

# Tuesday's Caddie

By

Jack Waddell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012-2014 Jack Waddell

Second Issue

ISBN: 9781301902033

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover by Vila Design www.viladesign.net

Scripture quotations from The Holy Bible, New International Version NIV Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Prologue: Forest Lawn

Part One: 1930

Chapter 1: Conor

Chapter 2: Biarritz

Chapter 3: The Yard

Chapter 4: Annie

Chapter 5: First Round

Chapter 6: Mary

Chapter 7: Second Round

Chapter 8: Robert

Chapter 9: Billy

Chapter 10: Tryout

Chapter 11: Gossip

Chapter 12: Money

Chapter 13: Third Round

Chapter 14: Practice

Chapter 15: Bullock's Wilshire

Chapter16: Westlake Park

Chapter 17: Mother's Day

Chapter 18: Conspiracy

Chapter 19: Bogey House

Chapter 20: Agua Caliente

Chapter 21: Consequences

Chapter 22: Succor

Chapter 23: Dancing

Chapter 24: Billy Redux

Chapter 25: Auction

Chapter 26: Saturday

Chapter 27: Franklin

Chapter 28: Sunday

Chapter 29: Winning and Losing

Chapter 30: Awards

Chapter 31: Flight

Part Two: 1964-1969

Chapter 32: Politics

Chapter 33: Revelation

Chapter 34: Tuesday's Caddie

Chapter 35: Westchester

Chapter 36: Truth

Chapter 37: Mitchell

Chapter 38: Providence

Chapter 39: Remembrances

Chapter 40: Reckoning

Epilogue: Forest Lawn

Acknowledgments

About the Author

# Prologue

## Forest Lawn

Sunday, April 8, 2012

The man only wanted to pay respects to his father. That it was his visitation day with his daughter made it a little awkward. Who takes his daughter to a cemetery on their visitation day? What would her mother say? But it was Easter Sunday and his father's birthday and he never missed bringing flowers to the grave. His father had been a good man. And besides, the man rationalized, it wasn't all that different than taking his daughter to a park.

He had a point. The Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California is as much a tourist attraction as a place of repose and respect. With its chapels, museums, art galleries and sculptures it is an iconic final destination befitting Hollywood glitz and glamour. The setting is beautiful, much like a golf course. With three hundred rolling acres of towering trees and mown grass it is a shaded green oasis in the sprawl that has become greater Los Angeles. Scores of celebrities remembered and long forgotten are interred here. Fans by the busload wander the grounds and gape at the headstones and take pictures and chatter about their memories of their departed idols. If one enjoys theme parks in this life then Forest Lawn is the perfect choice for the next one.

It was sometimes a chore to crawl through the narrow lanes behind cars lost in the maze of curving drives while their drivers fumbled with tourist maps showing grave locations, especially on a holiday like this. But the man was used to it and patiently wound his way to where his father was buried. They got out of the car and walked to the gravesite. When they reached it, the father said a brief prayer and placed the flowers beneath the stone. He explained to his five-year-old why they were there, who this had been and why they were leaving flowers. Then he saw something that struck him.

She was obviously an old woman. She wore a long skirt and woolen sweater even though it was a mild April day. She was carrying a spray of greenery and flowers, shuffling her way with a cane across the grass to a rather large granite marker. Maybe it was the marker that got his attention. Who could that be? Somebody famous?

He watched as the woman took a withered arrangement from the base of the stone and replaced it with the one she had been carrying. With some difficulty she knelt and prayed. She stayed for more than a few moments. She rose and stood back from the stone and looked at it for some time. Then she bent down and picked up the withered arrangement and carried it back to a limousine. She got in and the limousine pulled away.

The man had to look. Taking his daughter by the hand he walked across the lawn to the headstone. He looked at the flowers she had left. He looked at the headstone. The names meant nothing to him. In fact, they confused him. They didn't match up.

"Who is it, Daddy?" his daughter asked.

"I don't know, honey," he replied, "but they died a long time ago."

"What does it say?" she asked.

"There's just their names, who they were and parts of a poem."

"But what does it mean?"

"I'm not sure. But I think it means they loved each other very, very much." Then, thinking of the old woman, he added, "And I guess someone still loves them."

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# Part One – 1930

"The wise have eyes in their heads, while the fool walks in the darkness; but I came to realize that the same fate overtakes them both." _Ecclesiastes 2:14 NIV_

# Chapter 1

## Conor

Tuesday April 15, 1930

It was a long walk, maybe four miles, from the boarding house to the golf course. It was still dark and chilly. Southern California nights don't give up their cold until the sun gets high enough to do its job. Conor O'Reilly pulled the collar up on his tweed jacket and thrust his hands into the waist of his plus fours. His bowler hat pulled low, he watched the ground so as not to trip down the sloping gravel shoulder. He kept a brisk pace.

He wanted to get to the course early enough that he'd have a chance to carry two loops today. Tuesday was Ladies' Day, so with any luck he could get a morning round with the men in soon enough that he could pick up another carry when the women came out in the afternoon. It would be a long day, maybe sixteen miles by the time he got home, half of those carrying bags on both shoulders if he was lucky enough to pick up doubles. Not that he minded. It wasn't just work. It was golf.

He counted himself fortunate. Any job these days was a good job. But to be able to spend his hours in the open air on a golf course, even if it meant playing the game vicariously, was a bonus. After all, he'd grown up on a golf course in Ireland. His family had a cottage across the road from the famed Lahinch Golf Club and its resort hotel in County Clare, hard by Liscannor Bay on the southwestern shore.

His career, as it was, had started when he was fifteen. His father, a barber, had died suddenly leaving behind his mother and Conor's four older sisters. The sisters were already working, three as maids and one as a seamstress. It had been time for him to add his support to the household. He'd had few regrets leaving school. It had been too confining to suit him. His two sisters still living at home made sure though that he kept up with some studies, reading to him and encouraging him to read the books they would "borrow" from the families they worked for. The reading at home, unlike in school, became something he loved and he began reading everything he could.

When he began he would caddie by day, work cleaning in the hotel kitchen in the evening, then sneak out onto the course in the dark with a club the caddie master had given him and balls he had shagged from the gorse lining the fairways. Over the next several years he worked himself up both on the course and in the kitchen. He became a very good golfer, several times winning the annual caddie tournament. And he learned to cook; something he came to enjoy once it didn't involve scrubbing pots and pans.

He was twenty-one when his mother died. By then all of his sisters had married. Only the youngest was still living in the cottage with her husband. Whether it was the loss of his mother or something of a coming of age, he was at once overcome with wanderlust. He wanted to go to America, to become something more than a caddie and a cook. He'd been too busy to go looking for a wife. Perhaps he could find one across the pond. His sisters had forced him to save his money. Now he was glad they had. He had enough to book passage in steerage and get himself started in the New World.

It was 1925 when he landed on New York's Ellis Island. America was booming. He had no trouble finding work in a restaurant in the theater district, just off Broadway. Like many establishments of the time, it was a restaurant in the front and a speakeasy in the back. It made for a spirited crowd. And it was that crowd that fired his imagination. They were, by his standards, rich beyond measure; men in tuxedos, women in glittery gowns, one couple more handsome than the next. He wanted to become one of them. But he recognized that New York was not where he could do that. Not when he was so Irish. Not when this was old money with old connections that were too tightly knit to permit him entry.

That's when he began thinking of California. He knew there was opportunity there for someone with ambition; everything was new, everything was growing. He'd written back and forth with his cousin Michael who had already made the pilgrimage. It sounded exactly like the kind of place he could make his fortune. And it was, for a while. He arrived in Los Angeles in 1928 with a bag packed full of dreams. He would open his own restaurant, then another, then another. He would build an empire.

He started small, renting a tiny café on South San Pedro Avenue near City Hall. He called it "Connie's," his mother's pet name for him. He was chef, maître d' and cleaning crew. Open for breakfast, lunch and dinner, he worked hard and was starting to make some money. Until it all went away.

His was one of a million similar stories with the crash of 1929. His bank failed and took with it all his money. He lost customers. He couldn't pay his suppliers, then his rent. Within two months, in January of 1930, he was out of business.

He went looking for work. At first he scoured downtown Los Angeles. Nothing. Then he had an idea. He would go where the rich were. He managed to make his way to the Hollywood Hills. Mansion after mansion was tucked behind high hedges and iron gates. But he had a different objective – a country club. It was where the rich gathered. And they certainly had to eat. He would cook for them.

He struck out at the first two clubs. At the third, Biarritz Country Club, he got lucky. Michael's wife Mary was working there as a scullery maid. No, there was no work in the kitchen. But maybe he could caddie. He should see the caddie master. He did. Gino was a fearsome character, but Conor managed to persuade him with his tales of golf in Ireland. He started as a "C" caddie only able to carry one bag at a time, but he obviously was good and soon earned "A" status and thus able to carry doubles. He had a job that could sustain him.

His timing couldn't have been better. Within a few months of the crash all the clubs in the area were overrun with men looking for work as caddies or grounds crew or work of any kind. Biarritz built a gate and hired a gatekeeper to keep them out.

Walking the final leg down La Habra Street, Conor approached the gate. The sun was just starting to glimmer over the San Gabriel Mountains to the east. There was Harry O'Berry, the gatekeeper, rising from the stool in his little hut to greet him. Conor had his caddie badge pinned to his lapel, his ticket into the club, but he didn't need it. Harry knew him well.

"Hey Mick!" Harry called out. "You're out here early this morning."

Conor cringed, as always, at the nickname. He wasn't the only Irishman working at the club and so he never understood why he was the one who ended up with the derogatory sobriquet. But he was getting used to it.

"Aye, Harry, I am to be early this fine day. But it would seem you've beaten me to the watch."

Harry chuckled. "Well, a man has to get up early to keep the likes of you out."

"I shan't be denied my entry into this hallowed ground," Conor bellowed in jest. "For I have the coin the of the realm pinned here to my brave chest! I am an "A" caddie and I demand my due respect!"

Harry laughed, as he always did at their morning jokes. "All right then you nefarious blackguard, you Irish scamp, come in, come in. But be warned. I got a look at Gino this morning and I think he had a bit too much of the grape last night, if you know what I mean. It's a black mood he's sure to be in."

"Oh, he doesn't scare me! I am an "A" caddie, the best there is, an experienced professional quite capable of dealing with the unwashed heathens that make up our little world. Let me in and I'll slay the Gino dragon one way or another."

"Well, good luck to you, Mick. You'll need it."

With that Harry opened the gate and with a bow and a wave ushered Conor in. "Mick" walked through, ready for the day. He would deal with Gino as he always did.

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# Chapter 2

## Biarritz

Tuesday, April 15, 1930

Biarritz Country Club was the creation of George Hamilton Burnside, a fabulously wealthy financier and real estate mogul who, at the turn of the century, had the foresight to buy up some of the most scenic property in the Hollywood Hills. Most of it he sold off in estate-sized chunks to similarly wealthy individuals. Yet he kept the most beautiful tract for himself; one hundred sixty acres atop a plateau dotted with pear and pepper trees. The site ran more or less level east and west with the southern side sloping down to an arroyo lined with a grove of eucalyptus trees. Until it was developed, the tract was jokingly referred to locally as "George's Gorge."

He commissioned Herbert Campbell, a renowned architect who had designed several famous courses on Long Island and in suburbs of Chicago and Detroit, and paid him the princely sum of twenty-five hundred dollars to layout the eighteen-hole course. Ground was broken in 1923 and in the spring of 1925 it opened for play. The front nine wound through trees like a parkland course until it reached the far western end of the property. Then, like The Old Course at St. Andrews, the back nine played through almost links-like terrain along the dunes that lined the arroyo coming back to the clubhouse.

The clubhouse was a huge Spanish-style affair with an expansive red tiled roof and pink stucco walls popular at the time. It sat at the east end perched atop the highest point on the property. Its sweeping veranda offered a commanding view of the course and especially the closing hole. Burnside had specified that he didn't want the last hole to play into the setting sun and it didn't. The eighteenth began low just beyond the dunes then rose up the hill, turning right and east around a copse of trees, up to an elevated green lying beneath the veranda. Whether taken in looking up from the fairway or looking down from the clubhouse, the view was majestic.

There were other amenities and structures: four tennis courts lay just to the north of the clubhouse flanked by a pool to the east and a pro shop just to the west. A practice putting green sat in front of the pro shop. At the far west end of the course near the fourteenth green was the greenkeeper's barn reached by its own service road. Along that dirt lane was a small bungalow that pre-dated the course. Originally intended as the greenkeeper's residence, it instead acquired another purpose along with the moniker "Bogey House" after proving to be a discreet and convenient place for some of the members to sleep off a night of too vigorous revelry or, on occasion, play host to inappropriate bedmates. There even developed a code for its use. One candle in the window meant its occupants were indisposed to company. Two candles meant another guest was welcome to share the accommodations.

Of course the clubhouse, tennis courts and pool were not part of Conor O'Reilly's world. His world was the caddie yard; a twenty-five- by twenty-five-foot district of hard packed earth surrounded on three sides by a six-foot high weathered grape stake fence and gate. The inner perimeter was lined with wooden benches, a couple of spittoons, a pail full of sand for an ashtray and, in the corner, a rusting steel drum for discarded newspapers, bottles and other trash. A faded and tattered market umbrella stood furled in another corner. It and an overhanging pepper tree were the only shelter from rain. A tea table with three good legs and a broomstick for a fourth served for checkers, cribbage, solitaire and poker. The fourth side of the yard was the back wall of the pro shop. There were two doors. One led to a small perpetually filthy bathroom for the caddies, the other was a large Dutch door that led past a small desk and into the bag room.

The yard's denizens had supplied most of the furnishings and décor over time, including the intricately carved initials and blasphemies that graced the benches and fence posts. A lot of time had been killed in this place. Two things the inhabitants had not furnished were the signs. One was nailed to the inside of the gate and admonished "Keep Closed! This Means You!" This was meant to prevent any of the genteel members' sensibilities from becoming offended by inadvertently peering into such a den of depravity. The other sign was posted next to the Dutch door and set forth the rules of deportment:

ON THE COURSE:

NO Smoking, NO Drinking, NO Chewing, NO Spitting, NO Pissing.

IN THE YARD:

NO Gambling, NO Drinking, NO Fighting, NO Loud Talk.

KEEP THIS PLACE CLEAN!

Rare was the day when all these rules were followed, but only because Gino, the caddie master, wielded his authority well. He was a reasonable man with an unreasonable demeanor. He cast a frightening visage. His head was bald and as big as a pumpkin. It seemed to grow from his massive shoulders and chest with no neck for a stem. His left ear was cauliflowered. His nose was squished against his face, the tip pointing impossibly right like some crooked parsnip. His forearms were too big to fit most shirts so he would slit open the sleeves and keep them rolled up to his elbows. He looked like what he was, an ex prize fighter.

He started boxing while serving in the Army during the World War and took some professional fights after that with limited success. He was more proud of his time in the service than his boxing. Even though he had only risen to the rank of sergeant, he insisted that his charges address him as "Captain." None of them had any problem doing so.

Despite piques of nastiness that could lapse into entire diatribes of blue language, he was, at his core, a fair man. He knew his caddies needed this work; he knew it wasn't an easy job, and he did everything he could to make sure the work was assigned where it was needed. But his first job was keeping the members happy. Certain members liked certain caddies and he made it a priority that his members get what they wanted. As rough as he could be, he was nonetheless the necessary buffer, the diplomat, the arbiter between the caddie yard and the clubhouse. And that gave him status beyond his station in the world that was the Biarritz Country Club.

It was a world that came into starker contrasts with the coming of the Depression. The rich who were able to hold onto their wealth were still rich. Many of the members who weathered the crash were invested in things of lasting worth like oil, mining or, if prudently done, real estate. There was also a contingent of members who made their money in the relatively new film industry. Like several other exclusive country clubs in the area, Biarritz boasted a handful of Hollywood stars as well as some motion picture executives.

The people who worked in the clubhouse or on the course, by comparison, were much poorer than they had been before the crash. There had been some loss of members that necessitated a cut back in staff. Those who remained were working longer hours for less pay. Still, those with jobs were grateful to have them. For some, working in the presence of wealth and opulence took the edge off their bleak existence away from the club.

The caddies were another story. Essentially independent contractors, day workers, they were a mix of men like Conor O'Reilly who had lost more substantial jobs and found refuge and a living carrying golf bags and men who were holdovers from earlier days when caddying served the purpose of their shiftless lives.

Years removed from his days as a caddie at Lahinch, Conor nonetheless recognized caddying in America was a different experience. In Ireland, class lines were far more rigid. Born the son of a barber, you were a barber or, at least the son of one, forever. But the son of a barber who was a caddie could be invited after the round to join his players of higher social rank for a pint or two. After the drinks and the talk and the jokes, they would part and head back to their very different lives. But during the round and for the hour or two afterward, the class differences melted away. A mutual respect for the game brought mutual respect for each other. No one, from maid to chimney sweep to clerk was viewed without some level of respect. It was just understood there was no movement between the classes.

In America, it was different. In a land were opportunity beckoned and one could dare to rise in class, there were barriers of another kind. The moneyed, perhaps because they were self-made, were often jealous of their newly acquired status and took pains to validate that status at every opportunity. Thus at Biarritz, there was no respect for the help and certainly no fraternizing. After all, the help had the same opportunities as those who were now wealthy. It was their problem they hadn't been able to attain the same status. The result was a cultural chasm even more sharply defined than it had been in Conor's days in Ireland.

But O'Reilly was astute enough to recognize the differences and he used his charm to cross the chasm. He was a little friendlier, a little more forward, a little more familiar with the members than his station should have allowed. And with most of the members he got away with it.

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# Chapter 3

## The Yard

Tuesday, April 15, 1930

It wasn't far from the gate to the caddie yard. There was a path behind a hedge along the property line that kept the riffraff from being seen from the clubhouse. Crossing over to the yard Conor saw four sets of clubs lined up on the bag rack in front of the pro shop. Maybe there was a game going out early.

When he opened the gate to the caddie yard, he saw that Stovepipe had beaten him in. The only Negro caddie at Biarritz, he was very tall, very thin and very black, hence his nickname. Still, the whispered joke among the other caddies was that the name referred to a specific part of his anatomy.

"Stovepipe, good morning to you sir! And how are we this glorious day?" Conor offered with a little too much enthusiasm for the hour.

Stovepipe was sitting on a bench his hands clasped before him looking down at the ground. He lifted up his eyes and gave Conor a baleful glance then looked over his shoulder and nodded toward the door. Conor turned around and saw Gino, his elbows resting on the shelf of the door, his face buried in his enormous hands.

"Top o' the morning, Cap'n!" Conor chirped. "Any games going out this early?"

Gino slowly looked up, his eyes bright red, his expression that of a rabid bull mastiff. "Don't give me any of that top o' the morning bullshit, you worthless piece of Irish trash. And for Christ's sakes pipe down, will ya? Goddamn you Irish are loud."

Conor turned away so Gino couldn't see him smile. Giving Gino a soft "sorry" over his shoulder, he went over and sat down next to Stovepipe. All it would take is a little patience. Shortly it was rewarded.

Gino had left the door and returned with a wet towel around his neck. Maybe that helped.

"All right you monkeys. Only because you're the only ones I got here right now, you're going out. Why these people want to golf their ball at so ungodly an early hour I will never get. Stovepipe, you've got Mr. Anderson and Mr. Tillman. Mick, you've got Mr. Cook and Mr. Willoughby. Now get outta here."

Conor couldn't contain himself. "Mr. Cook and Mr. Willoughby? You're joking, right? Mr. Cook slices everything right and Mr. Willoughby hooks everything left. I'm going to be walking this golf course sideways all morning! Come now, Cap'n, let me switch one of them out with Stovepipe here."

As soon as he said it, Conor knew it was the wrong time to offer up any kind of opinion. And he was right. "You stupid Mick! You're lucky I'm going to let you out at all! Don't you ever give me that sass! Mr. Willoughby and Mr. Cook want you. I swear to Christ if I had another looper here I'd send you home. That's all. Now get out of here before I whack you upside the head!"

Conor put his head down and went out the gate to fetch the bags. It would be a long walk this morning.

* * *

By the time Conor and Stovepipe got back to the yard after their round, the place had filled up. Blackie and Whitey, the two old alky pals, were playing cards. Dogface was sitting on the bench, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips, intent on the day's sports page, trying to divine the winners of upcoming boxing cards at the Olympic Auditorium. Pissquick was slouched against the fence, hat pulled over his eyes, napping. There was also the usual handful of teenagers, "C" caddies who showed up sporadically during the week when they were able to cut school.

Then there was Benny, hulking, brooding Benny. He sat straight up on the bench his palms flat on his knees, his eyes a vacant stare. The only sign of life was the constant bouncing of his right leg, his heel beating a nervous tattoo against the ground. Benny never said much. In fact, in Conor's memory he'd never said anything. As the antidote for the chatty caddie, he met a special need among members whose games included conversations that were never to be repeated.

Conor walked over to the bench and sat down next to Dogface. "So what's the picks today mate? Got anything for me?"

Dogface gave a shrug, then out of the side of his mouth, the cigarette still dangling, offered up, "I like Kid Cohen Friday night at three to one. Could be his night. Or not. But I'm gonna cover."

Conor smiled and shook his head. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a buttered roll wrapped in a handkerchief. He opened it then held up half toward Dogface. "Offer you a bite can I?" he asked.

"No, thanks. I ate." Then turning his head to Conor he added, "You don't have a nip to share, though, do you?"

"Ha! Nay, today would find me as dry as the desert, as empty as a harlot's heart. It's pitiful sorry for that I am."

Dogface could only snort, "Irish."

Conor ate his roll. Just as he finished he heard Gino bellow, "Mick! Get over here!"

Conor jumped up and approached the door. Either coffee or hair of the dog had worked some magic because Gino seemed to be what passed for him as almost affable.

"I've got another loop for you; Mrs. Cockerill and Mrs. Endicott. But if I had my way you'd be high tailin' it down the road after that bullshit you pulled this morning. I don't know what all these women see in you... stupid Mick with a butt ugly mug... but they asked for you and by damn they're gonna have you. Now git and don't let me see you again today."

Conor smiled at the insults and ducked out the gate.

Conor O'Reilly was, of course, anything but ugly. Taller than average, maybe five foot ten, he was what had come to be known in America as Black Irish; jet-black hair, fair skin and blue eyes. He had a broad square face, wide-spaced eyes and a strong jaw. He was clean-shaven, but his black beard always cast a bit of a shadow against his very white skin. Under his bowler hat he kept his hair combed straight back from his forehead. He was no matinee idol, but he didn't break any mirrors either. Coupled with his Irish lilt and no little charm, his looks gave many of the female members of Biarritz plenty of reason to seek his company for the three and a half hours they played each week.

Gino would never tell him so, nor would he ever let on to the members, but there was actually some competition for Conor's services on Tuesday afternoons. And where there is competition there is profit. Gino was not above accepting tips to ensure Conor's services. Perhaps that was why Conor got such broad smiles from Mrs. Cockerill and Mrs. Endicott when he arrived with their bags at the first tee. They got what they paid for.

* * *

It had been a good day. Two loops and tips had put five dollars in his pocket; a dollar a bag and a quarter tip from each player. It wasn't often that he was able to pick up two loops in a day, much less two doubles. Gino took pains to make sure that as many caddies as possible got at least one bag every day. He'd been lucky to pick up that early double loop. Now he had enough to cover a week's rent on his room and have a little left for a decent supper, something better than the can of beans he'd warm on the hot plate in his room many nights.

Despite Gino's orders, he'd returned to the caddie yard after his second round to set up a game the following Monday. As it was at most clubs, the course was closed on Monday. Sometimes some course maintenance would take place, but Mondays were when caddies were allowed to play for free. Conor wanted to set up a game with Dogface and Pissquick, two of the better players in the caddie yard. He had to give them strokes, but the games with them were brisk and competitive. Unfortunately, the best player beside himself was Stovepipe who wasn't allowed to play on Mondays. Conor had twice seen him swing a driver off the first tee in the darkness when Stovepipe thought he couldn't be spotted. He was a natural. Conor had heard that Stovepipe was sometimes able to play the public course, Harding Municipal, but that cost money which was something Stovepipe had little of. Conor thought the whole thing a shame.

By the time he'd arranged the game and bantered with his friends it was dusk. He set off for a small neighborhood restaurant near his boarding house. He'd made acquaintances with the owner and become something of a regular. And that would be worth a couple of shots of Jameson's spirited out from a cupboard back in the kitchen on a night like this.

He was about halfway there when the streetlights popped on. A little tired, he'd settled into an easy lope along the shoulder of the road. Lost in thoughts of the day, he didn't hear the sound of the big black Packard coming up behind him. Suddenly headlights flooded him in blinding light. In the same instant he heard the sound of an engine revving, then roaring as the driver missed a gear. He turned in time to see the car lurch onto the shoulder and head straight for him spewing gravel to the side. He leapt backwards, nearly losing his balance as the car careened past him no more than two feet away. As it did he caught a glimpse of a face in the passenger seat. A woman, blonde, eyes wide in alarm, beautiful, extraordinarily beautiful.

The car swerved back onto the road, screeched across the median, then regained its footing and disappeared down the street.

Shaken, his heart pounding, Conor looked after it some minutes before he resumed his walk. And when he did, all that he could think of was that face.

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# Chapter 4

## Annie

Friday, April 18, 1930

The parade of glistening Cadillacs, Packards and Lincolns inching westward along Hollywood Boulevard this early Friday evening were sequenced in precise order. Which is how Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Burke found themselves in the middle of the cavalcade, behind cars with the production people and supporting cast and in front of cars carrying the producer, the director and the stars.

As they crossed North Highland Avenue they could see their destination, Grauman's Chinese Theater, a little more than half a block away. Pairs of giant searchlights on either side of the entrance sent crisscrossing beams of light high into the darkening sky. The forecourt and façade were ablaze in light. Velvet ropes contained the throngs of fans on either side of the red carpet. A twenty-four-piece orchestra alternated between recent melodies and fanfare for the celebrities as they emerged from their limousines to echoing cheers from the crowd. Clusters of photographers with their Speed Graphic cameras flew about like flocks of birds exploding flashbulbs in their quarry's faces as they smiled their way up the gauntlet.

Inside his car Franklin Burke took some notes from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and re-read them. He would be interviewed by the event emcee on the red carpet, his remarks broadcast across the country on radio. It was important he say the right things no matter how brief. His review done, he folded the notes and put them back in his pocket. He took off his glasses, folded them, put them in his lap and then used both hands to smooth back the hair on either side of his head. He turned to his wife.

"Well, how do I look?" he asked brightly.

"Lovely," she deadpanned, staring straight ahead.

Burke looked down and picked up his glasses and put them in the pocket with his notes. There was no point in pursuing the conversation. He reached down into a pocket on the back of the seat in front of him and retrieved a hip flask. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig, then another, emptying it. He replaced the cap and put the flask back in the pocket.

Minutes later their car came curbside to the red carpet. Burke leaned over to his wife and hissed a command, "Just try to be beautiful." The smell of gin washed across her face.

A doorman opened the rear door. As Burke stepped out the emcee's voice could be heard over the loudspeakers making his introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome a renowned Academy Award-nominated Hollywood screenwriter with too many credits to mention here other than that he is the man responsible for writing the epic motion picture we are about to enjoy this evening. I give you Mr. Franklin Burke along with his lovely wife."

Burke reached in and helped his wife out of the car as the crowd applauded and the orchestra played a flourish. As she stepped out all she could think to herself was "They didn't even say my name. They didn't even say my damn name." Then she put on the smile she would wear until they could escape into the theater.

And a lovely smile it was... on a lovely face. As she took her husband's arm and walked up the carpet they made a handsome, if somewhat incongruous looking pair. He was slightly taller than she, dark hair and noticeably older. He could have been a father escorting a daughter at a debutante ball. Slim and fair, she was a natural blonde. Her hair was parted in the middle and then fell in Marcel waves to the nape of her neck. She wore a full-length ecru silk dress cut low revealing a matching lace camisole underneath. The long sleeves were buttoned tightly to her arms all the way to the elbow, then ballooned to her shoulders. Pinned to her bodice was a corsage of cascading white orchids. She had no trouble being beautiful.

When they reached the end of the carpet she let go of his arm and stepped aside as the emcee pulled him to the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have here with us our screen writer, Mr. Franklin Burke. Tell me, Mr. Burke, what was your inspiration for this story?"

Burke leaned into the microphone. "Well it was just an exciting project to be involved with. I really want to thank my producer, Irving Glass, and the director, John Montello. And, of course, the wonderful cast who brought this great story to life. But most of all I want to thank my lovely wife who truly is my inspiration. I hope everyone enjoys the picture!"

"Thank you, Mr. Burke! I'm sure we all will."

As the crowd applauded, the emcee turned away to corral and introduce Irving Glass and his wife who had already started up the carpet. Franklin stepped over to Annie. She took his arm and they entered the theatre. The smile fell from her face the moment she crossed the threshold.

* * *

Anna Charlene Harper was born in Davenport, Iowa in 1904. Her father John was a physician, a general practitioner. Her mother Maureen was a music teacher who doubled as something of a socialite volunteering at the hospital and serving on the board of the library. An only child, Annie adopted her mother's younger sister Louise as her friend and confidant.

She was a very bright and happy child, although a bit headstrong. School was easy. She read everything she could, especially poetry. She also was something of a tomboy, climbing trees, playing baseball with the boys. She liked to tag along with her father when he played at the Rock Island Arsenal Golf Course just across the river and eventually took up the game herself. In high school she started to take an interest in acting. Always a bit theatrical, she liked the attention and her command of the dialogue made her a natural.

When she graduated from high school she enrolled in Coe College in Cedar Rapids. After two years, though, she'd had enough. She was restless. She had dreams of acting. They were making motion pictures in Hollywood. Why couldn't she do that? Why should she wait? Over strenuous objections from her parents, she moved to California in 1925.

She took a part-time job in a bookstore in downtown Los Angeles and rented a small apartment there. She spent what she thought a small fortune on photographs for a portfolio that she then shopped around to studios, agencies, in fact everywhere she could. Unfortunately there were several thousand other young pretty girls doing the same thing. She didn't even get a hint of a break.

Annie knew she had to do something different. So she did. She quit her job at the bookstore and found a job as a waitress with a catering company that did work for the film studios. On the bookings she was sent to at the studios she played the vamp: flirting, cajoling, talking with everyone and anyone who looked important. It paid off. She started getting invited to parties.

The parties were a frightening ballet. Invited because she was young, pretty and available, she had to endure pawing, groping, rude jokes, drunken advances and scary moments when she thought herself in real danger. But like a ballerina she was able to pirouette away again and again and dance through the room looking for a friend. Finally, she found one.

It was at a party at the home of Oliver Gadsden, a producer who had turned out a series of successful silent movies for MGM. Having met him at an earlier event, Annie engaged him in conversation when she arrived. He told her he had someone he wanted her to meet and pointed out through French doors to two men standing on a veranda occupied in what looked like an earnest conversation. One was shorter than the other, middle aged, good looking; the other younger and quite handsome. She had hoped he meant the younger one, but it turned out to be the other, Franklin Burke.

He was eighteen years her senior. But he was charming and moneyed and extremely well connected. He had made his mark in Hollywood as a screenwriter during the silent movie era. Even though writers held limited clout in the industry, he seemed to know everyone who was anyone and immediately got her a string of auditions. Unfortunately, the business was in the midst of a transition to talkies. Her alto voice and Midwest accent with its hard flat vowels were at odds with her delicate look. She received no offers for parts. All this would have been disappointing had she not found herself in the middle of a whirlwind courtship.

Burke had quite the flamboyant streak: nights of revelry at the Cocoanut Grove rubbing elbows with Hollywood luminaries, cruises to Santa Catalina Island, bullfights in Tijuana, skiing in Big Bear, galas galore. Somewhere along the way she decided that if she couldn't be a star at least she could marry someone who led the life of one.

Annie had wanted to wait to give her parents a chance to come out for the wedding but Franklin was too impatient. The Justice of the Peace married them at Los Angeles City Hall in September 1926.

His home in the Hollywood Hills was a bit incongruous. Not quite a mansion, it was still rather large – a two-story mission-style structure with tiled roof and palm trees clustered about the expansive front lawn. But inside it was odd, Annie thought. Instead of mission, craftsman or art deco décor that was so popular at the time, it was done mostly in French provincial with antique furniture and oriental carpets spread about the Spanish tile floor. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from timbered ceilings. Somehow it just didn't fit. Neither did she.

Happily married life there lasted two months. The same revolution that had cost Annie any chance at acting was now eating away at Franklin. He had been contracted to write his first screenplay for a talking movie and it was going very badly. Draft after draft was rejected. Writing scenes had never been difficult. Writing dialogue to go with them was. He started drinking even more. On the verge of losing the assignment, he passed out drunk at his typewriter late one night.

Annie found him there when he hadn't come to bed. She pulled him from the chair, laid him on the floor and found a blanket to cover him. Then she sat down at the typewriter. She read what was in the typewriter then ripped the page out and tossed it on the floor. She rolled in a fresh sheet and started typing.

The draft she finished over the next three weeks was accepted immediately. Franklin spent the time drinking or sleeping. And thus their roles reversed. But their reality stayed their secret. It was his name that kept the assignments and the money coming. As long as Annie could produce, their lives could continue as before.

Annie was torn. She was exhilarated to be writing and to be writing movies that were actually being made, but she chafed at the anonymity. "A ghostwriter," she thought. "That's what I've become. And living a ghostly life, lying about who I really am... who he really is. But it's all I can be... a ghost"

She counseled herself that it was still living the life she dreamed. So she went on. And the assignments kept coming.

Over the next three years she not only became prolific, but accomplished. A screenplay she had written in 1927 became a movie in 1928 that even earned Franklin an Academy Award nomination for screenwriting in the first such awards ever presented. They didn't win, but it meant the work, his work, her work, would be worth more than ever.

In time they developed a routine. When she was writing he would disappear. Which was just fine by her, she liked the isolation when she worked. Their love life had ebbed to virtually nothing, so it wasn't like she needed him in her bed. He told her he was staying in Malibu or up in Santa Barbara. When she wasn't writing they did many of the things they had done before – socializing, parties, going to clubs. When he – she – won the nomination for the Academy Award, he rewarded her by taking out a weekday membership at the Biarritz Country Club.

She liked the idea of playing golf again. Getting out into the fresh air and walking the course appealed to her. It would be a nice break from the typewriter and, for that matter, painting the town as often as they did.

Franklin had not speculated in real estate or the stock market so the crash of 1929 had little effect on their lives. That there were no investments might have concerned Annie, but she had given all responsibility for finances over to Franklin from the beginning. All she knew was they had money.

Then one day, in April 1930, they didn't. She was writing and he was away. She had called the local grocer to have some food delivered. But she was told that could not be accommodated because their account was past due. They were very sorry but three months was too long. They hoped she understood. She put the phone back on the receiver, stunned. She didn't know where to reach Franklin, so she went looking through his desk, through his dresser drawers, anywhere for a bank statement or something that might explain what was going on.

In his nightstand, under a book and two bound drafts of her screenplays was an envelope addressed to Franklin in a graceful hand. She began to tremble. It was postmarked the week before. She opened the envelope, took out the single sheet inside, slowly unfolded it and read.

My Love, my Dearest Love. You must know all that you mean to me. You are my world, my sun, my moon, my every breath. The days and the hours I am blessed to spend with you are never enough to fill the ache in my soul when we are apart. I know why you are still with her and I understand. Or I try to. I'm sending this to you there so you will know how I'm feeling when you are there with her. I want you inside me right now, your body on mine, my mouth on you. Until then know that I am touching myself and thinking of you. I want you, I want you, I want you. Yours always in the desire and love we share, L.

Annie gagged. She ran to the bathroom where she vomited. She came back and collapsed on the edge of the bed, the letter still clutched in her hand, her mind spinning in ever faster circles trying to grasp the enormity of the truth, the betrayal. She began shaking then crying. Finally exhaustion plummeted her into sleep.

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# Chapter 5

## First Round

Tuesday, April 22, 1930

It had been a slow morning in the caddie yard and, for Conor O'Reilly, a costly one. Unlike the week before, he'd not picked up even one bag much less a double. And to top it off he just lost the five dollars he won on the golf course the day before in a game of gin rummy.

"Thieves and scoundrels!" he sputtered in mock anger as he rose from the bench and tossed his cards on the table. "This is the punishment I'm to be served for dealing with a band of blackguards the likes of you."

Pissquick narrowed his eyes against the smoke from the stub of a stogie he was working on. "Serves you right, Irish, for fleecing us like that yesterday. In my book you're the bandit. There ain't no way you're giving less than six a side next week."

Dogface jumped in, "Six a side? More like a stroke a hole! You nearly matched par yesterday. You're a hustler, Mick, pure and simple. I tell ya, I don't mind losing a bet, but I hate gettin' robbed."

"Bah. Well you got your revenge today, boys. Happy with that you should surely be."

Conor ambled over to the Dutch door. The top was open and he leaned on its shelf and looked down at Gino sitting at his desk looking through the tee sheet that listed the players who had booked times in advance for the day.

"So, Cap'n," Conor asked, "what's the chances of any work this fine day?

Gino immediately covered the page with his arms. The tee sheet was sacrosanct. The list of players booked for the day was his domain, and his domain only. It was the schedule from which he decided what caddie was caddying for what member. Nobody in the caddie yard could be privy to its contents. He swiveled his head to Conor, startled.

"Get back out' a there. Back off!"

Conor stepped back, palms pushed forward. "Sorry, Cap'n, just was asking."

"Well, you don't ask. I tell. So here's what I'm tellin' you. You got a loop coming up in fifteen minutes, eleven-forty, just ahead of the ladies. Mr. and Mrs. Burke. It's a double so don't give me any lip. They're sorta new members. Haven't played much. So I wanna send them out with somebody who knows their way around a little. But don't get a big head. Your regulars this afternoon are gonna miss their pretty boy. And I have to deal with that, thanks to you. Now go fetch their bags."

Conor never disobeyed a direct order of that kind from Gino. He left the yard and went up to the drive in front of the entrance to the clubhouse looking for the bags at the bag drop where people who didn't keep their clubs at the course dropped them off. He found them. One was a large leather bag full of balls and shoes and too many clubs. The other was a smaller canvas bag, almost a Sunday bag, the kind you might use if you were carrying the bag yourself. He hefted the bags on his shoulders and wished they balanced better. Then he walked down to the first tee to wait for his loop.

Mr. Burke came out first. He looked like most of the other members at Biarritz. And he dressed the part – sport jacket, tie tucked into his shirt, trousers, wool cap on his head. He didn't acknowledge Conor; instead he walked over to the leather bag, took out his driver and began making practice swings taking clods out of the sod as he did so. "Utter hacker," Conor thought.

Watching Burke, he didn't notice the wife walking down the path to the tee. Then he happened to look over and saw that face. Her eyes met his for an instant and in that moment there was a flash of recognition for them both. She looked down immediately and walked to her bag. She turned her back to the caddie and addressed her husband.

"Franklin, I think we should have a wonderful, glorious day on the links today. Would you care to make it a game?"

"Well, my dear, whatever would please you. I can say, though, that I'm feeling in fine fettle today. I think I should need but six shots from you to give you a run for your money."

"Challenge accepted, then. Three a side it is."

Conor was stunned. Hers was the face in the window of the Packard that had almost run him down last week. He didn't know what to make of this, but he was suddenly intrigued by this loop.

Burke walked over to Conor and handed him his driver. Conor took the towel from his shoulder and wiped the dirt from the sole and face, then handed it back and introduced himself.

"Good morning, sir. I'm to be called 'Mick' around here and I'll be your caddie today."

Burke gave a grunt then held out his hand for Conor to give him a ball and a tee. Conor was ready with them and Burke walked onto the tee and prepared to hit. He took two practice swings again taking divots out of the turf, then addressed the ball and swung. It was as much a lunge as a swing. Compensating for his bad practice swings, he hoisted his entire body mid-swing and topped the ball dribbling it just off the front of the tee box.

"Mulligan," he muttered to no one in particular and turned and motioned for Conor to toss him another ball. Conor did and Burke re-teed. His next swing was more deliberate but the result wasn't much better; a low screaming slice that rattled among the trees immediately to the right.

"Another," Burke announced. His next shot was yet again low, but this time pulled into the rough on the left. Apparently it was good enough. "That should do," he pronounced as he handed the club back to Conor.

The three walked up to the forward tee, Conor retrieving the first ball along the way.

Annie approached Conor. "Good morning," she said, giving him a direct look. "The caddie master says your name is Mick?"

"Yes Ma'am," he smiled.

"Well, Mick, my name is Annie. Let's have some fun today, shall we?"

"Yes Ma'am, it's surely a fine day to be golfing the ball," he said as he pulled her driver from the bag.

He watched as she teed her ball and prepared for her shot. She wore a long gray skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse with ruffles framing the placket. Her blonde hair was pinned up under a hat with a rounded crown, the front brim turned up. She moved with purpose and ease, taking a couple of relaxed practice swings. Then she stepped to her ball, glanced twice down the fairway and swung. Conor couldn't remember ever seeing a woman swing with such grace. Instead of just flailing her arms like she was chopping wood, she turned her body through the ball to a full finish in perfect balance. The ball responded accordingly, arcing straight down the middle. "Ah, a golfer," Conor thought. And so they were off.

* * *

Annie had reached an understanding with Franklin. They would stay together in the house, but in separate bedrooms. She would continue to write the screenplays his name drew and he would continue to cultivate the contacts that kept the work coming. He was free to be or go wherever he wanted while she was writing. When they were together they would keep up appearances socializing and portraying the roles of happy husband and wife.

Annie had been firm, though, that she wanted time for her herself, including playing golf again. She needed room to breathe freely and be her own woman. It wasn't the life and the hard work she objected to, it was only the company. Of course, she would need Franklin to accompany her until she was introduced and made friends at the club. But after that, golf was to be her province.

There was also the issue of money. Why were they past due on so many bills? What was the status of their finances? She demanded that accounts be set up in her name with a balance that would at least let her support herself, if necessary. In that regard she also demanded he buy a substantial life insurance policy. After all, her livelihood depended on his life.

Burke agreed to everything, although the money demands were troubling. The appearance of a marriage was all he had ever really wanted in the first place. That the marriage had turned into a successful collaboration, at least collaborative in his mind, was only to the good. He hated golf. But if golfing would keep her happy, then he would be happy to play with her until she found some friends.

* * *

By the fourth hole, Conor had pegged Burke for who he was. It wasn't just that he cheated – most of the players Conor caddied for didn't play strictly by the rules. No, it was the way he cheated; rolling the ball to a better lie with his toe when he thought no one was looking; dropping a ball from his pocket then claiming he found the original; asserting a whiff was only a practice stroke; lying about the number of strokes he had taken. He wasn't just a cheater; he was a sneaking, lying cheater... and on his wife no less in what was just a friendly game!

Annie, in the meantime, played golf, real golf. And Conor began to love watching her. She carried herself with a degree of confidence and assertiveness he'd never quite seen before in a woman golfer. Not every shot was perfect, but then they never are. Good or bad, she accepted the results without recriminations or complaints just as she did not overly celebrate her best. She simply let the game and its outcomes wash over her, all the while enjoying every moment.

Still, Conor was troubled that her husband was cheating and he found himself feeling a bit protective. He resolved to do whatever he could to make sure she won that day. When they came to the eleventh hole, Annie was faced with a difficult shot. She had pushed her approach shot wide right. It left her a shot to the green of perhaps fifteen yards with a sand bunker next to the green in the way and the hole not that far beyond that. She asked for her niblick, her most lofted iron, intending to pitch the ball all the way to the green and Conor handed it to her.

"Ma'am," Conor offered just above a whisper, "Excuse me, but I would hope you might consider another shot." He pointed to the sand and gestured. "You see, there is very little lip to yon bunker; the sand is almost level with the ground. If you pitch it, the ball will not stop. Take your putter, give it just a little more weight than you might be inclined, then roll your ball over the ground, through the sand and up onto the green. You've the touch of an angel, I can see that, so you can make this shot."

Annie looked at him quizzically, perhaps a bit too long for Conor's comfort. Then, without saying a word, she handed him back the niblick and pulled her putter from the bag. She made three practice swings with the putter while looking at the flagstick. Then she stepped forward into her stance and made her stroke. The ball darted forward then rolled into the sand where it slowed. As it left the sand it hopped a bit onto the grass collar, then hopped again as it left the collar and rolled onto the green. By then the ball had slowed to a crawl. Then it began to trickle. It came to rest a foot from the hole.

Conor stood to the side, watched the shot finish and then looked back at her. Still bent in her stance she looked up at him. She smiled. Then she winked. Conor's heart nearly burst from his chest.

"That was a beautiful shot, Ma'am," Conor said. "Truly a beauty."

Annie responded as he handed her the putter, "Well, what you told me to do was the true thing. 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'.''

"Aye and 'that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'"

She looked surprised. "You know Keats?"

"Yes ma'am, a bit. Even though he had not the luck to be Irish."

Annie grinned.

The fourteenth hole was a par three of moderate length playing westward to the edge of the property. A stand of cedars and junipers formed a hedge behind the green shielding the view of the greenkeeper's barn and maintenance yard. Franklin skulled yet another shot from the tee, his ball skipping over the green toward the hedge line. Annie's shot came up just short.

