize. We tote. But we don’t settle arguments.”

“Be a sport.”

Fitz folded his arms across his chest. “No,” Fitz said emphatically. His full name was Daniel Fitzpatrick, but he’d been caddying forever, and everyone had long ago reduced his name to the single syllable.

“C’mon. For me?”

“Definitely not.”

“What, are you afraid you’ll be fined by the caddies’ union? Look—if you’ll just settle this dispute, I promise I won’t make fun of that silly yellow sweater.”

“What a charmer.”

“Puh-leeze?” Conner wheedled.

Fitz twisted his craggy, weathered face. “I caddied for Gary Player for six years and he never once asked me to settle an argument.”

“Then you’re overdue. Here’s the thing: what do you think they put inside golf balls—Silly Putty, or super-compressed monofilaments?”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “I assume you stand in the Silly Putty camp.”

“I shouldn’t say. It might prejudice your decision.”

“For your information, you dimwits, they put rubber inside golf balls. That’s all it is. Rubber.”

Conner Cross and John McCree looked at each another. “Rubber?”

“That’s right,” Fitz said emphatically. “Plain ordinary rubber.”

Conner and John continued staring.

“He says it’s rubber,” Conner said.

“I heard that,” John replied.

Conner’s eyes crinkled. “Nah. Can’t be.”

“Definitely not,” John agreed. “No way.”

“Can’t be,” Conner said, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Agreed,” John said. “If golf balls had rubber inside, they’d bounce all the way down the fairway. Or in Conner’s case, the rough.” The two golfers exchanged a look.

Fitz threw up his hands in despair. “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you two reprobates!” He marched past them toward the first tee. “C’mon. If you don’t get your practice round started, you’ll lose your tee time. And if you don’t log enough practice hours, they’ll toss you out of the tournament.”

It was possible, Conner groused, as he followed his caddie to the tee. Anything was possible at the Masters. This annual event, hosted by the Augusta National Golf Club, was one of the most prestigious, if not the most prestigious, of the tournaments on the tour. But it was also a pain in the butt. The Masters was full of rules, regulations, and hoity-toity guidelines of decorum, all of which drove Conner crazy.

During his three years on the tour, Conner had developed a reputation as the PGA’s bad boy. According to the press, he was the “gonzo golfer” who delighted in flouting convention. This had made him the hero of some—but not the PGA authorities and officials, and definitely not the top dogs at the Augusta National Country Club. Safely ensconced in the deep South, the Club—which still only accepted male members—was determined to maintain the high standards of a more genteel era. It made Conner want to barf.

John nudged him in the side. “Smell that?”

Conner inhaled deeply. “Cheeseburgers?”

John looked at him pitiably. “Honeysuckle.”

Conner sniffed again. John was right, of course. The sweet scent of honeysuckle permeated the course. Much as the Masters tournament got under his skin, Conner grudgingly had to admit that the Augusta National course was magnificent, particularly when the tournament was held each year in April—often culminating on Easter Sunday. He gazed out at the flowering crabapples, the graceful dogwoods, and the blazing streaks of azalea, all set against a magnificent green expanse of turf and trees. It was a spectacular view.

“Not much like back home, huh?” John said, grinning.

Conner silently agreed. He and John had grown up together in the wheatfields and tall-grass prairies of western Oklahoma. They were inseparable throughout junior high and high school. They did everything together—bombed the same classes, got bombed on the same six-packs, and, of course, played golf. Back then, golf had held a special allure for Conner, who’d grown up with his father on a not-very-prosperous farm near the small town of Watonga. Its scruffy nine-hole course was an enchanted oasis in the midst of the red dirt and yellow plains that surrounded it. He and John both fell in love with the sport there.

After high school, John went off to college in California, while Conner stayed near home and went to OU. After college, John made the PGA tour. Conner didn’t—but John did everything imaginable to get him in, including loaning him money and arranging private golf instruction from Harvey Penick and other golf giants. Ultimately, Conner won his PGA card. John lived in Georgia now and was a member of the Augusta National Golf Club—whereas Conner probably couldn’t gain membership with a recommendation from Robert E. Lee. John was in nearly all respects the antithesis of Conner, but Conner liked him anyway. Fact was, even though Conner hated to admit it, he pretty much owed John for everything good in his life.

Today was Monday; Conner had flown into Georgia last night. The actual tournament would not begin until Thursday, with a par three mini-tournament on Wednesday. Between now and then, he needed to get in as much practice as possible.

Conner winked at his caddie. “Shall we get started?”

Fitz stared at him, appalled. “You mean, you want to play golf now?”

“Isn’t that what I normally do on golf courses?”

“Matter of opinion, I suppose.” His eyebrows knitted. “You can’t play golf dressed like that.”

“And why not?” Conner...

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Verlag
Ballantine Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2003
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0345449630
ISBN 13 
9780345449634
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
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