The Texas Twist (16 page)

Honey didn't need much urging to double the bets. More candy from babies, according to him. He did, of course, insist on knowing that the others could cover. Chuck obliged by showing a wad of bills bound up in an
I Love Boobies
wristband. Bleeth opened his wallet and fanned a thick sheaf of hundreds—possibly fifty or more—and Honey seemed satisfied. They set off down the back nine.

And sure enough, Honey suddenly couldn't hit clean. His drives savagely hooked or sliced. He topped his fairway shots and hacked his way through the rough. Nor could he chip or putt, for all of his lines knuckled off at odd angles. “What the fug is wrong with me?” he asked himself as the bogeys and double-bogeys piled up. A blowup in a sand trap left him cursing and sweating as he dragged himself to the fourteenth tee. His two thousand dollar winnings were smoke.

“This's bullshit,” fumed Honey to himself. “Let these damn kabloonuks off the hook like 'at. A'ight, that shit stops now.” He looked at Bleeth. “I know you got five grand.” He shot a nod at Chuck, “How 'bout you?”

“About the same.”

“Well, I got ten,” said Honey, flashing his roll (a grifter's roll, as it happened, with big bills on the outside and smaller ones within). “I'll take on both of you peckerwoods. Five holes, best score, winner take all.”

“No way,” said Chuck. “That's too much.”

“Come on, pussy. Man the fuck up.”

Chuck looked at Bleeth and read his mind like reading a thought balloon over his head. Bleeth wanted to chase that buzz but he was scared, and in his indecision he had ceded control of the moment to Chuck. “We play partners,” Chuck said at last. He wagged a thumb at Bleeth. “Him and me. Best ball.”

“Nuh-uh,” said Honey. “That gives away the store.”

“Do I have to say man the fuck up? Or don't you want the action?”

Honey ground his teeth. Bleeth looked on, expectant. Best ball was a huge edge. Plus the shit on Honey's clubs… this was going to be sweet. But only if Honey said yes.

Which, at last, he did.

And proceeded to light up the final five holes.

His drives still took funky lines, but somehow they were the right lines. His approaches and chips were ugly but accurate; his putts wobbly but true. Of course with Chuck and Bleeth playing partners' best ball, the match was still competitive; the score was tied as they approached the eighteenth hole, a short par three over a duck pond onto a postage-stamp green.

“Okay, boys,” said Honey, “let's see who likes pressure.” He teed up his ball and addressed it with his seven iron. After taking a practice swing, he suddenly backed off. “Somethin' fucked up about this club,” he said. “I don't trust it.” He put it back in his bag and pulled out his nine iron instead.

Chuck laughed. “You'll never make the green with that,” he said.

“Will if I hit it hard enough,” said Honey. “Hard hit forgives a multitude of sins.” With that he gripped it and ripped it, depositing his ball on the green about thirty feet from the pin. He grinned at the others, his yellow-white teeth shining between his sienna lips. He tipped them an imaginary cap and said, “Y'alls' turn, boys.”

Bleeth went next. He teed up his ball, then backed off for a moment to consider his shot. With the back of his gloved hand, he wiped sweat off his upper lip. Honey's taunt—
“Let's see who likes pressure”
—rang in his ears. The truth was, he didn't like pressure. He didn't like that his whole bankroll was in play.
How did that even happen?
He addressed the ball, took a practice swing, set his stance, drew the club back slowly…and doinked his drive into the pond.

“Oh, ho ho,” chuckled Honey. “Not your finest hour there, saltine. Better hope your partner comes through.” He turned to Chuck. “Your turn, buddy.”

“Not your buddy,” muttered Chuck.

“Ooh,” said Honey with exaggerated concern. “Someone's getting testy.”

Chuck ignored him. He placed his ball on the tee, settled himself, took a smooth, measured swing, and dropped his drive on the green. It bit on the backspin and came to rest about eight feet from the pin.

“Not bad,” whistled Honey. “Not bad at all.”

As they walked to the green, Bleeth allowed himself a smile inside. All that had to happen was for Honey to miss a long putt and for them to make a short one. And they had two shots at it.

They got to the green. Honey sized up his putt. “This
baby's longer than I thought,” he said, his brow creased with concern. He stood over the ball for an age. Chuck caught Bleeth's eye and mimed squeezing drops from a bottle. Bleeth just sighed. He felt a little sick inside. Honey, meanwhile, rested his mind, took a long, controlled breath, stroked on the exhale, and sent the ball straight and true to the cup. “Swish!” he shouted. “Yeah! Nothing but net!” He bowed extravagantly to the others. “Take it away, boys. One to tie, do or die.”

Bleeth made a shambles of his attempt. With no faith in himself and desperate faith in his partner, he overstroked the putt and shot it clear off the green. Now it was up to Chuck to force a tie. He walked the line of his putt, inspecting it and flicking away the odd leaf or twig. In truth it was only an eight-footer, the kind of putt Chuck drained easily every day of his golfing life. But Bleeth could see the strain on his face as he grounded his club behind the ball, cocked it back… brought it forward…and stubbed the turf! He hit the ball on the short hop and knocked it somewhat less than halfway to the hole.

“He chumped the putt!” crowed Honey. “Mayonnaise motherfucker chumped the putt!” He held out his beefy black hand. “Let's have the luscious.” Chuck pulled out his wad and slapped it angrily into Honey's hand. With a look of dull disbelief, Bleeth found himself opening his wallet and handed over his hundreds, which Honey snatched and pocketed with undisguised glee. “Pleasure doing business with you boys,” he said. He hefted his clubs. “Oh, by the way.” He licked the head of his putter. “Mmm,” he said, “tasty,” and strolled away laughing.