As Conor stood with Annie at her ball discussing her chip shot, Franklin stalked by and removed a club from his bag and continued over the green to look for his ball. Annie played her shot to within six feet of the hole. As she did so, Franklin called out, "Found it! I'm okay!"

With that, he managed to pitch the ball inside Annie's to three feet. As Conor walked past the balls to take out the flagstick, he stopped and addressed Franklin just walking onto the green, "Mr. Burke, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

"What? What is it?" Burke demanded.

"Well, sir, you teed off on this hole playing a Spalding ball. I'm afraid the ball here on the green is a Dunlop. That would mean you played a wrong ball and thus, unfortunately, have lost the hole."

Burke immediately reddened. "I know what ball I was playing! I don't need some caddie to remind me. If you're calling me a cheat you can drop the bags right now and walk off the property. Stupid Irishman!"

Conor chose to stand his ground. "Sorry, sir, but 'tis what I saw."

Annie jumped in, "Oh, Franklin, don't be such a pig. It's only a game. I'm sure it's an honest mistake. Go ahead and play out. We both lay two."

Franklin walked toward Conor, tossed him his club and snatched his putter from the caddie's grasp, then stood to the side as Annie crouched down behind her ball lining up her putt. She rose, addressed the ball, and with little hesitation stroked it dead into the heart of the hole.

Burke then spent considerable time lining up his putt to tie the hole. "Too much time," Conor thought to himself. Finally ready, he stabbed his putter at the ball then watched it scoot past the cup to the left.

"My hole after all!" Annie chirped as Burke glared at her, then once again at the caddie, then turned and quickly stalked off the green.

As Conor followed Burke to the next tee, Annie came up behind him and gave his arm a nudge with her elbow, looked up at him and gave him another wink. And again Conor melted.

Despite all his creative arithmetic and skullduggery Burke was closed out by the time they reached the last hole. Annie and her husband finished the round in silence.

Replacing the flagstick after they had both holed out, Conor asked, "Should I be returning your clubs to the bag drop or are you to be leaving them here at the club?"

Annie spoke up. "You can leave Mr. Burke's clubs at the drop. I'll be keeping my clubs here."

"Very good, ma'am," Conor responded. He stood with the bags just off the green waiting for his fee to be paid. Burke walked up to him and handed him two silver dollars. There would be no tip.

Conor was not surprised. He took Annie's clubs to the bag room and then Burke's clubs up to the bag drop at the clubhouse entrance. Then, curious, he decided to wait to see them leave. He walked behind the hedge near the front gate and waited.

It wasn't long before he saw the big black Packard leave with Franklin driving and Annie in the passenger seat. She had taken off her hat and let her hair down.

* * *

The conversation in the Packard had been brief and unpleasant. Franklin, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road; Annie with her head turned away watching out the side window as houses and trees and telephone poles flew past.

Franklin started it. "I hope you enjoyed your golf today. All I got were blisters and sunburn."

"Honestly, Franklin, you can be such an ass sometimes."

"What do you want from me? And why did we have to leave so fast? We had time for a little drink, you know."

"There's never just a little drink with you. We don't need to kill anybody going home. Drink when you get home."

"Go to hell. As far as I'm concerned you're on your own at that place. You wanted it, you got it and I'm done with it. I've got better things to do."

"I'm all too well aware of that."

"And what was with that caddie? What a smart ass. I don't need..."

"Stop it," Annie interrupted, turning her head to Franklin. "Enough. It wasn't the caddie, it was you."

"Yeah, right. That's always it with you, isn't it?"

"I said enough!" With that she turned away and again cast her gaze out the side window. She let her thoughts drift. Soon she found them drifting back to her caddie.

* * *

Conor didn't know what to make of her. She was beautiful, yes. And she could play golf. But what to make of that husband? How were they a match? Who were these people?

Conor wandered back to the caddie yard. Maybe he could pick up a bag for a late nine holes.

There were only a couple of caddies left there waiting for loops. Gino was leaning out his door to catch the light, elbows on its shelf reading a newspaper. He glanced up as Conor came through the gate then shut it behind him.

"How'd your loop go?" Gino asked, his eyes returning to his paper. "They any good?"

"She surely is, but not him. Stiffed me the tip he did."

Gino smirked. "That's cause you're such a lousy caddie, no doubt."

Conor let the jab go by. "What do you know of them? You said they were new members?"

"Yeah, joined a month ago or so. Weekday members. He's some sort of Hollywood movie type. Sort of a big deal I hear. Don't know anything about the wife."

"Well, she can play, I can tell you that." Changing subject, he added, "I'll be waiting for another loop if one should come along."

"Suit yourself, but I've got two ahead of you I promised."

Conor nodded, "Fine, then." He walked over the bench and sat down. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He gave it a shake, pinched one out and put it to his lips. He struck a match and lit it. He took a long pull and then leaned forward, elbows on his knees and exhaled. He watched the smoke curl away and thought to himself "What had she said her name was? Annie was it? Yes, that was it. Annie."

(back to top)

# Chapter 6

## Mary

Tuesday, April 22, 1930

Conor waited until almost six o'clock for a loop to show up but none did. The other two caddies had gotten bags and Conor was the last one left in the yard. Finally Gino appeared at his door. "Hey Mick. You're welcome to stay and try to pick up something on your own, but I'm calling it a day."

"Thanks, Cap'n. But I should be on my way. Not enough sun left anyway."

"All right then, buddy, see you tomorrow." And with that Gino closed the top of the Dutch door and locked it. Conor always marveled at how Gino treated him when there was no one else around.

Conor gathered himself from the bench and ambled from the yard to the service entrance on the north side of the clubhouse. He sometimes would wait for Michael's wife Mary to get off work and then walk her to the bus stop where she'd catch a ride home to Pasadena. Michael worked at the Kellogg horse ranch in Pomona and kept exhausting hours. Their respective schedules were different enough that Conor rarely had a chance to visit them for dinner and a chat. Walking Mary to the bus stop was the best way to catch up with what was going on in their lives. But tonight wasn't so much about listening. Conor wanted to talk.

Mary came out a little after seven and a typical twelve-hour day. A tiny freckled brunette with a sweet doll face, she carried a bag full of her uniforms she would launder and iron at home. She always was surprised when Conor showed up for the walk and always pleased when he did.

"Aw, Connie! So good to be seeing you! And you're looking to be fine and fit as usual," she squeaked in her little mouse voice. And with that she gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek.

"And fine it is to be seeing you!" Conor replied. "I see they're to be working you as hard as ever!"

"Aye that they are. But the work is good Connie. Michael and I are even starting to be able to put away a little something every month. He's talking about moving to San Diego to work at the track in Tijuana. He wants to rent a bigger place and start a family, saints be willing."

"'Tijuana, huh? I know he likes his racing, so 'tis good to hear that, Mary. You both deserve that. And I, for one, can't wait to see your little ones. I'm sure they're to be as beautiful as you. And hopefully not as bad-tempered as our Michael."

Mary laughed her little high-pitched titter and gave him a little shove. "Oh Connie, stop that now."

With that Conor took the bag from her, she took his arm and they set off for the bus stop. It was perhaps only a mile away and they continued their chat as they went along.

Finally, Conor got around to what he wanted to ask. "Tell me, Mary, I caddied for a couple today that I wonder if you're to know anything about? Mr. and Mrs. Burke, they are. Franklin I think he is. New members I'm to be told."

"Oh, the Burkes, yes I heard about them. And not in a good way, I'm afraid," Mary said, turning a bit pensive.

"What do you mean?" Conor asked.

"Well, I'm told the first night they came to dinner at the club, he got himself unholy drunk. Started a yelling, screaming fight with his wife he did. Two waiters had to be called to escort him to his car. The wife had to drive home. Very ugly introduction, I would say. Members that night were not pleased, nor the staff. He ended up stiffing them their tips."

"That sounds familiar," Conor interjected. "Did the same to me, he did. Hear anything else?"

"Not really. It just started the old members complaining again about the club having to open up to new members, weekday members and the like. 'New money' they call them. 'Tis a pity, too, because they're not all like your Mr. Burke."

The conversation wended its way to other topics as Conor and Mary waited for the bus. When it appeared, Mary gave Michael another hug and kiss, took her bag and boarded the bus.

"Take care of yourself, Connie!" she called from the bus steps.

"You too, Mary. And give my best to that ne'er-do-well cousin of mine!"

Mary laughed and waved and disappeared into the bus.

* * *

The air was still frigid when Franklin and Annie returned home. Annie went straight to her room, took a shower, changed into her silk lounging pajamas and robe and went into her study to read. Franklin went to the bar and poured himself a drink. When it was finished he poured another and started upstairs to pack his things.

Just then the telephone rang. Opal the maid answered on the downstairs phone. "Mr. Burke," she called out. It's a gentleman asking for you."

"I'll take the call upstairs," Franklin replied and continued up the stairs to his room. He shut the door behind him and then picked up the receiver.

Downstairs, Opal waited to hear his voice before hanging up the phone she was on. When she did what she heard sounded like a voice hushed and angry. She slammed the receiver down quickly so Franklin would know she'd hung up.

When Franklin emerged from his room with his bag in hand, his face was still red. In his other hand he carried his empty drink glass. He walked down the hall to the other side of the house and into Annie's study.

"I'm leaving now," he announced. "Off to Santa Barbara. I should be back later in the week. May stop in Malibu for a day at the beach if the weather's right. I'll call if I get any later than that."

Annie, reclined with her feet up on the sofa, did not look up from her book. "Fine," she said. "I'll be busy. You needn't call."

Franklin smirked, then turned to go downstairs and pour himself one more drink before he left.

Annie kept reading until she heard the sound of the Packard starting up. She rose, went to the window and watched it pull away. Then she turned, closed her book and put it on the desk. She walked to the bookcase taking up one wall of the room and began looking for a particular volume.

It was a difficult search. The book would be small and the bookcase had never been organized properly. Finally she found it and took it back to the sofa. She sat down, opened the book and began leafing through _The Collected Works of John Keats_. Halfway through she found what she was looking for, _Ode on a Grecian Urn_.

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# Chapter 7

## Second Round

Tuesday, April 29, 1930

As was her habit, Annie rose early to work on the screenplay. This one was to be a romantic comedy about a Boston socialite caught up in a love triangle with a rich financier and a poor newspaper reporter. Like most of the screenplays she authored she wrote to a basic plot and specific characters conjured by the producer and the studio to showcase their stars. As a result she never felt like it was the most creative of endeavors, but she still took some satisfaction in making the characters come alive in their dialogue. She wrote to her vision of the story, the settings and the characters but once she handed over the screenplay the producer and the director took over. "Franklin" was called upon often to rewrite parts of the script while the movie was being made as the directors and stars imposed their own creative flourishes. Thus the finished film was usually far different than the one she originally imagined. But that was the business.

She spent most of the morning typing away breaking only for some coffee and a little oatmeal. Around eleven o'clock she'd had enough. Thankfully Franklin had not yet returned from his wanderings so she'd been able to work undisturbed through the weekend. Her work was more or less on schedule and now she had time for herself. She wanted to play golf again. Actually, she'd thought of nothing much else the entire week.

It was a little awkward making the phone call. Franklin's rude behavior and the fact he'd only accompanied her once on the golf course had given her no chance to find any golfing partners at the club. When she called the pro shop to see if there was any opportunity to play that afternoon they told her there was another woman playing alone and perhaps she could join her to make a twosome. It was late though, three o'clock. Would that be all right?

Annie was happy to say yes. She loved playing late in the day. The wind died down, the air began to cool and the shadows lengthened. Sometimes it was just magical. And this might be a chance to make a friend or even just a golfing partner. She'd had few opportunities to make friends since meeting and marrying Franklin. All their friends had been his friends, and most of them just business acquaintances.

She found herself suddenly energized. She couldn't wait for three o'clock.

* * *

Even giving six strokes a side, Conor had still been able to handle Dogface and Pissquick handily in their match that Monday. It had been one of those rare days when the ball always bounced the right way and the putts all seemed to find the hole. He'd actually shot two under par for the round, his best ever at Biarritz. They'd only played seventeen holes because the grounds crew had been busy working around the fourteenth green. But he reasoned that even a double bogie on that hole would still have left him with a good score.

Of course, his play caused no end of grousing and carping from his two vanquished friends who only increased their vitriol when he declined to play another game of gin rummy the next day. But he did have an excuse. He picked up a single bag with a foursome of men by mid-morning that would have kept him from playing very long anyway.

The round had been uneventful. The players were all friends and really didn't have any sort of match going on among them. They were just stealing a beautiful morning from their respective workplaces and their easy demeanor and their relatively close-matched abilities made it an easy loop for Conor.

When he returned to the caddie yard his two antagonists were gone, out on loops of their own. Conor settled onto the bench, took his buttered roll from his pocket and had his lunch. He took his time. The yard was still full and he knew it would be a while before he'd have any chance to go out again, if at all.

* * *

Annie drove her own car to Biarritz. It was a brand new red Cadillac coupe that they bought after Franklin had opened the accounts in her name. She loved the car, the first she'd ever owned. It was a symbol of her independence and self-sufficiency, something she couldn't reveal to the rest of the world. The hood ornament said it all, she thought; a nude-to-the-waist chrome mermaid, hands clasped behind her head, elbows spread wide, leaning forward into the wind. Even though it was a forty-dollar option and thus a month's mortgage payment, she had to have it. Driving the car she felt like that ornament, almost as free as she did when she was outside playing her way through a golf course.

When she arrived she went into the ladies' locker room and changed her shoes. When she came out she walked down to the pro shop and found her bag waiting at the stand there. She was a little early so she took her putter and a couple of balls and walked over to the practice green to hit some putts. Shortly another woman walked down the path to do the same thing. She was probably in her mid forties, well dressed and spritely. She walked onto the practice green and then they gave each other a glance. The other woman approached her.

"Hello, my name is Margaret Graves. Are you playing today at three o'clock?"

"Why yes, I am," Annie replied. I'm Anna Burke, but please call me Annie.

Margaret chuckled. "And you can call me Meg. I'm so glad you could join me. Playing alone isn't always fun, especially behind a course full of old biddies playing foursomes like today. You must have called for a time late today as did I."

It was Annie's turn to chuckle. "Yes I did. And isn't that the truth?"

"Well, if you're ready, why don't we get started?" Meg asked.

"I'm more than ready. Let's go then."

The two women walked over to the starter's kiosk off to the side of the clubhouse from which Fred the starter kept the first tee organized. Nobody really knew Fred's last name, he'd been the starter since the course opened and, in his position, last names were superfluous. A little wiry old crotchety man, he always managed to exude just enough civility not to lose his job, but not before reminding members who was in charge.

"Good afternoon, Fred," Meg fairly sang out. "Mrs. Burke and I were late calling in for our time today so we may not be on the tee sheet, but we have a three o'clock time just the two of us. And we'd obviously like a caddie."

Fred, tired and winding down from what for him was the worst day of the week finding, matching, organizing, accommodating and sending out all the women members, looked up wearily from his newspaper. "That would be true, Mrs. Burke. Last minute calls are not always logged. You are not on the sheet. It is a most difficult process we deal with here, as you must know. Late calls are always a problem. But no matter, I will see to it promptly I assure you. Excuse me while I fetch you a caddie."

At the word "caddie" Annie suddenly couldn't contain herself. She blurted out "I had a caddie last week. Mick was his name, I think."

As soon as she spoke, Annie regretted the outburst.

Meg looked at her with some surprise. "He must have been a good caddie then, yes?"

Forced to answer, Annie simply said, "Yes."

Meg turned back to Fred. "Well, Fred, see if this Mick person is available to carry our bags."

"Very good, Ma'am," Fred responded as he slipped off his stool and walked laboriously over to the pro shop. He went in through the bag room door on the side, then turned left and went looking for Gino. He saw him sitting at his desk smoking and reading _The Sporting News_.

"Gino... got a double outside. Mrs. Graves and Mrs. Burke. Say they want some 'Mick' to caddie for them."

Gino looked up, a bit surprised at the late call. "What? You've haven't stopped with me yet? I'll see if he's here. But don't promise them when you go back out. If he's out in the yard I'll send him, otherwise... what's the difference? Why can't you just tell them they'll get what they get at this hour?"

"Oh shut your yap." And with that Fred returned to his booth walking slowly, silently past the two women. Once seated back on his stool he addressed Mrs. Graves. "Ma'am, your caddie will be right out. If this 'Mick' character is around he'll be the one."

While Fred was gone on his mission, Annie and Meg got acquainted. Meg's husband Robert owned a manufacturing company in Burbank. They lived in Toluca Lake. They had two daughters, one about to graduate from the University of Southern California, the other still in high school. Annie took an instant liking to Meg. She was bright, upbeat and obviously full of life.

Still in conversation, Annie looked over Meg's shoulder and saw Conor come through the gate and emerge from the caddie yard. It was a warm afternoon and he had left his jacket behind, folded on the bench. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was smiling. Annie stopped talking in mid-sentence.

Seeing Annie's gaze shift behind her, Meg turned her head around as Conor approached. "Oh, this must be our caddie now," she said. Turning back to Annie she asked, "Is that your Mick?"

"Yes," Annie replied still looking at Conor. "That's him."

"Splendid, then," Meg said watching Annie.

Conor came up to them. "Good day, ladies, Mrs. Burke, Mrs. Graves. 'Tis a fine afternoon for golf you've chosen."

"So you're Mick, is it?" Meg asked.

"Yes Ma'am. 'Tis what I'm called here."

Recognizing his lilt Meg asked, "Well, Mick, I wonder if you're the caddie I've heard my husband talk about? An Irishman and a very good golfer it's said. Is that you?

"Well, the Irish I can hardly deny, Ma'am. As far as the golf, one really shouldn't be the judge of one's own game. 'Tis never as good or as bad as one thinks. But it's been since a lad I've been playing so all that can be said is that I'm experienced."

Meg laughed. "Fine then, 'experienced' Irish Mick. Let's be on with it then."

Conor went to the rack and hefted the two bags to his shoulders. The three walked together to the first tee.

* * *

The round went swiftly until the ninth hole when they caught up with all the foursomes in front of them. While not as accomplished a golfer as Annie, Meg was more than competent and it made the two a quite convivial pairing. Meg was a talker and she and Annie held what amounted to a running conversation over the first eight holes touching on everything from shoe shopping to dining at the new Brown Derby.

As they waited on the tee Meg turned to Conor and brought him into the conversation. "So how long have you been in this country, Mick? And what brought you here?"

"It was about five years ago, Ma'am," Conor replied, a little startled to be suddenly addressed. "And it was to seek my fortune I came."

"Well, I can't imagine your fortune was to be made caddying," Meg went on. "You seem a bright young man. What had been your intention?"

"I was a cook and I was to own my own restaurant. And until the crash I did. But you're sure to know how things have gone for so many. But I am happy to be doing something I love. To be walking a golf course with two ladies as lovely as yourselves is a fine job indeed."

"Ha! And a charmer too," Meg laughed.

Annie jumped in. "Tell me Mick, where in Ireland are you from? My mother is of Irish descent. Her family was from County Cork I think."

"It was County Clare I was raised. Southwest coast. 'Tis a lovely place it is but never as warm as California. You're to be lucky as having a bit 'o the green running through you."

"Well they do say 'luck if the Irish', don't they?" Meg interjected.

"Aye, Ma'am, they do. But it sometimes takes a bit of patience waiting for it to appear." Conor said smiling. "And it would seem now may be one of those times as the group ahead looks to be clear."

"Oh, right," Annie said turning to look down the fairway. "I guess I'm up?"

"Right you are," Meg replied. "Let's see what we can do."

* * *

As he walked with the bags trailing the two women down the fairway, Conor could not keep his eyes off Annie. He thought to himself he'd never seen a woman whose every move was like a slow dance. There was something about her he could neither define nor deny that touched him in a way he had never been touched. Yes, she was married and, perhaps worse, a member. And so the reality was that she was untouchable, unreachable. Still a longing was building inside him that filled his heart in her presence. If all he could do was carry her golf bag, that's all he would do.

Annie worked hard not to look at Conor. The scene at the starter's hut had been most awkward and she knew that Meg had watched her closely as Conor approached them. She could not afford to make another mistake like that. Meg made it easier to keep her attention elsewhere with her chatter. But when Conor handed her a club or discussed her next shot, she found it impossible not to meet his bright blue eyes with her own. She worried what her eyes might be saying.

* * *

On the sixteenth hole Annie hit a rare bad tee shot pulling it left into a stand of eucalyptus trees. Meg hit a shorter drive down the left side. After hitting her second shot Meg followed along as Conor and Annie went to the ball in the woods.

Annie was perhaps one hundred forty yards from the green but a tree about thirty yards ahead of her blocked her path. She stood behind the ball, hands on hips, surveying the situation. "Well," she said, "I suppose there's nothing left to do but to knock it back out to the fairway."

"Well, Ma'am, there's a suggestion I might make if you're to be willing to give it a try," Conor offered. "'For 'tis more than a straight line to the hole you could be seeing."

"Oh, I can't curve the ball, if that's what you mean," Annie responded.

"Nay Ma'am, I think you can. Here, take your mashie, then go ahead and take your stance and aim just to the right of the tree." When she did, Conor approached her, crouched down and took the shaft in his hand. "Just relax your grip a bit. I'm to turn the shaft a little like this." With that he twisted the shaft slightly to his right so that the clubhead faced a little left in the direction of the green. Rising and backing away he added, "Now just make your swing. That club will tell the ball all it would be needing to know."

Annie looked at Conor and nodded then looked down at the ball and prepared to swing. She took two slow little waggles then drew the club back and made her pass through the ball. She hit it flush. The ball came out low then rose quickly into the air curving in a sudden arc to the left as it did so. Conor quickly stepped out to the fairway where Meg was standing to watch the ball finish. It landed just short of the green, took two bounces, then rolled to the middle of the putting surface.

"Oh My!" Meg shouted. "That was wonderful, Annie!"

Conor looked back at Annie. "T'was a pearl of a shot there, Ma'am."

Annie walked out to the fairway to see for herself. "That was so simple," she said to Conor. "Thank you for the lesson!"

"No thanks be needed. You're to be the one who hit the shot."

"Tell me, Mick," Meg asked. "Is that how you hit such shots?"

"No Ma'am, I do it a bit differently." Conor replied.

"And how is that?" Annie asked.

"Well, 'tis hard to explain. But all I really am to be doing is just think left."

"'Think left'? What does that mean?" Meg asked a bit incredulous.

"Just my way, Ma'am, 'tis simply how I learned."

"Well, if you can't explain it you have to show us." Meg pressed on. "Take a ball from my bag and use one of my clubs. I want to see what 'think left' means!"

"Oh I can't be doing that, Ma'am. It's against the rules, you know."

"Nonsense. No one can see us here. And caddies are to do what they're told. Now show us." Meg demanded.

"Please, Mick. We would very much like to see." Annie implored catching Conor's eyes with her own.

Conor melted. "Very well, ladies. I will try." He laid the bags on the ground, took a ball from the pocket of Meg's bag and then slipped the niblick out. He walked back into the rough where Annie had been and dropped the ball on the ground. He stood behind the ball, took aim and then walked into his stance. Unlike Annie had done he addressed the ball with the clubface square to his stance aiming to the right of the tree. He waggled, glanced twice down his line and then he made his swing. Nothing about the swing looked unusual or like any effort had been made but the ball seemed to explode off the ground and into the air. Just like Annie's shot, the ball began to curve as it reached its highest point. Meg and Annie watched as it flew around the trees and toward the green. It landed and took two short hops before coming to rest three feet from the flagstick.

"Oh my!" Annie burst in delight bringing her hands to her face and turning to Conor. "That was marvelous!"

Meg gave Conor a long look as he walked out to the fairway to join them. "Well, Mick," she finally said. "I still don't know how you do that. But you did. You can very well play this game, can't you?"

A bit abashed, Conor looked at Meg and gave a little smile. "Well, as I said, I've some experience. And 'tis a bit of Irish luck we had with that."

"There was no luck in that," Meg said. "But maybe some of what you can do will rub off on us these last couple holes."

Conor smiled wider. "Aye, Ma'am, would that be true. But you don't need any of me to play as well as you can." With that Conor replaced her club in the bag, hoisted both bags to his shoulders and the three walked on to finish their round.

* * *

After they putted out on the last green Meg walked up to Annie and took her right hand in both hers. "Annie," she said, "I can't begin to say how much I enjoyed playing with you today. You are just a delight. And I must say one of the best golfers among all the women here."

"Oh, thank you. You are too kind," Annie replied. "And I likewise had a wonderful time. We really must do this again some time."

"We shall. Do you think you would be free again this time next week? If so I'll sign us up right now," Meg said. "I'd so much rather be playing with you than that gaggle of gossiping geese playing ahead of us."

Annie chuckled. "I know. And, yes, I certainly can do this again next week. Same time would be perfect. It would be my delight."

"Done, then." Meg smiled and the two of them walked to the edge of the green where Conor stood with their bags.

The two took their wallets from their bags and dug in them to pay their caddie.

Meg went first. "Well, Mick, thank you for all your help today. You're as good a caddie as you are a golfer it would seem. We would both like to have you join us next week. Do you think that you can manage that? Same time?"

"Thank you, Ma'am. 'Twas truly my pleasure. I can't always decide my carries, but I will do my best to be available for you and Mrs. Burke."

"Splendid. You do that," Meg said handing Conor a dollar bill and then a quarter. Then, turning to Annie, she said, "Why don't you join me for a little tea before you leave?" At the word "tea" she raised her eyebrows to convey her real meaning.

Annie understood and grinned, "Yes, that would be lovely. I'll be right there."

As Meg walked off to the locker room, Annie turned to Conor and handed him a dollar bill. "Thank you," she said. Then she handed him another. "This is for last week. I'm sorry my husband neglected the gratuity. He doesn't know that much about golf. He won't be back."

Conor brightened a bit at her words. "Thank you, Ma'am. The pleasure was all to be mine." With that he took her hand and pressed the dollar into her palm and folded her fingers around it. "I know 'twas not your intent. The promise of another afternoon with you is all the gratuity I need." Then he quickly added, "And of course, Mrs. Graves."

Annie took her other hand and placed it atop his. "That's so very sweet," Annie smiled warmly. "All right then, I will see you next week." Their hands lingered for a moment longer as they looked at each other. Then they parted and she turned and began walking up to the locker room.

She stopped once and glanced back and saw Conor still looking after her. Only when she had disappeared inside did Conor pick up the bags and carry them to the bag room. He hoped Gino was still around so he could talk to him about next Tuesday.

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# Chapter 8

## Robert

Tuesday, April 29, 1930

Meg Graves drove home excited to talk to her husband about her afternoon at the club. She'd made a friend, no less the wife of a Hollywood celebrity. They'd had a good time together. And she'd gotten a firsthand look at the caddie her husband had been talking about.

The windows of her home glowed golden in the early evening darkness as she pulled into the long drive. She parked her car next to her husband's in front of the garage. As she got out she could hear his car's radiator still gurgling. He'd not arrived home much before her. That was good because she had stayed a little longer than she'd intended talking to Annie.

Robert was sitting waiting for her in the study sipping his evening scotch. The maid had dinner warming but he would never think of eating before his wife came home. When she entered the room he put his drink down and rose to meet her. "Hello, Sweetheart," he said as he reached for her waist and pulled her close for a kiss. "What kept you out so late? I was beginning to worry a bit."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. But I really did have just the most fabulous time today. I can't wait to tell you about it. You must be famished. I'll tell you over dinner."

"Let's do that then," he said. He retrieved his glass then took her hand as they walked together to the dining room.

* * *

Robert Graves was the epitome of a self-made man. Now forty-eight, he'd started out as a blacksmith's apprentice when he was thirteen years old in a small farming community in northern Illinois. By the time he was eighteen he'd taken a job as a machinist in a Chicago factory making parts for farm equipment. Smart and ambitious, he rose through the ranks from lead operator, to foreman, to supervisor, to director of operations. When the company decided to open a west coast location in Southern California, they selected him to head the undertaking. He was elated at the assignment and not just for his career. His oldest daughter Sylvia had severe asthma and the dry California climate would be just what she needed.

By 1918 the factory was open and operational. But he found himself restless. The automobile and aviation industries were emerging and he saw a need for a specialty machine shop to fashion prototype parts out of new materials like aluminum. When he couldn't convince his company to branch out, he left and used his life savings and a second mortgage to open his own business. He had always been a risk taker. Despite having a wife and two young daughters at home, he knew this was what he should do.

And he was right. California was beginning to boom. And his company boomed with it. By the mid-1920's he found himself a wealthy man. Wise enough to stay out of real estate and investment speculation, he rode atop the crest of the emerging aviation industry and began manufacturing not just prototype parts, but parts to be used in the production of aircraft. The machine shop became a factory.

He eventually acquired all the trappings his fortune could buy – a mansion, luxury cars and a country club membership. He chose Biarritz because it was close to his new home and it welcomed a variety of new members, people like himself with relatively newfound wealth. It therefore lacked some of the snobbery found in other clubs, although not completely.

He was not an accomplished golfer, but he loved to play for high stakes with the friends he had there. It was the action, not necessarily the money, which drew him in to their weekend games where hundreds of dollars might change hands with a single putt made or missed. The gambling was, by and large, his only major vice. That he never lost or won that much money, in balance, perhaps meant it wasn't a vice at all. Or so he reasoned.

But his greatest ambition in golf lay not in his weekend games. It was to win the annual Calcutta tournament where thousands and thousands of dollars could be wagered and won.

The Calcutta at Biarritz involved two-man teams that were auctioned off to the highest bidder. Pari-mutuel wagering had been outlawed in California so the pot was a simple split: seventy percent to the winner, thirty percent for second place. The event was played over two days as better ball of partners at scratch, without handicaps, so only very good golfers were enlisted for the teams. Each team had to have at least one Biarritz member while the other player could be a member of another club. As many as two dozen teams took part in the event. The competition was so fierce and the potential winnings so huge it drew hundreds of people to watch.

The year before Graves had come close to cashing in. He'd bought a team he had arranged himself. He paired the son of his best friend at the club, Charlie Compton, with one of the other members he played with regularly. The son, Billy, was something of a playboy. Never working much, he did little but play golf and chase women and had become quite good at both. He'd played brilliantly in the Calcutta but the other member had folded under the pressure the second day and the team had finished just out of the money.

Since then Graves had been on the lookout for someone he could match with young Billy in this year's event. He'd heard talk in the locker room about a caddie at Biarritz who was said to be good, often matching par on his Monday rounds. He was an Irishman they called Mick. Graves intended to find out for himself if this caddie was as good as they said.

* * *

Meg bubbled over with excitement at dinner relating the events of the day. She went on and on about Annie. Young and pretty. Very smart and funny. Wore the most gorgeous outfit. Wife of a Hollywood screenwriter. Lives in the Hollywood Hills. Drives the most beautiful Cadillac coupe. From the Midwest just like they were. Incredibly good player. A new friend and golfing partner. Playing together again next Tuesday. Want the same caddie, too. So much fun. Can't wait.

Robert listened attentively. He loved his wife and he loved her voice. She could be saying almost anything and the sound would fill his heart, not that he didn't take in every word she said.

"That's wonderful, dear," he interjected as she finally paused to take a few bites of her dinner. "I'm so glad you had such a good time. She sounds like a perfect golfing partner for you. And you want the same caddie again?"

"Oh my, yes!" Meg burst out gaining her second wind. "He was just incredible. He helped us on so many shots. He even taught Annie how to hit the most amazing hook shot around a tree." She paused to laugh, "And then I made him hit that shot himself. Really, I did. And he did it differently than how he told her to do it. He said he just 'thought left.' Then he hit it so close to the hole he almost made it."

"Really? Who was he?"

"I think he's the one I heard you talking to Charlie Compton about. Young Irishman named Mick. Handsome too. And charming. I think Annie is a little taken with him. And he with her."

"What do you mean?" Robert asked now with more interest.

"Well, there are looks and there are looks. And I saw them exchange some, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, well, that's not good. A married woman and a caddie? Not good at all. That shouldn't be happening."

"Oh, I'm sure it's all right. They're both too smart not to know their place. It's just a bit of fancy I'm sure. I think it's sweet. Did I tell you he was handsome?"

Robert chuckled. "Yes you did. And I'm sure he is. But he'd better be careful. He'll be gone from Biarritz in the blink of an eye if anybody sees what you saw. So you might want to keep what you saw to yourself. It takes nothing to spark a rumor around that place and a rumor is all it would take to ruin them both."

"I know. You're right. I'll be as careful as I'm sure they'll be."

It was then their youngest daughter Lilith came down from her room and her homework to join them at the table for coffee and dessert. The conversation moved on to her day at school and the dramas of a teenage girl.

* * *

Conor had finished the round with Annie and Meg too late to walk Mary to the bus stop. He had really wanted to talk to her. Alone in the dark walking back to his room in the boarding house he struggled to make sense of what he felt. He needed someone to help him sort it out. The situation was impossible; he knew that. But he also knew that he wanted this woman more than he had ever wanted anything. It wasn't just that she was beautiful. It was more than that. It was something he felt so strongly he could almost taste it and touch it. It was something that he saw deep in her eyes and heard in her voice. She was everything right and good and wonderful. Except that she wasn't. She was married. And he was but a caddie. And he cursed himself for all that he was not. His thoughts twirled like a carousel all the way home.

* * *

When Annie got home she was dismayed to find Franklin there. She had wanted the night all to herself and her thoughts of her caddie. Now, not only was Franklin there, he had been drinking.

"Where've you been?" he demanded in a slur. "I was trying to get you all afternoon. The studio called. They have changes they need done right away. You have a job now you know. What kind of a stupid bitch are you to take off like that?"

Annie remained calm. He was drunk. There would be no reasoning. "It was Tuesday. I played golf. I met a friend. I'm sure I can handle the changes tomorrow."

"Oh yeah? What kinda friend? Some lowlife playboy that wants to get into your pants? Yeah, that would be just like you. Stupid whore. 'Cause that's what you are, ya know? I know you. Stupid whore. You women are all alike. I know..." Franklin's rant trailed off as his liquored mind lost its grasp of the thought.

Annie had enough. "We'll talk about the changes in the morning. I'm going to my room. Good night."

"Yeah, you walk away. That's what you bitches do. Fucking whores. All of you." A hiccup stopped the tirade.

As Annie climbed the stairs Franklin stumbled to the bar to pour himself another drink.

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# Chapter 9

## Billy

Wednesday, April 30, 1930

The next morning Robert Graves arrived at his factory with three important calls to make. His secretary called out to him as he walked past her telling him he had messages and phone calls to return but he waved her off, went into his office, closed the door behind him and took his seat behind the desk. He picked up the phone.

The first call was to his friend Charlie Compton. Charlie owned a trucking firm, a construction company and many of the buildings along Rodeo Drive in Hollywood, not to mention racehorses and a string of polo ponies. Charlie was always at work early. He would be easy to get.

The phone rang. The secretary picked up. "Hello, Marcia. This is Robert Graves. Can I speak to Charlie, please?" There was a pause and then Charlie picked up. "Charlie, how are you?"

"I'm good, Bob. What can I do for you? You must need something to be calling this early. But before you say anything, you're not getting any more strokes this weekend, sandbagger that you are."

"Ha, yeah, well I don't need them, duffer that you are. Listen, I may have a partner for Billy in the Calcutta. But I want to check him out. You have any idea where I can get a hold of Billy? I want him along."

"Billy? Well, that's a tough one. You can bet he's still asleep. So the only real question is in whose bed. Last he told me he was hanging out with some divorcee over in Santa Monica. I think he left me a number. Hold on while I look."

Robert waited while Charlie rummaged through the piles of paper that littered his desk. Finally, after a time, he came back on the line.

"Found it. Her name is Cloris. Have no idea what the last name is. She probably can't remember either. Anyway it's Klondike 5-0751. I wouldn't call before noon, though. No chance either of them are alive yet. That help you?"

Robert scribbled down the number then replied, "That's what I needed. Thanks, Charlie. See you on Saturday, right?"

"You bet. And bring cash. And if you get Billy, tell him to show up at the office and pretend to work one day this week."

Robert laughed. "Yeah, right. Well, he's your son. And you'd best be the one bringing the cash. See you." He hung up the phone and rose from his desk to go see what his secretary had for him.

It was just after noon when he called the number for Cloris. A female voice answered sounding drowsy. Her "hello" was enough for Robert to guess she was likely still prone.

"I'm calling for Billy Compton. Is he there?"

"Hold on." Then after a pause, "Who's calling?"

"Robert Graves."

"Hold on."

After a much longer pause during which Robert imagined Cloris rousing Billy, his voice came on the line. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Hello, Billy. It's Robert Graves."

At the sound of the name Billy's voice perked up. "Oh, hi! Good morning! Or afternoon. Or whatever. What can I do for you?"

"I may have a partner for you in the Calcutta. I want you to check him out with me. Can you get away for a round out at Biarritz Friday afternoon, day after tomorrow? Say two o'clock?"

"Who is it?"

"Nobody I think you know. Or maybe you do. You'll meet him. Can you make it?"

Friday was a difficult question for Billy in his current state. He was silent as his brain tried to calculate. Then, finally, he replied, "Yeah, that should be all right. Friday at two, right?"

"Right. I can count on you to be there, okay?"

"Oh sure, sure. I'll be there. See you then."

"Okay, see you then." Robert hung up the phone. He had one more call to make.

"Good afternoon, Biarritz Country Club. How may I direct your call?"

"Give me the pro shop, please," Robert responded.

"Certainly. One moment please."

A pause, then, "Biarritz pro shop. Brian speaking."

"Hello, Brian. This is Robert Graves. I'd like to make a tee time for Friday at two o'clock. A twosome. Billy Compton and myself. That shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

"Not at all, Mr. Graves. I'll put you down."

"Good. Now it's going to be something of a match. So make a note for me. We want to go off as just two. All right?"

"I will do that. Friday at two, just a two ball."

"Thank you, Brian. Now, if I can, I'd like to speak to Gino. Can you get him for me?"

"Sure. Let me go find him. I'll be right back."

Brian put the receiver down and went off to look for Gino. Robert had known that play at the club was usually slow on Friday afternoons, especially as late as two o'clock. And that served his purpose, as he didn't want the round to be observed by other members. Presently Gino came to the phone.

"Hello? Mr. Graves? This is Gino."

"Hello, Gino. Listen, I have a twosome Friday at two – Billy Compton and myself. You have a caddie there, somebody called 'Mick,' an Irishman?"

"Yes sir. And he's a good one, too."

"That's what I hear. He caddied for my wife yesterday. So I'd like you to arrange for him to carry for Billy and me on Friday at two o'clock. Can you do that for me?"

"Well, sir, you know how unreliable these caddie types can be. They are very difficult to pin down in advance like this. And in the case of this Mick, well, he's often spoken for early in the day. So it might not be that easy."

Robert smiled to himself. This was a familiar dance with Gino. "I can appreciate that, Gino. Would the standard gratuity, say five dollars, make it any easier?"

"Well, Mr. Graves, I wish I could say yes. But this might be a special circumstance, you know?"

"You pirate. All right. Ten dollars."

"Well, now. Thank you, Mr. Graves. As a matter of fact it just occurred to me that this Mick just might be out in the yard now. I imagine I may be able to make him available Friday. In fact, Mr. Graves, I will go so far as to say I guarantee it."

Robert shook his head and smiled. "Good. I knew I could count on you, Gino. I'll see you Friday. Good bye."

Gino hung the receiver back on the hook. Brian, a young assistant pro at Biarritz, had been standing at the counter listening to the conversation.

"Gino, I don't know if you're a thief, a liar, or just some sort of con artist," Brian said in some wonder. "I just don't know how you get away with what you just pulled. Maybe you could teach me some time."

"Well, son, it's all about giving people what they want and knowing how bad they want it. And, of course, knowing what they can afford makes it possible to know what its worth. Its just good business."

"Well, seems like a pretty shady business to me," Brian said.

"You'll learn," Gino tossed over his shoulder as he walked back to the caddie yard.

Conor had just finished a morning loop working a foursome with Stovepipe and two teenage caddies he and Stovepipe had been asked to mentor. The round had started off cool, but now in the midday it was warm. He took off his jacket, folded it and put it on the bench. Before he could sit down he heard Gino's voice behind him.

"Mick... get over here!"

Conor groaned inwardly. He didn't want to go back out again so soon. He needed a bit of a breather and something to eat. But he turned around and walked to the door to see what Gino had for him.

"You're going to be around Friday, right?" Gino asked.

"Well I surely wouldn't be knowing that given I am to have such a busy social schedule. You know, the parties, the polo matches. I may have to check with my secretary don't you know."

"Cut the crap, Irish. Simple question."

"Yes, I can be here."

"Okay. See I got a loop for you Friday at two o'clock. Robert Graves and Billy Compton." Gino leaned forward, his elbows on the door shelf. He motioned with his finger for Conor to move closer. Lowering his voice he continued, "I'm not sure but I think those two may be up to something. Graves wanted you bad. So I want you to make sure you're ready to go. Might be something good for you."

"What do you mean?" Conor asked.

"Just what I said."

"Can you get me out in the morning before that?" Conor wondered.

"Don't think that's a good idea. I think you need to be fresh. Just get here by one o'clock. Make sure you get something to eat beforehand. Capisce?"

"Aye. Will do."

"One more thing," Gino added now in a whisper. "You won't need that morning round. I'll throw you a couple bucks to make up for it. Like I said, they want you bad and I want you here."

Conor was taken aback. Money flowed to Gino not from Gino. "Thank you, Cap'n. 'Tis good of you. I will be here one o'clock."

Gino nodded "Good," rose up and moved to his desk to resume _The Sporting News_.

Conor returned to the bench. He could not figure why all the intrigue with Gino, nor Gino's largesse. He took out his roll and contemplated it. Maybe there would be something in it for him. Maybe Friday would be a good day. Then he ate his roll and waited for another loop.

(back to top)

# Chapter 10

## Tryout

Friday, May 2, 1930

It was another in a string of sunny and exceptionally windy afternoons at Biarritz. These weren't the vicious Santa Ana winds that howl through the area in autumn and winter, but they were close, gusting to twenty-five miles an hour from the west. Per Gino's orders Conor had arrived in the caddie yard on time at one o'clock after an unusual late breakfast at the little café near his boarding house. He had no idea why he was splurging so or why he had to show up so early for the round, but Gino had been clear. Maybe, Conor thought, the two players have very heavy bags.

It was very warm, so as had become his custom this week he took off his jacket and laid it on the bench. He rolled up his sleeves and sat down waiting for the round. After a bit Gino appeared at his door. Conor saw him and Gino waved his hand to summon him over.

"Mick, you're a good boy to show up on time. And here's what I promised." And with that Gino reached his right hand across the door to Conor as if to make a handshake. When Conor took the hand he felt the folded dollar bills against his palm. He took them and put them in his pocket. "Now, go rest yourself, Gino said. "Your players are going to be here in a little while."

Robert Graves was the first to show up. He walked down from the clubhouse the cleats on his golf shoes crunching against the paved path. The sound woke Fred the starter from his nap atop the stool in his hut. It had been a slow afternoon.

"Afternoon, Fred, you alright?" Robert asked as he could see the old man still trying to rouse himself and focus.

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm fine I tell you. What can I do for you?"

Robert smiled. "Still a crotchety old codger aren't you? When you wake up could you go get Gino for me?"

Fred shook his head. "Bah! I'm awake! Wasn't asleep, just thinking."

"Well, think about getting Gino for me, okay?" Robert laughed.

"Humph," was all Fred could utter as he wiggled himself off the stool and tottered off to the pro shop. Presently he returned with Gino in tow. As he walked past Robert he gave a little look of disdain and tossed his head back indicating Gino had been delivered and his mission fulfilled. Then he returned to his stool.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Graves," Gino said as he walked up to Robert. "What can we do for you today?"

Robert turned slightly putting his back to Fred. "Well, only what we discussed. Just a caddie."

"It's done, sir. He's waiting in the yard."

Robert extended his hand. "Excellent. Thank you, Gino."

Gino took his hand and felt the ten-dollar bill. Just as Conor had done he palmed it and put it in his pocket. "You're most welcome Mr. Graves. It's a pleasure to be of service."

Robert chuckled. "I'm sure it is a pleasure you bandit. Have him meet me over on the putting green. We're still waiting for Billy."

"Right away, Mr. Graves," Gino said grinning at the jab. "I'll send him right out."

Conor found both bags on the rack. Neither was heavy. He carried them to the practice green where Robert was putting. As he approached Robert looked up and quickly assessed his candidate. Tallish for a golfer and an Irishman. Intelligent eyes. Strong shoulders. And Meg was right; he was good looking. He liked what he saw.

Conor stopped at the edge of the putting green, took the bags from his shoulders and stood them up in front of him. Robert walked up to him.

"Afternoon. It's 'Mick' isn't it?" Robert asked.

"'Tis what I'm called here, sir," Conor responded smiling.

"Well, Mick, I'm Robert Graves. You caddied for my wife the other day and she tells me you're quite the excellent caddie."

"Too kind she is, Mr. Graves," Conor said. "She's a lovely lady. 'Twas my good fortune to carry for her."

"It just might be that," Robert said making a joke to himself. "We're waiting on my playing partner. Let me hit a few more putts 'til he comes along. Shouldn't be long."

