Bobby got back in his cart and followed Victor and Stan as they walked back up the ninth fairway.
“You see,” Victor said, “golf is a game for gentlemen. It’s about honor and courtesy and good sportsmanship. You don’t steal in golf, you don’t lie, you don’t cheat. You understand? ’Cause if you don’t, you shouldn’t be playing. Now, is this right? This is exactly where you found it? Place it down where it was. Thank you.”
Then Victor hit the old guy hard, an openhanded slap that they must have heard in the clubhouse. The man went down hard and stayed there until Victor told him to get up. The old guy was crying now.
“Bobby,” Victor said, “take him back to his buddies, would you? Then you can play your shot. I’ll watch your ball.”
After he had delivered the guy to the ninth green, Bobby stood over his ball, lining up a shot with a sand wedge. His hands were shaking a little. He stepped back, took a practice swing, then another. He moved up to the ball and hit a high arching shot that put it over the trees and four feet from the cup.
“Nice shot,” Victor said. “All you got to do is drop it and you’ve won a thousand. Not bad for a few hours of work. Miss it, and it’s going to be ugly.”
There was no choice, really. No choice. He lined the putt up and dropped it.
“Victor, it’s over,” Don said. “He did it. Back side and gross total.” Don walked up to Bobby and shook his hand. Victor came up on the other side of him and shook Bobby’s hand as well. “Victor,” Don continued, “let’s get this young man paid.”
“Money’s in the car,” Victor said.
“Then we go to the car.” Don took Bobby’s left arm and stepped off toward the parking lot. Victor, not actually touching Bobby, marched along at his right.
They got to the bottom parking lot. Bobby considered calling for help, but figured he wouldn’t get it, and would only end up making things worse. As they crossed the lot, they veered left toward the dumpster. Bobby tried to bolt, but Victor had him firmly by the right arm.
“Let me ask you something. You didn’t have the money, did you?”
Bobby looked at Don, then over at Vic. He shook his head.
The first blow caught him in the solar plexus and he went down to his knees hard. “That’s for the lie. This is for winning the back.” Bobby tried to cover up, but Victor’s hand came across his body and pushed something under the collar of his shirt. “It’s also for being a great player. And this, this is for being a dirty sandbagger.” Something exploded behind his right ear and Bobby went all the way to the ground, out cold.
*
When he came to, and after he brushed the dirt from his mouth, he reached into his shirt and took out the little roll of hundred-dollar bills Victor had left for him. All in all, it was a decent day’s work. He was back in business.
PART III
GOD’S MERCIFUL PROVIDENCE
ALL IN THE FAMILY
BY BRUCE DESILVA
Federal Hill
In the pause between Bruno Mars’s “Grenade” and Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger,” Val caught a few yaps of his barking-dog ringtone. He plucked out his earbuds, glanced at his cell phone, and saw an unfamiliar number on the screen.
“Hey, Charles?” he said before thumbing the answer button. “Would you mind turning your music down, please?” His office mate’s desktop speaker was still belching Bach, which is why Val had sought refuge in his own tunes.
“History of Art and Architecture. Sciarra speaking.”
“Valerio Sciarra?” The voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“That would be me, yes.”
“Rudy Sciarra’s grandnephew?”
Val hesitated. His grandfather’s deceased older brother, an enforcer for Raymond L.S. Patriarca back in the ’60s, was not a relative he liked to acknowledge. “Well . . . I’ve been told that we were related, but I never actually met the man. What is this about?”
“There’s a car waiting for you outside. New Lincoln MKS. Black with tinted windows.”
“There must be some mistake. I didn’t call for a car.”
“Just come outside and get in it, professor. Don’t make me send the muscle in there for you.”
Before Val could protest, the caller was gone.