The Pariot GAme

George V. Higgins was the author of more than twenty novels, including the bestsellers
The Friends of Eddie Coyle, Cogan’s Trade, The Rat on Fire
, and
The Digger’s Game
. He was a reporter for the
Providence Journal
and the Associated Press before obtaining a law degree from Boston College Law School in 1967. He was an Assistant Attorney General and then an Assistant United States Attorney in Boston from 1969 to 1973. He later taught Creative Writing at Boston University. He died in 1999.

Irish Folk Song

T
HREE CADDIES
sat on the steps under the portico at the front entrance of the Nipmunk Country Club in Weston, Massachusetts, and watched the long, curving driveway bake in the late morning sun. There were fairways on both sides of the drive. Two women played on the fairway to the west and three women played on the fairway to the east. There were three Cadillac Sevilles—maroon, beige, black—in the parking lot adequate for two hundred cars in front of the brick steps and the pillared portico, and two Volvo station wagons, both green, next to them.

One of the caddies, thirteen years old, dug a crushproof box of Winstons, crushed, out of his right jeans pocket and lighted a badly bent cigarette with a Bic lighter. He was still in the process of learning to smoke, and did everything very elaborately. He released the first drag of smoke through his nose.

The caddie in the middle wore a Boston Red Sox cap and a bored expression. “Junior,” he said to the caddie who was smoking, “you’re an asshole.” The third caddie received this information thoughtfully, remaining silent under his Caterpillar Tractor hat. He seemed to be thinking about it.

“I
have
an asshole,” Junior said. “That’s why I’m not full of shit like you, pugpuller.” The third caddie accepted that information silently as well. He moved his feet up from the
second step to the top step on the entrance and rested his forearms on his knees.

“You couldn’t pull it if you wanted to, Junior,” the caddie in the middle said. “It’s so little that you couldn’t get a grip on it.”

“You got it all mixed up, Howard,” the caddie said between drags and ostentatious expulsions of smoke. “The way it works is, you either got a big prick or a big mouth. We all know what you got, Howard. We can hear you all the time.”

“You’re the one that’s got it all mixed up,” Howard said. “I got brains enough, I don’t smoke. You ever hear of lung cancer or something?”

“Yeah,” Junior said, “I heard of it. I also heard about a guy that was caddying for Mrs. Blake on Monday, and she thought he was in the woods looking for her ball and she went looking for him because he was gone a long time and he was in the bushes looking for his balls and playing with himself. I heard she said something to Walter down the pro shop when she came in, and Walter hadda tell the kid he couldn’t beat his meat when he was supposed to be working for Mrs. Blake. You hear that, Cody?” He leaned away from the pillar to look at the third caddie.

“No,” the third caddie said. “I wasn’t here this week.” He did not shift his gaze.

“No,” Junior said. “Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t see you.”

“I was visiting my father,” Cody said.

“Howard did it,” Junior said. “Mrs. Blake caught him jerking off Monday and she told Walter. He tried to pretend it wasn’t her or Howard, but it was just something he wanted to tell us about. We all knew it was Howard though. Right, Howard? We all knew it was you.”

“Shut up, Junior,” Howard said.

“Mrs. Blake,” Junior said with relish, “Mrs. Blake was so pissed off about it she was still mad when she got in the
clubhouse and she told Mrs. Tobin, and then Bishop Doherty comes in for lunch and Mrs. Tobin was having lunch with him and she told Bishop Doherty.”

“I told you, Junior, shut up,” Howard said.

“And Bishop Doherty got this look on his face like he does when he’s out onna course with her or Mister Tobin or Father Clancy and somebody says
fuck
and then gets all embarrassed like he didn’t know what the word means, and Bishop Doherty starts laughing and pretty soon Mrs. Tobin was, too, and Mrs. Blake heard them from where she was having her
lemonade
out on the patio and she knew what they were laughing about and she got all mad again and came in and started reading out Mrs. Tobin, and Bishop Doherty told her to shut up, there was no need to make a big deal out of a small matter. Which is how everybody knows, Howard, that you got a small one, because Mrs. Blake started laughing too and she said if it was what she thought it was, it wasn’t big enough to do any damage with anyway.”

Cody started laughing, very quietly.

“You shut up too, Cody,” Howard said. His face was red. “I can beat up Junior and I can beat you up too if I have to.”

“No,” Cody said, looking at him and grinning, “no, you can’t. You used to be able to beat me up, but I’m bigger now. And besides, you can’t beat anybody up now, can you? Because if somebody gets mad at you now, Howard, all they got to do is say something about Mrs. Blake and you’ll get all embarrassed like you are now.”

“My parents aren’t divorced,” Howard said.

A light green Ford sedan entered the driveway and started toward the clubhouse. Junior raked the coal of the cigarette against the brick steps and threw the butt into the shrubbery.

“Mine,” he said. “Saw it first.”

“I know,” Cody said to Howard. “Mine are, though.”

“You didn’t see it first,” Howard said.

“I said it first,” Junior said.

“Come on, you guys,” Cody said, “Walter’s got the list. He decides.”

The Ford pulled into the parking lot and stopped next to the maroon Seville. All the windows were closed in the car.

“Doesn’t matter,” Howard said. “Cheap car. He’ll have a cart. Too hot to play anyway.”

The door opened on the Ford and the driver got out. He weighed about two hundred and forty pounds and there was no noticeable fat on him. He was about six feet four inches tall. He had black hair which was long, greasy and cut unevenly. He had thick black sideburns and an ill-kept Zapata mustache. He wore a tan twill shirt with epaulets and flapped pockets; it had long sleeves and he had rolled them back at the cuffs, exposing a stainless steel Rolex Submariner watch on his left wrist and a broad white scar that began on the back of his right hand and disappeared under the shirt midway up his forearm. He wore oversized Ray-Ban sunglasses. His pants were gray twill, held up with heavy green suspenders and a heavy brown belt. He wore Survivor boots, tan, with lug soles. On the left side of his body there was a holster snapped onto the belt. It carried, in the cross-draw position, a .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver. He reached into the car and brought out a gray Harris tweed jacket. He put it on and closed the door, locking it. He started toward the steps.

“
Jesus
,” Junior said. “Did you see that thing?”

“
Yeah
,” Howard said.

“This guy,” Cody said thoughtfully, “didn’t come out here for no golf, is what I think.”

The driver walked with a slight lameness of his right knee, which required him to swivel his foot away from his body when he took a step. He reached the bottom of the steps where the boys sat and swung the right foot onto the first step. He got his left foot onto the step, planted it, and swung the
right foot again. There was sweat running down his face and he needed a shave.