It wasn't until ten minutes to two that Billy Compton made his appearance. He had walked halfway down the path from the clubhouse and stood in the vestiges of a tuxedo, coat draped over his arm, collar opened, studs missing from the shirt, barefoot inside his patent leather pumps.

"Bob... hey, Bob!" He called out. "Sorry I'm late. Just gotta change. I'll be right down!"

"Meet us at the tee!" Graves called back. "We're ready when you are!"

Billy gave a wave of understanding then turned and strode back up the path to the locker room.

Robert picked his balls up from the green and walked over to Conor. With something of a sigh of resignation he proclaimed "And that, my friend, is Billy Compton." He handed over the balls and his putter. "Let's go get some water before we head out."

Billy wasn't long. As he approached them on the first tee Conor thought he had the look of a golfer. About Conor's age he was hatless and very tan. His thick blonde hair was parted in the middle. Of medium size and frame he had emerged from the locker room impeccably dressed in white shirt open at the collar, brown plus fours, tan hose and brown and white spectators. He walked up to Robert and turned on the kind of smile that charms away all sins.

"Hey, Bob, so sorry. But you know how it is. Sometimes afternoons come much too soon."

"Ha," Graves replied, "I just know that's how it is for you. But you made it. Like always."

"So where is this guy you want us to check out?" Billy asked.

"You'll meet him. In the meantime, say hello to our caddie here. Name is Mick."

Billy gave a nod to Conor who nodded back. He turned back to Robert "We playing for anything today?"

"No, just a friendly game. Why don't you lead us off?"

Billy smiled again. "My pleasure. Kind of windy today. We'll have some work these first few holes."

Billy took a ball, some tees and his driver from Conor and walked onto the tee box. He took several long, loose practice swings then teed up his ball. His swing looked effortless but the ball fairly cracked off the clubface then flew low before rising into the wind in a line down the center of the fairway.

A very good player Conor thought to himself.

Billy parred the first two holes despite the strong headwind. His manner was relaxed, almost nonchalant. The game came easy to him and it showed in his movements – purposeful, confident and easy. He exuded a certain cockiness but it was not obnoxious. He was simply in his element.

The third hole was the first completely out of sight from the clubhouse. When the three reached the tee Robert motioned Billy over to where he was standing next to Conor. "Billy, I want you to hear this," he said. Then, to Conor he said, "I have a proposition for you. We have the Calcutta coming up and I'm looking for a player to pair with Billy. I think you might be that player. But first I want to see what you can do. I'm sure Billy does too. So I want you to take my clubs and play a few holes. Billy can carry his own bag. What do you say?"

Conor knew he couldn't say no and he didn't really want to say no. He also knew he was the equal of Billy's game. But to play with a member in a big event like this would be impossible. The other members would never allow it. Before he could respond Billy asked the question Conor was about to.

"Come on, Bob. What are you talking about? He's just a caddie for Christ's sakes. You have to be at least a member somewhere else to get into that thing. This can't work. And if he is any good you're probably going to get nothing but crap about bringing in a ringer. Jeesh, what are you thinking?"

"You let me worry about that," Bob replied. "If he's good enough I can pull it off. But first things first. Let's see if he can play. What do you say, Mick? You game?"

"That I am," Conor said. "And 'tis grateful I am you'd give me a chance."

"Well, let's see you make the most of it. Go ahead and tee off," Robert bid him.

Conor felt charged and a little nervous to be put on exhibition like this. But golf was second nature to him and he sensed a chance to take part in something important. His heart was beating fast as he walked to the tee and prepared to take his shot. He took a couple of practice swings and stretched his back. All the while he told himself to calm down. By the time he addressed his ball he'd done just that. Instinct took over as he made a couple of waggles and looked down the fairway at his target. He looked back at the ball and then he swung. His swing was not the graceful motion of Billy's. It was shorter, faster and more powerful looking. Nor did the ball soar as high, instead piercing through the headwind on a low trajectory that let the ball skip forward on landing and then roll a considerable distance.

"Nice shot," said Billy as he walked past Conor onto the tee for his shot.

Graves said nothing as he kept his eyes on Conor.

Billy and Conor matched each other shot for shot over the next few holes. Their game quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm, each hitting a shot near enough the other so that they could stand close to watch each other's play. Soon they began discussing each other's shots. Then a bit of banter began between the two.

On the eighth hole, a par five, Billy and Conor were both about seventy yards from the hole after their second shots. Billy played first sending a wedge high into the air. As the ball reached its zenith the wind caught it and blew it left. It landed on the collar and bounced sideways into a bunker. Billy slammed the club head into the ground. "Damn that wind is strong!" he blurted. "Should have allowed more room for that."

"Bad luck," Conor commiserated as he pulled a spoon from the bag and prepared to hit his shot.

Billy stopped and looked on in surprise. The wooden spoon was for much longer shots. Conor took his stance, choked down on the grip and then made a short sweeping stroke. The ball barely got off the turf before quickly beginning to roll toward the green. The ball hopped slightly on the collar then slowed as it rolled out toward the hole. It came to rest ten feet from the flagstick.

"Whoa! What kind of a shot was that?" Billy exclaimed.

Conor laughed. "It's an Irishman's shot to be sure. You can fight the wind or you can hide from it."

"You've played that shot before."

"Aye, 'tis true. Back home the wind fairly howls some days. When it does the ground is surely more gracious than the air."

"You have to show me how you do that sometime," Billy said.

"'Twould be my pleasure."

Robert had seen enough to know Conor was the perfect player to pair with Billy. They were such a contrast that they complemented each other's games – Billy playing with fire, Conor with quiet coolness – Billy with flair, Conor with imagination – Billy with the classic swing, Conor with the self-made action. While his decision had been made, he let the two play on. He could already see the two had established the mutual respect one sees between good players. Now he wanted to see them bond as a real team.

The eighteenth tee was the last place they would be out of sight of the clubhouse. Robert walked up to the two as they laid their bags down by the tee. "All right, Mick, I've seen enough. What do you think, Billy?"

"He's good, Bob, real good. I think we've got something here. But I still have no idea how you're going to get him past the committee."

Robert turned to Conor. "You're just what we're looking for. You willing to do this?"

"'Twould be my honor, sir. But I'm to be with Billy on this. I surely don't qualify being but the caddie I am."

"I have a membership out at Redlands Country Club. First place I joined when I came out here. Club manager there is a good friend. We're going to make you a member there, at least for the time being. You won't be able to play there, but that's not necessary anyway. All I need to know is your full name. Is Mick short for Michael?"

"No, sir. I've but Gino to thank for that name. No, my name is Conor. Conor O'Reilly. C-o-n-o-r it's to be spelled."

"Excellent," Robert replied. "It's a name none of the members will recognize. And, Conor, I'm not 'sir' to you. I'm Bob. Got it?"

"Aye. 'Tis 'Bob' then."

"Now, a couple more things," Robert continued. "Billy, I want you playing with Conor on Mondays between now and the Calcutta. You two need to learn each other's games. I'm sure you can fit that into your busy schedule, can't you Billy?"

"Mondays? Yeah, well, Mondays are my day of rest, if you know what I mean. But that's okay, as long as we're playing in the afternoon. Mornings are never good."

"Why am I not surprised at that?" Robert chuckled. "Now, Conor, how are you set for equipment – clubs, balls, shoes? What do you need?"

"I've clubs and all the balls I can find," Conor replied smiling. "But I own no proper spikes."

"Okay, then. Billy, you go to the pro shop and get Conor some golf shoes. Charge them to my account. And make sure they fit him before you do. I don't want one of my horses coming up lame. Now, Conor, here's some money. Get yourself a couple shirts, ties, maybe some trousers. I want you looking like a member, not a caddie. Got it?"

Conor took the five-dollar bill Robert had pulled from his wallet. "Thank you, Bob. 'Tis much appreciated."

"Good. While I'm at it, here's another five for the effort today. Now, do you have a phone where we can get in touch with you?" Robert asked.

"No, no phone. And thank you again."

"All right, then, we'll communicate through Gino. So we should be set. Let's go in. You can be a caddie for one more hole, can't you Conor?"

"Aye, I can," Conor fairly beamed, the reality of all that just happened finally sinking in.

"That's good, then. I want to see if I learned anything watching you two this afternoon. Billy, lead us off."

(back to top)

# Chapter 11

## Gossip

Sunday, May 4, 1930

Annie stopped her pacing briefly to light another cigarette. She stepped across the half typed pages littering the floor around her desk to open the crystal cigarette box, take one out and use a sterling silver lighter to ignite it. She took a long drag, exhaled slowly, then resumed her laps of the study.

The script was not going well. She was stuck on the scene where the rich socialite and the poor newspaper reporter finally consummate their love. It had to be suggestive without being obvious, tender not tawdry, expectant not explicit. And that was the problem. She couldn't get her mind off her caddie and the love scene she longed to play with him. And that scene was obvious, tawdry and quite explicit. She knew it was ridiculous to think such things. Such a scene would never, could never, play out. She chastised herself for not being able to focus on her work. The script was far more real than her fantasy. Still, she could not stop typing the words she herself longed to say and hear. And such words were hardly appropriate for the big screen.

She finally paused in front of the bookcase wall. She scanned the lower shelves looking for the large tome she wanted. She found it, stooped down and used both hands to slide it from its place. She laid it on the coffee table, sat on the divan and opened it up. It was a world atlas. She leafed through the pages until she found the map of Ireland. She looked for Lahinch. She found it south of Galway and north of Shannon. Right on the sea, it must be beautiful there, she thought.

Her phone rang. She rose to answer, grateful for the distraction.

"Hello?" she asked, suddenly dreading a call from Franklin.

"Hello, Annie? This is Meg Graves."

"Oh, hello Meg. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I just wanted to confirm we'll be playing again this Tuesday. Three o'clock, right? You're still planning on that?"

"Absolutely! I'm very much looking forward to it. That was so much fun last time!"

"It was, indeed! I too am looking forward to it. So it's very good we're still on. Oh, and I have some news to share with you. Remember the caddie we had, that Mick?"

"Yes," was all Annie dare say.

"Well, Robert told me not to say anything to any of the members, but I know I can trust you to keep a secret. And I know you'd be interested to hear this. It seems Robert has recruited our caddie to play in the Calcutta tournament that's coming up. It's quite a big event at Biarritz. He's going to team him with a young man named Billy Compton. I don't think you know him but he's also a very good golfer. Isn't that exciting, though? Can you imagine our caddie with a chance to win such an event?"

"That is exciting," Annie said, trying not to sound too excited. "The Calcutta is where the men wager all that money, isn't it?"

Meg laughed. "Yes they do – gobs of it, and Robert among them. He loves the action. That's why he wanted to put together a team he could buy and win with. He thinks he has a great chance with these two players. He's even got them practicing together Monday afternoons on caddies' day. But I'm not supposed to be saying all this. You can keep a secret for me, can't you dear?"

"Oh, Meg, of course, of course. But that really is exciting news. Thank you for sharing that with me. We'll have to wish him luck when we see him Tuesday."

"Indeed." Meg agreed. "It appears your caddie could become some kind of celebrity around Biarritz. Oh... I hear Robert coming in. I have to go. See you Tuesday! Bye!"

"Bye," Annie said. She hung the phone up on the cradle and then she thought to herself, "My caddie. Would that he were more."

* * *

Conor got the message after his second loop of the day. Both rounds had been single bags so he wasn't all that tired. Which was good because Michael wanted to meet him for dinner at Shanahan's in Glendale. Gino had delivered the message cryptically, complaining he was getting tired of being Conor's "goddamn secretary" and wished Conor would get his own "goddamn telephone" and leave him the "goddamn alone, goddamn it."

Conor thought it a bit strange that Michael hadn't invited him home for dinner with Mary, but chalked it up to the notion his cousin probably just wanted a drink or two out of Mary's disapproving sight and chose not to do so alone.

Michael was already sitting at a table in the back of the room facing the door when Conor walked in. Even from such a short distance away, Michael appeared like a miniature man or perhaps even a child, his shoulders hardly clearing the tabletop. He'd doffed his straw boater so his shock of unruly bright red hair appeared as much like a candle's flame atop the table as it did the haircut of a patron.

Michael had been a jockey at Belmont in New York before a bad fall on the home stretch left him with a shattered hip and leg that ended his riding days. Too proud to work the stables where he had once been something of a celebrity, he moved with Mary to California intending to catch on with a breeder as a trainer. He'd started working at a farm outside San Francisco and did well in the beginning. Tanforan Racetrack had reopened without betting in 1923 and even after the racing stopped the next year the track served as a training Mecca for California's growing number of thoroughbred breeders. Then one day he had a screaming confrontation with the farm's owner over his training methods and summarily quit his job. He and Mary found their way down to the Los Angeles area where he finally found work as a stable boy at the Kellogg ranch.

Michael's face lit up when he saw Conor approach. "Ah, Connie! 'Tis a sight for sore eyes you are. Come, come, sit down!"

"Hello, Michael," Conor smiled back taking his chair. "What's to be the occasion that you're out alone on a night like this?"

"Just some business I want to share with you. But first let's get you taken care of." With that he motioned for the waiter to come to the table. "My cousin here will have one of these, if you so please," he say pointing at his half full glass. "And I'll be taking a topper too, if you don't be minding,"

"I take it that's not water," Conor asked.

"Nay, 'tis the finest bathtub gin in this whole glorious state of Cal-i-forn-i-a. Put hair on your chest it will," he added laughing.

"Sounds to be a fine idea, that," Conor replied. "Now what's to be your business?"

Michael took a swig of his drink and leaned his elbows as far forward on the table as his stature would allow and lowered his voice. "I'm to have an idea, Connie. And it's a good one, I can tell you." He stopped and looked up as the waiter put a full glass in front of Conor and filled his from an unlabeled clear bottle. He turned back to Conor. "See, I got a line on somethin' over to the Kellogg Ranch. I keep my eyes and ears open over there and I think I've picked up on something."

"What's that?"

"Well, Mr. Kellogg raises mostly Arabians, you know? But lately he's been boarding for some thoroughbred owners who've started to train there. You see they're running down in Tijuana at that new Agua Caliente track. A couple of the owners from up north have come down to get closer to the action. And I been watchin' 'em."

Conor struck a match and lit a cigarette. Squinting through the smoke he asked, "So what is that to mean?"

"Means I'm on to something. Listen, Connie, one of the owners is Sid Harvey. Snuffy Jones is the trainer. Knew those two up at Tanforan. And what I know is this: they're juicin' one of their horses."

"Juice?"

"You know, boost 'em. Give 'em some dope."

"How do you know that?"

"Been watching the workouts. They got a horse named Copper Cal – a big ol' bay. Strong but slow. Couldn't run his way past a trolley sittin' at a stop. Well, the other day I put a watch on him. Ran a mile and a quarter in two minutes eight. That's Man o' War speed. He can't be doing such a thing without help."

"So?"

"So they're gonna run him soon down at Caliente. I figure they're just waiting for a big enough stakes race so they can clean up."

"I'm still not to be understanding."

"I need your help, Connie. See, I can't be laying a bet with a bookie up here 'cause word'll get around. And I can't be going down there myself to place a bet. People could spot me and connect me with the con. I gotta stay clean. I want to get work down there... move Mary and all to San Diego. Start over there with the racing I like."

"Mary mentioned that to me, she did."

"Yeah, well, I figure this is the best way to get a stake so we can make the move. I'm to be hoping you can help us out. Get yourself down there and put my money down when he's running. Of course you can put your own money down. I don't care. No way he's going off at less than ten to one. It could be a big payday for us. What do you say?"

Conor looked down and took another drag on his cigarette. Then he took a long pull on his gin. He looked up. "How much are you to be putting down?"

"I got a hundred saved."

"Is Mary to be knowing of this?"

"No. And I don't want her to. I want to surprise her when the boat comes in."

"I don't know, Michael. Sounds to be risky. He could come up lame, break down, get beat by another nag with even more dope in him. And I've got something coming up in a couple weeks that I can't be missing. When do you think they'll enter him?"

"A week, ten days the way they're working him."

"I don't know."

"Come on Connie. I'm not asking you to put up your own money, Just get down there for the race and make my bet. I'll pay the train fare and whatever you need. I really gotta have somebody I trust. It's gonna be a lot of money you're to be bringing back."

Conor stubbed out his cigarette and took another drink as he considered the request. "All right. I'll think about it. Let me know when the horse is running. If I can make it I will. But don't be counting on me yet. I have a lot in front of me."

"What do you mean?"

"There's to be a big stakes golf tournament over at Biarritz. I've been put on a team. I owe it to someone to be ready. And you know I am having to work every day I can."

"Golf!" Michael snorted. "You still to be playing that foolish game?"

Conor laughed. "Aye, I am. And I'd rather take my chances with a ball and a club than stake anything on a doped up nag."

"Ha! Well, cousin, I have to tell you that horse is a lot better looking than you and that's where my money is to be going."

Conor smiled and shook his head. "Suit yourself. How about another drink before we're to order up some food?"

"That's the best thing you're to be saying this whole night."

(back to top)

# Chapter 12

## Money

Tuesday, May 6, 1930

The only thing warm about Conor's walk to the golf course this morning lay in his thoughts. An overnight shower had left the air damp and chilly with a foggy mist steaming from the ground. The streetlights were still lit making the wet gravel shoulder sparkle in the yellow patches beneath them. Hunched against the cold, footsteps crunching in a steady rhythm against the stones, he reflected on all that could be and all that could not.

He had enjoyed his practice round with Billy the day before. Had they different lives they could be a great friends. But as it was they relished each other's company and golfing skill. That they were so evenly matched made their game full of banter and talk of strategies for different holes. They talked about their chances in the Calcutta and agreed there were but a handful of teams that could compete with them. Graves hadn't yet discussed what it would mean to either should they finish high enough to cash in, but both knew it meant money, perhaps substantial money, especially if they could win. And, for Conor, the money might mean he could find a way to be more than a caddie again.

He desperately wanted to be more than a caddie. Annie Burke had come to consume his dreams. He wanted her more than he could bear. She wasn't just the kind of woman he wanted, she was the woman he wanted. He couldn't stop trying to conjure a dream that could bring them together, a dream he could make come true. The dreams would all begin with what he knew to be real. What he felt for her was real. The way his heart leapt at her glance was real. What he saw in her eyes and had felt in her touch was real. From those realities would spring the fantasies. He would find a way to make money. He would become more than a poor Irish immigrant. She would leave her husband. He would woo her and win her. They would be together at last, she in his arms.

That was the way all his dreams ended, she in his arms. And that thought warmed him all the rest of the way to Biarritz Country Club.

* * *

Conor was the first caddie into the yard. He left his room earlier than normal anticipating the day and hoping he could get in a loop before the round with Meg Burke and Annie. He always needed money, but now more than ever. Money was the ticket to his dreams. He sat on the bench lost in his thoughts for some time before Gino swung open the top of the Dutch door and saw him there.

"Hey, Mick," he called, "Come over here a second, wanna talk to you."

Conor rose and walked to the door. "Morning, Cap'n," he offered. "You have something for me this early?"

"No, something else." He waved Conor closer. "Listen, I got another goddamn phone call for you after you left. It was Robert Graves. He told me what he has you and Billy Compton up to."

"Lord!" Conor let out, surprised the secret had been shared.

"Yeah, well, I think it's great. I'd love to see one of my monkeys from the yard put it to some of those rich bastards. So I'm gonna level with you. Graves wants me to take care of you. He wants you playing more than lugging bags. So you're on the payroll as of today – five dollars a day. But you gotta show up late in the day every day and play a few holes – you know, practice – until it gets dark. I'll help sneak you out. And you gotta play Mondays with Billy. Of course, this is all just to the Calcutta you understand."

Conor was stunned. He would have more cash than he'd had in months. He'd be playing every day. "Really, Cap'n?" he asked. "He said that?"

"I wouldn't be saying it now if he didn't, would I? So I want you to get outta here. Go get some breakfast or something and don't show up 'til five or so. I don't want you around here where members can see you and ask for you. Capisce?"

Conor suddenly panicked. "But, Cap'n! I have a loop this afternoon. You know? Mrs. Graves, Mrs. Burke? They're to be expecting me."

"I'll get 'em somebody else. Don't worry about it. I just told you, you don't have to caddie right now."

"No, really, I must. And 'tis Mrs. Graves. I can't be showing disrespect to the family, not after what they're to be doing for me," Conor said pleading hard now.

Gino considered the request carefully. He too was on Grave's payroll through the Calcutta. He had specific instructions. Conor was to play and practice, not caddie. Still, it was Mrs. Graves. And she had put in a request for Conor last week.

"All right, all right. What time are they playing today? I don't have my tee sheet yet."

"Three o'clock," Conor replied quickly.

"All right, then, here's what you do," Gino ordered. "Bring your clubs and stow them here. I'll keep an eye on 'em. But don't show up 'til the last minute. And if Mrs. Graves asks, you're going to be going somewhere to practice after the round. Got it?"

"Yes, I understand. I'll do that."

"Yes you will. 'Cause I want you to practice something after that round. Play as many holes as you can. Or whatever. But I want you out here working on whatever it is you do to get ready to play this stupid game."

"No, no. I'll do that. I can honest be about that. I will practice."

"Good. In fact, go ahead and tell her you're going to be practicing tonight. Just don't tell her it's here."

"I understand. I will do as you say, Cap'n." With that Conor turned and started toward the gate. Then he heard Gino's voice behind him.

"Mick, wait a minute. Come back here."

Conor stopped, turned and returned to the door.

"Here, take this." Gino extended his hand, his forefinger creasing a ten-dollar bill lengthwise into a vee. "This is for yesterday and today per our Mr. Graves."

"Thank you!" Conor exclaimed. "'Tis to good use I can be putting this!"

Just then the gate opened and Blackie and Whitey entered, or tried to. Arm-in-arm they had trouble negotiating the portal seeing as how they'd come straight from a night of doing whatever it was they did to begin the day as drunk as they were. There was a ruffling and contorting of their bodies and some mumblings and curses before they made it through the gate and then staggered to the bench where they collapsed and almost instantly fell asleep still arm-in-arm.

Gino shook his head. "I'm not paid enough," he muttered. "Mick, come closer here."

Conor leaned across the shelf of the door to better hear Gino's whisper.

"One more thing. I want you playing as long in the day as you can. And so does Mr. Graves. But if it gets too long, there's a place to stay here so you don't have to make the hike home. You know about the Bogey House?"

"No, what's that?" Conor asked, unsure where Gino was going.

"It's a bungalow up the lane just beyond the greenkeeper's barn – off to the right as you walk up to Valley Spring Road. Members use it for various things, most of them no good. If you decide to stay there look in the window next to the door. If there's one candle or two burning in the window walk on by. Those candles mean there's somebody inside. If you do find it empty, light one candle in the window. Nobody will bother you."

"What do two candles mean?"

"Means there's somebody inside that would be okay with somebody else joining them. So don't you be lighting two. The key's under the mat. There's usually some food in the kitchen, too, in case you need to eat something. Just don't make yourself a pig. Lay off the booze. And get out of there before daybreak. I don't want no members finding a caddie staying in there. Would mean my job more as likely. Plus the green crew starts rolling in around five. So you got that, Irish? Just one candle?"

"Aye. I do. And I'm much obliged, Cap'n."

"Good. Now get outta here."

Conor turned to leave. When he got to the gate he ran into Dogface just coming through. "Where you goin'?" Dogface demanded as Conor moved to get past him.

Conor just shook his head and moved by. Dogface looked to Gino. "What's that about?" he wondered as Conor closed the gate behind him.

"Nothing to you. Now go sit down."

* * *

Annie was having a difficult morning. She began by working on the screenplay, skipping past the love scene to write the one about the characters' recriminations the next day. She didn't like what she wrote so she stopped and cast about for something else to occupy her mind.

A short stack of unopened mail on the corner of her desk caught her eye and she started going through it. There was a letter from her mother telling her about all the news in Davenport, how her father was feeling better after a bout with a miserable spring cold, and wondering if Annie was ever going to find time to come back for a visit. There was a letter from her Aunt Louise in Chicago wondering how Annie was doing out there in California and hoping how she could one day make the trip out to see her. There also were a couple of department store bills and a bank statement.

The bank statement was disturbing. Franklin had not deposited the funds last month that he was supposed to and the balances in Annie's checking and savings accounts were low. She would have to talk to Franklin about that. Of course, talking about anything with Franklin was distasteful lately but money was always the most distasteful topic of all. She couldn't quite understand why he found it so difficult to give her the money they'd agreed on. The advance on the screenplay had been substantial and she knew there had been several subsequent performance payments as she'd completed and submitted portions of the screenplay.

She folded the statement and put it next to the typewriter so she would remember to bring it up the next time Franklin showed up at the house. That thought was somewhat disturbing as well. Franklin had been absent more than usual of late and when he did come to the house he stayed only long enough to exchange dirty clothes for clean and have a drink or two. That wasn't all bad as far as Annie was concerned because she had no real desire to have anything to do with him. But still she wondered what he was doing with his girlfriend, his "L," or even if he had moved on to someone else. Her circumstances were tenuous at best and all were tied to this man she had come to abhor.

Annie poured herself some coffee from the service the maid had left on the table by the window then moved to the divan and sat down. The atlas was still opened to the map of Ireland. She sipped her coffee and gazed at the map. Her thoughts drifted to her afternoon round of golf with Meg Graves. She reminded herself again that she would have to be extremely careful this time. Then she let herself wander among her thoughts of Conor.

* * *

Conor had been at a loss with what to do with himself that day. He had walked out of the hills and back into Glendale where his boarding house was because he would have to fetch his clubs. He decided he had shopping to do with the money Graves had given him so he made his way to South Central Avenue and walked into a haberdashery with a gold leaf sign above the window appropriately proclaiming the store to be Gold's Tailoring. Once inside a clerk wearing a green eyeshade, glasses halfway down his nose, and a tape measure around his neck came out from behind a counter casting an appraising eye at Conor's worn tweed jacket and frayed shirt collar.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked.

"Aye, I'm to be needing some clothes," Conor replied. "Some shirts, some trousers perhaps, and maybe a couple o' ties."

"I should say. That would be obvious," the clerk fairly sneered hearing the accent and giving Conor again the once over. "And what makes you think you have the funds necessary to make such a purchase?"

Conor bristled, then angered. He'd been treated like this before at two other stores he'd tried. "Aye, I know I do. But none for you." With that he spun around and strode out the store as the clerk smirked behind him. He was tired of being poor, looking poor and being treated like trash. He resolved again to make something of himself, make enough money to buy the whole store if he wished. He would do that.

He stopped when he got out to the sidewalk and looked around. He saw a barbershop. He would get a proper haircut and a shave. Annie might notice that.

(back to top)

# Chapter 13

## Third Round

Tuesday, May 6, 1930

It had taken Annie an inordinate amount of time to get ready for her round of golf. She went into her closet three different times pulling out clothes, laying them on the bed, shuffling the blouses with the skirts then standing back to appraise the different combinations. Finally she settled on a shear white rayon blouse with small yellow tulips embroidered around the collar and cuffs. With a camisole beneath it she wouldn't have to wear a brassiere, something she found hot and restrictive playing golf. The skirt was yellow linen. She liked the way it hugged her hips and bottom before flaring slightly to the hem below the knee. She also liked the idea of showing a little leg today.

Makeup was also a production, and that was very unusual given she typically wore very little of it. Sitting at her vanity she tweezed her eyebrows, curled her unusually long lashes and applied a touch of mascara. She followed with a dusting of face powder and the slightest hint of rouge on her cheeks. The first lipstick she applied was Chinese red. She eyed it critically in the mirror and then blotted it off with a tissue. Two tries later she settled on a coral pink.

She decided not to wear a hat today. She would keep the top down on her car on the way to the course. It was to be warm that day and she wanted to catch any breeze through her hair. She parted it in the middle with a comb then brushed it down straight to the base of her neck. Then she used clips on either side to pin it back behind her ears. She smiled to herself thinking she was starting to look a little like the hood ornament on her car, just with shorter hair.

Finally she clipped on a pair of small pearl earrings set in a delicate gold filigree pattern that seemed to echo the tiny embroidered tulips on her blouse. She looked into the mirror turning her head slowly from side to side. She smiled. She was ready.

* * *

Conor slipped into the caddie yard carrying his clubs at exactly two thirty. Pissquick and Stovepipe looked up from their card game, their eyes following him as he walked to the far corner and propped the bag up next to the umbrella.

"What the hell are those for?" Pissquick demanded recognizing Conor's bag. "This ain't Monday ya know."

Before Conor could answer Gino's voice boomed from the door. "And you shut the hell up! Ain't none of your concern. But if you must know Mick here is movin' and needs a place to keep them for a couple weeks. Ain't that right, Mick?"

Conor could only nod a yes, startled at Gino's outburst.

"That's right," Gino continued. "So I want you monkeys to mind your own goddamn business. This ain't some ladies aid society here. I hear one more word about them clubs and I'm sending you home. Got it?"

Eyes wide, Pissquick and Stovepipe nodded in unison.

"Now Mick, you bring that bag over here. I'll keep it inside the door here for you. You don't want any of these numbskulls messin' with them."

Conor picked up the bag and brought it to Gino who murmured "I'll talk to you later about these," as he lifted them over the bottom door and put them next to his desk.

Conor gave a little nod and went back over to the bench and sat next to Stovepipe who followed him with a quizzical stare. "Why you be movin?" Stovepipe asked.

"'Tis closer to here I'm trying to get," Conor lied, his face reddening slightly.

Satisfied, Stovepipe merely nodded, gave an "Oh," and turned back to the card game. Pissquick narrowed his eyes and gave Conor a quick appraising glance before doing the same.

* * *

Conor was waiting at the putting green holding their bags up on either side of him when Meg and Annie walked down the path from the clubhouse. As they approached he could not take his eyes off Annie. He could see her stealing sideways glances at him as she chatted with Meg. Both were smiling warmly. So was he.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Conor sang out as they neared, "'Tis good to be seeing you this fine day."

"Hello, Mick," Meg began. "Or is it Conor we can call you now?"

Taken aback, Conor's eyes darted back and forth between the two. "Well, I wouldn't... I don't..." he began to stutter.

Meg interrupted. "It's all right. Annie here knows all about our little secret, don't you Annie?"

"Yes, and I think it's marvelous," Annie smiled.

Conor's cheeks reddened slightly. "Oh, well, 'tis a wonderful chance I've to be given. Mr. Graves has been most kind and generous. I only can hope Billy and I can repay his faith."

"I'm sure you will," Meg replied. "Annie and I have faith in you too, don't we?"

"Indeed," Annie agreed, holding back all she wanted to say.

Conor was still trying to make sense of Annie knowing about the Calcutta when Meg pressed on.

"Now, before we begin, Robert asked me to ask you if you've had a chance to pick up the clothes and the shoes he wanted you to get."

"Aye, Billy came by Saturday and found me some shoes in the pro shop. To be sure they are very fine spikes so please tell Mr. Graves I am most grateful. The clothes...well, I have not the luck with that yet. I've not found the proper place. But perhaps tomorrow I will."

"Do you need some help with that?" Meg asked. "I mean, I'd be happy to take you to a store and shop with you if that would make it easier?"

"Thank you, Ma'am, but no. 'Tis not a problem. Handle it tomorrow I will."

"Very good, then. But be sure to get something nice. I know Robert wants you looking to be as fine a golfer as you play."

"Well, yes, I will, and thank you both again. You are both too good to me."

"Nonsense. We just both know you'll be wonderful in the tournament. We're just so excited about it. And you are too, aren't you Annie?"

Annie smiled at Meg then turned her smile on Conor. "Yes I am. Most assuredly I am."

* * *

The three of them floated through the round very much enjoying the day and one another. Conor was as much cheerleader and coach as caddie. Meg and Annie chatted and giggled like girls, applauding each other's good shots and laughing at the bad ones. When they finally caught up with the groups in front of them and had to wait from time to time they stood and talked excitedly about the Calcutta coming up. All the while Annie was careful not to make too much eye contact with Conor. She needed to be in control of herself and knew that if she gave in to what she felt Meg would surely notice. Meg was indeed watching carefully but she saw nothing except the enjoyment of the moment. And that reassured her. She would have to tell Robert there really was no problem after all.

When the round concluded Conor stood with the bags at the side of the eighteenth green as Meg and Annie laughed and walked off the green toward him arm in arm. They had quickly become good friends. Meg was the first to reach into her bag, take out her wallet and retrieve his fee and tip. "Here you are, Conor," she said handing him the money. "Once again thank you for a lovely time on the links."

"'Tis surely my pleasure, Mrs. Graves," he responded. "You two ladies have well become my favorite carry."

Meg chuckled. "We have become quite a pair, haven't we? Well, then, Robert says you're practicing in the evenings. Is that right?"

"Yes, Ma'am, 'tis. I'll be leaving to practice as soon as I take care of the bags."

"Well I hope we haven't kept you too long." Then, turning to Annie she asked, "Do you have time for some tea before you have to leave?"

Annie had suddenly formed an idea. "Oh, Meg, I'm sorry, but I do have to get back home. Franklin may be bringing some guests in for dinner this evening and I really should be there."

"I understand, dear." Meg said, "Then maybe next week? And Robert and I should really get together with you and Franklin sometime."

Annie gave a little laugh. "Yes to both," she said. Then she turned to Conor and handed him his fee and tip. "Here you are Conor, and thank you so much for all your help today. You really are like a coach, you know? It's just so helpful to have you along."

"Again, my pleasure, Ma'am," Conor smiled while wishing he could say more to her.

"Oh, and one last thing. Could you please wait for me up by the bag rack out in the front? I have some balls and tees in the car I want to put in my bag before you put it away."

"Not to be any problem, Ma'am. I'll see you out front."

"Thank you. I won't be long."

Meg and Annie walked together back to the clubhouse and into the locker room. They changed their shoes. Annie said she needed to stay and freshen up a bit before she went home to her company so they said their goodbyes. After Meg left Annie did freshen up, washing her face and reapplying her makeup and a dab of perfume. When she was sure enough time had passed for Meg to drive away she gathered her purse, climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked out the lobby to the front entrance. Conor was standing off to the side at the rack with her bag.

At the sight of him Annie suddenly became anxious. She knew she was taking a chance, perhaps too big a chance. She approached him slowly then quickened her steps as she regained some nerve. "Conor, thank you so much for waiting. Let me go to my car. I'll be right back."

"My pleasure, Ma'am," Conor replied, thrilled at her presence for the hundredth time that day.

Annie went to her car but came back empty handed. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I've been so forgetful lately. It seems I didn't remember to put the balls and tees in my car after all. What a bother! I'm so sorry to delay you from your practice."

"No, no! 'Tis always my pleasure to be at your service," Conor objected. "Besides, fact of the matter is, with the sun fading as it 'tis, I'll probably be practicing here."

"Oh, really?" Annie said, surprised. She'd understood from Meg that Conor was to be practicing somewhere else.

"Aye. Mr. Graves has made some arrangements. But I have to do it out of sight of here. Members aren't to know. I'll likely go to the far side of the course tonight. Fourteenth hole. Will be chipping and pitching I would suspect. Too dark soon for much else."

Annie paused briefly to bite her lower lip. She tried to summon some courage. Looking past Conor out onto the course she finally managed to say, "I would so love to watch you practice."

Conor was struck silent for a moment. Could he have heard that? Could she mean that? "Flattered I am, Ma'am. But 'twould be most boring for you to be sure."

"No, really I would. I could learn so much just watching you. Please?" Having stepped across the line Annie would not turn back.

Conor still could not believe what he was hearing. "Forgive me, Ma'am, but I thought I heard you say to Mrs. Graves you were to have company tonight?"

"Oh, that. No, there was a message waiting for me. I don't have to be home right away. I have time. Please let me watch you. Please, Conor. Just for a little while?"

When he heard her speak his name he surrendered to the thought. His heart began to race. "'Tis a far walk out there, to be sure."

"I don't care."

"Maybe there's to be another way."

They made a plan. Conor would return her bag to the pro shop and pick up his own clubs. Then he would walk the perimeter of the grounds to reach the fourteenth green. Annie would drive her car out the entrance, down La Habra and then turn left on Spring Valley. A short way down the road she would see the service road on the left leading down to the greenkeeper's barn. She would drive down to the end, park by the barn and then cut through the hedge to the fourteenth green. They would meet there.

* * *

Conor left Annie's clubs outside the bag room then went through the gate into the empty caddie yard. He went to the open door and called out for Gino.

Gino emerged from the darkness of the bag room and walked down the hall to the door. "Where the hell you been?" he demanded. "I been waiting for you!"

"Sorry, Cap'n, but I first had to help Mrs. Burke with something."

"All right, but you better get busy, the day's fading. Here, let me get your clubs." Gino lifted the bag over the bottom door and handed it to Conor. "And here's something else." He reached down and picked up a shag bag full of practice balls. "Mr. Graves said to give you this."

Conor took the shag bag from Gino and peered through the open top. It was full of brand new balls. "Thank you, Cap'n. Will put these to use tonight!"

"Good. Now I'm done and out of here. See you tomorrow." Gino moved back to close the top door then stopped, remembering something. "Oh, Mick, one more thing. We can't be keeping your clubs here so here's what you do. There's a cellar door back of the Bogey House that leads to a crawl space. Stow your clubs and shag bag in there. They'll be safe. Nobody goes in there."

"Do that I will." Conor replied. "I'm much obliged for everything."

"Yeah, well, you can thank everybody by winning this thing with Billy. So off with you now."

"Aye, Cap'n."

Conor watched Gino close the top door and heard him bolt the latch. Carrying the clubs and the shag bag he hurried through the gate then broke into a trot. He couldn't get to the fourteenth green fast enough.

(back to top)

# Chapter 14

## Practice

Tuesday, May 6, 1930

Annie stopped her car behind the greenkeeper's barn, turned off the motor and the lights and waited. It would take Conor a few minutes to walk all the way out to the far end of the course. She thought about what she had done, what she was doing. She couldn't explain the attraction, but it was real and it was overpowering. Thoughts of him had haunted her these past two weeks. But this was crazy. She was married. This was a fact. As was the fact her life was tied to her husband in every way. That she hated him did not change the facts. And Conor was but a caddie barely able to sustain himself much less take her on and be part of the kind of life she wanted. Yet despite all she had, all she had ever wanted – the money, the clothes, the house, the glamour, everything – there was a hole in her soul that begged to be filled. Her body craved a man, her heart a mate. Was this simply lust or the beginning of a love? That was the real question. Either way it would be right to find out.

Her heart was pounding as she got out of the car and walked to a gap in the hedge behind the green. She tried her best to hide herself in the foliage wishing she hadn't worn such a brightly colored outfit. She shivered slightly and clasped her arms around her shoulders. The air was cooling quickly with the setting sun. It was a few long minutes before she saw him. He emerged over the brow of a hill to the left of the green carrying his bag over his shoulder and another bag in his hand. He started to gallop sideways down the steep slope toward the green. As he did so she came out from the hedge to greet him.

Conor saw her and instantly tried to slow his pace to a more dignified gait. But his right heel caught in the grass as his left foot slid forward. He fell on his side and tumbled down the hill, the golf bag flying one way and the shag bag the other spilling all the practice balls down the slope. He finally rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill surrounded by balls and clubs.

Annie couldn't help but laugh so loud she had to bend over and put her hands on her knees. When she finally caught her breath she cried out "Oh, no!" and ran to him. "Are you all right?" she managed to giggle when she reached him.

Lying on his back Conor looked up at her fully chagrined. He managed a wan smile. "'Twas not much of an entrance, now was it? Perhaps I should be practicing my walking?"

Annie reached down her hand to him. "Here, let me help you."

Conor took her hand and rolled himself to his knees and stood up. "Thank you, Ma'am," he said still a little abashed. Then, still holding her hand, he said, "I don't suspect that's what you came out to see."

Annie laughed again. "No, I came to watch my champion golfer caddie at work! And please, call me Annie. 'Ma'am" makes me feel like some old maid."

"Aye, then Annie it 'tis, for you are far from that."

"That's better," she said as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and let go. "Here, let me help you pick up all these balls!"

"No, 'tis quite all right. I'll just be pitching them up from where they lay. 'Twas quite my intention to scatter them about like this," he grinned.

"Oh, I see," Annie deadpanned. "Well you did a very good job of it."

Conor began to pick up his clubs and put them back in the bag. Annie picked one up and handed it to him. It was his wedge and the one he intended to use to begin his practice session. "Thank you, Annie," he said. "'Tis the club I'll be needing. The balls will be easier to pick up after we get them all on the green."

"Oh, really? Well let's see you go to work then!"

The balls had ended up scattered in something of a row along the swale to the side of the green about twenty yards away. Conor laid the bag on the ground and then approached one of the balls, took his stance and addressed it. He made an easy half swing and lofted the ball into the air. It landed just on the green and then rolled to five feet from the hole.

"Oh my!" Annie exclaimed. "That was wonderful!"

Conor smiled and then approached another ball. He repeated the same motion and he and Annie watched as the ball finished near the first. They exchanged a look; he smiling and she wide eyed shaking her head slightly. Conor continued to pitch the balls settling into something of a rhythm as he did so; stepping up to a ball, taking a slow waggle, then swinging, then stepping to the next and repeating the sequence.

Annie watched enthralled as one by one the balls began to gather in a tight ten-foot circle around the hole. When there were two balls left Conor held out his club to Annie. "Here now, why don't you be trying a couple for yourself?"

She took the club and grinned, taking the challenge. "All right, then. But I don't know if I can manage to do as good as that."

"Oh, surely you can." he encouraged. "Just let go."

Annie addressed the ball and imagined his easy rhythm and motion. She made her swing and watched the ball arc into the air and land softly on the green and finish just a few feet short of Conor's grouping.

"Just a bit more weight and you'll have it," Conor advised.

She swung again, this time with a bit longer swing, but with the same easy tempo. The ball landed just short of her first ball then rolled forward into Conor's grouping.

"That's it!" Conor cried out. "'Tis well to be done, indeed!"

"I told you before you're a good teacher," she smiled as she stepped to him to hand him the club.

As he took the club from her he saw her shiver. "You're to be cold. No doubt there's a chill. Here, take my jacket." With that Conor took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

"No," she protested as he took it off. "You'll be cold."

"Nay, where I'm to be from 'twould be considered fairly balmy right now."

She liked the feel of his coat upon her. It was still warm from him. She could smell him in it, a musky scent with a hint of the witch hazel from his morning haircut. She grasped the lapels and pulled it tightly around her.

Conor picked up his clubs and shag bag and they walked together up onto the green. He took out his putter and swept the balls to one side of the hole. He took out the flagstick and handed it to Annie. "If you would be so kind as to hold this for me," he asked. Then he began to practice rolling putts of different lengths to the hole. When he would make one Annie would stoop down using the flagstick as a crutch and retrieve the ball from the hole and roll it back to him.

As he putted they chatted about the upcoming Calcutta and Billy Compton and what Robert Graves had done to put the two together. Eventually it grew too dark to play anymore. It was nearly a new moon and a thin layer of clouds had rolled in off the ocean to obscure even the brightest stars. The only light came from the glow of a light illuminating the maintenance yard on the other side of the hedge. They fell silent with the darkness as Conor used his wedge with one hand to deftly pick up the balls and flip them into the shag bag he held in the other hand. When he was finished he turned to Annie who had replaced the flagstick in the hole.

"'Tis most late. Kind you've been to keep me company. I hope I've not kept you from your husband. Please apologize to him if I have."

Annie cringed at the reminder of Franklin. "No you haven't." She hesitated a moment then said, "I must explain something, something I haven't told anyone else. So please don't repeat this to anyone. It's important."

Conor, taken off guard, could only nod a "Yes."

"I can tell you because you've met Franklin. You know what he can be like. You've seen it."

Now confused, Conor again could only give but another nod of understanding.

"You see, the truth is we hardly even live together anymore. He has someone else. He rarely even stays at the house. I'm ashamed to say I lied to you and Meg Graves. There was to be no dinner party tonight, there was no message waiting for me. In fact I don't even know where he is tonight. I'm telling you this because I don't want you to be concerned. I like you very much. And I needed to be able to tell someone." Then, trailing off as she realized how far she had gone she added, "I trust you. You seem honest and real. I hope you'll understand this. I hope you can be my friend."

Conor stood silent for some seconds trying to take in what he had just heard. He couldn't chose between answering with his heart or his head. His head finally won. "Aye, 'tis most sad for you. He seemed a most unhappy man the day of our round. And 'tis sorrow I hear in your voice. I'm told marriage can often be difficult. Perhaps there would be a way to work things out?"

This wasn't exactly what Annie had hoped to hear. "I know I'm not making any sense. But no, there is no going back on what's happened. I'm afraid it really is over."

"You're to be considering a divorce then?" Conor asked.

That was too hard a question. Annie shook her head, "No, not right now. It's very complicated." Then, trying to change the subject, she brightened and said "Well, now you know I have time this evening. And we both know I know you walk home. Can I offer you a ride?"

"Thank you, but no, I'm to be staying tonight at the Bogey House. Mr. Graves and Gino have made it possible and tonight I think I shall take them up on it."

"The Bogey House? What's that?" Annie asked.

"It's a little bungalow up the lane here. I'm told members use it from time to time."

"Oh, well, fine then. But if that's the case, maybe you can walk me to my car?"

