The very sight of Forsythe sent Billy fleeing for the clubhouse. There he received awful news from Herb Froese and his buddy Skip Jacobs. Forsythe would be playing with them today.
As usual, Forsythe rudely kept them all waiting until seconds before their start time. Billy piled onto Herb’s cart, making sure he wouldn’t have to ride with the horse’s patoot. On the first tee box, Forsythe said, “So, boys, who wants to lay some loose change and make this interesting?” Forsythe a seven-handicapper, was always trying to milk somebody who was half the player he was. Herb Froese had paid for Malcolm’s after-round drinks so many times, he flatly refused, and Skip frugally followed suit. Forsythe turned to Billy. “It’s just you and me, sport. Mano a mano? Stroke or match play?”
“How much?”
“Hundred a hole.” The look on Malcolm’s face, the awed silence that fell on Skip and Herb delighted Billy.
“Jesus,” said Forsythe. “So much for a friendly outing.”
“Money talks, bullshit walks,” said Billy, flamboyantly yanking his driver from the bag. He could sense the shrewd cogs turning in Forsythe’s mind. Reluctantly, Malcolm nodded. Billy had backed him into a corner, just as he had been backed into one over the Lexus.
Billy, a big hitter, always found the first hole, a 545-yard par five, extremely tasty. As he addressed the ball with his Big Bertha he heard Forsythe snidely remark, “That driver looks like a toaster on a stick.”
Billy lifted his head. “It’s legal.”
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