Back in the parking lot, Chuck couldn't look his partner in the eye. “I'm sorry I got you involved with that,” he said, angrily hurling his clubs into the trunk of his car. “My wife always tells me not to play high, but I do it, and…fuck.”

Bleeth could commiserate. He had a wife like that, too.

Chuck looked at his cell phone. “She left a message.” He read the text aloud in a high, sarcastic voice. “‘When are you coming home?' Oh, I am such toast.” Chuck got in his car, shaking his head sadly. “Well, might as well go face the music,” he said, and off he drove.

Five minute later—five minutes too late—Bleeth figured it out. Of course they were working together; how could they not be? But Chuck convincingly hated Honey. And had Bleeth hating Honey, too. That's where they got him—where ire shouted down logic. And then that bit about the wife.… Thought Bleeth,
I'll bet Chuck's not even married.

He was right. Chuck wasn't married. Nor was Chuck even Chuck, per se. He was Charles Woodrow Hoverlander, known as Woody to those who knew him, including his old friend Honey Moon, no retired auto worker from Detroit but a circuit grifter like himself. They'd meet up later and split the get, twenty-five hundred each, less expenses. Not a bad way to spend a winter weekday.

Funny thing, though—there really had been a text message on his phone.

A message from Radar. Inviting his father out to play.

N
ot sick?” asked Allie. “Cured?”

“Not cured!” said Sarah. “Not sick! Oh, Allie, can I come in?” She didn't wait for more than a nod, but skittered in and threw herself on the couch, then jumped right up again, too excited to sit. She wrung her hands as if to shake off static electricity. “Allie, they were wrong. The doctors were wrong all along. Jonah doesn't have Karn's! He has a virus, that's all, a virus they can cure with antibiotics. He'll ride out his treatment at my mom's and be home in ten days' time, good as new. Isn't that something?”

“That's quite a development. Sarah, I have to ask, is this more con practice?”

“What? No! God no! Do you think I'd lie about something like this? This is my boy's life. Allie, it's a miracle! And you know who's responsible?”

“Who?” She dreaded to hear Sarah say Radar.

“My Adam Ames,” said Sarah proudly, holding her hand
to her breast. “He's the one who found us a second opinion. He
made
me send Jonah. I'm so glad I did. I can't believe my baby's going to be all right!” Now she collapsed on the couch, nervous energy wicking away as adrenaline shock ebbed. “God, I hope I never go through anything like that again. So worried. So many sleepless nights. You can't imagine the relief I'm feeling right now. I feel reborn.”

“That's wonderful, Sarah,” Allie said levelly. “I'm happy for you.”

“I'm happy for me, too.” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, and plus Adam told me the good news about the boys working for him. That is so great.”

“That hasn't been decided, Sarah.”

“Oh, hush, why wouldn't it be? It'll be so much fun, our men coming home from work together. We'll be all, ‘How was your day, dear?' and they'll talk shop over drinks and the dinners we'll fix. And then later, when you need it, you'll have a built-in babysitter. You'll see. It's gonna be a full-time fiesta from here on out.” Sarah's eyes gleamed. “Maybe I'll join you in, you know, blimpyhood.”

“Sarah, don't you remember what Adam tried to do to you?”

“Oh, I don't think that was what you thought it was at all. Anyway, ‘It's on its way to Pluto,' as my daddy used to say. The important thing now is that Jonah's getting fixed and we can focus all our energy on helping Adam. Do you know what, Allie? I just think he is a great man. It's funny…” She reached over and put a hand on Allie's knee, a gesture that Allie could only greet with widening eyes. “For awhile I thought your Radar was a catch. Not that he's not, but I
mean a catch I missed out on. Now I see that Adam is the real catch. No offense to Radar.”

“None taken,” said Radar, coming in to join them. Boy sloped in with him, crunching noisily on an empty plastic water bottle.

“Oh, you sneak,” scolded Sarah. “How long have you been listening?”

“Not that long.” He came over to Sarah and put his hand on her shoulder. “That's great news about Jonah. As for Adam, please tell him that Vic and I have talked it over, and we'd be pleased to make any contribution we can to his cause.”

That got Radar a hug whether he liked it or not, but he had decided that it would be useful to send his assent through Sarah, just to see how she muddied the message. She left a few minutes later, frothing with all her good news. Radar and Allie agreed that her performance was pretty low theater, but the only one who seemed not to notice that was Sarah.

When Vic came home, he announced, “I think Adam's going to try to write Jonah out of the script. Cure him or something.”

Radar and Allie exchanged looks. “Cure him?” asked Radar, playfully. “Why not finish him off?”

“You mean let the fake disease take the fake sick kid down?” asked Vic. Radar nodded. Vic nodded back. “You could do that. It's a little downbeat, but hold the funeral out of town, come back in a big state of grief and then.…” Vic paused. “No, that won't work. Mourning takes too long, and Ames is a man in a hurry. You'll see. He'll try to rush us. Rush us like rubes, I bet. Anyway, what's going on around here?”

That's when they told Vic Sarah's news, and all admired
the insight or foresight of the amazing Dr. Mirplo. But as the back-pattery faded, Radar said, “Guys, we have to ask again, Where is Sarah in this?” He made a grab for Boy's water bottle, but came up empty. “I mean, she's giving us a tight narrative, if you grant the glue of loopiness that holds her whole thing together, but we need to know: Is she that on script or just that florid in the tales she tells?”

“It occurs to me,” said Allie, “that she's just that practiced.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know she's run charity scams with Jonah at points in the past. Maybe this is always her exit strategy, the miracle cure from the unexpected source. She maybe even offers to return the donations, but by then she has so moved the townsfolk that they won't hear of it. Then it's out of sight, out of mind, and who bothers to follow up and see if little Jonah ever completed his recovery?”