"Delighted I would be."

Annie smiled and watched Conor heft his clubs to his shoulder. Together they made their way through the hedge and to her car. When they reached it, she took his coat from her shoulders and handed it to him. "Thank you for this, it kept me most warm. And thank you for listening. You make a great friend." With that she quickly leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Flustered and blushing Conor stepped back. "Oh my! 'Tis my pleasure Miss Annie." Then realizing the mistake, "Sorry, Mrs. Annie, I mean..."

Annie laughed a little at his flub. "There, there, I know what you mean." Then, taking on a mock tone of seriousness she said, "Now, are you to be my true friend?"

"Why, yes!" he managed to utter.

"Good. Then, as a friend, you must meet me tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock where the lane here meets Valley Spring Road."

"But why?" Conor asked feeling himself getting completely lost.

"I could hear in your voice when you talked to Meg that finding the new clothes Robert wants you to get has been difficult. So tomorrow we are going shopping. I'll have you back in time to do your practicing. It won't take us long."

"Annie, no! I mean I can't be asking you to do such a thing. Handle it I can. Really."

"Nonsense. If you're my friend like you say you are you'll let another friend help you. So what is it? Are you truly my friend?"

Conor was caught. Every minute with her was somehow so enchanting he lost all track of time, all thoughts of anything else but her. It was for her he had practiced. It was for her that he had stayed out so late. It was for her that there was only one thing to say. "Aye, Annie, I am your friend. I will be there. Eleven o'clock." His heart finally won his voice.

"Good. I'll see you then. Goodnight now..."

Annie got in the car, started the engine and turned on the lights. She backed into the yard then turned right and drove up the lane toward Spring Valley Road.

Conor watched the taillights disappear up the hill. His head was too full to form a logical thought. He followed the car up the lane until he saw the Bogey House on his right. There was no candle in the window. He walked around to the back of the house and found the cellar door. He opened it and stowed his clubs and shag bag carefully on the steps. He walked around to the front of the house, stepped up onto the porch and found the key under the mat. He let himself in. He reached by the door and found the light switch that turned on a table lamp beside the window. On the table were a box of candles and a container of matches. He lit a candle and put it in one of holders on the windowsill. Then he latched the door and slid the chain guard into its receptacle. He turned out the light. The candle's glow was enough for him to make his way to the back of the house and the kitchen where he turned on an overhead light. He opened the icebox and found some eggs, butter and milk. He set about making himself an omelet.

After he ate and cleaned up he looked around the house. There were double beds in each of the two bedrooms. The living room contained a small dining table, a couch, an overstuffed chair and some side tables.

He suddenly felt exhausted. He went to the door of one of the bedrooms and looked in at the bed. He could only imagine Annie sharing it with him. That was too much to think about. He took a pillow from the head of the bed and a folded blanket from its foot. He hung his coat on the back of a chair, removed his tie, opened his collar and kicked off his shoes. He made his bed on the couch, lay down and tried to make sense of all that had happened that day. But try as he might his thoughts kept swinging back to Annie and all that she had said and all that he had felt between them. He eventually fell asleep. He could dream of only her through the night.

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# Chapter 15

## Bullock's Wilshire

Wednesday, May 7, 1930

Annie and Conor awoke very early Wednesday morning each with much to do. Annie had to finish the scene she was working on and messenger the draft to the studio. Another progress payment was due on its completion and it apparently was urgent that she did so. Franklin had stopped at the house while she was playing golf and left a note on her desk. She could see that he had gone through the bank statements she had left next to the typewriter. Funds were low. He would have to wait to make deposits into her accounts. He was sorry but there had been unexpected expenses. It would help greatly if she could submit the next portion of the screenplay as soon as possible. He was sure she would understand.

Of course she didn't understand. Where had all the money gone? What was he doing with it? And what did he mean, "unexpected expenses?" How much could he be spending on his girlfriend or even girlfriends? She was angry. She was resentful. She understood he had come by knowing she would be out playing golf and could avoid her and any questions. And she was intent this day on other matters in her life, namely Conor. Franklin's demand for her work was yet another reminder of her tenuous hold on her life and the impossibility of changing it.

Her anger fueled her focus. She rang the maid for coffee and sat down at her desk and began typing furiously.

* * *

Conor had opened his eyes on the couch to darkness. For an instant he couldn't remember where he was. Then he saw the candle had burned itself out in the night. He lay there sorting his thoughts for a minute. There would be time to make some coffee. Then he must get back to the boarding house to change clothes and perhaps take a bath. No, he must take a bath. If he was to go shopping with Annie he must get cleaned up. He might be poor, he might be ragged but he didn't have to smell like it.

He rose from the couch and folded the blanket. He returned it and the pillow to the bedroom. He went to the kitchen, turned on the light and put water on for coffee. Then he went into the bathroom. When the coffee was finished he poured himself a cup and then stepped out the back door onto the small stoop. The cold pre-dawn air helped wake him as the coffee steamed from the cup. He thought of Annie. A line had been crossed, that much he knew. It must have taken courage for her to do so. Should he respond? And to what end? He had no answer for that.

Conor went back inside and sat at the kitchen table and drank another cup of coffee. Even though he had the money the buses were not running this early. He would have to walk back to the boarding house. When he finished he cleaned up in the kitchen, put on his jacket and shoes, folded his tie and put it in his pocket, He turned out the kitchen light and left by the back door.

* * *

The morning dawned cloudless. The sun quickly drove the chill from the air so that by mid morning it was warm enough to put the top down on the Cadillac. Annie had finished her draft and arranged for the messenger. Now she was on her time and she was determined to enjoy it. She was running a little late, so she hurried as she readied herself and then scampered down the stairs and out the door.

Conor had bathed, changed into his cleanest clothes and splurged on a bus back to Biarritz. He stopped by the caddie yard to assure Gino he had practiced the night before and would be back later to do the same. He walked down Spring Valley Road to the lane leading to the Bogey House and waited. He knew it would be a red car but he didn't know which direction it would be coming from. He leaned against the street sign pole and alternated his gaze up and down Valley Spring Road. So it was that he didn't see the Cadillac coming. He heard it pull up behind him and stop. He turned and saw Annie smiling at him through the windshield.

"Hello, Conor!" she called out. "Sorry I'm late! Hop in!"

He returned the smile as he waved reflexively in surprise. "Hello yourself!" he responded as he moved to the car and opened the door. As he got in he told her, "I wouldn't know about late since I've not a watch, but you're to be here now so all is right."

"So it would seem. Are you ready? It's a bit of a drive?"

"Ready I am!" he said as he settled into the leather seat. "So where is it we're to be going?"

"You'll see. It's just the absolutely perfect place to find what we need for you." With that she shifted into first, let out the clutch and pulled away from the curb. They were off on their adventure.

It had been a long time since Conor had ridden in a car much less one as grand as this. He studied the dashboard and all its dials. Then looked out across the hood at the chrome mermaid pointing the way to their destination. "'Tis a beautiful automobile you have Annie. What's to be the make?"

"Oh, it's a Cadillac. It's just a little indulgence I've permitted myself. And it is fun, don't you think? Especially with the top down on a glorious day like today."

"Aye, it 'tis, it 'tis," Conor agreed as he looked over at her profile, her chin held high as she peered over the steering wheel, her blonde air fluttering in the wind. Once again he thought how beautiful she was. He watched as she reached into her purse on the seat between them and pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. He turned his eyes back to the road and looked at the city rolling towards him.

She drove out of the Hollywood Hills south on North Highland Avenue through an alternating mix of commercial and residential areas. After North Highland became South Highland she turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. As she drove she began to ask him questions about his life; how had he learned to play golf, did he have any family in the States, what did he do when he wasn't caddying? Conor told her about growing up in Ireland, how he had a cousin living in Pasadena who worked at a ranch, how most of his waking hours were spent at Biarritz caddying or waiting to caddy. He had questions of his own but before he could pose them Annie pointed up over the windshield.

"There! See that tower up ahead? That's where we're going!" she burst.

Conor followed her finger and saw it – a four-sided spire reaching high into the sky, its crown sheathed in copper that had yet to acquire a green patina. It fairly glowed in the midday sun. "Oh my!" he exclaimed. "What is it? A cathedral?"

Annie laughed. "No, silly. That's Bullock's Wilshire. That's the store we're going to."

Conor was incredulous. "That's to be a store? Isn't a little big to be a store?"

Annie chuckled again. "Well, it's a department store. So it's like many stores in one."

"Oh," was all Conor could manage.

By then they had pulled past the front of the building with it's nine giant windows full of elaborate displays of the latest fashion and merchandise designed specifically to appeal to those in passing cars. She turned right onto Wilshire Place than right into the drive and under the porte-cochere at the rear entrance. Two valets in livery immediately stepped forward on either side to open the car doors. Annie shifted into neutral and set the parking brake. "Okay, we're here. Let's go!"

They got out of the car, Annie circling behind it to reach Conor who stood looking a bit lost. She took his hand and said, "Here, come with me," and led him through the giant bronze and glass doors and into the foyer.

Conor instinctively took off his cap and held it against his chest. He had never seen anything like this – travertine marble floors and marble walls lined with display cases of jewelry and other merchandise. Their footsteps echoed through the hall. "Are you sure this isn't a cathedral?" he asked in some wonder.

"Well if it is, it's but a temple to beautiful things," she answered. "Here, this way..." and she led him to six bronze elevators, three on either side of the lobby. Stretching out from the elevator lobby was a hall lined on either side with perfumes and cosmetics with murals above on the walls and ceiling.

Conor couldn't take his eyes off the art deco embellishments everywhere. Annie had to again lead him by the hand to an open elevator with an attendant waiting for them. "Third floor, please," she requested.

"Very good, Ma'am," the operator replied as he closed the door and punched the button for the floor. When they reached the floor he opened the door and intoned, "Third floor, men's wear, men's furnishings, men's shoes."

"Okay, now come along," Annie smiled at him as she led him out of the elevator. "We'll start with some shirts and ties. Tell me, how much did Robert give you to spend on clothes?"

Conor was becoming more and more intimidated by the grand surroundings. "Well, it was five dollars. But perhaps I can add another five to that. And I may need to by the looks of this place."

"No, that should be sufficient," Annie lied thinking Robert Graves must never buy his own clothes. "It's just that they don't accept cash here," she explained continuing the lie. "I'll just charge it to my account and you can pay me directly."

"'Twould be good of you to do that, but really I think this place is going to be too expensive for me. I mean, 'tis to look rightly like a palace," Conor whispered as they walked past cases of shirts and other attire and live mannequins modeling men's wear.

"It's a well kept secret that the best things cost little more than the cheapest. Besides, if you're to look like a member in the Calcutta you need to buy your clothes where the members buy theirs. That's why we're here. Let's find someone to help us."

They walked together and approached a clerk arranging some shirts in a glass case. He looked up and appraised them both. "May I help you, Madam," he asked, deciding to address the obviously more moneyed one of the two.

"Yes you may," Annie responded. "My friend needs three shirts, white, spread collar with stays, placket in the back, button cuffs. Egyptian cotton would be nice. Can you measure him up for them, please?"

"Very good, Madam. Could the gentleman please remove his jacket?" the clerk responded reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat for his tape measure.

Conor leaned over to Annie as he took off his jacket and whispered. "Three? I shan't be needing three! The Calcutta's but two days."

"No, after you win you'll need to change before the awards ceremony. And there's probably a dinner afterward, too. So three it is. You can afford it."

Conor could only look at her quizzically as the clerk took his jacket between thumb and forefinger and, keeping it at arm's length, turned and laid it on the glass case. He gave Conor another look of appraisal and measured his neck then his sleeves. He looked to Annie, "Are these to be ready-made or bespoke?"

"How long for custom?" she asked.

"Only a week, Madam."

"Good. We have time. Bespoke it is."

"Would there be a monogram?"

"Yes, of course, on the left cuff, in navy. Conor, what are your initials?"

Lost in the whole process, Conor responded simply, "C-J-O."

With that answer the clerk went on to measure Conor's chest, biceps, waist and wrists. Returning the tape measure to his pocket he retrieved a notepad and pen from the opposite pocket and wrote down the measurements and the initials.

As he did so Annie instructed, "Make a note; not too tightly tailored. He will need some room to move in these."

The clerk looked up as he finished his notes. "Very good, Madam. Will there be anything else today?"

"Yes. Next we need some ties."

The three moved on to several glass cases filled with silk neckties of every color and pattern. Annie selected a solid black, a solid navy and then a solid yellow. "Yellow is my favorite color," she explained to Conor. "Perhaps you can wear this for me after you win your tournament."

Conor smiled, "Aye, I will. But there's a spot of work to be done before then."

As they walked to the men's wear section of the floor, Conor again leaned over to her and whispered, "Are you to be very sure I can afford all this?"

"Yes, don't you worry. I shop here so often I've earned a discount. We're well within your budget still," she smiled reassuringly, lying again.

The clerk they had started with handed them over to another along with a piece of paper tallying their purchases so far. Annie ordered two pairs of trousers, one light gray, one camel, in lightweight wool, cuffed and double pleated. Again they were to be custom. She hesitated and considered ordering a sports coat then decided against it. They were no doubt at least three times Conor's ten dollars and there was only so much she could expect him to believe.

The clerk directed Conor to a small platform in front of a three-way mirror. As he did so, Annie said, "I want to pick something up while you're being measured. I won't be long. Wait for me here."

Conor watched her walk toward the elevators then followed the clerk to the mirror. The measurements didn't take long and Conor retrieved his jacket and put it on then wandered among the mannequins looking at the clothes. Soon Annie appeared carrying two small white paper bags with pink stripes.

"What have you there?" Conor asked.

"Our lunch! Let me check us out and we'll go to the park have this outside."

Conor followed along as Annie found the clerk and reviewed the bill trying to make sure Conor could not see the numbers. She signed the bill then instructed the clerk, "Have this entire order delivered to me, Mrs. Anna Burke, at the Biarritz Country Club. I understand this should only take a week. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Ma'am. A week it should be. And thank you as always for your patronage at Bullock's Wilshire."

Annie smiled at Conor as she turned from the counter. "Let's go celebrate our successful clothing safari! Come along now!" She reached out for his hand and led him to the elevators.

The clerk watched them walk away, smirked and shook his head.

Conor felt her hand in his and again felt the thrill course through his body. "Annie, I can't thank you enough for the help you've been to me."

She looked up and gave him a smile that lit her eyes. "I think you just have."

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# Chapter 16

## Westlake Park

Wednesday, May 7, 1930

They waited only briefly at the entrance for the valet to bring Annie's car around. Annie tipped him a quarter as he opened the driver's door for her. Another valet opened the door for Conor and the two got in and drove out the drive, turned left, then right onto Wilshire Boulevard. It was only a few blocks down the street that they came to Westlake Park.

They turned right on South Parkview. Annie parked the car and went around to the back and opened the trunk. She put her purse in and took out a green plaid blanket. She walked to the passenger side of the car where Conor stood. He held the two paper bags in one hand and took her free hand in his. They crossed the street and went into the park. They found a spot by the lake in the circled shade of a palm tree and spread the blanket out. They sat down and opened the bags. Annie had brought them shrimp salad sandwiches on toast along with two apples. They ate their lunch in quiet sitting cross-legged watching the ducks and swans glide around the lake.

When he had finished Conor folded up the paper bag and put it to the side. He took off his jacket. He stretched out his legs and leaned back on his elbows. He looked down at the blanket and remarked, "Ye know, this pattern is very much like the St. Patrick tartan in Ireland – shades of green with a little yellow running through it."

"Really?" Annie asked, still sitting cross-legged with her hands palms up in her lap. "I thought tartans were only Scottish."

"Nay, there are to be some Irish tartans, most of them named for places and counties. Just a few are for families."

"That's interesting. I just got it because I liked the green with the yellow. Tell me, do you ever miss your old country, Ireland? It must be beautiful there."

"I miss some people – my sisters and some friends I had. And the land is indeed to be pretty. But it's been some years now that I've been here in the States and I know this is where my future is to be. It's still a place of opportunity no matter the hard times now. I belong here. 'Tis where I'm to make my fortune still."

They fell silent again for a few moments. Conor reflected on the stark differences between their lives. He thought about the assurance and ease with which Annie had handled their shopping trip and how uneasy he had been in such a place and in the presence of people used to money. He could deal in deference to such people on the golf course, but in the real world it was different. He would have to learn.

Annie used the quiet to move next to Conor and take the same pose. She had an overwhelming urge to be near him. She thought about how lost he had seemed in the store. He obviously was not used to the finer things, the kind of things she now took for granted. But through that she could see his strength and composure. She hoped she hadn't hurt his pride in taking over as she had.

"Tell me something, Annie," he said finally breaking the quiet. "Why are you to be helping me so? Why are you here with me today? I am not but a caddie and you – well, you are a lady – a fine lady to be sure. But I don't know why."

"I told you. I am your friend."

"Aye, you did. But friends know one another and I'm hardly to know you, Annie. I know you golf. I know you have a friend in Meg Graves. And I know you're married to a very rude man. And that seems to be the sum of it."

"Well, what do you want to know about me, Conor?"

"What is it you do all day? I'm to mean, all I know is that on Tuesdays you're to be golfing."

Annie paused a moment. "I write."

Conor turned and looked at her. "You write? What is it you write?"

Annie again paused. These were simple questions, but the answers were difficult and involved truths no one could know. Maybe it was time for the truth... and with this man. "I write screenplays. For the movies."

"Really? So you do the same thing as your husband?"

"In a way, I suppose. It's complicated."

"You've said that before. Complicated you called it. Is that what you're to be saying when you don't want to answer? If I'm to be your true friend, should you not be telling me more?"

Annie paused and bit her lower lip. "You're right. I'll tell you. But you must swear to keep this a secret. No one else in the world knows this or can know this. Promise?"

Conor nodded. "Promise I do. And cross my heart, too."

Annie pulled her knees up, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around them. Keeping her gaze out over the lake she told Conor her story; Franklin's failure, the drinking, the cheating, her rescue of his career, the secret that bound them, the lie her life had become.

Conor listened intently. As she talked he heard her anguish. He sat up and moved close to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes began to well. She bowed her head as she finished, her voice trailing off. "Perhaps now you can understand... I need a friend... and you are... you are more... I think... you are what I..." and so she stopped talking.

He pulled her close. She felt his warmth and strength and took comfort in both. They sat silent again for a time.

"Annie, 'tis a sad story you tell," he said softly. "If it's a friend you need then I will be that. And would I could be more."

She raised her head up and looked at him. "Yes," she whispered. She paused as if thinking of something. Then she slowly moved out from his embrace to turn and face him. She brightened and tried to change the moment. "Well, it may be a sad story, but here I am with you, my friend, on a beautiful day in a beautiful place. Come on, let's go feed the ducks."

She stood up and reached down with her hand to help him up. She picked up the bag with the uneaten crusts of her sandwich and they walked to the edge of the lake. She tore off little bits and threw them into the lake. Soon they had a dozen mallards clustered around looking for handouts. The bread ran out with the ducks still quacking for more.

"Let's walk," Annie said taking his hand. "We'll circumnavigate the lake like grand explorers."

They walked quietly for a time before Conor spoke up. "There is something here, between us, isn't there?" he said softly.

"Yes. I know." Annie squeezed his hand. "There is."

"What are we to do about it?"

"Right now, walk hand in hand in the sunshine just like we're doing."

"And then?"

"I don't know. It is so very complicated."

Conor chuckled and shook his head. "Complicated again. 'Tis indeed I suppose."

They were halfway around the lake when Conor saw the flowerbed encircling a monument to the city founders. He let go of Annie's hand and walked over to it. He bent down and picked a yellow tulip and brought it back to her. "Here 'tis a golden flower for the fair lady with the golden hair."

"Oh, my," she breathed. "A yellow tulip. My favorite. How did you know?"

"I was not to know. But you wore a blouse with them upon it the last I saw you."

"You remembered that?"

"Aye, there's not much of you I'm not remembering."

Annie smelled the flower then tucked it into the top of her blouse. "And I shall keep this to remember you."

She took his hand and they continued their walk until they returned to the blanket. Conor put on his jacket and picked up the empty lunch bag and put it in his pocket. Annie folded the blanket and they walked back to the car.

On the drive back to Biarritz they talked about the Calcutta. Annie wanted to know if there was to be any special strategy for him and Billy Compton. Conor told her, "No, 'tis medal play, so every shot is the match. We simply have to play our best on every shot."

"What happens if you win?" she asked.

"I don't really know. I believe Robert could win a great deal of money. But I don't know what that might mean for me. We have not to talk about that."

"Well, I have to believe he would reward you somehow."

"Perhaps. But he's been very generous already. And thankful I am for that. I mean to play as well as I can for him."

"Will you be nervous?"

"No. Excited maybe. 'Tis to be just golf, you know. To get your best you just have to let your best happen."

Annie laughed. "You make it sound easy."

"'Tis so easy it's to be impossible sometimes," Conor smiled back.

When they came to the service road on Spring Valley Road Annie pulled over to the curb and stopped. "Is it all right if I drop you off here?" she asked.

"Aye, 'tis perfect." Conor reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Annie watched as he opened it and took out two five-dollar bills and handed them to her. "I hope this is truly all the clothes cost today. If it's more you must be telling me. I can pay you later."

Annie saw there were only a couple of dollar bills left in his wallet. "No, that's fine. I told you the best doesn't cost that much more. Why don't you hang on to this money until you have more? I can wait. It's not a problem."

"Thank you, Annie, but no, 'tis best I pay my debts when I can. And I'm to much appreciate all you've done for me today."

"All right, then. And thank you for letting me help."

"When will I see you again?"

Annie leaned across the seat and put her hand behind his head, drew him near and softly kissed him. Close against his face she whispered, "Not soon enough. But I don't think it can be until Tuesday when I play again. I am getting behind on my work."

"Then 'til Tuesday, it is." With that he leaned to her and returned her kiss. Then he looked into her eyes and said, "You are my true friend, Annie."

Annie smiled back as they parted. Conor slid back across the seat and opened the door. He got out and turned back to her. "Tuesday. I will see you Tuesday."

"Yes you will," she smiled. "Goodbye... and work hard on your golf!"

Conor waved as she pulled away. Then he watched as the Cadillac disappeared down Spring Valley Road.

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# Chapter 17

## Mother's Day

Sunday, May 11, 1930

It was Mother's Day and Billy Compton was Charlie and Myrtle's only child. Thus it was incumbent upon him to fulfill a son's duty. Not that he minded. He loved his mother. But it had put a crimp in his Saturday night activities. Still he found himself enjoying the late morning as he drove to his parent's home in the Hollywood Hills. Actually, it was his home too, but of late he had made a habit of finding overnight accommodations elsewhere in the company of any number of willing women. At twenty-seven years of age his principal purpose in life had settled on simply having a good time.

It hadn't always been so. When he returned home after graduating from Dartmouth he had been eager to join his father's business and become as successful as Charlie had been. He worked hard and learned much. He soon became engaged to his high school sweetheart. But a month before they were to be married she informed him the wedding was off. She had found someone else, someone who didn't spend so much time working, who had even more money and could spend it and his time on her in ways Billy never could. His name was Sterling Babcock. Billy knew him and knew him to be a prig of the first order. It was as if the tether on his life had been severed and it suddenly began to float away. At first he stayed out partying and drinking to console himself. Along the way, though, he found he was attractive to women. And that was fun. Soon his days would start too late for work so golf and polo filled his afternoons.

His father indulged him. Having married young, Charlie took something of a vicarious delight in watching his son sow so many wild oats. Plus he loved him and was abundantly proud of him. He was handsome and talented and young. Why not let him enjoy himself? And he had. But it had been going on for three years now and his wife was not happy with what was becoming of their son. Myrtle was a practical woman. She wanted her son's trust fund to be used on her grandchildren and not the bar bills of trollops. She had appealed to Charlie again and again. He finally listened. Her Mother's Day present from him would be to set their son straight.

Billy met them at the house and presented his mother a giant bouquet of roses and a box of her favorite See's chocolate candy. They were to have an early afternoon dinner at Biarritz so the three went into the drawing room for coffee before they left for the club.

They chatted for a short while about nothing in particular. Then Charlie set his cup and saucer on the side table and leaned forward. "Billy, your mother and I want to talk to you about what you're doing with your life."

Instantly uncomfortable, Billy shifted in his chair and likewise set his coffee down on his side table. "What do you mean?" he asked with a forced smile. "My life is fine!"

"It's fun, not fine," Charlie countered. "You're wasting it and your mother and I don't want to see that."

"Well, I mean, if you want me to come to work again or something I can do that."

"No, it's more than that. These are hard times and you should be aware that while we're okay, the business is tight. I can't afford you at the rate you're blowing through money right now."

"I'll cut back then. I can do that. And after all, it's my trust fund money, right?"

"I'm getting to that. Look, you're a talented young man. But it's obvious you're not going to use those talents when you don't have to. So here's what we're going to do: we're locking you out of the trust fund end of this week. So you might want to catch up on your debts before that happens. I'm selling the polo ponies and I'll give you half as soon as I do. You'll have that. And if you're lucky enough to make some money at the Calcutta you'll have that. But that's it. You're on your own."

"You can't be serious! You're only giving me a week?"

"I'm dead serious. And so is your mother. Look, when we were married I didn't even have a week's worth of money. And we made it. You can too."

"But where will I live?"

"You haven't seemed to have any problem finding places to stay lately. But you can continue to live here for a short time. At least until you get settled. What should that take? A couple weeks?"

"But the trust fund? What if I need the money? What if it's an emergency?"

"The trust fund will be there when we can trust you with it. Until then you'll have to find your own way. It's time you grow up, Billy."

Billy went silent for a moment trying to absorb the shock. "So I don't even have a job with the company?" he asked finally.

"No. Like I said, I can't afford you right now. But I'll ask around for you."

Billy sprung from the chair, his face turning bright red. "This is bullshit! Utter bullshit! Who are you to tell me how to live my life?"

"Watch you mouth in front of your mother. Stop acting like the spoiled brat you turned out to be. And let me tell you who I am. I'm the guy that put the money in your pocket in the first place. Money I earned, not you."

Billy spun around to put his back to his father trying to control himself, trying not to explode further.

Myrtle spoke up. "It's best for you, dear. Honestly, you're killing yourself now. It's breaking my heart. We only want the best for you. We'll always be here for you. But your father is right. It's time you make it on your own."

"I can't believe you're doing this to me. I've done nothing wrong. I don't deserve this." He turned back around to face his parents. "That's my money!" he fairly screamed. "That's my money. It's mine! I need it!"

"It's not your money till you earn it. For Pete's sakes stop the whining. You sound like a woman," Charlie shot back losing patience.

"You have no idea what this means! You can't do this to me. You just can't."

"We can and we just did. Get over it. Now calm down. It's Mother's Day for crying out loud. Show some respect to your mother."

Billy turned away again. "All right. Give me a second, will you?"

"Take your time. But we're heading to the club now. So get yourself ready. I'll drive. I'll even buy you a drink when we get over there. It's time you learned other people besides yourself can buy drinks."

* * *

The Graves family had just taken their seats in the main dining room at Biarritz when the Compton's walked in. Charlie saw Robert and motioned Billy and Myrtle to follow the hostess to their table while he said hello. Charlie took the unlit cigar he'd been chewing from his mouth and smiled as he approached the Graves' table.

"Hello, Robert," he beamed. "And happy Mother's Day to you, Meg!"

"Why thank you, Charlie, she said. "How are you and Myrtle?"

"Just fine, thanks, just fine. Listen, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'd like to have a word with you later, Bob. It's about Billy and the Calcutta. Perhaps after dinner we could share a quick drink? Is that okay with you and the girls, Meg?"

"Oh you men with you and your Calcutta." she laughed. "I swear there's more skullduggery afoot than in Washington, D.C. Of course you can have him for a few minutes. The girls and I would love a little time alone for woman talk."

"Thank you, then, Meg. I'll see you later, Bob. You all enjoy your dinner!" Charlie gave a little back handed wave and went off to look for his own table.

Meg looked at Sylvia and Lilith. "Your father has a grand plan afoot to win this year's Calcutta and Billy Compton is part of it. Other parts of it are all very hush-hush, you know? But it is exciting. You'd never guess who he's pairing Billy with. He's so handsome and charming. He's..."

Robert interrupted reaching out to touch her arm. "Now, Meg, hold on. Consider where we are, sweetheart."

"Oh Robert, I wasn't going to say anything!" She laughed and turned leaning toward the girls. "I'll tell you all about him later," she whispered. Picking up her menu she continued in full voice, "Now what shall we all have on this wonderful Mother's Day you're making so special for me?"

* * *

Conor took the bus out to Pasadena in the early afternoon. Michael had taken a rare day off and Mary was making him his favorite cobble – the bacon, sausage and potato stew he loved so much. Mary had told them that while their mothers were all gone they still wanted to celebrate the day because they had some special news to share with him. He walked the two blocks from the bus stop to their home, a garage that had been converted into a small bungalow behind a large square frame house. He turned down the driveway and came to their front door and knocked.

Mary opened the door. "Oh, Conor! You're here!" She exclaimed excitedly. Turning her head she called out, "Michael! 'Tis Conor!" Then she reached up to hug him and give him a kiss. "Come in, come in. 'Tis a sight for sore eyes you are."

As Conor entered Michael emerged from the back of the house wearing a sleeveless undershirt, a newspaper in his hand. His large bright eyes lit up with his smile as a greeted his cousin.

"Conor! Welcome! Come on back to the kitchen. We've some coffee on and waiting for you."

Michael and Conor took their seats at the kitchen table as Mary poured coffee and joined them. "So how are you?" Michael asked. "How is the caddying going for you these days? Making any money are you?"

Conor grinned. "You're not to be believing my good fortune. I've not to carry a bag for the past week and I've made more than I do in two. 'Tis almost a dream it 'tis." Conor went on to tell them about Robert Graves and Billy Compton and the Calcutta coming up the next weekend. He talked about the clothes he was able buy and the practicing he was able to do in the evenings and staying at the Bogey House and about playing with Billy on Mondays.

"Oh Conor, that's wonderful," Mary gushed. "We know you're to be such a fine golfer. I'm sure you and Billy will do well. And good it is you've some money in your pocket for a change."

Michael spoke up. "But it's back to lugging the bags after your tournament? And what if you're to finish in the money? Anything to be made?"

"Aye, I'm still a caddie once it's over. And I don't know if there's to be any money if we do well. Especially since Mr. Graves has been so good to me a forehand. But maybe. And of course he still has to win the team in the auction."

"Still 'tis wonderful to hear you've some opportunity. You work hard and are surely to have earned it." Mary said. "Now tell me when you're to be staying at this Bogey House. I've heard about it. Sometimes they take food down there to the members, they do. And I'll do the same when you tell me you're to be staying there."

"Thank you, Mary. I will. And 'tis good of you to offer so."

"Speaking of food, you must be hungry. Are you ready for some of your favorite cobble?" Mary offered.

Conor smiled broadly. "Aye that I am! I've been saving room all day."

"Then eat we shall. Michael, help me set the table for our honored guest."

"If he's to be honored, then I'm to be fed! So 'tis fine by me!"

Michael cleared the newspapers from the table and the two served up the food. As the three of them ate Conor noticed Mary picking at her plate. As they finished the meal, Conor spoke up. "Mary, this is fairly the best cobble a man could ever want. Thank you! But why is it you are to be having so little? This is wonderful. Are you to be feeling all right?"

Michael looked across at Mary. "Well, perhaps 'tis time you told our cousin the news."

Mary smiled shyly and looked down at her plate. "Aye. Well, we are to be blessed, Conor. You see Michael and I are to be having a baby. We wanted you to be the first to know."

"A baby! Well Saints be praised! 'Tis glorious news indeed!" Conor exclaimed as he rose from his chair to kiss Mary on the cheek. "You're surely to be a wonderful mother!" Then he moved to Michael to shake his hand. "And you, you devil you. Imagine my cousin a father! I didn't think you had it in you!"

"You always sold me short," Michael laughed making his usual joke. "Now I think the occasion calls for a bit of the barley. What say you, cousin?"

"Aye, and we shall offer up a toast to fair Mary here – a beautiful mother to be on this splendid Mother's Day!"

* * *

Annie always found it difficult to talk to her mother on the telephone. It wasn't that she didn't love her mother. She did. But her mother had a way of asking questions she didn't want to answer. That wasn't entirely her mother's fault, she realized. She had always kept the intimate details of her life out of any conversations with her so, naturally, there were always questions that could open doors to truths she didn't want to share. But it was Mother's Day. So she made the call to Des Moines.

It was their standard Mother's Day chat. They talked about the family scattered around Des Moines. They talked about her father and his practice and his golf. They talked about her mother's students and her work at the library. They finally got around to the uncomfortable topics. How was Franklin? How were they doing? When were they going to start a family? When was she coming back for a visit? Annie lied. He was fine. They were fine. He was working hard on another screenplay. Yes, she wasn't getting any younger. Perhaps they would start a family soon. Maybe after this project was finished they could make the trip. They finished the conversation exchanging "I love you's" and promises to write each other. Annie hung the receiver on the hook and gave a soft sigh of relief.

She looked at the telephone for some time. She did want to talk to somebody. She needed to talk to somebody. She picked up the receiver and again asked the operator for a long distance line.

Her Aunt Louise in Chicago would listen. Louise had never married and had moved to the big city to pursue her career as a photographer. She established a small studio in the Loop where she did portraits and weddings and publicity shots. Occasionally she would wander the city with her camera taking candids and studies of people and places she would enter in exhibitions that over time had earned her a modicum of notoriety.

Louise had been special in Annie's life because she understood her. They were kindred spirits – similar in their creative minds and their reticence in revealing too much emotion. So it was that when Annie called and Louise heard her voice on the other end she knew something must be up. She already had heard about Franklin and his infidelity and Annie's work as his ghostwriter. Something besides her annual Mother's Day greeting was behind this call.

After a short exchange – Louise catching her up on a few stories of her recent assignments – Annie interrupted her. She desperately missed her aunt and wished she could be sitting across her kitchen table now as they spoke.

"Auntie, I must tell you something, very much a secret, no one is to know."

'You can confide in me, dear. You know that."

" It is the most wonderful feeling – being in love, I mean – you see I've met someone."

"Really? Who?"

"I met him playing golf. He's wonderful. Really he is. Handsome, smart – but more than that there's just something between us I can't explain. He touches me in a way no one else has ever done."

"That sounds wonderful, dear. But there are the realities of your situation. You are still married to Franklin, you know. And despite everything about that cad, he is still your husband."

"I know. I know. But that's why I need to talk to you. I don't know what to do about this. I'm just so overwhelmed by these thoughts of him, these feelings I have."

"You say you met him playing golf. Who is he?"

"Well, that's part of it, I'm afraid. He's a caddie. He's Irish... from Ireland. But he's really much more than that. He owned a restaurant once, before the crash. So he's not really a nobody. But still he makes no money."

Louise hesitated. "I see."

"No. I mean I don't care about that. It's who he is, not what he is that I'm in love with."

"Well, dear, you must be careful. I think you need to make some decisions about Franklin before you go any further with this. If this is a true love you don't want to muck it up on account you're still being married to that beast."

"Oh, I know you're right. I do. But I can't help it. I want him. I can feel he wants me. Nothing else matters to me right now."

"True love is a wonderful thing. I know. I had one once myself. But I learned the hard way that it can be fragile. But if you feel the way you say you do, you mustn't let it go. It's too rare, too important in one's life. I just want you to be careful. Think things through. Promise me you'll do that, dear."

"Yes, Auntie. I will. I know you're right. I just know I love him. And I promise I will try to be careful."

"Good. Now you must promise too to call me again soon. I'm worried about you. As good as this may seem, things could still go wrong. I want you to be happy. So you'll call again, promise?

"Yes, Auntie, I promise."

* * *

When Robert finished his dinner with his family he excused himself and made his way to the men's grill where Charlie was standing at the bar smoking his cigar and sipping a brandy. "Hello, Charlie," he said as he pulled out his own cigar and lit it. He motioned to the bartender to bring him the same.

"Bob, you old dog, I hear you've been up to some trickery... Billy's Calcutta partner is a caddie. A real good golfer he tells me. But exactly how to you intend to get this by Leland?"

"I already have. The team's entry has been accepted. I got the kid a membership over at Redlands. At least temporarily." He winked and smiled. "We're going to clean him up a bit too. I don't think half the members will recognize him."

"But the other half will. There's going to be hell to pay over this, you mark my words."

Robert took a long pull on his cigar and exhaled slowly. "I don't care. The kid's good. He's a perfect match up with Billy. Different games but same low scores. It's a winner. Besides, what are they going to do? Disqualify him? How can they when he's a bona fide member somewhere and they're playing at scratch? I mean the kid's not a leper or anything."

"Well, I hope you're right. Because there's more going on than you know with Billy."

"How's that?"

"We cut him loose today. No trust fund. No job. He's on his own. Myrtle wanted it that way. He threw a fit but he'll get over it. But he's gonna need some money and soon. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to buy a quarter of the team from you – assuming you win the bid. If they finish in the money I'll give him my share." Despite cutting him loose, Charlie wanted Billy whole. He had a better chance of winning the Calcutta than finding a job.

"All right, I can handle that. May help the bidding to know that."

"Just one thing. My offer is no good if that team gets disqualified because of the caddie. I'm not throwing money on anything that doesn't have a chance at cashing in."

"Fair enough." Robert put his drink on the bar and extended his hand to Charlie. Charlie took it and they shook. "We have a deal."

"Yes we do," said Charlie raising his glass. "So here's a toast to the next Biarritz Calcutta champions... my son and your poor Irish caddie."

Robert grinned and picked up his glass and touched it to Charlie's. "Your lips to God's ears."

* * *

Michael and Mary walked Conor to the door. She reached up and hugged him and gave him a kiss. "Connie 'tis always so good to see you," she said. "Thank you for coming to be hearing our news."

"Thank you for the cobble. 'Twas delicious it was. The best I ever had. And congratulations on being expecting. 'Tis a wonderful thing you're to be so blessed."

"Come back and see us soon. 'Tis always too long," she said.

Michael broke in. "Let me walk you back to the bus stop. I'm to be needing a little exercise after making such a pig of me self."

"Well, let's be off then," Conor said, bending down to kiss the top of Mary's head. "Thank you again dear Mary."

Mary stood in the door and watched the two walk down the driveway. They turned back and Conor gave her a wave that she returned. When she shut the door Michael spoke up. "Connie, you know that favor I asked of ye the other night?"

"The horse, you mean?"

"Aye. Well I found out they're to be running him this Saturday. Seventh race there in Tijuana. Big stakes race. It's a lock I'm telling you."

Conor watched the ground as they came out of the driveway and turned down the sidewalk. "Saturday, is it? This Saturday?"

"Aye. They're to be shipping him down there tomorrow."

"What time they running?"

"Post time is probably around three. Plenty of time if you leave early in the morning."

"I can't promise, Michael. But I'll try. There's just to be so much on my mind right now. What's his name again?"

"Copper Cal." Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded white envelope thick with small bills. "See here, 'tis all written down: Copper Cal, seventh race. I got a yard in here that's to be going on the nose."

Conor took the envelope and put it in his pocket. "And Mary is not to be knowing still?"

"No. And I don't want her to be worryin' in her condition. She'll be plenty happy enough when you come back with all the money."

Conor gave a small smile. "Well let us hope that's to be the case."

"And Connie? Be careful. Remember, all of it on the nose. And thank you."

(back to top)

# Chapter 18

## Conspiracy

Monday, May 12, 1930

The sky was decidedly undecided. Small charcoal clumps scudded low across the horizon traveling with the brisk westerly wind that had delivered them inland from the ocean. Just above them white wispy dry brush strokes hung suspended, barely moving. Further above still were majestic cumulonimbus towering high into the heavens, their tops piles of frothy Titian white, their bottoms sheared flat shadows of gray that painted their color onto the golf course. It might rain. Or it might not.

Conor waited for Billy all afternoon up around the pro shop. He didn't want to venture out onto the course without him given the chance of rain. So he putted and chipped at the practice green until his back began to ache. Then he took a break and went into the caddie yard and ate his usual roll and butter. It was getting late and he was hungry. The mountain of cobble he'd eaten the day before that once filled him now left his stomach stretched in emptiness.

He was restless waiting for Billy. It hadn't helped he'd had to endure the jibes of the other caddies playing that day. "Where you been? Why ain't you been loopin'?" "What? You waitin' for the rain before you go out?" "Your fancy boyfriend standin' you up?" "Don't know what you're practicin' for, you ain't playin' none." "Afraid of droppin' a few bucks to your old friends?" "You still here?"

He'd taken them all good naturedly with a smile and a shrug but they all added to his unease. He had too much to think about beside his partner's tardiness and his friends' opinions. He finally decided Billy wasn't showing. It was too late. He left the yard and went back to the practice green to retrieve his bag. He'd play a few holes, skip some and make his way back to the west side of the course where he would stow the clubs at the Bogey House and call it a day.

The few holes he played he did not play well. He had no patience for the game and the on-again off-again sprinkles that had started in were annoying him. He gave up and walked straight to the fourteenth green and cut through the hedge. He went around to the back of the Bogey House and put his clubs and the shag bag on the cellar steps. He had just let the door down when he heard his name softly spoken. Startled, he reflexively jumped back a step and let out a "Whaaa!"

Then he saw Billy. Or what was left of him. His shirt was ripped open, the tails hanging out of his trousers, the knees muddied splotches. His lower lip was swollen and split. His left eye was nearly closed with a mouse growing fast beneath it. Dried blood still caked the corner of his mouth and the rim of one nostril. Billy gave a crooked smile, "Sorry, pal, didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Bejesus! What happened to you?"

"Long story. I'll tell you about it. Been waiting here all day for you to come down. Where were you?"

"Up at the clubhouse waiting for you."

"Well, I couldn't very well show up there like this, could I? Come on, let's go inside before somebody sees us."

Conor followed him around the house. They went through the front door and Billy closed and latched it behind them. He hobbled across the room and collapsed into the club chair. On the side table were a half empty bottle of scotch and an empty glass. He filled the glass. "Can I offer you a drink?" he asked holding the bottle up to Conor.

Conor took a seat on the couch. "No, I'm to be fine. Are you all right?"

"I'm okay. I'll heal. Just everything hurts like hell right now."

"'Tis looking that way. 'Twas a fight, is that so?

"Yeah. I wish I could say 'you should see the other guy.' But there were three of them."

"Glory. How was it to happen? Robbed were you?"

"In a way."

"Tell me."

Billy took a slug of scotch, grimaced and shook his head, "Yikes, that burns." He put the glass back down on the table. "Been a bad couple of days I can tell you that. Started yesterday when my old man cut me off. No money, no job, no trust fund. Says I have to earn it for myself. Such bullshit. Only gave me a week, too. So that started it."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"I'm sure it was my mother. She didn't like me cattin' around like I've been. But, hell, it's my life. It's not like I'm some kid or anything."

"They can be doing that?"

"Yeah, he controls the trust fund. Never wanted to turn it over to me even when I turned twenty-one. He still wants to be the boss of me. I'm sick of it."

"So then what happened?"

"Well, he doesn't know it, but I had to borrow some money a while back from some bad people. Had an unlucky run with my Red Sox. Would've meant dipping too deep into the trust fund and the old man would have had a conniption. It was easier making the payments even though I've already paid them triple what I got from them."

"Uh oh."

Billy took a smaller sip of the scotch. "Yeah, right. Well I went over to Angelo's last night to try to square things. You know, make arrangements for a smaller payment, skip a payment, whatever. Just till I get situated again."

"Angelo's?"

"Little Italian joint over on Sepulveda. That's where my friends do business."

"And they were not to like what you asked?"

"No. And they were pretty emphatic in telling me so."

"So what happened?"

"I don't remember much about the discussion. Woke up in the alley behind the place. Knew I couldn't show up like this at the house. Found my car and drove up here to spend the night. Car's parked back behind the barn there."

"They were to do this just because you asked for more time?"

"Well, that and the little matter that I was already a month behind."

"What are you to do now?" Conor asked becoming alarmed at what this might mean for the Calcutta.

"Pay them. I have to get them off my back. I'm going to the bank tomorrow. I still have access to some money I can use. That'll hold them for a while, anyway. But it's money I really need. There's not much left to draw on. Once that's gone I'm broke."

"Will you be all right until we play the Calcutta?" Conor asked getting to his main concern. He knew Billy's reputation and wasn't surprised at what had happened. But he was afraid that now that reputation was coming around to haunt him.

"Well, that's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. Because the truth is I don't know. I think the guys will be okay with the money I get them tomorrow. And that should hold them for a couple of weeks anyway. But I gotta find some work and soon. I may have to sell the car or something if I can't come up with some cash in a hurry."

"How much is it you owe?"

"More than you want to know."

"Well, I could be giving you ten or fifteen bucks. I've been on Robert's payroll for a week, you know."

Billy let out a laugh then grimaced at the pain it caused in his ribs. "Yow," he breathed. "No, no, I heard from my father about that. In fact he took the occasion to point out you're making more money than me. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the offer. But three fins aren't going to help. But you're a good pal to make the gesture. Look, I know you don't have any money."

"Have you no idea what you're to be doing then?"

"Not at this moment. The only thing I have going right now is the Calcutta. The old man said he bought a quarter of the team from Graves. It's mine if we cash in. But who knows about that? It's no sure thing."

Conor sank back in the couch and considered whether to broach the topic. He desperately wanted to play in the Calcutta and perhaps win enough money to make himself worthy of Annie. But he also felt he held the knowledge in trust. Michael wouldn't be happy at the news spreading. If too many people knew the odds would drop.

Billy watched Conor's eyes stare at the floor. "What are you thinking?"

Conor made up his mind. "I may be knowing something that could help."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"My cousin knows horses. Works over to the Kellogg Ranch. He says he has a tip on a horse running Saturday down in Tijuana. He says 'tis a lock."

Billy leaned forward in the chair and took another sip of his drink. He set the glass down. "Oh yeah? What does he know?"

"He's been watching them train the horse. Says they're to be doping him. He's turning in times that nothing could touch."

Billy eyed Conor critically. He picked up his glass and leaned back in the chair. "Yeah, well, I've heard a lot of such tips and they've all cost me a bundle. There's no such thing as a sure thing. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way."

"Aye. 'Tis true what you say. 'Twas only a thought. But please don't be repeating what I said. My cousin wouldn't like that."

Billy thought for a moment. "Is your cousin betting on him?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Everything he has: a hundred."

"Really?" Billy again leaned forward. "He's putting it all on this horse?"

"Aye. And on the nose too."

"How about you?"

"I'll bet what I can. Maybe ten."

"He's betting it all," Billy said as much to himself as asking a question.

"Tis what I said. All he's got."

Billy got up and limped to the table by the door. He took out a candle from the box and lit it with a match. Rain had started to fall in earnest and the sky had darkened as evening approached. He took out the spent stub in the holder on the windowsill and replaced it with the lit candle. He turned back to Conor. "You trust your cousin, do you?"

"He's my cousin. I'm to know him his whole life. He's a good man. And like I said, he knows horses."

"Who's he making the bet with?"

"He's not. I am. I'm to go down to Tijuana Saturday and make the bet at the track for him. My cousin doesn't want any bookies around here to be knowing he's making a wager."

Billy exhaled a "Whew!" as he moved back to the chair and sat down. "That's a smart move. Real smart. He seems to have thought this out."

"Aye. He's not dumb."

"No he's not. And he obviously thinks this is a sure thing."

"'Tis the words he said to me."

"I may be interested. But I can't be laying any bets around here either. My friends would not be very happy with me. What say I join you on the trip? I could drive. We could make a day of it. Have some fun, you know?"

"I was to take the train."

"Ha! Forget the train. We'll go down in style in my car."

Conor felt uneasy. The whole scheme was shaky. But it was now set to motor its way to Baja. "Aye, that would be good." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cigarettes and lit one. "I may be to take you up on that drink now,"

"Good, I'll get you a glass," Billy said rising from the chair. "Listen, why don't you stay here tonight? I could use the company. I can make us something to eat."

Conor chuckled and got up from the couch. "Nay, 'Tis me that's the cook. I'll handle the stove. You just be pouring the drinks."

Billy laughed, grabbed his side and winced. "Bartending I can handle."

"You able to swing a club still?"

"Not right now. But I'll be ready when the time comes."

"May the saints make it so."

(back to top)

# Chapter 19

## Bogey House

Tuesday, May 13, 1930

Conor stood waiting by the practice green with Meg and Annie's golf bags. He found himself nervously alternating his gaze and his thoughts out over the golf course then up the path to the clubhouse where Annie might soon appear. He could feel his future rushing toward him. It might come from the golf course and a good showing in the Calcutta. It might come from Annie and all the promise his feelings held for her. Either way he could sense a change in his life. And he was ready for it.

He and Billy Compton had talked long into the night. The more they talked the more Billy wanted to talk about the race and the trip to Tijuana and the more Conor wanted to talk about the Calcutta. The race troubled him. Too much was out of his control. Too much was at stake for Michael and, for that matter, Billy and himself. The Calcutta was just as much a long shot, but at least he had some say in what happened.

But on this perfect cloudless day he had more on his mind. It had been almost a week since he and Annie had their moments of closeness at Westlake Park. Could that really have happened? Had he only imagined the feelings they had shared? And how could he bear to be with her in the company of someone else when all he wanted was for her to be his alone?

He sensed it was getting late for them to appear. He began to fidget, wiping off the club heads in their bags with his towel even though they were perfectly clean. He rubbed the dust from the top of his shoes. He took off his hat and smoothed back his hair. He began to worry that they would show up at all. He kept looking up the path. Finally, finally he saw her.

Annie came down the path smiling broadly. She carried a parcel wrapped in brown paper tied with string. As she neared him she called out, "Conor! There you are!"

He wanted to drop the bags and run to her and take her in his arms and hold her tight. But he couldn't. Today he was still but a caddie. All he could manage back was a "Hello!"

When she reached him she stepped close, only the bundle she held in both hands separating them. "Your clothes... they came this morning," she said softly. "I just know you're going to look so handsome in the tournament."

Conor laid the bags down and took the clothes from her. "Thank you, Annie. 'Tis wonderful you've helped me so. Let me take these back to the yard for now."

"That's fine. And you can return Meg's bag while you're at it. She won't be joining us today."

"She's not to be coming?" Conor said surprised.

"No. Her daughter is not feeling well – Sylvia, her oldest. Her asthma is acting up and she has to go to the doctor. Such a shame. Meg says it's chronic with her. And it's such a beautiful day. It's too bad she has to miss it. I'll just hit some putts while you take care of that."

"I'll be right back," Conor said as he picked up Meg's bag and walked back to the pro shop. He left the clubs at the rack outside the bag room then went into the caddie yard with his bundle.

Gino was leaning out his door. "Now what the hell is that?" he demanded as he saw Conor with the package.

"'Tis my clothes for the Calcutta. I'm hoping you can hold them inside for me for now."

"All right. If it's for the Calcutta I can." Gino took the bundle and put it on his desk then came back to the door. "I hear you hung around here all day yesterday. A few of the monkeys here have figured out you must be up to something. I told them to put a lid on it, but the word may be getting around. So watch yourself."

"Aye, I will, Cap'n. Thanks."

"And I want to talk to you about caddies next weekend. Who do you and Billy want?"

"Give me Stovepipe if you can. And Dogface to Billy."

"I'll see what I can do. Dogface is no problem. But if a member asks for Stovepipe you may not get him. Know what I mean?"

"Aye. And I'm to be knowing you'll do what you can. So thank you, Cap'n."

Gino nodded and Conor turned and made for the gate. Annie was waiting and he would have her all to himself for the rest of the afternoon. Ever since he left her he had worked hard to quell his excitement. It was all he could do to keep from running back to the practice green. He was halfway there when he saw her.

She was standing with her bag by the side of the green. The late afternoon sun played against the left side of her face. Her blonde hair fairly glowed in the light. She was smiling at him. This sight made Conor stop in his tracks. She was so beautiful at that moment he could barely breathe. He quickly gathered himself and hurried on up the path.

Annie watched him come to her. She had thought of little else but him since the park. When Meg called to tell her she couldn't make it she had been secretly elated. She wanted more time with him alone as they had been at Westlake. Talking with Louise she had heard herself say what was in her heart. Looking at Conor she knew that all she had said to be true. And if it were true, then this time together with him was the truest thing in her life.

When Conor reached her he couldn't help but whisper, "You are to be but beautiful today."

She blushed slightly and made a face. "No, not me, just the day. Come, let's have some fun, shall we?"

"Aye, let's see you play some golf."

Conor took the bag and lifted it to his shoulder. They walked together down to the open first tee.

* * *

The round started much like any other with Annie hitting her shots and Conor helping her select her clubs, lining her up and helping her to read the greens. It was warm with the faintest of breeze carrying with it the scent of the grass and the trees. They walked slowly and took their time knowing there were groups ahead of them that would bring them to a halt once they caught up to them. After the first few holes Annie would often replay a stroke to try a different strategy or technique with Conor's instruction. Their pace kept them out of sight of the other players ahead as the sun began to lower and throw shadows across the course.

Their talk was mostly about the golf – Annie's play and Conor's thoughts on each hole and how he intended to play it in the Calcutta. There was some banter and laughter, too, as he chided her bad shots and overly lauded her good ones even as she blamed all the bad on awful advice from her caddie. But it was the moments when their eyes met that much more was said. They began holding hands as they walked the fairways.

By the time they reached the fourteenth hole the shadow of the eucalyptus trees and the hedge behind it blanketed the green. After she putted out and Conor replaced the flagstick she turned to him. "I quite think that's enough for me today," she said. "It's getting late and you really must practice. Are your clubs over at that house?"

"Aye, but no, 'tis your round we're to be having," he objected.

"No, really, I'd much rather watch you. And I know you made a promise to Robert. Why don't you go get your clubs and start while I walk back to the clubhouse? I'll change my shoes and bring my car around before it gets too dark."

Conor reluctantly nodded agreement as Annie reached for her bag. "All right, then. We'll be doing that," he said. "But leave your bag. I'll take care of it."

"Oh, all right," she agreed. "Just let me get my purse and cigarettes." She took them from the pocket of her bag and with that they parted, she walking back up the hill and on to the clubhouse, he carrying her bag to the Bogey House where he would trade it for his own under the cellar door.

* * *

Annie walked through the gap in the hedge and saw him hitting pitch shots to the green. She waved a greeting that he returned. She loved watching him play. It was as if swinging a club at a ball were the most natural thing in the world. She caught the scent of the eucalyptus tree beside her. It gave her an idea. She turned and broke off a thin branch and then wove it into a small wreath. Holding it behind her back she walked across the green as Conor stopped and watched her approach, a sly smile playing on her face.

She came to him and with one hand reached up and took off his hat. With the other she placed the wreath on his head. "Every champion deserves a crown. And that's what you are to be, my champion golfer."

Conor looked into her eyes. He smiled and dropped his club to the ground. With both hands he reached for her waist and drew her close. He kissed her tenderly on the lips. She returned it and let it linger. Finally he drew back slightly and whispered, "This champion needs his lady more than he would need a crown. Will you be my lady fair?"

"Yes," she whispered back. "I will be your lady fair." She held his eyes in her own from several moments before they broke their embrace. Then she said, "If you are to be my champion you must prepare for battle. Let's see you do some more."

"As my lady wishes," Conor smiled. "Some putting then we will do." He picked up his wedge and put his bag on his shoulder and the two of them walked onto the green where he retrieved the balls he'd hit, flipping them into the shag bag with his wedge. He left three balls on the surface and pulled his putter from the bag.

As he started to take the bag from his shoulder Annie took hold of the strap and pulled it away and put it on her own shoulder. "Your lady is more than just a lady, you know. She can be a caddie too!" she laughed.

He chuckled, "Aye, so it would seem. But if you're to be a good caddie you'll lay the bag on the collar there and tend the flagstick for me."

"Yes sir! As you wish, sir!" she joked giving a mock salute. She did as ordered and the two of them continued their playful teasing as he practiced his putts still wearing his crown of eucalyptus. Finally it grew dark with but a sliver of a moon rising to the east.

He made three putts in a row from six feet and looked up at her. "'Tis now so dark I could be putting with my eyes closed. Have I practiced enough now to satisfy my lady?"

"Yes you have," she said. "You may stand down. But come here and be with me." She pulled his bag onto the green and lay down using the bag as a pillow. "I want to watch the stars come out."

Conor took the balls from the hole and put them in the bag. He slid his putter in, took off the wreath and then lay down next to Annie, their shoulders touching. She took his hand in hers. They lay together quietly on the cooling grass for some minutes as the sky darkened further and the stars began to glow.

She finally spoke. "Do you know any constellations?"

"Not really. Just sometimes I can make out the Big Dipper. And I am to know Venus as she's to be so bright."

"I don't know any. That's why I like to make up my own."

"How do you do that?" he asked turning his head to her.

"I just look in the sky and pick the prettiest stars I see. Then I draw the lines between them and make my own pictures."

"Tell me then, what do you see tonight?"

"Well, see that bright star over there?" she said pointing. "The one that if you look at it long enough seems to glimmer with red? That's the brave beating heart of my champion golfer. I can clearly see his outline around it. I call it my 'Conor the Champion.' constellation."

Conor chuckled. "'Tis a good imagination you have to see a champion before he's to earn such a noble title."

"No, I do, really. I see it just as clearly as we see all the stars above. Now, what do you see up there?"

"What am I to see?" Conor mused. "I should start with the moon – a golden crescent like my fair lady's hair just a glowing in the night. From there I see two stars shining bright like her eyes. Below that there's to be a string of stars that gleam like her perfect white teeth. It's my lady's face I see. And a lovely face it is to fill the sky with such beauty. 'Tis called "Anna my Queen'."

Annie turned her face to him. "You're a sweet man, you know."

"Sweet I am, is it? Sweet like candy or sweet like the sorrow of a song?"

"Sweet like this." She moved to him and kissed him gently on the lips.

He rolled to his side and put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close. He returned her kiss with a passion that she could feel course through her entire body. She moved closer to him still and put her hand behind his head to hold him in the kiss. He felt her begin to melt in his arms. The kiss ended and they held each other tight feeling the warmth of the other as the dew began to rise on the grass beneath them.

"I guess we should get up before we get too wet," she finally said softly.

"Aye. I don't want you to be catching your death of cold out here."

They rose from the green. Conor picked up his things. "It must be time for you to go. Let me walk you to your car."

"Are you staying here tonight in that house? What's it called? The Bogey House?"

"Aye, if there's to be nobody using it tonight."

"Well, then, let me walk you home instead!"

They made their way through the gap in the hedge and then walked holding hands up the lane to the bungalow. There was no candle lit in the window. Billy had gone home. They walked to the back of the house where Conor lifted the cellar door and put the bags next to Annie's. "I'll take your clubs up to the clubhouse in time for next week. They'll be safe."

"Can I see inside where you're staying?" she asked.

"I don't know... Gino... he gave me some rules..."

"It's for members, really, isn't it? And aren't I a member?"

"Aye, but..."

"Just let me see."

Conor nodded and took her hand. They walked around to the front and up the stoop. He took the key from under the mat and opened the door and let her in. He followed behind and left the door ajar. He went to the table and put down his hat and his wreath. He took off his jacket and laid it across the arm of a chair then lit a candle and put it in the window.

"You said that's so people would know not to come in, right?"

"Aye, that's right."

"Good. Now turn on some light so I can see the place."

Conor went to the floor lamp next to the sofa and turned it on.

"Cozy," she said looking around. "Quite cozy. Is there a kitchen too?"

"Aye, in the back."

"Show me."

Conor walked to the kitchen door, turned on the light and went in. Annie followed him.

"My," she said opening the icebox door. "They certainly do keep this place well stocked. I can see why members would like to stay here."

"'Tis truly to be like a real house. And 'tis our house right now. Are you hungry? I can make you something."

"No, not hungry, but maybe thirsty. Can I have some water?"

"As my lady wishes," Conor smiled. He began opening the cupboard doors looking for a glass. The second door he opened was a liquor cabinet. The next held the glasses.

"After the water would you share a drink with me? A little Scotch maybe? Just to take the chill off?" Annie asked.

"Aye, 'twould be a lovely idea." Conor went to the sink, drew some water and handed her the glass. She drank it down. Then he poured two Scotches neat, in small snifters, from the second bottle he and Billy had started the night before. "Let us have these in the front room as if we were to be the lord and lady of the manor."

Annie smiled and followed him into the living room. She turned off the floor lamp saying, "I've always liked the light from just a candle."

They sat down close to each other on the sofa. She lifted her glass. "We should have a toast. Here's to the stars in the sky. Would there be as many days as there are stars that we could share like this."

Conor looked into her eyes. "And here's to my lady, the fairest in all the land."

They touched glasses and took a sip. "Do you happen to have a cigarette?" she asked him. "I left mine in the car with my purse."

"Aye, I do." Conor rose from the couch and went to the front door and closed and latched it. He took out his cigarettes and matches from his jacket and returned to the sofa. He took one and put it in his lips, lit it and handed it to Annie. Then he lit one for himself.

"Thank you," she said. "It always feels so good to relax a bit after golf."

They sat in the dim glow sipping their drinks. In the quiet Conor could feel a tension building inside him, between them. He could feel her next to him, this beautiful woman who had filled his dreams and who now wanted to be with him, to sit beside him alone in the candlelight. This wasn't a beginning. It had already begun. He leaned forward and put out his cigarette in the ashtray and turned to her. "Annie," he said softly. "What are we doing? Where are we to be going with this?"

Annie gave a small smile, leaned forward and put out her cigarette and placed her glass on the table. As she sat back she looked off at the candle and answered, "I don't know where we're going. I only know where we are." She turned and looked at him. "And where we are is together."

Conor took a last sip and put down his glass. "Aye. And 'tis where we're supposed to be." He turned and reached for her and pulled her close. He kissed her deeply. He could feel her yield to him then return his kiss.

Still in his embrace she moved to whisper in his ear, "This is how I want to live... with a man I truly love."

"Then come live with me and be my love," he whispered back.

"And we will some new pleasures prove," she breathed.

They kissed again, then again. They eased their hold on each other. Conor stood and held out his hand for her. She took it and rose and put her hands around his neck and kissed him again. His hands moved to her waist. He turned her and led her to the bedroom. They left open the door to let the candlelight in.

* * *

Conor woke first, used to rising early as he was. It was still dark but the light coming through the window from the maintenance yard was enough to paint a glow across the head of the bed. He looked over at her nestled on his shoulder. He thought she looked like an angel. He lay there for some time watching her sleep. Finally she stirred. Her eyelids began to flutter. He kissed her on her forehead. "'Tis time," he whispered.

Annie opened her eyes and looked into his. She closed them again and snuggled still closer to him. "Hmm," she breathed as she laid her arm across his chest. "I don't want this time to end."

He kissed her lightly again on the forehead. "'Tis but the moment must end, not our time. But we must leave before the crew starts to be coming in."

"I know, I know. But hold me now." They held each other tightly feeling again their bodies fit together as one. They kissed and nuzzled. She finally eased her embrace and moved to sit up holding the sheet up against her.

"I'll get up," she said. "But I'd rather spend the rest of my life here with you." She rose up and dragged the sheet with her leaving Conor naked on the bed. She laughed as he scrambled for a pillow to cover himself. "You needn't be modest now!" she chided in jest as she wrapped the sheet around her body. "I'll be seeing more of that another time."

Conor blushed and watched as she turned and walked to the bathroom, her bare back revealing the dimples just above her buttocks. He began to stir and knew he mustn't. He got up and dressed quickly. He went into the kitchen, turned on the light and began making coffee.

Annie opened the bathroom door ajar and called to him. "Could you be a dear and bring me my clothes?"

"Aye, my lady, though I like you better as you are," he called back. He returned to the bedroom and searched about the floor and bed for her clothes. He gathered them neatly and brought them to the bathroom door. He knocked. "'Tis your manservant with your wardrobe, my lady."

She opened the door slightly and stuck out her hand and took the clothes. "Thank you, Jeeves. You may now return to your duties," she decreed with a chuckle.

Conor laughed and went back to the kitchen and finished making the coffee. Annie finally emerged and joined him at the table looking perfectly put together.

"The members certainly do have this place ready for anything," she said. "I actually found everything I needed in there."

Conor looked at her. "You need nothing to be as beautiful as you are."

She smiled. "You are too sweet." They finished their coffee and got up from the table. "I guess we must be off," she said. "Can I drive you home?"

"No, I'm to be staying here to clean up a bit. But let me walk you out to the car."

The air was still chilly as they emerged from the bungalow. He held her by the waist as she wrapped her arm around his shoulder. When they reached the car he turned to her and held her close.

"When will I see you again?" he asked.

"You must work hard to get ready for your tournament. And I'm busy too. But I was thinking maybe this weekend...?"

Conor deflated. "No, I'm to have plans. I'm to be helping my cousin with something."

"Oh," she said. "Well, then maybe after that?"

"Aye, after that then." He pulled her close and kissed her fully.

She moved away and opened the car door. "Wait," she said. "I want to give you something." She leaned into her car and went into her purse. She came back out with her handkerchief in her hand. She pressed it into his hand. "Here, this is for you to carry into battle in your Calcutta. A lady always gives her knight a talisman to carry. So this is for you. And for luck."

Conor looked down at it and saw the yellow tulip embroidered in the corner. He lifted it to his face and smelled her on it. "Carry this I will. And think of you as I do." He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you for everything."

"I must go now," she said. She got into the car and Conor closed the door behind her.

"Be safe. And I will see you soon," he said.

"Yes, you will my love."

Conor leaned through the window and kissed her again. "My love," he whispered. He backed out of the window as she started the car then moved away as she backed up and turned up the lane. She waved from the window as she drove away.

Conor waved back and watched the Cadillac disappear up the hill. Then he walked slowly back to the Bogey House his thoughts filled with his Annie.

(back to top)

# Chapter 20

## Agua Caliente

Saturday, May 17, 1930

The first thing he noticed was the dust. It was yellowish with a faint tinge of orange. It looked as if it could have been scraped off the side of one of the old adobe missions spaced from Baja all the way to Northern California. Conor was sitting in Billy's car waiting to go through the customs checkpoint into Tijuana when he first saw it drifting through the air up ahead of them. When they finally rolled forward into town he saw that it colored everything; the buildings, the cars, the storefronts, the windows of the cantinas, the signs in Spanish, the signs in English, the gravelly pavement, the web of telephone and electric lines strung helter-skelter overhead, the dark men with darker eyes sitting on their haunches against building walls, the women in slim skirts and low cut blouses slouched in shadows arms akimbo, the sweating tourists with cameras strung from their necks and paper bags of cheap treasure in their hands shuffling along the sidewalks, the little brown street urchins wiping windshields and hawking postcards and souvenirs and trinkets and shouting out about tours and tickets to the corrida and good times with tequila and tacos and pretty young conchitas, "Quiero un buen momento?"

They had to roll up their windows despite the stifling heat to repel boarders as the more resolute among the horde loped alongside and leapt onto the running boards to jabber insistently and thrust their wares into the faces of the gringos. Billy had to drive carefully to avoid the dodgers and weavers positioning themselves for their assaults. Traffic was slow as every car entering Tijuana ran the same gauntlet; so slow that soon every car carried its own mantle of the dust. Through the haze they could feel eyes jealously appraising the dark gray Lincoln coupe and its occupants slowly crawling by. Conor reached down to feel the buttoned back pocket of his trousers. The envelope was still there.

The ride down from Los Angeles had been uneventful, if long. For the most part Conor had enjoyed the scenery and the glimpses of the Pacific Ocean. Conversation in the car had been light. Billy's jaw still hurt some. It had given Conor time to reflect on Annie. The past three nights he'd fought the urge to look for her, to be with her again. But he resisted and focused on golf and preparing for the Calcutta. But he knew he couldn't wait for Tuesday. It seemed a lifetime away. Now, in this foreign landscape, it seemed farther away than ever.

It wasn't far to the racetrack, maybe three miles. Once out of the downtown the road ran past houses little more than huts huddled together haphazardly in a hodgepodge of bright clashing colors topped by rusting tin roofs. Just before reaching the track they passed the Tijuana Country Club, the only green earth they had seen since crossing the border. Conor made a note of it.

Agua Caliente had opened in late December as part of the boom in Tijuana ignited by prohibition and California's anti-gambling laws. Whatever was illegal in California was legal in Tijuana, or at least easy to get. And Conor and hundreds more like him saw all of it from the car on the way to the track. Many would stop on the way back to imbibe.

They arrived in time to catch the third race. Conor wanted to place Michael's bet immediately, but Billy told him to wait and see how the odds were going and get a look at the horse in the paddock before they put their money down. Conor couldn't understand it because he was going to place the bet no matter what they saw. He had to. But Billy was insistent. While they waited they had beers and hot dogs and watched two races from the grandstand. Billy made a few small wagers complaining that he knew nothing of the horses running that day. None of them ran in the money. After the fifth race they walked out to the paddock.

Copper Cal was being walked. The sun was beating down and the big horse was already lathered after but a few laps of the paddock. Billy watched him intently. "So this is our great horse?" he asked with no little sarcasm. Then he leaned into Conor's ear. "I'm not sure I'd put a nickel on him. See how he favors that right foreleg? Looks like a bowed tendon. They've been running him too hard on the dope is what I think."

Conor didn't want to hear that. "Aye, but I'm sure my cousin has seen the same. I can't be doing anything but to place the bet like he wants."

"That tendon could have showed up this morning. I think you'd be doing your cousin a favor by passing."

"And what if he were to win? What do I say to my cousin? My friend the playboy thought he was a loser?"

Billy scowled. "Look, pal, I'm just trying to help. Do what you want. Why don't you think about betting half what he gave you?"

Conor was starting to lose patience. "Understand my cousin made the bet when he gave me the money. I'm only putting it down for him. I can't be second-guessing him. As I was to be telling you, he knows his horses."

"Suit yourself. I'm passing."

Conor turned and walked away back toward the clubhouse. Billy followed trailing him. Conor made his way to the betting windows and got in line. Billy stood back and watched as Conor got to the window and took the envelope from his back pocket and counted out the money. He took some satisfaction seeing Conor not make a bet of his own. The clerk handed Conor the ticket and he put it in his back pocket and buttoned it. He walked back to Billy and the two wordlessly made their way down to the rail to a spot just before the finish line.

As they waited for the race Conor kept his gaze out over the track at the barren hills in the distance, hills the color of the dust. Billy looked at the tote board on the infield. Copper Cal was going off at nine to one. He turned back to look up at the grandstand full of Americans slaking their thirst for the possible in a time of impossibility in a land of impropriety. He was scanning the crowd for pretty women when he heard the bugle blare the call to the post. He turned and with Conor watched the horses parade past. Copper Cal would run from the fourth post position. He was bigger than the other horses in the race and fractious. An outrider had to come in to help guide him around to the gate. He was the last one into gate as it took three grooms wrestling his halter and saddle to pull and push him in. The instant the doors closed behind him the bell rang and the gates sprang open. They were off.

The track announcer called the race in English. He only mentioned Copper Cal's name once in his nasal staccato: "...And as they enter the far turn it's Bully Boy in the lead with Hard Way coming fast on the outside... a horse is down!... a horse is down!... Copper Cal has fallen..." and then he continued his call as if Copper Cal had never existed.

Billy and Conor gave each other a look then stared back across the infield. They could see the motionless lump in the distance and the jockey struggling to his feet. Then the field came thundering down the home stretch and blocked their view as the crowd roared at the finish.

Conor turned away and shook his head. "Should have listened to you. Damn it anyway."

Billy put his hand on Conor's shoulder. "Listen, buddy, you said it yourself. It was your cousin's bet, not yours. Come on, let's get out of here."

They had just stepped into the parking lot when they heard the pop in the distance. Both of them flinched. "I'm thirsty," Billy said. "Let's get a drink on the way out."

"Aye. Use one I could."

They stopped in town at Hodge's Bar & Café, a "De Luxe Cabaret" according to the sign. When they entered Conor smelled something he hadn't smelled in years: stale beer. They walked up to the bar that stretched the length of the establishment. Billy ordered. "Two beers, two shots of tequila. Give us the good stuff."

They turned and looked at the crowd. They were mostly men and mostly American. The women scattered about at the tables with them were a mix of Mexicans and Anglos and if they were dressed for work their work was such that it didn't occur in daylight or in public. The bartender put down their drinks. "That's a buck," he announced.

Billy turned to him and threw a ten-dollar bill on the bar. "Keep 'em coming."

"You're to be joking!" Conor blurted.

"Bad days call for good times. Come on, let's go grab a table." They carried their drinks to an empty table at the back of the bar and sat down facing the door. "Always want to have your back to a wall in a joint like this," Billy instructed and then threw back the tequila.

Conor took a sip of the tequila and spat it out. "Ugh! 'Tis awful!"

Billy laughed. "You're not supposed to taste it, just knock it back. After a couple they go down pretty smooth. Listen, if you don't want that I'll take it."

Conor pushed the shot glass over to Billy. "Better you than me." Conor nursed his beer until a barmaid came to the table. He ordered a scotch, as did Billy. They sat quietly working on their drinks and watching the crowd.

After his fourth drink Billy announced they were staying for dinner. After the steak and beans and another drink, Billy announced they were staying the night.

"Where are we to stay?" Conor asked.

"Hotel just a couple doors down. They always have rooms. And it's cheap. Even if you stay the whole night." He grinned and winked.

Conor tried to pace himself. He got up twice to visit the excruciatingly foul bathroom and both times stopped at the bar on the way back to drink a glass of water. Billy had gone beyond mellow much earlier and had given the barmaid another five dollars to keep the drinks coming.

It was getting late when the women started visiting the table. They would come two at a time and would make an unspoken choice between them about who was going to sit next to Billy and who would sit next to Conor. They would talk to Billy who knew enough Spanish to get their drift. Some would quickly frown and get up and leave. Others would stay long enough to have a drink. Then they too would make faces and leave. Conor realized Billy was holding auditions. Finally two women came along who were much younger than the earlier ones. They smiled a lot. Billy smiled back and talked. He told Conor the one sitting next to him was Inez and that Pila was the one next to him. The girls were quite animated and laughed often at whatever Billy was saying. They stayed through a couple more drinks. Conor was having trouble staying awake but he could make out the fact Billy was fully loaded. Finally after an exchange with Billy the one called Pila slipped off her chair and disappeared under the table. Inez started to do the same but Conor grabbed her arm and stopped her. Billy took on a vacant stare and kept hold on his drink. Inez took Conor's hand and put it between her legs. She was wearing no underwear. Feeling somehow obliged, Conor stroked her wetness as she cooed and gently squirmed. Finally Billy coughed and took a pull on his drink. Pila reappeared smiling and sat in the chair and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Conor took his hand back as Inez tried to pull it back to her. These were among the last things Conor remembered. He would later recall leaving the restaurant and relying on Inez for balance as they made their way down the sidewalk behind Billy and Pila. But he would never remember entering the hotel, checking in or anything else.

When Conor awoke he was lying naked on top of the bed, the covers pulled off and lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. His head threatened to burst with its every throb. The room was lit by sunlight. He thought that not good. It took all his energy to raise his head and look around. He was relieved to see he was alone. After a few minutes trying to gather himself he sat up. He could see his clothes had been neatly draped over the back of the chair. He got up and went to the chair and retrieved his under shorts. After he nearly fell down trying to put them on standing up, he sat on the arm of the chair and finished the job. He got up and then sat on the edge of the bed and rested. Moving around had made him nauseous. He leaned over on his side and fell asleep.

When he woke up the second time he panicked. He jumped out of the bed and moved to the chair and grabbed his trousers. He rooted through the pockets and found his wallet. He opened it. It was empty. He screamed a curse and threw it into the chair. He spun around in frustration flailing the air with his fist.

* * *

He sat waiting for Billy in an uncomfortable wrought iron chair in the lobby for more than an hour. He was angry with Billy and angrier still with himself. He didn't want some cute little conchita he could remember nothing about; he wanted Annie. And he needed the twenty dollars that once had filled his wallet. The whole trip had been nothing but a waste; Michael lost his savings, he lost his self-respect and the goddamn horse was dead.

Billy finally came down the stairs. He gave Conor a wan smile and small wave and went to the front desk to check them out. Conor stood up and waited while their bill was settled. Then he followed Billy out to the car. They got in without exchanging a word and headed back to California.

The silence lasted many miles. It wasn't until they got past Newport that Conor spoke up. "You know that whore up and took twenty dollars from me."

"Is that so?"

"Aye."

Billy took one hand off the wheel and reached into his front pocket and pulled out several folded bills. "Here," he said handing them to Conor.

"What is this?"

"Your twenty dollars."

"I don't want your money."

"It's not mine. It's yours. I took it out of your wallet last night after you passed out."

"I was to pass out?"

"Yeah. Created some excitement too. Your little girlfriend undressed you and got you all ready and then you go and conk out just when she starts to get you going. She got scared and came and got me. I checked you over, took care of your clothes and your wallet and then took her back to my room. So thanks for that. She was fun. She and the other one got along very well. You missed a good time."

Conor turned his head and looked at Billy and then looked back out the windshield. "Oh," was all he could manage.

They rode the rest of the way back in silence.

(back to top)

# Chapter 21

## Consequences

Monday, May 19, 1930

She sat the typewriter with nothing to move her fingers to the keys. Her mind would not focus, form a thought or think of a word. She had forced herself to sit at her desk lest she again get in the car and drive to Biarritz and further delay any chance at resuming her work on the screenplay revisions. Saturday and Sunday afternoons she had driven to the club, parked behind the maintenance barn and waited behind the hedge for Conor to appear. He never did. With each passing hour she waited she became more frustrated and anxious. She told herself that all she wanted to do was see him and talk to him. But she also knew that what she really wanted was Conor next to her in the Bogey House again making love to her and holding her in his arms. Where was he?

Sunday she'd gotten a scare. It was nearly dark when she gave up on him. As she walked back to her car another came rolling down the lane, its lights on. It crunched to a halt in the gravel next to hers. She couldn't see beyond the headlights but she heard a man's voice call out to her, "Hello! What are you doing here?"

"Who is it?" she called back.

The man stepped halfway out of the car and spoke to her across the hood. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said trying hard to sound fine. "I thought I lost a club out by this green and came out to try and find it. But it wasn't there. Silly me."

"Oh, okay. Just wanted to make sure everything was all right." He slid back into the car.

She gave a little wave and got into her car. She backed up past the other car and turned up the lane. She watched in her rearview mirror as the man got out of the car with a woman and started walking toward the Bogey House. The man put his arm around her waist. Her faced still flushed in embarrassment and fright Annie cursed under her breath. Where was he?

She scooted her chair back away from the desk and stood. It was four o'clock and even if she were able to write she told herself it was too late to get anything meaningful done. She decided she would not go again to the club. Even if he were there he would probably be with Billy Compton and there would likely be no chance they could get away alone. She would have to wait for Tuesday. She stepped around to the back of the desk and lit a cigarette. She looked at the telephone. She picked up the receiver and dialed. The maid answered.

"Hello. This is Annie Burke. Is Margaret available to take a call?" The maid asked her to hold.

Shortly she heard the receiver being picked up from the table. "Hello. This is Meg. Is this Annie?"

"Hi, Meg. Yes, this is Annie. I just wanted to make sure you were still planning on playing tomorrow." They had talked on Thursday and again on Saturday. But Annie just wanted to make sure. It was the only thing left at the moment to connect her to Conor.

"Oh, yes, dear. The plans haven't changed. I'll see you there a little before three o'clock. Just like we spoke about." Meg sounded a touch impatient. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry to bother you again. I just am so busy I'm losing track of things. I'll see you tomorrow then."

"And I'm looking forward to it, dear. Goodbye."

"Goodbye." Annie hung the receiver back on the hook. Maybe she could pick out her clothes for tomorrow.

* * *

Their practice session had gone well. They'd met up at three o'clock and played eighteen holes as if they were playing in the Calcutta; no practice shots, no conceded putts. Their best ball was six under par, a score with promise for the event. Billy had joked a lot about their Tijuana adventure early in the round. Conor was abashed but good-natured about it. Then both turned serious. There was too much riding on it for both of them. They began to develop a pattern of talking over each other's shots much the way a player might discuss it with his caddie. They'd discuss the wind, the conditions and the best strategy given each other's position on the hole. And then they'd play their shot. Most of the time it worked and their shots came off as they'd planned. They began to relax in each other's company and trust one another. They were a team.

As they walked off the eighteenth green Billy said to Conor, "Listen, I had an idea. This weekend you shouldn't have to hike back and forth to Glendale. I want you staying with me over at my parents' house. We can go to the course together. Would keep you fresher. And I think you'd like the food over at their place. They cook everything to death just like you like."

Conor stopped, surprised at the invitation. " That's to sound grand. You're to be sure it would be all right with your parents?"

"My mother will love you. Don't worry about that. And my father knows what this tournament means. He'll be more than happy to help."

"Then I'm to appreciate that."

"What are you doing tonight? Want to grab something to eat?"

"I'd like to, but I really am needing to see my cousin. He's surely to be in a bad way after what happened."

"Where is he?"

"Pasadena."

"How about I drive you out there and then we'll get some dinner?"

Conor thought for a moment. "Yes, 'tis a good idea that is. You can tell him what you saw."

* * *

Michael answered the door. Mary was out at the market. After the introduction to Billy he led them back to the kitchen where they sat down. Michael poured them drinks. Conor lit a cigarette.

"So what was to happen?" Michael asked. "I'm to know he went down."

"'Twas my mistake and I'm sorry," Conor offered. "I shouldn't have bet your money."

"What is it you're to mean by that?"

"Billy here saw something before the race. He told me not to bet."

"What?"

"Tell him, Billy."

Billy took a sip of his drink. "The horse showed a bowed tendon in his right front. We saw it in the paddock. They never should have let him out on the track."

Michael went quiet for a moment. Then he moaned, "Aw, Connie. I told you to be careful. I told you that were all we had. The rent money too was in there."

"I know. And I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."

Michael got up from his chair. "I should have known better, that trainer is to be an idiot. But still. A bowed tendon? The horse was to be fine when he left the ranch, Saw him go into the trailer me self, I did."

"Who knows what they were doing with him down there in Tijuana," Billy said.

Michael sat back down and shook his head. "'Twas such a sure thing. A sure thing it was... as sure as they come."

"I'll make it up to you if I can," Conor offered. 'Twas truly my fault. I should have listened. Billy here knows his horses."

"You've no more money than I do, Connie. So don't be sayin' such a thing."

"No, really. Billy and I have a chance at some money in the Calcutta this weekend. I don't know what I'm to possibly make out of it, but I'm sure it'll be enough to repay you. We just have to win."

"Ha! You and your golf. I'm to tell you the bet on Copper Cal, God rest his poor horse soul, was to be a damn sight better than a bet on the likes of you two."

Billy laughed. "No, no. I can promise you we won't be doped up and lame. And we'll at least get to the finish line win, lose or draw."

* * *

Billy took Conor to Angelo's explaining he had to drop off some money and, besides, the food was good. The restaurant was bright and small with but a dozen or so tables with red and white checked tablecloths and cruets of olive oil and bentwood chairs and two ceiling fans twirling slowly overhead. It was empty when they walked in. Conor followed Billy past the tables and through a swinging door at the back. The light was dim and only seemed to illuminate the smoke that filled the room. Conor could just make out a bar against the back wall with some patrons on stools. They made their way there past two round tables of men playing cards. They took their seats as the bartender came over to them. "Hello, Billy. What'll it be?"

"Two scotches, rocks. Is Tony around? I need to see him."

"Lemme see." He made and served their drinks and then left through a door next to the bar back. When he returned he told Billy, "He says he'll be out in a minute."

Conor turned on his stool and looked back into the room. His eyes now adjusted to the dimness, he could see several couples at tables on either side of the room. Everyone was quiet, speaking in hushed tones. Even the card players kept it down.

"We can eat at the bar if you like," Billy said. "They have something they make with eggplant that's great. You should try it."

"No. Only like me eggs with ham and potatoes."

Billy chuckled. "Damn you are Irish. What am I going to do with you? You don't know how to eat!"

Conor smiled. "I know how to eat. And I'm to know eggs are not to grow on plants."

Billy shook his head then looked over as Tony came through the door. He turned on his stool to greet him. "Hello, Tony. Got something for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills with a rubber band around it. "Half a yard like I promised."

Tony took the roll and appraised it before putting it in his pocket. He looked at Conor. "Who's this?"

"A friend. He's fine."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then you don't mind him hearing your business," Tony said with no expression.

"No. What is it?"

"We saw you in Tijuana. That was not good. We told you to layoff until we get paid."

"Hey I was just down there with a friend... with him. Only bet a couple bucks. Just ask him."

"You got trouble learning. You need to come with me."

"Hold on. You have your money. I'm clean."

"You're not coming?"

"No. I'm jake I tell you."

"Okay, we'll take care of it here." Before the sentence was finished Tony threw a roundhouse right that caught Billy on the temple at the word "here." He flew from the stool his head making a loud crack on the edge of the bar before he fell to the floor. He lay motionless crumpled in a heap. Tony stood over Billy and barked Conor an order. "Now get this worthless piece of shit out of here."

Conor jumped from the stool his fists clenched. Tony spun around and pulled a revolver from the back of his waist. "Don't be stupid, kid. Get your pal out of here while you can."

Conor knew it was over. He moved to Billy and laid him out. He checked for a pulse. There was blood from the head wound. He grabbed him under his armpits and dragged him out of the restaurant. No one in the place looked at him as he did.

(back to top)

# Chapter 22

## Succor

Tuesday, May 20, 1930

It wasn't until morning that Billy woke up lying in a ward at St. Vincent Hospital, his head swathed in a bandage. The first thing he did was roll on his side and vomit over the edge of the bed. A nurse heard him and came over to roll him back. She wiped him clean with a towel and then went to get an orderly to clean the floor. The commotion woke Conor in the chair next to the bed. He stood and stepped closer. "You all right?" he asked.

Billy mumbled unintelligibly.

Conor had driven him straight to the emergency room and stayed with him and watched as they stitched the wound closed and packed ice bags around his head. Nurses came into the cubicle every twenty minutes to take his pulse, push back his eyelids and check his pupils. It wasn't until well after midnight that they moved him upstairs into the ward.

"You all right?" Conor asked again.

Billy reached up with his right hand and felt the bandage. "Dunno."

"You took quite a shot."

Billy tried to smirk. "Um."

"I'm to be thinking we should get your parents over here."

Billy nodded.

"I'll call then." Conor went to the nurses' station and asked to use the phone. He dialed for an operator and was soon connected to the Compton's home. Myrtle answered.

"Hello, who is this?"

"Hello Mrs. Compton. This is to be Conor O'Reilly, Billy's friend."

"Yes?"

"I'm to have some bad news. Billy's been in an accident. Hit his head he did. He's over here in St. Vincent Hospital right now."

"Dear Lord!' Myrtle cried. "Is he all right? What happened?"

"Took a fall he did. He's awake now. Doctor says he should be all right but they want to watch him for now."

"You said St. Vincent?"

"Yes. Third floor ward."

"Tell him we'll be right there."

"Aye, Ma'am." Myrtle hung up. Conor went back to the bedside. Billy had his eyes closed.

"You awake still?" Conor asked.

Billy opened his eyes and nodded.

"Your mother said she'd be right over."

Billy nodded again and closed his eyes. "Seein' double," he mumbled.

"Just rest. It should get better." Conor didn't know that but it sounded like the right thing to say. He sat back down in the chair.

It wasn't a half hour later Myrtle and Charlie Compton came down the hall. Myrtle rushed past the white screens surrounding the bed and hugged her son. Charlie stood back and motioned Conor over. "You must be Mick,"

"Aye. But 'tis Conor."

"Right. Good to meet you Conor. Now tell me, how'd this happen? He drunk again?"

"No, no. Just an accident. We were at a restaurant and he fell against a table. Freak thing it was."

"What restaurant?"

"Angelo's. Over on Sepulveda."

"I see." Charlie knew enough about Angelo's to know Conor was probably lying. But he understood that's what a friend would do. "You been here all night, have you?"

"Aye."

"I appreciate you taking care of Billy. Now that we're here why don't you go home and get some rest. We'll take it from here."

Conor did want to go, but not home. Annie and Meg would be waiting at Biarritz in a few hours. Conor nodded and moved next to Myrtle. "All right, Billy. I'm off now. You be taking care of yourself. We need you ready to go on Saturday."

Myrtle turned and glared at Conor. "Saturday? I don't think so! You men and your damnable Calcutta. My boy is hurt bad. Look at him! He's not going to be playing any golf with the likes of you this weekend!"

Billy smiled weakly at her outburst. "We'll see, mother."

"My apologies Mrs. Compton. Meant no offense." Conor backed away from the bed and turned to Charlie. "Sorry, sir. Here's to be the keys to Billy's car."

"That's all right, son. I know what you meant. Thank you again for taking care of him." Charlie took the keys and then took Conor's hand and shook it. "I'll tell Bob Graves what's going on."

"Thank you," Conor said. He walked away, down the hall, down the stairs, out of the hospital and onto the sidewalk. He began looking for a bus stop. The Calcutta was over. Now there was only Annie.

* * *

Annie was nearly an hour early. She couldn't help it. She sat in her car in the parking lot for twenty minutes before getting out. She went into the locker room and changed her shoes and then took considerable time touching up her makeup. She strolled out of the locker room and down the path to the clubhouse somehow believing that time would pass faster if she moved slower. She finally approached Fred the starter in his little shelter. He was on his stool, his chin in his hand, reading the sports page. "Hello," she said. "I'm Mrs. Burke. I believe we have a caddie today. Mick is his name."

Fred's head snapped up. "Oh. It's you. Mrs. Graves here yet?"

"No, not yet. But soon. We're teeing off at three o'clock."

"I know. You're on the sheet. Why don't you wait until she gets here?"

Annie had never dealt with Fred by herself. "I'm sorry, but I was hoping the caddie could help me with something back at my car."

"That's what the valets are for."

Niceness wasn't working. "Sir, I would like the caddie out here now. Right now. Can I make that any clearer for you?"

Fred blinked once and then slid off his stool. "You say his name is Mick?"

"Yes."

Fred shuffled his hunched over little shuffle into the bag room. Presently he returned and retook his throne. "He ain't here," he pronounced.

"What? That can't be!"

"Hasn't been around a few days I'm told. Don't worry; we'll get you another caddie. Yard's full of the buggers."

Annie looked over at the grape stake fence. Her first instinct was to run over and open the gate to the caddie yard and see for herself. She turned around and looked back up at the clubhouse. She didn't know what to do. She turned back to Fred. "His real name is Conor. Maybe there's a mistake."

"Mick, Conor, same difference. He ain't here."

She could feel herself beginning to shake. She looked around and saw her clubs on the bag rack. She walked over and took out her putter and some balls. She would wait for Meg on the practice green.

* * *

Conor woke with a start. He knew instantly he'd overslept. He cursed himself. It had taken two buses and over an hour to get back to the boarding house. He'd had to change clothes. Billy's blood was all over his shirt and trousers. He also was exhausted. There had been little sleep at the hospital. He had laid down intending only to take a nap. From the light in the window he knew it was late. He looked at the alarm clock. Twenty to six. He cursed inwardly again, this time at Billy. He was nothing but trouble; Tijuana, the Calcutta, now this. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He tried to focus. Get dressed. Get a cab. Get to Biarritz. Find Annie.

* * *

"I've got some bad news, Bob."

"What is it?"

"Billy got himself banged up pretty good. I don't think he can make the Calcutta."

"What happened?"

"The Conor kid said he fell, but I think he got himself in a fight, or just beat up. Hit his head pretty bad, stitches and everything. He's still pretty woozy."

"Jeez. Is he going to be all right?"

"Doctors think so but they want to watch him. He took a real shot. He's seeing double he says."

"Well, that stinks. Anything I can do?"

"No, Myrtle and I have it covered here at the hospital. He's asleep now. We just got to wait it out."

"So much for the best laid plans."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I'm really sorry, Charlie."

"Me too."

* * *

Meg grew increasingly concerned with Annie as the round progressed. She'd started out inexplicably nervous and edgy. Then she'd grown quiet and distant. At first Meg blamed it on a bad time of the month. Then she thought maybe it was just the different caddie that had thrown her off. Whatever it was, Annie was not herself. As they walked up the fairway on the last hole of the day Meg decided to find out what was going on. "Annie, what's the matter, dear? You've seemed so preoccupied today. Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes, it's just some things at home. Nothing really."

Meg decided to probe. "Well, I know I missed our Conor. I can't understand why he couldn't caddie for us today. I hope he's all right."

"It is odd. But he has that Calcutta coming up. Maybe he's off practicing or playing somewhere. And, after all, it was only we two he's been caddying for." Annie worked to stay matter-of-fact.

"Maybe so. But I think I'll have to tell Robert we didn't see him today. And you said they told you he hadn't been around for a few days. I'm sure he'll want to know that too."

* * *

Meg and Annie were still on the course when Conor walked into the yard, "Hey stranger," Pissquick called out. "Where you been?"

"'Tis some grand adventures we've had to be sure."

"I bet."

Conor walked over to the Dutch door. "Gino?" he called out. A few seconds later he saw him approach down the hall from the bag room.

"It's the Irishman! Fancy meeting you here. Glad you could favor us with a visit. Must be hard running with the crowd you're in now."

Conor dodged the jab. "Need to talk to you, I do."

"I bet. Here to collect a few days pay are you?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Billy Compton got himself hurt. Doesn't look like he can make the Calcutta. I think I should be off the payroll. 'Tis back to caddying."

"That's too bad. Would've liked to see you two guys play. And you're a little late. Those two women you been looping for went out a long time ago. And I got four or five guys ahead of you right now."

"No, I'm not to be meaning today. I'll be back tomorrow to caddie. I just wanted to let you know."

"So that's it then? No pay?"

"No."

"Not even for the past few days?"

"No."

"Suit yourself, Mick."

* * *

Annie had been too agitated to join Meg for "tea" after the round. They chatted in the locker room about the day and the upcoming tournament and wondered again where their caddie could have been as they changed their shoes. They said their goodbyes and walked out together then went each to their own car in the parking lot. When Annie got into her car she saw a scorecard that had been torn in half stuck in the fold of the seat. She leaned over and fiddled with her hair and her makeup in the rearview mirror until she saw Meg pull away. The she reached down and picked up the card and turned it over. It was a note: "Meet me at Bogey House. C."

She caught her breath. He was here. She fumbled with her keys hurrying to get the car started. She tried to drive slowly, normally, out of the parking lot but she almost hit the front gate before Harry could raise it for her. She turned off Valley Spring Road and coasted down the lane toward Bogey House. Her heart sank when she saw another car parked in front of it. There was a burning candle in the window. She wasn't sure what to do. She pulled around behind the barn and stopped the car. She waited. Suddenly she heard, "There you are!" and she jumped, startled. Conor had appeared as if out of nowhere at the passenger door window.

"Oh, you scared me!"

Conor smiled. "Sorry for that I am. But I'm to be glad you found your way here."

"Come on, get in before anybody sees you."

He opened the car door and stepped up into the seat. Before he could close the door she slid over on the seat and put her arms around him and drew him close. She kissed him. "I was so worried about you," she whispered. "Where were you? Where did you go?"

He reached up and held the back of her head and returned her kiss. "'Tis a long story... and a sad one. But 'tis getting better now that I'm to be with you."

"You must tell me. But what should we do? It looks like there's somebody in Bogey House."

"Aye, they came just after I got down here. No telling how long they're to be. I don't know where 'tis we can go."

Annie considered the options. "Close your door. We'll go to my house."

"Your house, really? 'Tis safe is it?"

"Safe as any. Maybe safer. Only two people to worry about. Come on, shut the door and let's get out of here."

"I'm not thinking this to be a good idea."

"Trust me."

(back to top)

# Chapter 23

## Dancing

Tuesday, May 20, 1930

As they turned into the driveway Annie told Conor to lie down on the seat so he couldn't be seen.

"Aye, 'tis the nefarious Irish spy invading the castle. Let's to see what mischief he can make." He leaned over on the seat his head next to her thigh. He reached over and began tickling the back of her knee.

"Stop that! You'll make me drive right through the garage!" she laughed and slapped at his arm.

"Aye, that's to be the plan. A great diversion we'll create while we steal across the moat and enter the castle keep. Full speed ahead my lady!"

"Conor!" She pulled into the garage, stopped the car and turned it off. "Wait here. I'll give you a signal when it's safe to come in. And for heaven's sakes be quiet." she laughed at him as he sat back up.

"Ah, a signal is it to be? Very crafty my lady. What is it to be? One if by land, two if by sea like your Paul Revere? 'Tis is it a midnight ride we are to take?"

"Conor, behave yourself." she scolded with a laugh. She got out of the car and swung the garage doors closed leaving a narrow opening between them and then went inside. Conor was to stand out of sight behind the doors and watch through the opening for the all clear. He took his post. The garage smelled of gasoline and damp wood and dried grass. For a moment it took him back to hiding out with his pals and smoking cigarettes in the greenkeeper's barn at Lahinch.

He'd been joking with Annie to mask his unease. He thought it should be easy to get past the maid. But the husband was something else. He could come home at any time. And then what? He tried not to think of that. Nor did he want to think of romancing another man's wife in the man's own home. It was all very troubling. But he wanted Annie and he wanted her now. Nothing else could matter.

It was some time before he saw Opal leave from the front door, a shopping bag hanging from her arm. He saw her reach the sidewalk and then turn right and walk away from the house. Shortly after that he saw Annie leaning out the back door and waving him in. He pushed open the garage door and made his way to the house.

She brought him in through the kitchen. It was one of the biggest he had ever seen. Cast irons pots and skillets hung from a rack over the gas range. Two large iceboxes stood together on one wall. An enormous butcher block was placed near a counter with three porcelain sinks. As he walked through he asked, "So are you to be cooking in this palace of a kitchen?"

Annie giggled. "No. The truth is I can't boil water. Thank goodness for Opal. She's a wonderful cook. Follow me."

They walked past the dining room and living room with their antique furnishings all arranged as if in a museum display of Edwardian times. He thought them rooms his mother would have enjoyed. When they reached the foyer he looked into Franklin's study and saw the bar. Annie had started to lead him up the stairs. "Do you think we could take a bit of scotch up with us? 'Tis a most sad story I've to tell you. And, sadly still, I'm not to be joking."

"Help yourself," she said. "And bring two glasses."

Conor went into the room and came back out with a bottle and two old fashioned glasses. "Ready we are," he said holding them up for her to see.

"Come on up to my study. We won't be bothered there."

Conor followed her up the curving staircase. The ornate wrought iron railing was another sign of the architect's original intent to create a mission-style home. It had been the owner who had chosen a different direction with the oriental carpets and the gilded sconces and the antimacassars on the upholstered wing back chairs and the ornately framed reproductions of paintings of the English countryside. But despite the clash of styles the home was impressive. And Conor found himself increasingly uncomfortable. The place was too big, the footsteps on the tile floor echoed too loudly, the emptiness held a coldness that fireplaces and radiators and stoves could never warm.

He felt better once he went through the double doors that led in to Annie's study. He could see this room was hers. She closed the doors behind him. "You pour, I'll lounge. Meet me on the couch," she said.

Conor set the glasses and the bottle on a side table by the door and poured them drinks. "You've a beautiful home, Annie."

"I could never think of it as mine," she said. "It's not what I would do. There are some beautiful things around. They're just not beautiful here. Come sit next to me."

He walked to the couch and handed Annie her glass. "A toast," he announced raising his glass. "Here's to my damsel fair whom I would to woo this night." He took a sip.

She returned his salute and drank. "Now woo you butt next to me and tell me what's been happening with you. Where have you been?"

Conor sat next to her and recounted the tale of Michael and Copper Cal. He told her most of went on in Tijuana and last night at Angelo's and in the hospital that morning. He finished by telling her that his chances at playing in the Calcutta were over.

"So 'tis back to being a caddie," he sighed. "At least for the time being. But I'm still to have my dreams."

"Well, the Calcutta was only a chance anyway, correct?"

"Aye, but a good one. We were to be playing well. And we were surely to be a better bet than Copper Cal."

Annie laughed. "I'm sorry. But Copper Cal and Tijuana sounds like something Damon Runyon should write about."

Conor shook his head and took a sip of his drink. "I don't know any Runyon, but it can't be comedy he's to be writing. So tell me, what is it you've been doing with yourself this past week?"

"If you must know, I've been thinking about you!" She picked up a pillow and swatted him on the head. "Even when you're not around you're no good for my deadlines!"

"And I'm to be sorry for that?"

"You bet, buster. I've fallen behind on my screenplay. And it's all your fault!"

"Don't be pouting so. I aim to make it up to you."

"Well, you'll have to wait. I'm going to take a shower. I'm all salty from golf. But I'll be right back."

Conor smiled. "Do as you will, my lady. I'll just be nursing me scotch."

Annie leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "It's good to be with you again. I missed you." She rose from the couch and went to the doors. She turned back to Conor. "Oh, and be a little quiet if you can. It won't be long before Opal gets back."

"Aye, quiet I can be."

Once Annie was gone Conor got up and took off his jacket and tie and tossed them across the arm of a chair and began to walk around the room. He looked at her desk and the typewriter. He read what she had typed on the page still rolled in the machine. He thumbed through some of the manuscript next to the typewriter. Using her silver lighter he lit a cigarette and wandered over to the bookcase and scanned the titles looking for something familiar. Finding none he walked over to the window and looked out across the front yard. Finally, he'd had enough.

He stubbed out the cigarette and went out through the doors then used both hands to draw them back together quietly. He followed the sound of the shower down the hallway to her bedroom. He opened the door and closed it behind him. The bathroom door was open and the sound of the shower was louder now. He went in. He watched her silhouette through the translucent shower curtain. There could be no waiting. He kicked off his shoes and took off his clothes, dropping them where he stood in a heap on the floor. He moved to the edge of the curtain and drew it slowly back. She gave a start as he did, then smiled. "Come in," she cooed. "The water's fine."

He stepped into the shower and drew her close feeling her naked wetness warm against his skin. He kissed her deeply. She reached her arms up around his neck and kept the kiss alive thrusting her tongue between his lips. His hands moved to the small of her back pulling her even closer. She could feel him grow against her and slid her hands down to his buttocks and moved her hips slowly in circles against him. His mouth moved to her neck. As he kissed the nape he could feel her body shudder. He turned her around. She leaned forward and braced her hands against the tile beneath the showerhead. His hands cupped her breasts as he felt her warmth part for him. They moved together under the hot cascade, two as one in a slow solo dance. The rhythm stopped twice as she moaned and trembled, her knees briefly giving way. Twice it resumed, each time with a more urgent tempo. His hands moved to her hips. The adagio became allegro in an ever-speeding crescendo of force. It stopped suddenly as he groaned and leaned forward pressing his chest to her back, his arms under her arms pulling her to him as he briefly, slowly, resumed the rhythm. She whimpered suddenly, her legs shaking and bending. He held her tightly for a moment before she turned and embraced him. The pas de deux over, they held each other for some time letting the now cool shower wash them clean.

"I've never felt this," she breathed. "Never. Until you."

"We've but begun my fair, my love."

They moved out from the shower stall. He took a towel and dried her body with caresses. As he did, she leaned to him and kissed his body wherever it came near her; his hands, his arms, his chest, his shoulders, his back. She wrapped herself in another towel and watched as he dried himself and put the towel about his waist. She took his hand and led him into the bedroom. She pulled back the bedspread, then the down comforter. "Lie here and wait for me," she instructed.

He sat on the edge of the bed and swung his legs up on to it. He watched her leave the bedroom. She came back with the bottle and their glasses. She set them on the nightstand and freshened their drinks. "Here," she said handing him the glass. Then she giggled, "You earned it."

Conor gave a sheepish smile. "Nay, 'twas not me alone in that shower as I'm to recall."

She laughed and walked around the foot of the bed and got in, scooting over next to him, her glass in her hand. She took a sip. "This is the way it's supposed to be, isn't it?"

"Aye. I can't be imagining better."

She leaned back over to her nightstand, opened the drawer and took out a cigarette case and some matches. She took two out, lit one and handed it to Conor. Then she lit the other for herself. They sat and talked about her work after Conor referenced what he'd read in the study. He thought what she did fascinating. The conversation went on with her wanting to know about his younger days in Ireland. She thought his descriptions of the place and the people romantic.

She took a last sip of her drink and put the glass on the night table. She cuddled next to him after he did the same. "You know I want you to stay the night with me. Can you do that?"

"I can. And I would want to. There's to be nowhere else I want to be."

"Kiss me," she whispered.

He did and so began another dance.

* * *

The performances continued through the night interrupted only by brief intermissions of sleep and one in which Annie donned her robe and slippers and padded down to the kitchen to return with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches most of which they ended up licking off one another wrestling in laughter.

After the final performance they fell spooned together into a deep slumber that ignored the rising sun and the quiet knock on the bedroom door. More time passed and the knocking resumed, this time louder and more insistent and this time with a voice, "Miss Annie! Miss Annie! Are you all right?"

Annie opened one eye and got her bearings. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Opal! I'm fine!" She closed her eye.

"Miss Annie, Mr. Franklin is downstairs and is wanting to be talking to you."

She bolted upright, wide-awake. "Oh shit," she muttered. "Tell him I'll be right down!" she called out.

"Yes, Miss Annie."

Conor sat up. "Your husband is to be home?" he asked in alarm.

"Yes, apparently. I'll handle it. You stay here. What time is it?"

Conor looked at the alarm clock. "Ten to noon. Should I hide somewhere?

"No, you're fine. Just wait for me." She got out of bed and put on a nightgown and then her robe and slippers. She made her way downstairs thankful Franklin had the sense not to burst into her bedroom.

He was standing at the foot of the stairs a drink in his hand. "I hope he's worth it," he opened.

"What are you talking about?"

"The gigolo you have upstairs. The stud. The guy who probably spent the night fucking your brains out."

"Stop it. You don't know that."

Franklin took a step back and reached into his study and pulled Conor's jacket and tie off a chair back. He stepped back and threw them at her feet. "Based on the wardrobe I'd say you've been slumming it, my dear. I hope you'll be careful of disease. Such vermin are prone to carry it, you know."

"You're to talk. It's none of your business!"

"Ah, but it is my business. It's my business when my whore of a wife misses a deadline and delays a performance payment. That costs me money and that is not acceptable. Where the hell were you yesterday? Where the hell is the next draft?"

Annie's hand went to her mouth. She'd forgotten. The rewrite had been due Monday. She'd imagined it the next Monday. "I just forgot. I'm sorry. I'll get it out tonight, tomorrow latest."

"You think you can keep your legs together long enough to do that?"

"Fuck you."

Franklin smirked. "Not me my dear. You. So tell me, does he have a big one? Is he cut? Does he make you sore? I just want to be able to imagine it pounding you."

"Get out!"

He shook his head. "In due time. It's my house. I suggest you go back upstairs and wash yourself. I can smell him on you from here."

"Get out!" she screamed. She turned to go back up the stairs.

Franklin reached down and picked up the jacket and tie. " You!" he called to her. "Take this with you, whore!" He threw the clothes at her. "Tell him to get dressed while you finish your work."

Annie caught the jacket and tie and ran up the stairs. When she entered the bedroom Conor was standing dressed waiting for her. She burst into tears and fell into his arms. "I hate that man! I hate him! Oh, God, how I hate him!' Conor tried to comfort her. He held her in his arms and rocked her as she sobbed. Finally the tears dried and she pulled back. "I must work today. I really did miss a deadline. And now I'm in trouble. Can you make it to Biarritz on your own from here? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I really need to get to work. I made a big mistake."

"I understand. And I'm to be sorry too. Don't worry. I can handle it. You just take care of yourself."

"Wait until you see his Packard leave. Then you can go. I have to get dressed now."

"When can I see you again?"

"Not soon enough. Wait. Let me get you something." She went to her nightstand and took out paper and a pen. She wrote something down. "Here's my phone number. Call me tomorrow."

"I will."

Annie walked into his arms and kissed him. "I love you," she whispered. Then she went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Conor took his jacket and tie and went into the study and looked out the window waiting for Franklin to leave. It wasn't long before he saw him get into the Packard and pull out of the drive. He must go.

* * *

Conor walked a long way through the Hollywood Hills before he came across a bus stop. He was unfamiliar with the area and had set out in the general direction of Biarritz. But he didn't want to caddie. It was too late in the day and he had too much on his mind. And so he walked and thought. His night with Annie still consumed him. Her touch, her scent, her taste were now part of his very being. He loved her. There could be no other, of that he was sure. But Franklin's appearance that morning had drowned out the music on the dance they had danced that night. Reality was louder than their love. She was married. That was the fact.

It wasn't until he got to the bus stop that he decided what he would do. He would go home and change clothes. And then he would go to Biarritz. He would hit golf balls until he could think of nothing else. And he would stay the night in the Bogey House – their house.

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# Chapter 24

## Billy Redux

Thursday, May 22, 1930

Much to Myrtle's displeasure, every nurse on the ward had fallen in love with her son. Old, young, fat, thin, it didn't matter. One of them seemed to be constantly at his bedside smiling, smoothing the covers, fluffing his pillows, taking his temperature, recording his pulse, bringing him water, chatting away, making those eyes. She noticed none of the other patients seemed to be getting such attention. In fact it was only the cries of other patients that seemed to tear the nurses from Billy's company. Myrtle thought it all inappropriate. Very inappropriate.

Billy was feeling better. The double vision still bothered him but he found that if he shook his head it would disappear for a while. His head still hurt, but more from the wound and the stitches than the concussion. He could control the nausea as long as he didn't eat too much at once. That's why he was surprised when the doctor told him they wanted to keep him one more day for observation.

He'd objected. He felt fine. He was tired of lying around. He hated the food. He had things to do. But Myrtle had sided with the doctor. There was no point in rushing things. When Charlie showed up that afternoon he concurred. "Take a break, get your head on straight, this should be a wake up call, think about what you're going to do, take some time," is what he said.

His father didn't stay long. Myrtle was tired from her vigil and Billy was very much better. She felt like she would be leaving him in good hands, even if the hands were all too eager. So the two of them left for home after making Billy promise to rest like the doctor had ordered.

It had been easier to agree than to argue with them. So that's what he did. But in his mind he knew differently. The only way he could extricate himself from the mess he had made was to make money and make it fast. The Calcutta was the answer. As he lay in bed he assessed his physical state. Nothing was broken. With the help of a caddie he could calculate distances and line up with a target. All he really had to do was stand up and make a swing. He decided he could do that. He would do that. He had to do that.

As they had the past two days the nurses chose to take report at their four o'clock shift change while at Billy's bedside. Billy took the occasion to imagine himself cutting the herd.

* * *

Staying at Bogie House Conor was able to get into the yard early and so was able to pick up a double with one of the first groups out that morning. He got a single bag in the afternoon and was back in the yard by four o'clock. He then found himself playing two-handed pinochle with Dogface while he waited for a chance at one more loop. The card game was mindless enough that he could think. His night with Annie only strengthened his resolve to make her his own. Losing the chance at the Calcutta had put an end to the most immediate path. But there had to be a way and toting golf bags for rich people was not it. He thought about Michael and his connections. Maybe a horse would come along that wouldn't break its leg. Maybe there was a job at the ranch that would at least give him a steady income. After all, Michael had been able to put away a hundred dollars. He couldn't do that caddying. After an hour of cards and such thoughts he gave up on the day. He thought about Billy. He was angry with him; this was true. But he had become a friend. And now he was a friend who was hurt. He decided to pay him a visit in the hospital.

* * *

Billy was picking with his fork at a monochromatic plate of unidentifiable food when he saw Conor poke his head around the curtain. "Hey, what a surprise! Come on in," he greeted him.

"'Tis good to see your eyes open and your mouth working," Conor replied. "'Twas not the case last I saw you."

"Wasn't a lot to fix in there," he said pointing to his head with his knife. "I'm doing better. No thanks to this slop, though," he said tossing the utensils on the tray. "What have you been up to?"

"'Tis back to caddying for me, although I was to be hitting balls last night. Am still to be trying to wind down from getting ready for the Calcutta. Sort of like cooling off a horse after a workout I'm to be thinking."

Billy laughed. "Don't be talking about horses after that weekend we had in Tijuana."

Conor smiled. "No, that did nobody any good, did it?"

"It had its moments."

"So when are you to get out of here?"

Billy looked at Conor for a moment before replying. "I'm thinking right now."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"You're to mean right this minute?"

"Yes"

"Can you do that?"

"'With your help."

Just then a nurse popped in to check Billy's pulse and take his temperature. "And how are we this evening, Mr. Compton?" she purred. "I see you'll be staying with us at least one more day."

She'd popped the thermometer in his mouth so quickly he could only reply, "Ummm."

Conor gave him a quizzical look. Billy just shrugged.

The nurse took her hand from his wrist somewhat reluctantly it seemed to Conor. "Your pulse is fine," she said. Then she took the thermometer from his mouth and looked at it. "And so is your temperature." As she shook the thermometer down she asked, "Is there anything else I can get you? Water? A cup of tea? Anything?"

"No, thank you..." he looked at her name tag... "Gladys... I'm fine."

Gladys smiled and looked at Billy her hands clasped in front of her. She didn't move.

"Thank you, Gladys. Now I really need to talk to my manager, here. Very important business."

She was still standing and still smiling.

"Secret business," Billy said.

"Oh," she said, finally getting the drift. "I'm sorry. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you. You sure there's nothing I can get you?"

"No thank you, Gladys."

When she left Conor whispered, "You can't be leaving tonight! The nurse just said you're to be staying another day."

"We have to play the Calcutta. We have to. Both of us. I want you to help get me out of here. Take me over to Biarritz and see if I can hit balls. I think I can. And if I can we're going to play in that tournament."

"I don't know. We could be getting into trouble."

"We're already in trouble. At least I am. Come on. Be a sport."

Conor thought about it for a second. "All right. What do you want me to do?"

"Help me get dressed. My car's still down in the lot. Keys are in the stand there. I'm not sure I should drive but you can. Let's get to the club before we lose the light."

* * *

The ruse had been simple enough. Conor carried the food tray down to the nurses' station then feigned a fall and spilled everything onto the floor in a clatter. He grabbed his knee and screamed as if in pain. The act drew the attention of enough nurses Billy was able to slip down the hall and down the stairs unnoticed. Once he was gone, Conor stopped moaning, stood up and smiled. "I'm to be so sorry for the mess. So clumsy of me." And then he walked out of the ward as the nurses watched bewildered.

They drove down to the Bogey House and parked by the barn. Conor collected his clubs and the shag bag from the cellar steps. Billy was a little shaky on his feet so Conor gave him his wedge to use as a cane. With the bandage around his head and the hobble Billy joked he must look like the fifer in "The Spirit of '76." They made their way through the hedge and to a spot out in front of the fifteenth tee. Conor spilled out half the bag. "Let's to see what you can do. But take it easy. Just try some pitches first."

Billy raked a ball from pile and stutter-stepped his way into a stance. His first swing missed the ball. So did the second. He looked a little like a drunk trying to kill a snake. "Just figuring out where the ball is," he explained. He shook his head before making the next swing and he made contact, half topping it along the grass. "There it is," he said. He shook his head again and swung. The ball was struck solidly and arched into the air flying fifty yards down the fairway. "I think I got it now."

He did. With each successive swing Conor could see Billy the golfer coming back to life. The tempo smoothed, the turn got bigger and ball flew further. After a half hour he was hitting the driver high and far with his usual little draw.

He turned back to Conor. "I can do this."

"Aye. You can." Conor was quietly thrilled. The Calcutta was on!

"That's enough, though. I'm beat."

"Where do you want to go? Want to try and stay in the Bogey House tonight?"

"No. I need real food and my own bed. Plus my parents may be wondering where the hell I am. You can stay there too if you like."

"All right. We'll see."

* * *

Billy and Conor walked into the dining room as Charlie and Myrtle were finishing their supper. The parents looked up, startled at the sight of the son they'd just left convalescing in a hospital bed a few hours ago. Charlie was the first to find his voice. "What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?"

"I'm home," Billy said, stating the obvious.

"I can see that, smart guy. Why aren't you in the hospital where you belong?"

"I didn't belong there. I'm all right."

"That's not what the doctor said, dear," Myrtle piped in.

"No, I am. In fact Conor and I were just out at Biarritz hitting balls."

"Oh no!" Myrtle cried. "You're much too ill for that!"

"I swear that knock on your head must have killed any sense you had left in you. What are you thinking?" Charlie added.

"Look, Conor and I are going to play in the Calcutta. We have to. We can win the thing. Thanks to you, father, I need the money."

Charlie didn't like that. He rose from his chair and shook his finger at his son. "Listen to me. I didn't put you in that hospital. You got yourself there doing God knows what. And that's also why we're forcing you to make something of yourself. You're going to wind up dead in the gutter if you don't straighten up."

"Young man, did you have anything to do with this?" Myrtle said accusingly to Conor.

"No Ma'am," Conor replied somewhat embarrassed to now be part of the conversation. "Truly 'twas his own idea."

"Mother, leave Conor out of it. He's been nothing but a good friend."

"And what about Bob Graves?" Charlie said jumping to another tack. "You're gonna let him bid on you in your condition? He could drop a bundle on you based on your arrogance. And that's what it is, you know, your arrogance.

Billy took a step forward toward his father. Conor reached over to hold his arm. "Now you listen." Billy said, his face reddening, "You both told me the other day you wanted me to act like a man. Well, a man makes his own decisions based on what he knows and what's important to him and to those around him. And that's just what I've done. I've made a decision. And what I know is that I'm well enough to play and playing is important, It's important for me and it's important for Conor here. And if we're right, it's going to be important for Bob Graves as well. Now if you're not going to respect my decisions, you're not treating me like the man you want me to be."

Charlie sat back down and said nothing for a few moments, Myrtle looked at him waiting for his response. Then he looked to Conor. "How'd he do tonight? Can he play? And don't give me any bullshit."

"He can play," Conor said simply.

Charlie again thought for a few moments. "I'm calling Bob Graves. He needs to be in on this. If he's not prepared to bid on you, I'm not prepared to go in with him and this whole discussion doesn't mean anything."

"You call him," Billy said. "And you tell him Conor and I said we're ready."

Charlie got up from the table and started for his den. Over his shoulder he said, "And I'm going to tell him what I think about you being ready,"

Billy called out. "We're still entered as a team... somebody else can buy us don't forget."

Charlie just waved his hand back at them as he disappeared around the door.

Billy looked at Myrtle. "Mother, we're starved. Is there any food in the house for us?"

Happy the talk had suddenly switched to a topic she was more comfortable with Myrtle smiled, "I'm sure there is. I'll have Ester get something together for you two boys."

"And Mother, I'd like Conor to stay here tonight... and right through the Calcutta. That's still all right with you isn't it?"

"Of course, dear. The south guest room is all ready for him."

* * *

Billy and Conor had just started in on pork chops and mashed potatoes when Charlie came back into the dining room and sat down in his chair at the head of the table.

"So what did Bob say?" Billy asked.

"He's in. I explained everything to him and I told him I think you're crazy. But he said if Conor said you were all right that was good enough for him."

"He said that, did he?" Conor asked surprised.

"Yeah, he did. All I know is you boys better play hard. Bob's heard talk the bidding this year may get pretty rich. I think he'll go as deep as he needs to, but like I said, you boys better be prepared to make a run at it."

"We'll be ready, won't we partner?" Billy said.

"Aye. We'll be ready."

* * *

After the meal was finished Conor asked if he could use the telephone. Billy took him to Charlie's den and left him. Conor dialed the operator and gave her the number on the slip of paper he took from his pocket. He heard the phone ring and then he heard Opal answer. "Burke residence. Who's calling please?"

"Is Annie there?" he asked not used to reaching an intermediary. Then he added, "I mean Mrs. Burke?"

"Who is this?" Opal repeated.

"Conor... Conor O'Reilly... Mr. Conor O'Reilly."

"Let me see."

There was a long wait, then he heard, "Hello? Conor?

"Hello Annie!"

"Oh Conor, it's so good of you to call. I was hoping you would. I can think of nothing but you."

"And I you. I have good news to tell you of. Billy is out of the hospital and we're going to play in the Calcutta this weekend."

"That's fabulous! Oh, I'm so happy for you!"

"Aye, 'tis fantastic it is. We are to be very excited. And how are you? And how is your work?"

"Ugh. The work. I didn't even finish the last revision before they sent over more changes. Suddenly I've got to change everything from Boston to New York. It's crazy. I'm swamped."

"When can I see you?"

"Not for a couple days. Franklin's been circling about like a vulture waiting for this draft. I can't do anything until it's done. But you're busy with your tournament, aren't you?"

"Aye, this weekend anyway. Do you think you can come out and watch us? I'm to be told there's usually a big gallery. Maybe I could see you after one of the rounds?"

"Oh, I'll be there if I can be. I promise you that. How will I know when you're playing?"

"If I can't call you, you can call the pro shop. They'll have the tee times."

"Okay. Good. Where are you now?"

"I'm staying with Billy Compton at his parent's house until the tournament is to be over. They've been most gracious. 'Tis their phone I'm using so I can't be talking long."

"I see. And I should be getting back to the typewriter. But before you go I want you to know something."

"What 'tis that?"

"That I love you. I love you Conor O'Reilly."

"And I'm to love you Annie. With all of me heart."

"Then, 'til I see you again... goodnight."

"Aye. 'Til I see you again my love. Goodnight."

Conor hung the receiver on the hook and looked at the telephone. He did love her. And he would play for her as he'd never played before.

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# Chapter 25

## Auction

Friday, May 23, 1930

Conor and Billy practiced well into the early evening out by the fourteenth hole. Billy would rest frequently sitting on the ground and smoking a cigarette and then he would resume. Their banter was easy, their spirits high. Billy decided they would go out to dinner together afterwards before heading back to his parent's house. Although it was somewhat traditional for the players to attend the Calcutta auction the night before the event, Robert told Billy that Conor should not appear and that it would be less awkward if Billy didn't show either, especially showing the bandaged head. Robert didn't want any complications. It would be easier to handle in the morning after all the pairings were made and the tournament about to begin.

They were picking up their practice balls and getting ready to leave when Billy asked Conor, "Do you like Mexican food?"

Conor stopped and looked up at him and smiled. "We didn't even have any when we were in Mexico! And what would an Irishman to be knowing about Mexican food? I'm to understand they don't even eat potatoes!"

Billy laughed. "Well it's time you found out. It's good and it fills you up. And it's cheap, too! And that's good because we're going Dutch tonight."

"If it's to be cheap I can do that," Conor replied. "Where are we going?"

"Down on Alvera Street – little Mexican area not too far downtown. We can make an early night of it."

"I think you're to be serious about this Calcutta. No party for you tonight?"

"I'm dead serious. No more parties unless we win this thing."

* * *

Robert and Charlie Compton walked into the Biarritz ballroom together. Most of the crowd had already gathered, maybe a hundred and fifty men in tuxedos smoking cigars, holding drinks and talking at once to create a basso rumble that rolled back in echoes off the red brocade walls and carved plaster ceiling. The seven crystal chandeliers and the gilded sconces around the room cast an orange glow through the smoky fog. At one end was a raised platform with a large tote board that held the names of all the contestant teams in the Calcutta. At the other end was a bar where members were queued three deep. As the two made their way to the bar they waved back at a barrage of shouted greetings and questions.

"Hey, Charlie! Who's the guy paired with your kid?"

"Bob! You bidding on Billy again?"

"I hear you brought in a ringer from Redlands!"

"Charlie... passing on your own son's team again this year?"

"Hey Robert, wanna split your action with me?"

"Hey Compton, is Billy out cattin' around tonight like usual? Think he's gonna show up tomorrow?"

"What's with Billy playin' all the time with that caddie?"

"Where's Billy? And where's the other guy? They here tonight?"

"Bob! Who's this O'Reilly guy?"

Once they reached the back of the scrum in front of the bar, Charlie leaned and shouted into Robert's ear. "You still think you can pull this off tonight?"

Robert smiled and nodded. He took a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit up. He blew smoke over Charlie's head and shouted back, "It's in the bag. They can't stop us now!" Just then Robert felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see James Parker Pennington, Jr. standing behind him.

"Bob, I need a word with you," Pennington shouted. "Outside."

Robert turned back to Charlie. "Get me a scotch" he mouthed and mimed taking a drink. Then he followed Pennington through the crowd and out a set of French doors leading to the terrace overlooking the course. He closed the door behind him and muffled the din from inside.

Pennington walked to the edge of the terrace and assumed his usual imperious posture. "Bob, you know I'm on the board here and that I take that position quite seriously. It has come to my attention that one of the members of the team you entered may not be fully qualified to play in the true spirit of the competition."

"What spirit is that?" Robert rejoined.

"Why, the spirit of fairness I suppose."

"How is it the bona fide member of another club playing isn't fair?"

"Well, I took it upon myself to contact several members at the Redlands Country Club with whom I am familiar. None of them had ever heard of this Conor O'Reilly."

"Really? And what is it that makes you think these members are the keepers of the roster at Redlands?"

"I really don't believe you are in a position to question their veracity."

"It's not their veracity I'm questioning. It's your whole point," Robert said stepping closer to Pennington. "The competition is open to members here and other recognized clubs. Conor O'Reilly is a new member at Redlands and that's been verified in a letter sent to the tournament committee."

"Well," sniffed Pennington, "Upon further inquiries it seems this Mr. O'Reilly may in truth be but a caddie here at this very club. An immigrant they call 'Mick.' We should hardly permit such a breach of propriety. After all, aren't caddies virtually professionals? And isn't this an amateur-only competition? Besides, he's just hired help here."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Caddies aren't professionals and they aren't employees. The application was accepted and that's the end of it. I don't want to hear any more."

"Perhaps you need to hear this," Pennington hissed. "If you don't withdraw your entry a few of us are fully prepared to bid on the team. Such bidding may take the price out of your reach, not to mention that as the owners we could exercise our prerogative to withdraw them from the competition."

Robert leaned into Pennington's face. "Make all the threats you want. This is no longer about the money. You talk about fairness. What's fair is to let this kid play. And that's what he's going to do. Now I suggest you take your arrogant candy ass back in there to your friends and do whatever it is you want."

Pennington smirked and pulled back. "Very well. But there will be consequences I can assure you." He moved to step past but was stopped by Robert's hand to his chest.

"You threaten me like that one more time and you'll see consequences that smug face of yours won't like."

Pennington curled his lip in a sneer and pushed past Robert's hand. Robert turned and watched him strut back into the ballroom.

* * *

Robert found Charlie just as he emerged from the crowd at the bar with their drinks. Robert took the offered glass from Charlie's hand and said into his ear, "Follow me."

They went out through the foyer to the portico at the entrance to the clubhouse. Charlie stopped and took a sip from his drink and asked, "So what's up?"

"Well, there's been a snag. Seems word has gotten out that O'Reilly is a caddie here. The usual bunch of pricks plan to bid the team up. I'm not going to hold you to our deal. This could get ugly."

"I was afraid of something like this. I don't want to say I told you so, but well – you know. So who's behind it? Babcock and Pennington and that crew?"

"Yeah, Pennington at least. They can't disqualify the team. But they may try to take it over and withdraw them. I can't ask you to go as deep as it may take to cover the bid."

"Listen, Bob. As long as Billy can play I'm in. He's never had to work for anything. I want to see him work for this. Plus it sounds like you could use a friend right now and you know I'm that."

Robert smiled. "Thanks. Turns out this O'Reilly is a good kid. Got a lot on the ball. I want to see him get a shot at something."

"That's what I hear from Billy. Like I said, I'm in. Whatever it takes." Charlie paused for a moment as if thinking of something. "Maybe I can help."

* * *

James Parker Pennington, Jr. and Leland Babcock, the Biarritz club president, stood next to the stage engaged in earnest conversation. As it ended Babcock nodded as if in agreement with what was said and then stepped up onto the stage as Pennington returned into the crowd. Babcock walked to stage center and took hold of the microphone stand. He was a large man and so had to raise the stand up to its full height. Even so he had to bend down over his ample girth to get close enough to the microphone to be heard. He tapped on it making loud pops reverberate through the room. Then he intoned too loudly, "Is this on? Can you hear me? Can you hear me?" The crowd noise diminished enough that he understood he could be heard.

"Good evening gentlemen... and ladies too if there are any in earshot," he began as titters sprinkled across the room. "As you know, I am Leland Babcock, Biarritz Country Club president, and it's my honored duty tonight to conduct the auction for our fourth annual Calcutta Championship. Imagine that! Four years! My, how time flies, doesn't it? Now helping me tonight, please welcome up here board members Benjamin Crowder and Phillip Yancey."

The crowd applauded politely as the two took the stage and waved acknowledgement. As they did Robert and Charlie worked their way through the throng closer to the stage. Spotting Pennington, Charlie took Robert's arm and pulled him over to a spot just behind Pennington and his clutch of friends.

Babcock resumed his address. "So now, without further ado, we shall begin the auction. As we have in the past we've taken the liberty to seed the teams based on past performance and the tournament committee's esteemed considered opinion to determine the order they will come up for bid. So we begin tonight with team twenty-four, both Biarritz members, Messieurs Harold Walker and Edgar James. They've assured me they'll do better than their last place finish a year ago! Now what do I hear for an opening bid? Can I get fifty dollars?"

From the crowd someone shouted "How about fifty cents?" to a burst of laughter and guffaws.

"Now, now, let's be serious, gentlemen," Babcock admonished. "But all right, we start with half a dollar. Now what do I hear for a real bid?"

Harold Walker called up from the crowd, "We'll I think Irv and I are worth at least twenty-five bucks!"

"Well, I'm sure your wives think you're worth more than that!" Babcock responded. "So we have twenty-five dollars. Do I hear thirty? Thirty anyone?"

As the auction continued the prices paid for the teams climbed steadily. By the time they got to the highest seeded teams the bidding reached upwards of a thousand dollars apiece. Robert could see that the tote board reflected the seeding and that Billy and Conor would be last to come up. Which was surprising in that the defending champions were seeded but second. And that was all the more surprising because they were Babcock's and Pennington's sons.

"Well now we've come down to our two highest seeded teams," Babcock announced. "Next up are our defending champions... perhaps the finest team to ever play the Biarritz Calcutta. And I say that that with all due modesty because as you all well know my son Sterling is a member." The crowd gave a collective chortle. "I can report that he and Parker... or I should say properly James Parker Pennington, III... are well prepared for this year's event. That they are not the first seed is because of special circumstances I'll get to in a moment. But, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to start the bidding on this team myself at one thousand dollars. Do I hear more?"

"Twelve hundred," came a shout from the audience.

"Fifteen hundred," quickly came another.

"I have fifteen hundred," Babcock replied. "And I'll increase that bid to two thousand dollars. Again, do I hear more?"

"Twenty two hundred!" came the cry.

"All right, I'm given twenty two hundred. And exercising my privilege I will make it twenty five hundred dollars. Now do I still hear more?"

The crowd went quiet. No one had ever paid that much for a team.

"Very well, twenty five hundred dollars it is," Babcock decreed as Crowder and Yancey chalked his name and the amount onto the tote board behind him. "Now we come to the number one seed, the team of Billy Compton and one Conor O'Reilly who is said to be a member of the Redlands Country Club. I must report we have indeed verified Mr. O'Reilly's membership at that club. But, you see, we have also learned he is actually working as a caddie at our own club. Some of you may know him as 'Mick.'"

The room erupted in excited conversation. Mixed cries of "Ringer," "Fraud," "Bravo" and "Here here!" rang out. Babcock held up his arms asking for quiet. When the noise abated he continued.

"Obviously this is a special situation. We certainly don't want to exclude the member of another club from participating under the rules. But we also cannot set a precedent whereby one of our own caddies is allowed to compete against our membership. Thus we will permit Mr. O'Reilly to play, but we will unfortunately have to permanently rescind his caddie privileges at this club."

Another mixed chorus of "No!" "That's right!" "Here here!" "Let him play!" "Let him stay!" rose from the crowd as their reactions grew even louder. Again Babcock held up his arms for quiet.

Robert leaned into Charlie's ear. "Bastards."

When a semblance of quiet resumed, Babcock continued. "There is something else. In fairness to all, and in light of these special circumstances, James Parker Pennington, Jr. and a syndicate of his friends have agreed to make a preemptive and final bid of five thousand dollars for this team."

Again the room erupted yet even louder than before. Charlie turned to Robert. "Wait here!" he commanded.

Robert watched as Charlie quickly elbowed his way to Pennington's back. He put his hands on both shoulders and put his face up to Pennington's ear. He spoke for perhaps twenty seconds. Pennington suddenly turned, eyes wide, and looked at Charlie, his mouth agape. Robert could see Charlie nod a "yes," then turn and make his way back, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Watch this," Charlie said.

Pennington suddenly raised his arm and called out to Babcock as he hurriedly shouldered his way toward the stage through the throng. When he got to the edge he motioned Babcock closer. Babcock leaned down to Pennington who seemed to speak excitedly for a few moments. Babcock looked like he asked a question. Pennington nodded an emphatic "yes." Babcock asked another question. Pennington shook his head "no" and quickly moved back into the crowd.

Babcock rose and made his way back to the microphone and once again lifted his arms for quiet. "Quiet, quiet please!" he spoke into the microphone. "I have a clarification to make. Please!" The crowd simmered down to a buzz. "Very recent developments have occurred that have necessitated the withdrawal of the Pennington syndicate's bid." Again the noise swelled to engulf the room. Again Babcock raised his arms beseeching quiet. "Please... please! As a result we will now open the bidding for this team. What do I hear for Compton and O'Reilly?"

Robert immediately shouted out "Fifteen hundred!" He quickly turned to Charlie and asked, "What did you say to him?"

Charlie smiled and shook his head.

"Fifteen hundred," Babcock announced. "Do I hear more?"

"Eighteen hundred!" came a shout.

"Two thousand!" came another.

"Right, then. I have two thousand dollars," Babcock proclaimed. "Any more?"

"Twenty five hundred," Robert shouted out.

There was a pause. Babcock started to speak. "Twenty five..."

"Twenty eight hundred!" came another cry.

Robert immediately countered, "Three thousand dollars!"

A collective gasp escaped the crowd. Then a rumble of babble spread across the room. Babcock looked shaken. "We have a bid of three thousand dollars," he shouted over the noise. "Are there any others?" The crowd fell silent in anticipation. Five seconds passed, then five more. "Three thousand! No more bids?" Still silence. "Then three thousand it is to Mr. Robert Graves. Congratulations."

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. Crowder and Yancey again chalked the tote board. Babcock took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. Pennington turned around and scowled. Robert and Charlie exchanged grins.

Babcock turned and studied the tote board as Crowder and Yancey finished chalking it. He gathered himself and stepped back to the microphone. "That will conclude tonight's auction... now on to the final tally. Thanks to the quick arithmetic of my associates on stage I can report our Calcutta pool this year totals twenty four thousand five hundred dollars." More cheers and applause rose from the crowd. "I dare say that's a new record for our event." He turned and consulted the board again. "As a result the second place finish will be worth seven thousand three hundred and fifty dollars. First place will be worth seventeen thousand one hundred and fifty dollars!" Again cheers and applause. "Final seeding and pairings for tomorrow will be based on tonight's bidding. They'll be posted later tonight here on stage and in the locker room. First group will go off at ten o'clock tomorrow. This concludes our business this evening. Thank you... and everyone enjoy the rest of the night."

Babcock, Crowder and Yancey walked off the stage to scattered polite applause. Babcock made for Pennington.

Robert grabbed Charlie by the arm. "Come on, let's go outside."

Once out on the veranda they both lit cigars. "Well, you did it, Bob," Charlie said, puffing away. "I think we showed those prigs a thing or two."

"You have to tell me what you said to Pennington."

"You don't want to know."

"Come on!"

"No. Just some business my company has had with his father's a while back. Let it go."

"All right. But thank you."

"We got what we wanted. And if those two kids can come through this weekend we're going to get more than we bargained for. Hell, my cut ought to be a little over four grand if they win. That would set Billy up just fine."

"Yeah, the money would be great. I'll help the caddie out too. Especially since they've booted him out of here. But winning would really stick it to those pricks in there. And that would be sweet."

"Yes it would," Charlie agreed taking another long pull on his cigar. "Yes it would."

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# Chapter 26

## Saturday

Saturday, May 24, 1930

Conor slept well in the big plush four-poster bed with the down comforter and satin sheets. When he opened his eyes he could smell coffee and see the glow of dawn poking out around the edges of the drapes covering the windows. He rolled to his back and began making out the objects in the room; the mahogany dresser, armoire and wardrobe, the upholstered wing chair, the large floor mirror, the oil paintings on the walls, the silent butler where hung the new and freshly ironed clothes he would wear that day. On the bedside table was a silver coffee service the maid had delivered silently while he was asleep. He thought to himself, "This is how I intend to live my life one day." Then he thought of Annie. He imagined this was what she must awaken to every day.

He sat up and poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. He stretched his arms and legs. He began to think about the Calcutta. The weather was to be good and the wind light. That was good for Billy. He liked Billy. There was more to him than his reputation. When Conor had balked a bit at the Mexican food they had the night before Billy picked up the tab and took him to a cafe where Conor was able to get the meat and potatoes he craved. Billy bought that meal too, despite his earlier declaration they go Dutch.

He also liked Billy's mother, Myrtle. She had met them at the door when they came back from dinner. She reminded him of his own mother in some ways – direct, matter-of-fact, caring. He could see her love for her son in her eyes. She sat at the kitchen table with them while they shared some pie before heading to bed. They talked of many things, but mostly of Billy, how his head was feeling, what he was thinking and his plans for the future. Billy didn't talk about making money as much as he talked about doing something that would make a difference in people's lives. He didn't know what they would be yet, but that was what he was looking for. Billy's mother had smiled proudly at his words.

Conor poured another cup of coffee and sat back in bed. There was plenty of time this morning. He and Billy didn't have to be to the course until ten thirty and so Myrtle had planed a late breakfast for them. As he had nearly every moment he'd had to himself since Tuesday he thought again of Annie. He reflected on their nights together and the way she filled his heart with joy. He knew she was his future. There could be no other woman for him. But to make that future possible he must become more than a caddie. Perhaps the Calcutta would be the first step.

He eventually got up from bed and shaved and showered, the shower yet another luxury of his stay at the Compton's and another reminder of his Annie. He dressed himself in his fine new clothes and again thought of her. As she had asked, he would not wear a cap today. He picked up the handkerchief with the yellow embroidered tulip and put it to his face to smell her again. Then he put it in his front pocket where he could reach in and touch it. Annie would be watching him today. She would be his incentive to win.

* * *

Robert drove to Biarritz early. He wanted to talk to Conor before the round about what had happened at the auction. He felt terrible about costing him his job. He parked his car and went into the clubhouse to get some coffee in the men's grill. The first groups had begun to tee off and most of the members were down at the tee to watch.

Charlie Compton was in the grill drinking his coffee alone at a table. He had been too excited to stay at the house and he hadn't wanted his nervousness to infect the two players. He'd simply greeted them as they came down for their breakfast, told them he'd see them at the club, wished them luck and then left.

"Morning, Charlie," Robert said. "You got here early!"

"Yeah, well, it's going to be a big day, right?"

"It is. How are the boys?"

"Fine. Billy seems better. They're eating breakfast now. They'll be here soon."

Robert sat down and motioned for the waitress to bring him some coffee. "That was quite a night, wasn't it? I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Pennington's face when you said whatever it was you said to him."

Charlie smiled. "Yeah. That was rich. Son of a bitch had it coming, though."

"I'd still like to know what it was you said."

"No you wouldn't. Those guys in the oil business may be rich, they may look clean and proper, but they're as dirty as the crud they pump from the ground. And unfortunately one sees a lot of dirt in the trucking business."

"All right," Robert conceded. "Listen, I have to tell you something. I'm going to give the caddie the option of pulling out to save his job. I know what this means for Billy but it's just not right for the kid to give up everything just so we can maybe win a few bucks."

Charlie paused, holding his cup at his lips. "I wish you wouldn't do that. I want to see Billy work for something."

"I know. But this has gotten out of hand. We're talking the kid's livelihood."

Charlie lowered the cup from his lips. "Suit yourself. You bought them, you can shelve them. I just wish you wouldn't."

"No, I have to. But I have a hunch he plays anyway. He strikes me as that kind of guy."

"Hope you're right."

* * *

On the ride to the golf course Billy had a story to tell Conor and a reason for telling it. "I may need your help today with something," Billy started.

"Aye. What 'tis that? You're not to be feeling well?"

"No, not that. I'm fine. It's just that a few years ago I was engaged to this girl. Arlene was her name."

"You? Engaged? Is this to be really you telling me such a thing?"

Billy grinned. "Yeah, well, I was different then. Things were different. But the point is she dumped me."

"I can't imagine that."

"Well it happened. And she went and married this other guy, one of the guys we're playing with today."

"Oh, I see," Conor said shifting a bit uncomfortably in the seat. "Who's that?"

"Babcock. Sterling Babcock. They call him Skipper. But they should call him asshole. The guy's a complete twit."

"Can he play?"

"Oh, he can play all right. And he knows it. And he makes sure everybody else knows it too."

"What is it you want from me?" Conor asked.

"I don't know if you've ever lost a girl."

"No, not really."

Well, it's hard. It makes you hate a lot of things and a lot of people. I've gotten over most of it. But I can't get over that jerk. He gets under my skin. I need you to keep me away from him."

"It's golf we're to be playing, not Shakespeare. Play the golf. Ignore him. 'Tis medal play so we don't even have to care what he's doing."

"I know all that. It's just that there's going to be times where I want to punch him right in the nose. Just help me stay away from him. Help me forget him."

"Aye. Then that's what I'll do."

* * *

Conor and Billy changed shoes in the locker room. It was the first time Conor had been inside the clubhouse. He marveled at the tall oak lockers, the leather-upholstered benches, the soft carpeting. Even the bathroom and shower area was amazing, all glossy small white tiling smelling of talc and Clubman and Lilac Vegetal after-shave lotions.

They walked down to the pro shop where they met up with Stovepipe and Dogface who were waiting with their golf bags. The four walked out to the range where the two players started to loosen up. At the far end of the range they could see Babcock and Pennington doing the same. Eventually Skipper and Parker finished and walked back down the line, Benny and Pissquick, their caddies, trailing behind. When they came to Billy they stopped.

Babcock was one of those unfortunate people whose face held a perpetual sneer. "Hello, Compton," he said. "I see you are well attended today. Not many players can boast three caddies at their service."

Billy held his tongue for a moment. Then he couldn't. "Go to hell."

Conor could see Billy clench his fists. He stepped over and put his hand on Billy's shoulder.

"Yes, please do restrain him, caddie. If you can keep your hothead under control perhaps there'll be a tip in it for you at the end of the day. And Billy, what's with the bandage on your head? Some husband finally catch up with you?" Babcock moved as if to continue then turned back and added, "By the way, Arlene sends her regards." He gave a wicked smile. "Did you know we're expecting?"

Billy tried to step forward but felt Conor's hand holding him back. He stood silently and watched the group walk away.

"I see what you mean," Conor said. "'Tis indeed a fool he is. But such talk is twice as bitter when it comes back to haunt."

"I know, I know," Billy muttered. "I just want to get that bastard."

"Aye. But that's best to be done beating him. And to do that you must forget him. Now come on. Let us hit a few more shots."

They finished warming up and then moved back down to the practice putting green. A small crowd had gathered around it watching the players. Billy saw his father and Robert among them.

When Robert saw Conor he called out and waved for him to come over. "Over here... I need to talk to you."

"Good morning, Bob! 'Tis a fine day for golf 'tis it not?" Conor replied smiling as he neared Robert and Charlie.

"Good morning. Yes it is. But I need to tell you something. Come here..."

Conor came closer, Billy at his side. He could see the concern on Robert's face. "What is it, Bob?"

Robert didn't know where to begin. "Some things happened last night at the auction. I'm really sorry about it. There's no problem with you playing in the Calcutta, but there's another problem."

"What is it?" Conor asked suddenly concerned.

"The gist of it is they don't want a caddie competing in their member events. So while they're going to let you play, they're going to fire you as a caddie. You can't caddie at Biarritz any more."

Conor was stunned. He hadn't imagined such a possibility. His first thought was Tuesday and Annie and Bogey House. How would he meet her? Where could they go?

Billy reacted first. "You must be joking, right? Why would they do such a thing?"

Charlie jumped in. "Because they're a bunch of colossal jerks. That's why."

"Look, it's my fault," Robert continued. "I should never have set you up like this. I'm sorry. But that's why I wanted to tell you that you don't have to play. I don't want to cost you your job over this Calcutta thing. You can withdraw if you want. There are enough members who like you that you'd probably be able to keep caddying. So it's up to you."

Conor stood silent for just a moment. "No. Play I will."

"You don't have to. I'm fine either way," Charlie countered.

"No. I want to. 'Twas never my intent to be a caddie for my living. If I can't find something else I'll find another club where to caddie. Or something else to do." Conor turned toward Billy. "We've worked hard for this. It could mean a lot for Billy here. And me self. I want to see what we can do."

"All right. That's it then," Robert said. "We're in."

Charlie grinned. "Now let's see you two guys win this thing."

* * *

As Conor and Billy were about to walk down to the first tee Gino walked onto the practice green. He came up to Conor a grim look on his face. "I just heard I lost a caddie last night. I think that stinks. Really stinks. You were the best I had."

"Thanks, Cap'n," Conor replied. "I'm to appreciate that."

"Listen, come here," Gino said putting his arm around Conor and whispering in his ear. "Some of the guys have told me some things. You keep an eye on Babcock. Word is he does things in the rough. And he never loses a ball. Know what I mean?"

Conor looked at Gino and smiled. "Thanks, Cap'n. I'll keep that in mind."

"There's a reason he wanted Benny to loop for him. So keep an eye out." He took his arm off Conor's shoulder and moved back. "You and Billy do good today. All the guys in the yard want to see you pull this off."

Conor smiled and nodded. He looked over at Billy and tossed his head to the side. "Let's go," he said.

* * *

The scene at the first tee was awkward. The usual pleasantries and any exchanges of "good luck" or "play well" were absent. This was not lost on the crowd of about forty people who had come out to watch the last group of the day tee off and start their round. Instead of politely applauding the player's shots as they had the earlier groups they remained silent in the mood of the moment as the four players hit their tee shots and walked down the fairway, their caddies in tow. More than half the crowd followed them off the tee to gallery the match, Robert and Charlie among them. Conor kept looking for Annie in the group following them but couldn't see her. Perhaps, he thought to himself, she would catch up with them on the back nine.

All four players were accomplished and had prepared enough for the event so that the pace was brisk and the caliber of play high. Each team recorded two birdies over the first six holes. Parker Pennington then got hot, making three consecutive birdies on his own to bring his team to five-under at the turn. Conor and Billy both had birdie chances through that stretch but couldn't convert.

By the time they reached the par three fourteenth hole, Billy and Conor had each made a birdie to get within a stroke of Babcock and Pennington. Standing on the tee at fourteen, Conor stared at the hedge behind the green. He had convinced himself that this is where Annie would finally appear. So rapt was his attention Billy had to nudge him when it was his turn to hit. Conor could no longer focus on his game. Where was she? Why hadn't she come out to watch as she said she would? He went on to make his worst swing of the day, pulling the ball well left of the green. Billy gave him a quizzical look as they walked off the tee and down the hill to the green.

Billy held par for them there and again over the next three holes as Conor continued his bad play. Babcock made a birdie on the seventeenth hole to take his team to six under for the round. Standing on the eighteenth tee waiting for Babcock and Pennington to tee off Billy leaned to Conor's ear. "What's wrong with you? You don't even act like you're here!"

Conor looked at him. "'Tis nothing. I'm all right."

"Why are you looking around all the time?"

"'Tis nothing."

"Well, snap out of it."

Conor tried to think. Maybe Annie was waiting at the clubhouse for him to finish. That was it, he thought. It must be.

Billy teed off first for the team on the home hole pushing his ball to the right into the rough along the tree line. Conor then took the tee determined to play at least the last hole well. He hit a good drive – a low fade that followed the dogleg to the right around the trees. After Billy hit up short of the green and Skipper and Parker had played to the green, Conor walked to his ball and surveyed the scene in front of him. The green was perhaps a hundred and sixty yards away, uphill, with a light following wind. Then he surveyed the crowd behind the green. It had grown to almost two hundred people around the back of the green and up on the clubhouse veranda. It was impossible to pick out Annie from this distance. His mind went back to golf. He slipped his club out from his bag as Stovepipe stepped back out of the way with it. He addressed the ball and swung. The ball took off in a high arc drawing gently from right to left. It fell from the sky, landed on the green and bounced to within a foot of the hole. Applause and cheers fell down the hill from the crowd around the clubhouse.

"That's more like it!" Billy cheered.

Conor grinned and tossed the club to Stovepipe. He began the march up the hill to the green all the while searching the crowd at the top for his Annie.

* * *

There had been no Annie anywhere in the crowd, in the clubhouse, or anywhere else at Biarritz Country Club. After the round Conor joined Billy, Charlie and Robert in the men's grill for a beer. They talked about the round – how they were one shot ahead of three other teams and only one back of Babcock and Pennington. Which meant they would play the last day again with those two. Billy offered that their opponents had played much better than normal and that might make them vulnerable the second day when the golfing laws of average caught up to them. Conor promised to work harder on keeping his head in the game.

As they sat there a number of members came by their table offering congratulations. Some even offered their regrets at losing Conor as a caddie.

Conor still couldn't get Annie out of his mind. Where happened to her? Maybe Meg knew. "Robert, is your wife joining you tonight here?" he asked.

"No, tonight we're going to dinner with some friends downtown. But she and the girls will be here tomorrow night. Why?"

"I was just to be wondering. I wanted to tell her how sorry I am I won't be caddying for her and Mrs. Burke come Tuesday," he said trying to cover his question.

"Oh, Meg knows all about that. Don't worry. I'm sure she'll let Mrs. Burke know."

Conor took some hope in that. Maybe tomorrow Annie would show up. And, if not, maybe Meg would know why.

The four had a second round before heading off their separate ways. Conor was having dinner with the Compton's that night. Myrtle had promised him roast beef, potatoes and vegetables straight from the garden she kept behind the house. He couldn't wait. He was famished.

(back to top)

# Chapter 27

## Franklin

Saturday, May 24, 1930

Annie was sound asleep when Opal gently touched her arm and whispered, "Miss Annie, Miss Annie. Wake up. I'm sorry. Wake up."

She opened her eyes and gave a start. It took her a second to realize she was awake. The light was on in the room and the maid was standing beside the bed. "What is it?" she managed to utter blinking her eyes and rolling to her back.

"There's gentlemen downstairs who need to speak to you."

"What? What time is it?"

"It's just past five o'clock, Miss Annie."

"Five o'clock? Downstairs? Who's downstairs?"

"Two gentlemen."

"What do they want?"

"I don't know. But I think they said they was the police."

"Police?" Annie was suddenly wide-awake. "Tell them I'll be right down."

"Yes Ma'am," Opal said a worried look on her face. "Right away, Ma'am."

Annie drew back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She tried to think but could only feel dread starting to well up inside her. Her heart began to pound. She slid into her slippers, rose and walked to the chair. She picked up her robe and put it on. She went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She toweled it off and then looked into the mirror and tried to arrange her hair quickly with her hands. She realized looks didn't matter and gave up.

As she came down the stairs she saw the two men in suits standing and waiting inside the front door holding their hats in their hands. Opal was standing to the side. As she walked to them the taller, older one spoke.

"Are you Mrs. Franklin Burke?"

"Yes I am," she replied.

"I'm Detective Gleason of the Malibu Police Department. This is Sergeant Miller. May we come inside?"

"Yes, certainly. This way." She nodded to Opal to leave them and then led the way into the living room. "Please, sit down."

"You should probably have a seat as well, Mrs. Burke," Gleason suggested, taking a chair next to the coffee table. Miller continued to stand as Annie sat down on the couch. She felt suspended in time, her pounding heart the only measure of reality.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I'm afraid we come with some very bad news," Gleason began. "Your husband, Franklin Burke, is dead."

"Dead? Dead! What do you mean, dead? How...? What...?"

"He was murdered. It happened last night. We're very sorry to have to tell you this."

"You can't be serious. Murder? This can't be real."

"I'm afraid it is. We need to ask you some questions."

"Questions? Why questions?" Annie could feel herself losing control. She reached her hands down to steady herself on the couch.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?"

"Saw him? I don't know. Wednesday? Yes, Wednesday he stopped by the house."

"Did he say anything unusual? Did he talk about anyone else?"

"No. Nothing unusual. He hasn't been staying here much at all."

"I see. Do you know a Leslie Delrina?"

At the sound of a name Annie gasped and brought her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

"So you do?" Gleason asked.

Annie dropped her hands. "No. Not really. Who is she?"

"It's not a she. He's a man."

Annie gagged, again covering her mouth. Her mind raced back to the letter in the bedside table. She began to shake.

Gleason looked at Miller. "Go find her some water," he ordered. He turned back to Annie. "I know this is hard. I'm sorry. Take you time."

Annie shook her head still trying to compose herself. She couldn't stop trembling. Eventually Miller returned from the kitchen with a glass of water. She took a sip but her hands were shaking too hard to take another. She set the glass down on the coffee table. Her eyes were red and starting to brim with tears.

"We believe it was a murder-suicide," the detective went on. "We think this Leslie Delrina killed your husband and then took his own life. We need to know if you knew of anything going on between them."

"No," Annie whispered. "Nothing. I don't know. Just a letter. I saw a letter."

"A letter? What kind of letter? Do you still have it?"

Annie gagged again at the thought. She reached for the glass but stopped short. "It was a love letter," she managed to gasp. "I don't know where it is now. An 'L' signed it. That's all I know."

"So you never met this person? You don't know where he lives?"

"No."

"Where was your husband staying when he wasn't here?" Gleason pressed on.

"I don't know. He talked about Santa Barbara and Malibu. But I don't know where. I never asked."

"I see," Gleason said. He shifted forward in the chair. "There's one more thing, I'm afraid."

Annie's eyes widened. "What?" she breathed.

"We need you to come with us. We need you to identify the body."

"Oh my God. No. You can't mean that."

"I'm sorry. We must. You are next of kin. There is no one else. We'll wait until you can get ready. We'll take you there and bring you back. Take your time."

Annie buried her head in her hands and wept.

* * *

There are times in one's life you exist in a place where there is no time or world around you. There are no sounds to hear, sights to see, scents to smell, objects to touch. The mind can only look in on itself like one might look in a mirror, its reflection at once mesmerizing and terrifying.

Annie rode in the unmarked police car to the Los Angeles County Morgue in such a state. It was as if the reflection of her mind was but a surreal dream that would evaporate when she opened her eyes. Except her eyes were open. They were open as she rode through the city streets. They were open as she walked through the door of the morgue and down its too bright empty echoing antiseptic hallways. They were open when they pulled Franklin's corpse from the refrigerated vault as if pulling the drawer from a file cabinet. And they were open when they pulled back the white sheet revealing his face.

The shock of seeing him dead, lying cold and draped in white in a sterile white room with spotless linoleum tiled floor somehow jolted her back to some semblance of reality. She swallowed hard and then heard the detective speak.

"Turn on the recorder, please," Gleason ordered. Then in a few seconds, "Is it running now?" He waited until he heard an affirmative sound from within the room. "All right, then,'' he said. "Mrs. Burke, is this your husband, Franklin James Burke?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Louder, please."

"Yes it is!" she fairly shouted.

"Thank you, Mrs. Burke. Turn off the recorder please."

Annie stood in silence as they pulled the sheet back over Franklin's face and pushed the drawer back into the wall. She felt Gleason's hand on her elbow leading her from the room through the double swinging doors and out into the hallway. There she saw two other policemen in suits standing on either side of an old woman, her eyes red from crying, a white handkerchief held to her mouth. Annie walked past her and through the halls to the doors leading to the outside and her ride home.

She was not prepared for what met her. The instant Miller opened the door for them the air exploded in white-hot lights flashing and popping over and over again. Blinded, she held her arms up in front of her face. Gleason and Miller almost carried her past the phalanx of press photographers running along side them firing flashes again and again. They made it to the car, opened the rear door and pushed her in headfirst. The photographers continued to shoot through the car windows as the two policemen ran to their doors, got in and quickly pulled away.

"I'm sorry about that, Mrs. Burke," Gleason said turning his head toward the backseat. "Word gets around fast in this town."

* * *

Annie walked into the house and took the downstairs phone off the hook. Then she collapsed onto the couch in the living room sitting upright on the edge of the cushion. She couldn't move. Opal came in and asked her if she could get her anything. Annie didn't move. She asked again. Annie finally managed a weak, "No. Please go, Opal." The maid left.

Annie sat there staring straight ahead, unable to form a thought. She held that pose with her empty mind looking only inward on itself, seeing nothing, for more than an hour. Then she leaned over onto to the couch and curled herself into a ball and fell into a deep sleep.

It was early evening when she awoke. Her first thought was of Conor.

(back to top)

# Chapter 28

## Sunday

Sunday, May 18, 1930

As was his custom on Sunday mornings, Robert rose early and went downstairs for his coffee and orange juice. When the weather was nice, as it was this day, he would take it on the back flagstone patio where the maid had left him the service on the wrought iron table along with the business, sports and comic sections of the _Sunday Los Angeles Times_. Despite the slight chill he enjoyed sitting outside and smoking a cigar with his morning coffee. Eventually Lilith, and Sylvia if she was home, would join him to read the comics and share the coffee and juice. Meg would sleep in a while longer and then have her coffee and juice in bed. The maid would leave her service on a tray along with a white rose in a crystal bud vase and the front page, society and entertainment sections of the _Sunday Times_. So it was there, in bed, that Meg read the news. She nearly dropped her coffee cup when she saw the two-column story just below the fold on the front page:

Murder-Suicide Claims

Hollywood Screenwriter

Franklin Burke Shot Dead

In Apparent Lover's Spat

MALIBU – Academy Award-nominated screenwriter Franklin Burke, 45, was found shot to death early Saturday morning in what police describe as a murder-suicide at the hand of Leslie Delrina, 29, a waiter and part time actor.

Police were summoned to Delrina's beach side home at 1:30 a.m. by neighbors who reported hearing multiple gunshots at the residence. There they found the nude bodies of Burke and Delrina in the master bedroom.

Malibu Police Detective James Gleason, the investigating officer, reported Burke suffered multiple gunshot wounds to the body while Delrina died of a single bullet to the temple.

Burke, who resided in the Hollywood Hills, is best known for his screenplay _Dandelion Wine_ starring Glenda Moore and Frederick Carton, which earned him the Motion Picture Academy nomination last year. Other works include the films _John and Maude_ , _New York Express_ and _Broken Promises_.

As Meg continued to read, the story broke to an inside page where she saw the photos: a file photo of Franklin taken at the Academy Awards, a publicity head shot of Delrina and a photo of Annie flanked by two policemen, her face contorted in surprise and horror with a caption that read, "Mrs. Franklin Burke leaving the Los Angeles County Morgue after identifying her husband's body."

With disbelief Meg re-read the story. Then she got out of bed and went to the telephone. She looked in her phone directory and then dialed Annie's number. There was a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Again a busy signal. Then she called friends. She had to share the news before she went downstairs and told Robert and the girls.

* * *

Annie had slept little through the night. She finally roamed from her bedroom into the study. She looked at the typewriter and the paper still in it with the words she had written when her world was whole. She went to the window and peeked through the blinds. The four cars full of tabloid reporters and photographers that had showed up early that morning were still camped on the street on either side of the driveway. Opal had turned them away when they came to the door but they had stayed anyway. She would have to deal with them later. She needed to talk to someone. She backed from the window and left the study. She went downstairs and put the phone back on the hook then returned to her bedroom. She dialed the operator for a long distance line.

Louise picked up on the fourth ring. "Hello?" she said.

"Auntie, this is Annie."

"Oh, hello Annie. How are you?"

At the sound of her aunt's voice Annie began to sob. "Oh Auntie... Auntie..."

"Annie, what is it? What's wrong?"

Annie finally found her voice and told her aunt what had happened. Franklin was dead. She hated him even more that he was dead. Murdered. His lover was a man. That snake. Sickening. The lover killed himself. Police had come. She had to identify the body. It was horrible. The photographers. Now reporters. Don't know what to do.

Louise stayed strong. She listened to the horror in Annie's voice and let her disgorge all the anger and fear and shock before responding. She asked Annie if she'd called her parents. When told no she offered to make the call. She told her to come to Chicago for a while until things settled down. She advised her not to talk to reporters, not to talk to anyone but a lawyer. She would need time. She should take care of herself.

Annie listened but knew she needed something else. She needed Conor. She thanked her aunt and promised she would call the next day. When she hung up she went to her dresser and looked at her watch. It was eleven o'clock. She would need to get ready to go to Biarritz and watch Conor. That thought gave her purpose and with purpose came the ability to move. She began to pick out some clothes.

* * *

Conor and Billy ate breakfast with Charlie while Myrtle slept in. They talked about the previous day's play and their strategy for the upcoming round. While Charlie was not that accomplished a golfer, he weighed in with his opinion on the shots required for the different holes. The two players listened politely knowing he was trying to help but could only speak to a different game than the one they were playing. He also told Conor the story of the auction and how Parker's father had attempted to sabotage the team. Conor was not surprised. He understood fully the zeal with which some of the rich sought to protect their status by keeping the help in their place. But his mind was not on the Biarritz membership.

Ever since he awoke and all through the breakfast conversation Conor found his thoughts trailing off to Annie. He couldn't understand why she hadn't come to watch him on Saturday. That he'd been dismissed as a caddie troubled him most because he wouldn't be able to meet her for Tuesday's round. Robert's subsidy the past two weeks had allowed him to save enough money to get by for a time. It was Annie that was his concern. He must see her today.

Billy watched Conor closely during the meal. He could see his eyes drift off to another place. It was the same thing he had seen late in yesterday's round. Something was distracting him and that wasn't good. He needed Conor this day. He decided to talk to him when they got to the course.

* * *

The caddies gathered in the yard waiting for their players to arrive could talk of nothing but Conor's – Mick's – play the day before. It was as if he were playing for each one of them. All the frustrations of their subservient role at Biarritz were salved at the thought another poor caddie, just like them, could possibly rise and triumph over their rich employers. Gino looked out at the yard from his door with some satisfaction. This yard full of misfit, damaged and luckless men could still muster spirit. It reminded him of the camaraderie he'd experienced in the Great War. And, as in a war, he would make sure there were spies working on his behalf.

When Dogface came through the gate Gino called him over. "You, Dogface! Git your ugly mug over here."

Dogface bowed his head and moved to the door. "What is it, Cap'n?"

"You didn't see anything funny with Babcock yesterday, did ya?"

"Nope. He played a clean round – weren't never in that much trouble. He and the Parker kid ham and egged it pretty good is all," Dogface whispered.

"Benny's watching him too, right?"

"Well, yeah. I mean I told him what was up. But, you know, with Benny you're never sure it's gettin' through, know what I mean?"

"He ain't all that dumb, he just don't talk," Gino said. "Anyway, keep your eyes open today. I know you're on Compton's bag, but like I said before, stay as close to him as you can. You see anything, you tell Mick right away."

"Yeah, well, you know I will."

* * *

As they pulled into the Biarritz parking lot Conor scanned the cars looking for the red Cadillac coupe. He didn't see it but he reasoned it was still early. Billy had felt well enough to drive and he parked the car and they went to the locker room to change into their shoes. Conor hung his spare clean shirt and the new yellow tie he hoped to wear for Annie after the round in Billy's locker. He noticed his golf shoes had been cleaned and polished and left in front of the locker as if he were a member. He thought about how this would be the last day he would enjoy such a luxury, how it would be his last day at Biarritz. There would be people he missed. But he also knew that his future lay elsewhere. Definitely in another place, hopefully somehow with Annie.

As they sat on the bench in front of the locker Billy looked over at Conor and again saw his eyes focused off in another realm. It was time to say something. "Listen, you seem like you have a lot on your mind. Something besides golf."

"'Tis nothing, really."

"I saw that look at breakfast and yesterday on the back nine. I lost you for a few holes there. I need you today. So what is it? What's going on?"

Conor squirmed a little. "I'm to be quite all right. Really, just a few things I'm to be thinking of."

"Well, we have a shot at something big today, big for both of us. I've got to have you up for this."

"I'll be ready. 'Tis a promise."

"Good."

They finished getting ready and emerged from the locker room to meet their caddies down by the pro shop. As they walked down the path Conor heard someone calling out his name.

"Conor... Conor... Wait up please!"

He turned back to see Meg Graves hurrying toward him from the clubhouse waving her hand, Robert and the two girls trailing behind. "Mrs. Graves!" he called back.

Meg reached Conor and Billy a bit breathless. "Hello Billy," she acknowledged with a small smile. Then she turned to Conor the smile fading, her tone lowering. "I don't know if you've heard what happened to Mrs. Burke. It's just dreadful. But I wanted you to know. After all, I feel like we three are friends."

As Meg spoke Conor's mind began to race. "What is it?"

"Annie's husband is dead. He was killed the other night. It's just so awful I can't believe it. But it's true. It's all over the papers this morning. I can't imagine what the poor dear must be going through."

"Her husband? Killed is he?" Conor said dumbfounded.

"Yes. Murdered, actually – over in Malibu. And then the one who did it committed suicide. Can you imagine?"

Conor was struck speechless as he tried to grasp the news. Billy broke in. "Where in Malibu? When?"

"I don't know exactly. A house on the beach the paper said. Late Friday night it was."

"Who did it?" Billy persisted.

"I don't know who it was. An actor. Leslie something I think was the name. Why do you ask?"

"Don't know him then," Billy said. "Been to some parties over there is all."

"Have you talked to her?" Conor asked finding his voice.

"I tried calling all morning. All I got was a busy signal. She must be just devastated. It's just so terrible."

Robert had come up behind Meg, the girls beside him. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Now Meg," he said. "It's time we let these boys get ready. They've got a big day ahead of them."

"Oh, of course dear," she said turning back to Robert. Then, seeing the girls there she turned back to Conor. "Oh, I want you to meet our daughters... Sylvia here is our eldest and Lilith is the baby. Sylvia is getting ready to..."

Robert broke in. "Meg, Meg. We can make all the introductions later after the round. Let the boys get on with it. Come, let's get some soda pop up at the clubhouse before they start out."

"Yes, all right," she agreed. Then to Billy and Conor she said, "You boys play well today. We'll be watching you!"

* * *

Conor stood on the practice tee struggling to make sense of his thoughts and feelings. He worried about Annie. At the least she would be shocked and confused. He now knew why she hadn't been there Saturday. She must be terribly upset. That Franklin was killed was appalling. Awful, sick it made him to think of it. But now Annie was free, no longer married. Joyful he was about that. He couldn't help it. He prayed she would show up today, although he would understand if she didn't. But now he could have her if he could only become something more than a caddie. But he no longer was a caddie. What was he? He was Annie's that was to be sure. But what else? Then he felt Billy's hand on his shoulder.

"Come on fella, snap out of it. It's time to get on with what we're here for."

Conor turned to him with a small smile. "Aye. 'Tis okay. I was just to be needing a minute. Had to think about something."

"Yeah, well it's time to think about golf. Hit some shots why don't you? Let's see you loosen up."

Conor smiled and nodded. "Aye, 'tis time." It occurred to him that winning the Calcutta would be the best way to make it to Annie.

At that moment Babcock and Pennington walked by on the way to their place on the range. In a voice too loud Skipper said to Parker, "Like I was saying, class will out. You saw how that caddie folded over the last few holes. Last shot was pure luck. We've nothing to worry about today!"

Billy scowled then called out, "Hey, Babcock! Shut your yap!" Then, to Conor, he said, "We've got to put it to that creep."

* * *

Annie finally settled on the most nondescript outfit she could – a long gray skirt and long sleeved dark navy blouse. She pinned up her hair under a cloche hat she pulled low on her forehead. She would wear her sunglasses. She desperately wanted to see Conor but she didn't want to be noticed by anyone, not even Meg. She had a strategy. She would park again down by the maintenance barn. She didn't care if the green crew saw her. They would be gone for the day by the time she left. She would wait for Conor to come to the fourteenth hole and then walk among the trees following him as he finished the round. She would talk to him when he was done. Somehow she would get his attention and get him alone. She had to see him. She had to talk.

(back to top)

# Chapter 29

## Winning and Losing

Sunday, May 25, 1930

The gallery that had gathered at the first tee awaiting the final group of the day was much larger than on Saturday, perhaps three hundred in all: members and their families, friends of members, friends of players, even every caddie not working that day. After all, this would be the payday. Somebody was going to win a great deal of money and, from the look of it, it would likely be either Leland Babcock or Robert Graves. The crowd was nearly evenly divided in the allegiance. The original one hundred members by and large wanted to see Babcock win. They thought what Graves had done recruiting a caddie distasteful at best and disrespectful to the entire membership at worst. The other half of the gallery, the newer members along with the caddie contingent, was thrilled to be rooting for Conor, the underdog, and Billy, the charmer who had captured the fancy of most of the single women present who would end up following him in a flock throughout the round.

Applause greeted the four players and their caddies as they took to the tee. Like the day before, there was no talk between the teams. Leland Babcock had installed himself as the starter and the final group's referee, such was his unquestioned status at the club. Using a megaphone he really didn't need given his booming baritone, he announced the players so loudly his voice echoed off the clubhouse well above them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our final group of the day. Hitting first is the team of Biarritz member Mr. Billy Compton and a member of the Redlands Country Club, a Mr. Conor O'Reilly. They completed the first day of play at four under par. Play away, gentlemen."

Billy winked at Conor, patted him on the arm and then walked onto the tee. His drive was perfect – a high gentle draw that arced across the clear azure sky before settling onto the middle of the fairway – and it drew a scattering of applause from the gallery. Conor was up next and he stepped onto the tee box to a few whistles and shouts of encouragement from the caddies. His drive was different but just as perfect – a low screaming bullet of a shot that faded to the center of the fairway then bounded and rolled well past Billy's drive. More applause, whistles and shouts. Conor picked up his tee and looked up at Billy with a grin. Billy returned it with an "OK" sign.

"Next on the tee are our first round leaders at five under par. Please welcome the team of Biarritz members James Parker Pennington, III and Sterling Arthur Babcock. Needless to say, we wish this all-Biarritz member team the best of luck." There came a round of applause before Babcock added, "And my son is to play well today if he knows what's good for him," Giggles and snickers sprinkled through the gallery.

Parker played first, hitting a good drive down the right center where it finished abreast of Billy's ball. Skipper's drive was not as strong, pushed right and rolling into the right rough short of his partner's ball. Skipper smirked, shrugged his shoulders at his partner and tossed his club at Benny who caught it unblinking with one hand and slipped it into the bag. The final group in the 1930 Biarritz Calcutta Tournament was off.

* * *

The four played inspired golf over the first six holes. Word drifted back through the gallery that the teams ahead that had started near the lead were all fading. Meanwhile the final group had posted a barrage of birdies to distance themselves from the pack. Conor and Billy were playing equally well, both birdying two of the same holes and contributing two more birdies individually. Pennington had gone on a tear making three birdies on his own to Babcock's one to maintain the team's one-shot lead.

The seventh hole was a par five that doglegged left around a cluster of large old pepper trees. Having hit four of his drives to the right over the opening holes, Babcock overcompensated and pulled it left into the trees. His ball came to rest half on a bed of dried leaves. Babcock stood over the ball, hands on hips, surveying the situation with Benny at his side. Shortly he was joined by his playing partner as a small group from the gallery gathered around. Billy and Dogface wandered over as well to see what was going on.

"I can remove the leaves from around the ball, right?" Skipper asked.

"Yeah, just loose impediments," Parker replied.

Babcock bent down and carefully began picking away leaves from around the ball. But as he did so the ball suddenly toppled a half turn down into the leaves. Babcock saw it move, Benny saw it move. And so did Dogface. Babcock's hand froze for a moment then continued brushing the leaves aside. He stood up and moved to Benny and his bag to take a club.

Dogface leaned into Billy's ear and whispered, "The ball moved. I saw it."

"Hold on there, Skipper," Billy warned. "The ball moved. I think you have to replace it and take a stroke."

Babcock's head snapped around to Billy. "What are you talking about? The ball didn't move."

Billy remained calm. "It moved. One shot penalty."

Babcock's face reddened. "I say it didn't," he snarled at Billy.

"What's going on here?" Leland demanded stepping forward from the onlookers. "What's the problem?"

"Compton here is lying. Says the ball moved," Skipper replied to his father as he glared at Billy.

"That right, Compton?" Leland asked.

"The ball moved. Skipper saw it," Billy replied flatly.

"You lying bastard. I saw nothing of the kind!" Skipper shot back.

"Hold on... both of you," Leland commanded. "Let me remind you I'm the referee for this match. In disputes of this sort when there's no clear evidence I have to take the player's word for it. In this case if Skipper says the ball didn't move, it didn't move. So play away."

"It moved."

The voice had come as if from nowhere. All eyes shifted to Benny.

"What? What did you say?" Leland demanded.

"It moved," Benny said slowly, staring ahead at nothing.

"You stupid, stupid idiot," Skipper growled.

"What do you say now, Skipper?" Billy shot back. Your own caddie..."

"Quiet!" interrupted Leland. "Enough!" He paused to consider the situation, as shocked as everyone else that Benny had spoken. He had no option. "Very well," he announced in full voice. "Obviously Skipper didn't see it move. But the caddie confirms it did. Hence it is deemed to have moved. One shot penalty, replace the ball and play away."

The contingent of caddies in the gallery gave hoots of approval.

"You can't be serious!" Skipper objected.

"Do as I say!" Leland ordered. Then, under his breath to his son, "Don't whine. Be a man for once you twit."

By now most of the gallery had gathered about the scene. They silently moved back out of the way as Skipper gave an angry, petulant kick at the dirt and then bent down to replace the ball. He glared at Benny as he snatched a club from his bag. He played his shot back out onto the fairway then flipped his club to the ground for Benny to stoop down and pick up and then stalked out after his ball. Billy looked over at Conor and winked.

The teams matched each other on the hole when Parker saved par from the fringe and Conor lipped out a birdie putt from ten feet. While Billy and Conor remained a stroke behind, the tenor of the round had changed and along with it the sentiment of the gallery. Now there was but one team to root for.

* * *

The score remained the same through the next six holes. Pennington carried his team, making two clutch par saves and a birdie as his partner struggled, his face still flushed from the scene at the seventh hole. Conor and Billy played steadily but could only convert one of their birdie putts.

As the four players and their caddies stood on the fourteenth tee looking down at the par three Annie was looking up at them hidden in the hedge behind the green. She could see Conor standing above talking to Billy and his caddie. He was smiling. That was a good sign. She wanted with all her heart for him to do well and win this day. She needed something to feel joyful about, something to take away the anger and emptiness that filled her soul.

While he knew she probably would not show up that day, Conor couldn't help but survey the scene looking for Annie. He thought about the times they had spent on this green while he practiced. And he thought of their first night together when they had escaped back through the hedge to a world of their own in the Bogey House.

Billy was first to play and sent his iron shot safely onto the green. As Conor teed his ball for his shot he tried to shift his mind onto his game. But he wasn't quite back in the moment as he swung. He pulled his ball left into the deep greenside bunker as a few soft groans escaped from the gallery.

Annie gave her own inward groan. She crept slowly down along the line of the hedge to get a better view of his next shot as Parker and Skipper played their approaches, both coming up just short of the green. Conor was away and first to hit his second shot. Annie watched as he twisted his feet into the sand and then made a long steep swing sending a shower of sand out before him and onto the green. She saw the ball come out just behind the main spray of sand and alight on the green. It began to roll down a slope bending to the right toward the hole. With its last possible rotation it toppled into the cup. A cheer burst out from the crowd as Annie cried out "Oh my!" then quickly covered her mouth with her hands.

Despite the crowd noise Conor thought he heard something and glanced toward the hedge. Seeing nothing there he lifted his arm to the crowd as he smoothed the sand with his foot. As he walked onto the green to retrieve his ball from the hole Billy came up to him and slapped him on the back. "Nice going, fella!" he shouted as the applause from the gallery continued. "Let's make a move on them now!"

Conor smiled and stepped off to the side of the green with Billy as Parker and Skipper hit their chips. Neither could hole it to match Conor's birdie and thus the two teams were tied for the lead with four holes left to play.

As they moved to the next tee Annie slipped out from behind the hedge and quietly joined the back of the gallery as it moved along behind the players. She kept an eye out for Meg and her family. She did not want to be recognized.

* * *

All four players parred the next hole, a short par four. On the sixteenth, Conor was able to reach the par five in two shots. His two-putt birdie gave the team a one stroke advantage with two holes to play. It gave the crowd a reason to cheer, Annie among them. And it gave Billy a case of the nerves. They were so close to winning Billy could barely contain his excitement. And that cost him on the next tee. He sprayed his drive far to the right and into the arroyo marked as a water hazard. He would be hitting three off the tee on the par four hole.

Knowing he had to carry the hole himself, Conor took extra time with his tee shot. He intended to hit a small draw around the dogleg left to leave a shorter shot into the green and a safe par. But whether it was watching Billy hit his drive so far right or just a lapse in his swing, Conor also pushed the ball right near the hazard.

Billy's second drive found the middle of the fairway. After walking to his ball he went over to where Conor and Stovepipe were looking at the situation. The ball lay just inside the hazard line, but not in water. A stone about the size of a lemon lay about six inches behind the ball. To hit the shot Conor would have to put his right foot in the water. But the lie itself was good and the shot looked not all that difficult.

"Don't get those new shoes wet!" Billy tried to joke.

Conor smiled and leaned on Stovepipe as he took off his right shoe and sock and rolled up his pant leg. He stood outside the hazard and made three practice swings trying to gauge where in his stance he should position the ball. Finally he was ready. He put his foot into the water. He started his backswing. But as he did so his club brushed the stone behind the ball and it rolled backward an inch. He jerked his swing to a stop halfway back.

Still standing with his foot in the water, hands on hips holding his club, Conor swore, "Damn! I moved that rock. 'Tis a two shot penalty."

"What are you talking about? It doesn't matter! The shot's still the same. Besides nobody saw it," Billy said in something of a panic.

"No, 'tis a penalty. Can't be moving anything like that in a hazard. I'm to be hitting four."

"That's crazy! We need you on this hole!"

"No, 'tis not crazy, 'tis a rule," Conor replied with finality. He looked down at the ball and then gingerly took his stance again. He waggled slowly over the ball then he made his swing. He made solid contact off the tight lie. The ball shot into the air toward the flag as if on a wire. It landed just short of the green and bounced forward onto the fringe.

Billy watched the shot finish in some disbelief. He turned back to Conor. "That was a heck of a shot, fella,"

"Thanks be," Conor replied. "But now we are to be needing one from you!"

Billy's fourth shot from the fairway was a good one, finishing on the green twenty feet from the hole. He would have a putt to save bogey and Conor a putt from the fringe to do the same. Babcock and Pennington played their second shots; Pennington into the right green side bunker from where he would not save par, Babcock to the green thirty feet from the hole. After Babcock two putted for par, Billy missed his bogey putt. Conor stalked his putt looking at the line. He crouched behind it studying the slope further. Finally he rose and took his stance. He made the stroke. The ball just caught the low side of the hole and toppled sideways into the cup. Cheers erupted from the crowd. The match was again tied, but few in the gallery realized it at the moment.

As Billy walked from the green Robert stopped him. "That was a heck of a birdie Conor made from over there!" he said with excitement.

"Wasn't a birdie, was a bogey," Billy replied.

"How's that?"

"Conor called a two shot penalty on himself back in the hazard. Moved a rock on his backswing. Real bad luck, that."

"He did? Really?"

"Yeah... listen, gotta go," Billy said with a determined look and then moved on to catch up with Conor as they moved to the eighteenth tee.

Robert went to find Charlie to tell him the news. Annie eventually heard the word spread through the crowd that the match was tied. She was so excited she could hardly contain herself. She watched as Conor and Billy walked together to the last tee, Conor a smile on his face. She saw Billy look at him quizzically, and Conor say something back that made Billy chuckle. She thought that was a good sign.

With the pressure on, Babcock and Pennington could not find the fairway on the last hole although neither wound up in serious trouble. Pennington pushed his drive right into light rough but it was long enough to clear the trees on the dogleg right. Babcock pulled his drive left into the rough leaving a longer approach shot. Both shots were met with scattered light applause from the gallery that had now swelled to several hundred stretching down both sides of the fairway.

As he had the entire round, Billy led off for his team. His drive was perfect; another high arcing draw that hugged the right side of the fairway then fell left out of the sky to the middle of the fairway. It drew a burst of applause and whistles. He smiled and waved an acknowledgement to the crowd and gave way to Conor who stepped onto the tee box.

Conor reached into his pocket for his tee and again felt the handkerchief with the embroidered tulip in the corner that Annie had given him. He squeezed it between his fingers and gave a quick glance around the crowd hoping perhaps to spot her but the gallery was but a blur. Then his attention turned to the task at hand. He teed his ball then stepped behind it to pick his line. He walked to the ball and took his stance. He glanced twice down the fairway at his target and then swung. The ball shot off the tee never rising higher than the tops of the trees as it followed a line down the left center of the fairway then faded gently to the right following the curve of the fairway. It landed and took several bounces before rolling out two hundred and seventy yards from the tee. It was a shot so perfect the gallery went silent for an instant taking it in before they exploded in cheers, whistles and applause. Conor smiled and waved. Watching from behind him in the gallery, Annie hopped up and down with excitement.

The gallery followed the players and their caddies down the fairway to their second shots. Babcock was first to play. The ball had finished in a clump of heavy Kikuyu grass. As he swung, the clubhead caught the wiry blades and turned over sending the ball well left and short of the green and into more rough. Skipper slammed his club into the ground in disgust then flung it at Benny as some caddies in the crowd let out a few hoots and jeers.

Billy was next to play. Unlike the previous hole he was able to control his nerves. He discussed the shot with Dogface and then selected his club. He made a controlled swing. His shot climbed up into the sky in another high draw that started to the right of the green then began curving left. It looked perfect and even drew a few "oohs" and "ahs" from the gallery while in the air. But Billy knew he hadn't quite hit the shot solidly and began calling out after it, "Get up! Get up!" The ball came down a foot beyond the bunker guarding the right side of the green, hopped backwards into the sand and rolled to the bottom of the bunker. The crowd groaned. Billy shook his head and handed the club to Dogface.

Conor had stood watching the shot and stepped up to Billy and put his hand on his shoulder. "'Twas a good play. Just bad luck. You can get up and down." Billy gave a small smile back.

Pennington was up next. The gallery moved back into the trees on the right side of the fairway to give him room to play the shot. He discussed the shot with Pissquick who advised him to try to hit a low running shot up the hill and onto the front of the green. But Parker had other ideas. He wanted to hit it close for a chance at birdie. He opted for a high hard left to right fade trying to carry it all the way to the hole cut toward the back right of the green. He almost carried it off. The shot had the distance but it faded too much, missed the green to the right and bounded down the slope to the bottom of the swale. Parker spun away as he saw the shot land knowing it would be nearly impossible to get a pitch shot close to the hole from that position.

The gallery followed Conor another twenty yards up the fairway to where his ball lay. When he reached it he put his hands on his hips and hung his head. The ball had finished in the middle of a deep divot. A quiet murmur spread through the crowd as the situation became apparent. Billy stood next to Stovepipe and exchanged a look with Conor who smiled and shrugged. "Give it a go, fella," Billy encouraged. "You have this shot."

"I'm not sure anyone is to have this shot," Conor said. "But let's see what we can do."

Stovepipe handed him the niblick. Conor surveyed the shot then stood to the ball playing it far back in his stance. He took his backswing and then came down steeply into the ball. It came out low and hot landing short then skipping over the front of the green and rolling across it and up onto the slope behind the green. The gallery reacted with a mix of applause and "Oh no's!" Conor handed his club to Stovepipe and then began marching up the hill to the green.

As the four players approached the green the large gallery that had waited for them around the green and up on the clubhouse veranda gave them all a round of applause. The players stopped to let Babcock play this third shot. He tried to play a high pitch from the rough but slid the clubhead underneath the ball and popped it up well short on the front of the green forty feet from the hole. He cursed and again slammed the club to the ground. The crowd stayed silent and moved their attention to Billy in the bunker.

Billy played quickly. He shifted his feet into the sand and hit his shot onto the green. But instead of skipping forward as he'd planned, the ball checked up twenty feet short of the hole. He looked away in disgust to some scattered applause. He left the bunker and traded his wedge for his putter with Dogface. As the crowd moved forward to encircle the green, Annie worked her way forward to a position just behind the front row of spectators.

Pennington took a lot of time to look over his shot walking up and down the slope several times trying to imagine the shot he could play. Finally he tried to play a low driving shot into the hill so the ball would pop up onto the green close to the hole. But he misjudged the loft and the ball screamed low just over the brow of the slope and into the gallery on the other side of the green. The crowd groaned as Pennington dropped his club and put his hands over his eyes. He was still away so the players and the crowd waited while he and Pissquick made their way to his ball for his fourth shot. He made a brilliant chip trying to save his par but the ball rolled over the edge of the hole stopping just a foot past. The crowd groaned then applauded the shot. He tapped in for bogey.

His partner had been pacing back and forth impatient to play his long putt. When it was finally his turn to play Babcock rolled the ball three feet short of the hole to scattered applause. Unable to do any better than his partner's bogey, he picked up the ball and in a snit of pique threw it wildly over the crowd and back down the fairway. A few young boys took chase after it.

Conor's shot was not easy. Chipping from a down slope to a green tilted away from him it would be difficult to stop the ball close to the hole. Which is exactly what happened. He chopped at the ball sending it just onto the fringe. It hopped once then started to roll slowly down the incline of the green. It seemed to roll for minutes trickling past the hole as the crowd began to murmur. It finally came to rest ten feet beneath the hole.

Billy gamely lined up his putt for a par and the win. His putt up the hill held its line until just a foot from the cup. As it lost speed it curved to the left and grazed the edge of the hole. He walked up and tapped in for his bogey. He picked his ball out of the hole and walked back to where Conor was lining up his putt. "Just make it," was all he said as he moved past him to watch from the side.

Conor reached into his pocket to feel for the handkerchief. He took some knowledge from Billy's putt that had been on nearly the same line. He blocked everything out – the crowd, the win, the other players. He stepped over the putt and took his stance. He took no practice stroke. He looked at the cup twice and drew back the putter. His stroke was pure. The ball hugged the green in a tight roll. He'd given it enough weight that it reached the cup with some speed. It hit the center of the hole and dove out of sight. He had won.

The crowd shrieked then roared. Conor held up both arms and screamed in relief and joy. Annie couldn't contain herself. She pushed past the spectators in front of her and took three steps onto the green toward Conor and then stopped cold.

Little Mary had burst from a cluster of kitchen and wait staff that had been watching behind the green. She ran out onto the green in her long black skirt and white blouse uniform and leapt into Conor's arms planting a huge kiss on his lips. Conor laughed and twirled her around and around and then kissed her back as the throng applauded and cheered. Conor set her down but Mary was beside herself with joy. She again jumped into his arms and kissed him again.

Annie was struck as if by lightning. Frozen she watched the display between Conor and Mary. Her heart sinking she saw Conor put his arm around Mary's waist and begin to lead her off the green. She watched as he leaned over to kiss the top of her head in joy. Just then a group of caddies led by Gino charged onto the green and lifted Conor to their shoulders and paraded him around the green to more cheers and shouts from the crowd. Annie stood as a statue in shock. Then she turned away and, as if in a trance, began walking back to her car. She did not see the crowd drifting after the players into the clubhouse. She did not see Michael find Mary and embrace and kiss her and walk off the green with her his arm around Mary's shoulders. When she reached her car she got in and sat behind the wheel. She put her forehead against the wheel and began to sob, tears of anger and hurt streaming down her face. He was gone. Everything was gone.

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# Chapter 30

## Awards

Sunday, May 25, 1930

Conor and Billy were the last ones in the locker room. They showered and changed clothes and were about to meet up again with Robert and Charlie in the men's grill for another drink before joining the women at the banquet. The immediate celebration after the round had been chaotic. Everyone wanted to slap the two on the back and offer their congratulations. Beer steins had been thrust into their hands and the commotion on the patio outside the locker room had been raucous and joyful. There had been no time to look for Annie.

"You ready?" Billy asked as Conor finished tying the knot on his new yellow tie.

"Aye. But give me minute, there's something I need to do. I'll meet you upstairs," Conor replied looking into the mirror.

"Well, don't be long. You don't want to give me too much of a head start," Billy laughed.

Conor watched in the mirror as Billy left the locker room for the stairway to the grill. When he was gone Conor walked out to the parking lot. He looked for the red Cadillac. It wasn't there. He walked back around the clubhouse and looked out over the eighteenth green and the course beyond. He wished it had been Annie that had run out onto the green and leapt into his arms. He wanted to share his joy with her, to hold her and laugh with her. He would need to find her soon.

The men's grill was packed and loud, the cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke doing nothing to muffle the din as the players and their friends recounted their rounds and told the story of Billy and Conor over and over again. Conor got more pats and shouted greetings as he made his way through the crowd. He finally spotted Robert, Charlie and Billy at the end of the bar surrounded by well-wishers. Robert saw Conor approach and picked up two glasses from the bar, excused himself and made his way out to meet Conor half way. "I need to talk to you," he said to Conor handing him a drink. "Follow me."

They went from the grill, through the dining room and out onto the veranda. "First, off," Robert said turning to Conor, "Here's to a great round. You really played your heart out today. You showed me – everyone – a lot." He held out his glass in a toast that Conor met with his own.

"Thanks, Bob," Conor replied taking a sip of the scotch. "You're the one who gave me the chance. 'Tis glad I am Billy and I were able to repay the confidence."

"You did more than that. You put some real jerks in their place. That was worth as much as the money. Tell me, though; what was that penalty back at the seventeenth all about? You called it on yourself?"

"Moved a rock in the hazard, I did. Just a bad break it was."

"Showed a lot of class if you ask me, calling it like you did when nobody else could possibly know."

"Well, I knew. 'Tis a game of rules and if you're not to be playing by the rules you're not to be playing the game."

"I like that. Listen, I want to tell you that I'm sorry you lost your caddie job here. I never intended that. And I want to make it up to you. So I want you to know I'm giving you a quarter share of the team. Same as Billy's getting from his father. Should be something north of forty two hundred dollars."

Conor was dumbstruck. He nearly dropped his glass. He expected something but nothing like this. It was as much money as he had made his entire life. "Bob, I don't know what to say. Thanks be to you. It's to be so generous. I mean, you already paid for the practicing, the clothes..."

"No, you earned it, believe me," Robert interrupted. "I still more than doubled my investment. And like I said, it was worth it to stick it to Babcock and Pennington and that bunch. But what I really want to talk to you about is something else."

"What's that?" Conor asked still trying to grasp the enormous sum that was his.

"I want you to come to work for me. I can use someone like you. You're honest, bright and people like you. And you play a hell of a game of golf. I've got customers who would love to play with somebody like you. Times are tough and we've lost some business. Lockheed is even starting to fail. I need another salesman to do some traveling and line up more business – someone who can make some deals on the golf course. I can see you doing that."

"A job, for me? Are you serious? I'm not anybody right now."

"I'm dead serious. You'll have a lot to learn and I can't pay you much until you start earning your keep, but I know you can do it. Look, I've made a lot of money because I know machining and I know people. And I know you. What do you say?"

Conor stood with his mouth open for a moment. Then he replied, "It had been my intention to start another restaurant, and now I can. But..."

"Look," Robert interrupted, "You're not going to make any money slinging hash. Not in these times when half the folks are lining up for free soup. You have more on the ball than that. You belong where there's real money to be made."

"If you think I can, then perhaps I can," Conor said. "I owe you, Bob. If you think I can help then yes, yes it would be my honor to work for you."

"Good. That's settled. Now let's get back inside and see what the girls have been up to."

* * *

Myrtle, Meg and the girls were already seated at the table chatting when Robert and Conor came in from the veranda and Charlie and Billy emerged from the grill. Meg had already determined the seating arrangements.

"Hello, boys, glad you could finally join us," she chided. "Now, Robert, you sit here at this end of the table, Charlie you're at the other end. Billy you sit across from your mother and Conor you sit there next to Sylvia," The men did as they were bid and took their seats. Meg immediately began to preside, "So, Conor, who was that lovely young lady that gave you that big hug on the green? Does she work here?"

"Oh, that's to be Mary, my cousin Michael's wife. She does work here and she was most happy that we were to win," Conor replied. "She's a lovely girl, indeed. Michael's most lucky."

"I see," Meg said pleased at the response. "I don't think you've formally met our daughter's yet. Across from you next to Billy there is our youngest, Lilith, who's in high school. And next to you is Sylvia. Sylvia is about to graduate from USC with majors in music and English."

"Lilith, Sylvia," Conor nodded to both girls, "'Tis good to meet you."

"And nice to meet you!" Sylvia exclaimed. "We're just so excited for you and Billy and Father. You were wonderful today."

"Thank you," Conor said turning to better look at her. "Billy and I were just fortunate 'tis all."

"Fortunate, my eye!" Charlie broke in. "You guys were terrific. Put your boots to their butts is what you did."

"Charlie!" Myrtle admonished. "Watch your mouth! Look where we are!"

Billy laughed. "No, Dad's right. We won it fair and square. Luck had nothing to do it with. Conor made the shots when we needed them."

Conor was still caught in Sylvia's eye when Meg said, "Sylvia, tell Conor here what your plans are after graduation."

Sylvia gave her mother a disapproving glance then looked back at Conor. "Well, I hope to get a teaching job where I can teach both English and music – so maybe at a high school. But I want to keep up with my music, too, so I want to continue with my lessons.

"Are you to play an instrument?" Conor asked.

"Yes, several – but the violin is my favorite."

"And plays it like an angel!" Meg interrupted. "She's very talented don't you know."

Sylvia's pale face flushed pink. "Oh, Mother. Stop it."

Robert took a sip of his scotch, tapped his glass with a spoon and rose from his chair saying, "Before our chit chat goes any further, I've a few pieces of business to attend to. First off, let me propose a toast. Here's to Billy and Conor and all they accomplished today, not the least of which was sending the Babcock and Pennington boys home with their tails between their legs."

All at the table raised their glasses and took a drink as Charlie agreed, "Here, here!"

"Next," Robert continued, "As some of you at the table may already surmised based on the smile I'm wearing, Mr. Conor O'Reilly is now the newest of Graves Industries. So, Conor, here's to you!" He again raised his glass, this time to Conor.

"And welcome to the family!" Meg chirped. "The company is like one big family you know."

"Congratulations!" Sylvia burst in. "That's wonderful. What will you be doing, Conor?"

"Learning," her father broke in. "He's got a lot to learn and little time to do it. And that's why I have some requests to make. First off, Charlie and I have talked about it and we want you staying with the Comptons until you find a place closer to the factory in Burbank."

"You're most welcome with us, dear," Myrtle added.

"And that brings me to a request of Billy. Billy, I'd like you to take Conor out tomorrow and help him buy a car. Nothing too flashy, mind you, but new and something reliable – Ford, Chevrolet – something like that. He's going to have to be doing some traveling. Then, if you can, take him over to Burbank and help him find something decent to live in – more than a room, an apartment at least. Can you do that?

"Buying a car? Yeah, that's always a fun thing to do. So yes," Billy answered.

"Excellent. Now then, you need some business clothes. Meg, can you take our boy here on Tuesday and get him a wardrobe for work? Maybe to Bullock's?"

"But dear," Meg replied a bit startled. "Tuesday is my golfing day with Mrs. Burke."

"I doubt she'll be in the mood for golf this week," Robert responded.

"Oh, I suppose you're right. Tuesday will be fine then. Conor, stop by the house around eleven in the morning and we'll leave from there."

"Excellent, dear," Robert responded. "Now, then, Conor, I'd like you to report for work Wednesday morning, eight o'clock sharp. We've got a lot of work to do with you. Starting with that Irish brogue of yours. We'll need to tone that down a little. We're looking for some government work and we'll need you to sound a bit more American." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Maybe Sylvia here can help you a little with the linguistics."

"Capital idea!" Meg gushed.

It was Conor's turn to blush. "Whatever 'tis you say, Bob."

Sylvia leaned into his ear. "Whatever you say, Bob," she whispered with a smile.

"Whatever you say, Bob" Conor corrected himself. He smiled at Sylvia. "Thank you, Sylvia."

"That concludes the business," Robert said taking his chair. "Now what where we talking about?"

Meg jumped right in. "I don't know, but we did mention Annie – Mrs. Burke – isn't that just awful what happened to her husband?"

"Yeah, I heard about it. Read it in the paper this afternoon. What a pervert. Served him right," Charlie offered.

"Charlie!" Myrtle again reprimanded him. "Watch what you say!"

"Well, that's what he was. A pervert," Charlie said defensively.

"No matter," Meg continued. "It's just a horrible story. I feel so badly for her. Poor dear must be going through just a nightmare."

Conor perked up at the conversation about Annie. He tried not to show that much interest but in the end had to ask, "So have you still not heard from her?"

"No, I tried again this afternoon from the club – no answer. God knows what she's doing."

"Let me know if you hear from her," Conor offered.

"Of course, dear," Meg responded.

"Those Hollywood types are their own worst enemies. Get rich doing nothing worthwhile and then have all the time in the world to make a mess of things. I don't have much respect for them," Robert said.

"Well, I think Annie was just an innocent victim," Meg countered.

"Is anybody innocent?" Robert posed.

Just then the waiter approached the table to take their order. At the same time Benjamin Crowder walked to the podium placed in the corner and leaned into the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen. Could I have your attention please!" The room quieted only a bit before he continued. "I'm Benjamin Crowder, standing in for Leland Babcock who had to leave us tonight to fulfill other commitments. So it's my honor and duty to award the winning teams. Unfortunately, our second place team of Sterling Babcock and James Parker Pennington, III was unable to stay for the banquet, so this will be brief. Could you please welcome up here our 1930 Biarritz Country Club Calcutta champions... Billy Compton and Conor O'Reilly... along with team owner Robert Graves!"

The three each put on somewhat sheepish grins, rose and walked to the podium to applause and whistles.

"So on behalf of the board and the entire membership at Biarritz, it is my pleasure to present you the winner's trophies," Crowder announced. Then he turned to a side table and picked up a sterling silver loving cup that he presented to Billy and repeated the action to present a trophy to Conor. "Now, I'm sure you'd like to hear a few words from our champions."

Billy stepped forward first and leaned into the microphone. "Thank you all. It was a great tournament and I have to thank my partner here for playing such wonderful golf."

There was applause as Conor stepped to the microphone. "Thank you, Billy. 'Twas truly a team effort though. I would like to thank the membership, first for allowing me to serve as a caddie here these past several months and second for the opportunity to play in this brilliant event. You are to be special people, you have been good to me and I will miss you greatly."

More applause, then Crowder resumed, "And, finally, it's my privilege to present the winning check of seventeen thousand five hundred dollars to the team owner, Mr. Robert Graves! Well done, Bob."

To applause, Robert said into the microphone, "As maybe you can tell, and I'm sure you can agree, it was not just the best golfers that won this day, it was the best young men. Thank you, Conor. Thank you, Billy."

The applause and whistles grew in intensity as the three made their way back to their seats. It quickly turned into a standing ovation and Billy and Robert waved back at the crowd.

Conor was nearly overcome with emotion at the crowd's reaction. He looked down at the trophy in his hands and hoped he could soon show it to Annie. In fact, he decided, he would give it to Annie.

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# Chapter 31

## Flight

Thursday, May 29, 1930

As the least expensive train travel from Los Angeles to Chicago, the coach seat section of the Santa Fe Scout was full of mothers with young children. Thus the random crying and babbling of babies and toddlers played counterpoint to the regular rhythm of the wheels on the rails. Annie had taken a window seat in the rear of the car against the back bulkhead trying as best she could to distance herself from the passengers in the seats ahead living normal lives. She leaned against the window and looked out at the Mojave Desert sliding past. She thought the bleak and tawny landscape under the lowering gray sky an apt metaphor for the state of her soul. Two hours into the trip with another thirty-eight to go, she wondered if there would be enough hours, enough minutes, to bleed out all the sorrow and anger she felt before she reached her new existence in Chicago.

The past five days she felt as if she'd been hammered by fate against an anvil of anguish, every day bringing another punishing blow. First there was Franklin. She thought about how even in death he had been able to fuel her hatred, how his betrayal had been ultimately more ugly, more unspeakable, than she ever could have imagined, how he took with him to the grave everything she had ever worked for, even the work itself. She had not gone to the funeral and not just because the tabloid press would descend upon it to make more of a mockery of her life. She didn't want to remember him going dead into the ground. She wanted only to imagine him burning in hell for eternity. In fact she had thought of burning all his things; the clothes, the linens, anything he had ever touched. But instead she told Opal to take everything from his room and keep it, sell it or give it away to her friends and family. So it was on Monday afternoon that Opal's brother-in-law had come with a truck borrowed from his employer to load everything and drive it away.

It was Tuesday that she learned she had no money. Franklin had managed to steal that from her as well. When she went to the bank she learned the accounts he had opened in her name also bore his name. The notoriety of his death had enabled the bank to act quickly to seize all his assets against a host of delinquent loans and debts. When she called about the life insurance she learned he had already cashed it out. The only money she was able to retrieve was five hundred dollars from a savings account she had established before her marriage.

It was Tuesday afternoon that two black sedans pulled into the driveway one shortly after the other bringing agents from two different banks. They came to the door together carrying briefcases and rang the bell. Opal opened the door to them and called Annie down. Annie didn't invite them in. She stood at the door as one told her that the house was being foreclosed immediately due to the seriously delinquent mortgage that had now been declared in default. He was sorry but she would have to make arrangements to vacate the property in forty-eight hours. The other agent also expressed his apologies but was obliged to notify her that the Cadillac would have to be repossessed unless the balance of twenty-five hundred sixty three dollars and fifty-four cents was paid in that same time frame. Otherwise an agent would come on Thursday to take the car. She protested that the car was in her name. He responded that was true, but that the bank held a lien against the loan that was in her husband's name. No payments had been made since the loan was taken out and given his death the bank was forced to act. Again he was very sorry. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the default notice and handed it to her. The other agent opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper and a small hammer. He explained he would have to post the foreclosure notice on the door. Annie, stunned, could only nod. She closed the door and then heard the tacks being hammered in as she hurried back up to the sanctuary of her room.

She had asked Opal to bring her the tabloids. As if to purge Franklin's memory she felt a perverse desire to inflict more pain on herself. She read the stories and came to understand what had happened. Franklin had been supporting two households; Leslie's even more lavish than her own. Franklin knew he couldn't go on and had told Leslie that he would be cut off. Leslie had become enraged at the thought his lover could treat him so and had gone quite mad. After reading all the lurid headlines and stories Annie gathered the papers and stuffed them into the wastebasket. She went back downstairs and called out to Opal. She explained what was happening to the house and to her finances. She was sorry, but she would have to let her go. She gave her a twenty-dollar bill and told her she wished it could be more. Opal began to weep. She told Annie that Franklin's things would be adequate severance and that Annie would need the money more than she would. She handed back the bill, hugged her and then went off to collect her things.

Wednesday Annie tried to hang on to the last remaining tether to the life she had known. She called the studio to tell them she was nearly finished with the screenplay. It took almost an hour of repeated phone calls before she was able to reach the producer directly and then only after begging and pleading with a series of secretaries to put her through. George Zuckerman was kind and solicitous. He offered condolences. No, he didn't know that it was she who had written Franklin's recent screenplays, that it was she who had been writing for the current project. And he was very sorry. He had given the screenplay to another writer on Monday. There was no way he could have Franklin's name or work associated with the film after all that had happened. He hoped she would understand given the circumstances of his death. He promised to keep her in mind for future projects in a tone and manner that told Annie he would not. She thanked him and hung up.

She immediately picked up the receiver and asked the operator for a long distance line. Her Aunt Louise was adamant she leave immediately for Chicago. There was no other option given her finances. She would need a safe place to find herself and Chicago was as good as any other. Louise would Western Union her money for the ticket. Annie should let her know the train schedule. Louise would meet her at the LaSalle Street Station and bring her home.

When she came back from the La Grande Station in Los Angeles after picking up her money from Western Union, buying her ticket and telegraphing her arrival time to Louise, she parked the car in the garage and left the key in the ignition. She walked around to the front of the car and unscrewed the chrome mermaid radiator cap and carried it with her back into the house. She left the garage door open.

She didn't pack much. There would be no need for glittery ball gowns and fancy clothes in Chicago. That it was coming into summer meant she wouldn't have to buy winter clothes for some months. She would travel with only two pieces of luggage. A trunk held most of her clothes, some shoes, copies of her screenplays and a few books, including the one of Keats' poetry with the dried pressed yellow tulip inside. The small suitcase contained toiletries, jewelry, a change of clothes and the mermaid.

It was nearly dark when they reached the high desert linking Arizona and New Mexico. She was tired of the monotonous emptiness of the western landscape. Dusk only blurred the few details to be seen. She pulled the shade on the window and turned her thoughts to Conor and all the pain, all the finality that had come in those few moments Sunday afternoon at Biarritz. She had been as angry with herself as she had been at him. She felt stupid to have been taken in by such a seemingly genuine, gentle, loving man. But she had loved him. More deeply than she ever imagined she could love someone. And she knew that part of her loved him still, despite what she witnessed. In the days that followed the Calcutta she had thought often that she wished she had continued to run out onto the green and confronted Conor and his little servant girlfriend. It would have been better for her to vent her anger and her hurt right there in front of everyone than to slink off unnoticed. There could have been some satisfaction in that, some closure even. But she also understood how at the time that was impossible. She couldn't meet anyone much less confront them in the state she had been.

As happened over and over again, her mind went back to their nights together. Despite all that happened after, those nights had been real. She knew it in her heart. Maybe he did have someone else. Maybe it was a lie. But somehow she knew it wasn't. In those nights he had been hers and hers alone... and she his. Those times would never change. Knowing what she knew now, she would never repeat them. But that they did happen were the only truly beautiful moments she would take away from the horror that had been her last days in California. She thought they were like a fading, dying tulip blossom that becomes most beautiful just before the petals fall away.

She suddenly felt cold. She used the raincoat she had carried with her as a blanket. She shifted in her seat and pulled it up over her face. She would try to sleep.

* * *

Conor opened the door to his apartment and flipped on the light. The living room glowed warmly. He took off his hat and jacket and loosened his tie. He went into the kitchen and took a glass from the cabinet and poured himself a scotch from the bottle Billy had given him when he'd moved in the night before. He went back into the living room and sank into the plush club chair beside the couch. He lit a cigarette and reflected on the day.

It was difficult to comprehend how much his life had changed in just a few days. Everything was new and different. It was as if he could barely recognize himself. His first two days at Graves Industries had been a blur; the tour of the factory, meeting the head of sales, studying product sheets and contracts, meeting the secretary who would support him, all the while in clothes and shoes he'd never worn before. Strange, it was. Uncomfortable even. But exciting too. He was determined to make good Robert's confidence in him. He knew this was his chance at all he'd ever wanted. He couldn't wait for the next day to come when he could learn more, do more.

At the same time he felt deeply troubled. Annie was nowhere to be found. The phone was never answered. Meg told him she still had not been able to contact Annie. When he called from the office on Wednesday all he got were busy signals. Today the operator told him the line had been disconnected.

After work he had driven into the Hollywood Hills no longer able to wait for her. He had to see her. As he approached her house he could see a black sedan parked on the street in front. As he got closer he could see the red Cadillac backing out of the garage. His heart leapt. He quickly pulled into the drive. He blocked the Cadillac and blew the horn. He jumped out of the car and raced to the driver's door. He stopped short. A man was behind the wheel. The man told him the car was being reclaimed. He had no idea where the owner was. Could he please move his car so he could leave?

Conor watched the Cadillac back sideways across the drive. He noticed the hood ornament was missing. It pulled forward and then turned right out of the driveway. The black sedan pulled out and followed it.

He saw the notice on the front door and went over to read it. Foreclosed it said. Annie was gone from here. But where? He walked off the front porch and back to his car. He looked back at the house. It was grand to be sure. And it had been home to his love. But he knew it had been a house of sorrow and finally horror. He couldn't get away fast enough.

He watched the smoke waft from the stub of his cigarette. He took a last drag and put it out. He took another sip of scotch and put down the glass. He got up and went to one of the boxes yet to be unpacked. He opened it and sifted through it for a moment before he found what he was looking for. He took the handkerchief with the embroidered yellow tulip in the corner and held it to his face. He could still smell her. There had to be a way to find his Annie. There just had to be.

(back to top)

# Part Two – 1964-1969

"Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." _John 8:21 NIV_

# Chapter 32

## Politics

Wednesday, September 9, 1964

Bridie Aiken was angry. Incensed, actually. Sitting on the edge of the bed in her room in Hollywood's Ambassador Hotel she had again watched the TV spot for Lyndon Johnson in which the image of a little girl counting daisy petals turned into a countdown to an exploding atom bomb. Lyndon Johnson's voice spoke of peace. The unspoken point was to further paint Barry Goldwater a lunatic too radical to have his finger on the button to set off a nuclear Armageddon. Of course Goldwater hadn't helped with his blunt offhand remarks about bombing enemies. But it wasn't so much the ad was a bald-faced lie; lies were a part of the game. It was the tactic of fear mongering that made her so irate. How dare they deal that card when what really should be feared was the racial turmoil dividing the country and the conspiracy of deceit that was driving the nation deeper into a war of consequence not worth its cost?

She got up from the bed and snapped off the television. She would have to talk to her husband. Mitchell Aiken would be delivering the opening remarks and introducing the featured speaker that night at the fundraiser. He should make some reference to the truth of the matter, remind the faithful present that the nation was heading into a quagmire of debt that could cost it any leverage it had as the world's economic power. Bridie felt the country was at a tipping point and still too shaken by Kennedy's death and subsequent martyrdom to trust a big leap to the right. Safe it would seem to stay with Johnson. And the polls clearly showed that seemed the nation's sentiment. Still, she felt, it was important to state the case, if nothing else to lay the groundwork for another shot in four years.

She moved back to the bed and sat next to the nightstand. She picked up the phone and called her home in Costa Mesa. Her two children had started school the day before and she wanted to hear how their second day had gone. As she expected, Tommy the fourth grader was excited and could talk only about the games he had played at recess and how he had done so well at tetherball. Aimee the second grader was more reticent. She was unsure about her new teacher and didn't like the desk she had been assigned. Bridie was unhappy she couldn't be there to share this important time. But such was the life of a politician's wife. Of course, she also was more than that. A speechwriter and consultant, she was an integral part of the campaign for several state politicians. She had even written the keynote that Ronald Reagan would be delivering at tonight's gala. She was excited about that. As an actor he had an uncanny ability to turn words into ideas that people could hang onto and believe in. She liked when a speaker could make her speech sound as good as she'd imagined it in her head. And, of course, his speech supporting Goldwater at the Republican National Convention had been a sensation.

After she talked to the nanny to make sure all was fine at home she hung up and dialed her husband at his law office. He would be leaving soon to meet her at the event. "How's it going for you this afternoon?" she opened when he finally got on the line.

"Hectic," he replied. "I talked to Phillips and he said we really need to milk this crowd for money. Our only hope to carry California is going to be a barrage of TV ads to counter what's going on. And we just don't have the money right now to pull that off. He's got a list of potential donors for us he wants us to go after, you and me both. We'll take a look at it when I get there and split them up."

Bridie sighed. "Oh, all right. One of these days we're going to attend a dinner and just sit there and eat," she whined. "But, okay. I've got to be over there early to meet with Randall anyway. He wants to talk about his speech for the Rotary Club over in Whittier. Can you imagine – one day I'm hearing Reagan deliver one of my speeches to the powers that be and the next I'll be sitting there with a bunch of bored businessmen listening to Randall trying to read words he can't even pronounce."

Mitchell laughed. "Hey, that's what you get for being the go-to girl. Listen, gotta run. I'll see you there around seven."

"Okay, see you. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Bridie replaced the receiver and looked at her watch. Five thirty. She'd need to get a move on. She'd checked into the Ambassador that afternoon. The fundraiser would likely go late and it would be too long a drive from the event back to the house that night, especially after a drink or two and hours spent on her feet. Plus she looked forward to a night alone with Mitchell free of the kids. She smiled to herself as she opened her bag and took out her clothes for the evening and along with them the teddy she'd be wearing for Mitchell that night.

After showering and spending time on her makeup she tackled her hair. Her jet black hair was very fine so teasing it into a bouffant took patience and a lot of hairspray. She admired the results in the mirror for a few seconds and thought again how ironic that even Republicans had adopted Jackie Kennedy's style. With her hair down she looked like some sort of gamin, thin and pale with large, expressive green eyes. With her hair in the beehive she could have been a _McCall's_ cover. She got dressed in her formal gown. She checked her clutch purse for the pen and small notepad she always carried to jot names, phone numbers and words and ideas for her speeches. The room key also was there. She snapped it shut and headed down to the lobby to pick up a cab to take her to the Biarritz Country Club.

* * *

As had become his habit of late, Conor had spent too much time in the men's grill with his cigars and his scotch and his cronies. Ever since his wife died his evenings were too long and empty and so he found it necessary to routinely seek the collective company of those three friends as a coda to his days. Even with a dinner to attend this evening he had indulged himself beforehand and thus found it necessary to revive himself before making his entrance. He went downstairs to the locker room and took off his tuxedo jacket, undid his bowtie and opened his shirt collar. He went to the row of basins opposite the showers and brushed his teeth, gargled and washed his face. He looked in the mirror as he dried off and saw again the toll of the years. His pale complexion had gone ruddy, florid even, thanks to all the hours in the sun he'd stolen to play golf. Then again, maybe it had been the scotch. Although his thick black hair had gone prematurely white in his late forties, he was thankful he still had a full head of it. The pounds he'd added over the years made his face more square and his build more stocky. But the crow's feet around his eyes only added to their twinkle and when he smiled into the mirror he could still see the good-looking charmer he always had been.

After putting himself back together he climbed the stairs. When no one was looking he took the steps one at a time. Years before he'd stumbled into a gopher hole in the rough and twisted his right knee. Arthritis eventually settled in and gave him a slight limp he worked hard to hide. Once upstairs he made his way out to the veranda. The sun was setting behind the far end of the course and he loved to watch the shadows creep away from the light toward the clubhouse. He never tired of the view. After all, this is where his life had truly begun. He took satisfaction looking out at the changes he had wrought. During his tenure as president of the club he had added some tees for more length and some bunkers for more strategy. One of the bunkers he'd dubbed "Gino's Revenge" in honor of his long departed friend. He also had Bogey House razed and replaced with a dormitory for the migrants on the greens crew. Although no one knew the true reason, it was because its presence fostered a memory too painful and abiding to plague him any more than it already did. At last he became aware of the crowd noise building inside in the ballroom. His reverie complete, he grabbed his lapels, straightened his jacket and made his way in.

* * *

Bridie and Mitchell sat with George Phillips in an arrangement of chairs and settees out in the clubhouse lobby. Phillips had handwritten notes for both of them that listed names, affiliations and table numbers. He was going through each list name by name filling in more details about each prospective donor. There were a lot of them at the dinner. At two hundred and fifty dollars a plate, the fundraiser weeded out those who couldn't afford more as well as those with less than a steadfast commitment to the cause. Halfway down the list with Bridie, he reached Conor O'Reilly's name.

"Here's a real hot one for you," Philips said. "Conor O'Reilly, president and CEO of GCI. Made a fortune during the war in aviation, made another after the war in real estate. The guy is crazy wealthy and there's been some indication he's become interested in politics. Doesn't think the Democrats are committed to a strong military. Not too crazy about taxes, either. He came over from Ireland around the Depression. Widowed a couple of years ago. No children to leave his fortune to. He's a member here at Biarritz, in fact a past president."

"No wife, no children?" Bridie mused. "Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he'd like to do more than just write a check."

"Maybe," Phillips responded. "But guys like that are usually too busy making it or spending it. But if you feel like it could work why don't you offer him a spot on that advisory committee Mitch set up to support economic development down here?"

"Good idea," Mitchell interjected. "Could represent the aerospace industry or the real estate sector. We don't have anybody on it yet from those areas. So that might work."

" I'll approach him tonight, then," Bridie announced. "In fact, I'll try to track him down first. Now who've you got next on the list?"

* * *

As usual, Bill and his wife were late to the affair so Conor took a seat at the table and waited nursing what he vowed would be his last scotch of the evening. He'd never been a fan of galas like this and with his wife gone it always seemed awkward to show up alone. He knew he could always drum up a date from among his friends, but somehow it just didn't seem worth the effort. He'd come to the dinner because he wanted to hear Ronald Reagan speak. He'd seen the speech he'd given at the convention and knew there was more to this man than Death Valley Days. He felt Goldwater didn't have a prayer and displayed the "AuH2O" bumper sticker on his Cadillac more because he thought it clever than because he thought he was backing a winner.

He was looking around the room from his chair for anybody he knew when he sensed a presence glide next to him. He looked over and did a complete double take. Standing next to him was a beautiful young woman of such familiarity he was struck silent. Then he heard the vision speak.

"Mr. O'Reilly? Mr. Conor O'Reilly?"

"Yes," was all he heard himself say.

"How do you do? I'm Bridie Aiken, Mitch Aiken's wife – you know, the state senator? Could I impose upon you for a moment of your time? I promise I won't be long."

"Birdie did you say?"

"No, Bridie. Bridie Aiken. The Bridie part is Irish, you know," she corrected with a smile knowing that should strike a chord.

Finding his voice Conor said, "Oh, I know that. Sure... sit down. What's on your mind?" He thought he'd done a good job of masking his amazement at her appearance. But, he reasoned, even if he hadn't a good looking woman like this must be used to stunning men now and then.

"Thank you," she said taking the empty seat next to him. "To begin, on behalf of the campaign committee I want to thank you for your support and for coming out tonight. We're facing a real uphill battle here in California for Goldwater and we need all the financial backing we can get."

"You need more than money. You need a candidate that doesn't keep putting his foot in his mouth."

"Yes, well, it's not just about this election, it's about the country's future, the party's future in California. We've got a gubernatorial election coming in a couple of years and we have to lay the groundwork for that as well."

"So you're putting the arm on me? Is that what you're doing?"

Bridie was taken aback by his bluntness but quickly redirected the message. "No, that's not all," she said shifting in her chair. "Mitch needs someone like you to get involved at the state level. Not just politically but in a way that can make a difference. He wants to talk with you about the economic development committee he's setting up. No matter who's elected president there's going to be a need to make sure we keep growing our commercial and industrial base here in Southern California. We know how successful you've been in your businesses and we think you could help."

Conor caught himself going cynical. People were always after him for his money or his influence. But he stopped short of delivering his standard refusal. There was something about this woman that was too familiar, too intriguing to put off. "Well, I might be interested in hearing more. I'm not doing that much outside the company right now. Have your husband's people get in touch and we'll see about getting together."

Bridie smiled. "Wonderful. I'll do that. We'll have somebody..."

"And I want you at the meeting," Conor interrupted impulsively.

"Me? Really?"

Conor scrambled for an answer. "Yes. I sense you're a big part of your husband's team. I want to get to know you better. We need more women like you in politics."

"All right, I'm sure I can manage that if you like. So we'll get on that then."

Just then Billy Compton and his wife Dorothy appeared at the table. "Hey, Connie. Who's this beauty you've managed to corral?" Billy jested.

"Billy, this is Bridie Aiken, Mitch Aiken's wife. Bridie, these are my friends Bill and Dorothy Compton."

"Pleased to meet you," Bridie said rising from her seat. "We were just finishing up. I have to hurry along now, but I hope you all enjoy the evening."

"Nice meeting you," Conor replied. "We'll see you again, then."

"Yes. And when we do you must let me know what you think of Reagan's talk tonight. I think you'll like it."

"I'm sure I will," Conor smiled. "I'm sure I will."

(back to top)

# Chapter 33

## Revelation

Thursday, September 24, 1964

Conor's office at GCI's corporate headquarters in Burbank was unlike any other in the building. The seven-story glass and concrete edifice was one of the tallest buildings in the city and its interior reflected its modern architecture; black metal desks with chrome legs and rosewood Formica tops, glass partitions, beige tweed industrial carpeting, beige IBM Selectric typewriters, Venetian blinds on the exterior windows, abstract artwork and wall hangings as decoration. By contrast, Conor's office in the northeast corner of the top floor had more the look of a museum. Oriental carpets were scattered about a broad-planked hardwood floor. Drapes framed the windows. The wood paneled walls were adorned with oil paintings of people, golf courses and horses. A heavy mahogany desk commanded one end of the room. A portrait and framed memorabilia hung above the credenza behind the desk. A leather sofa, two club chairs and coffee and end tables made for a seating area in the middle of the room. The far wall was a floor to ceiling dark wood bookcase with more framed pictures and artifacts.

Conor liked the view from his desk. Wherever his eyes fell he could glean a memory, some happy, some bittersweet. There were the several silver trophies in the bookcase marking his club championships at Redlands and, later, Biarritz. In a place of prominence was the loving cup from the 1930 Biarritz Calcutta. Centered above the credenza was a life-sized portrait of Robert Graves done shortly before his death in 1949. He and Meg were killed when their small plane went down in Nevada on their way to a hunting lodge in Idaho. To the left of the portrait was a framed stock certificate from the company's initial public offering in 1955 that Conor had engineered. It was then the company's name had changed from Graves Industries to Graves Consolidated Industries – GCI. To the right of Graves' portrait was a large black and white aerial photograph of one of the post-war housing developments Conor had invested in. This one, like the four others he had been involved with, contained a street named Annie Lane. An array of model aircraft were displayed on top of the credenza representing contracts for commercial and military plane parts the company garnered since the war ended. On a side wall was a painting made from a photograph showing Billy Compton, Conor and his cousin Michael standing in front of a race horse with a jockey mounted in the saddle. Billy had established a stable breeding thoroughbreds and Michael had gone to work for him as a trainer. A filly Conor had bought from them and named "Lahinch Lassie" had managed to win the Pacific Derby at Hollywood Park in 1951. On the opposite wall was a large oil still life depicting yellow tulips. Next to the credenza a half dozen putters of various shapes and sizes leaned against the wall. On the floor were three golf balls and a putting cup. Sometimes Conor liked to practice putting when trying to think through a problem. Scattered about on the tables were examples of pre-Columbian stone carvings Conor had begun to collect on his visits to Central America. On the desk was an ornately framed color photograph of his late wife, Sylvia. They had married in 1935 much to the delight of her father and mother who were pleased that Conor had so quickly made his mark in the business and would be a suitable heir apparent for the family. Conor had become the son they never had and they were relieved that someone so reliable and resourceful would take care of Sylvia – she having needed taking care of. Her asthma never improved and over the years she was increasingly limited in what she could do. Finally a bout with influenza was followed by pneumonia and she died in the winter of 1962.

On this particular morning Conor sat in that office among his mementoes and wondered just what he was doing. He felt like some forgotten recollection lurking somewhere about his office was haunting him, leading him on. Mitch Aiken and his wife were due there shortly to talk to him about the Southern California Economic Development Advisory Committee and what he could do to help them as a member. But he knew it was just politics. The real reason to name someone to such an ostentatious-sounding group was to get money out of them. He was no fool and he had no intention of investing in a party or a campaign that had no chance. And Goldwater had no chance. On the other hand he had spent the past two weeks finding himself wondering about this Bridie woman. There was something about her so eerily familiar he had to see her again.

At promptly eleven o'clock his secretary announced their arrival on the intercom. As Conor bid she ushered them into the office. Conor was a bit disappointed they had brought along George Phillips. He rose from behind his desk with a smile to greet them and lead them to the sofa and chairs. His secretary took their coffee orders and they sat down and exchanged pleasantries.

Phillips took the lead in explaining the political landscape. They desperately needed money for television time for Goldwater. There was little time left before the election and they had to act now. Money was crucial. Could Conor help?

Bridie watched as Conor sank back in the chair and folded his arms. She could sense what was coming.

"I hear you," Conor said. "But I'm not interested in supporting Goldwater. It's a lost cause. The guy's a fool to say the things he does. And the country's in no mood for a conservative right now. The election was lost when he got the nomination. So, no, I can't help with money for him."

The secretary excused herself as she came back into the office with the coffee service and placed the tray on the table and asked if anyone needed anything else. When assured that was all they needed she left. Conor's remark still hung in the room as they took their coffee.

"I can appreciate your stance," Mitchell finally responded. "It's something we're hearing a lot of. But we also need help down the road. We've got a gubernatorial election in two years. And we think Reagan could be viable, especially after the exposure he got during this campaign. And there's also the issue locally. I could really use you on the economic development committee. We need to stimulate continued growth here in Southern California, and I am committed to showing results before I come up for reelection in '68."

"Well, if it's Reagan we're talking about, that's something else... as is your reelection, for that matter. What would my time commitment be for your committee?"

"We'll meet about every six weeks. It's about helping us identify resources we can use, strategies we can implement to attract more industries here to Southern California. You can really help with your insights into aerospace and real estate."

"I could maybe do that. But I'm probably most interested in Reagan. I like what I hear from him and I like what he had to say the other night at the dinner. We get him in as governor and we'll do more for business than all the committees you could ever dream up."

Phillips grinned and broke in. "I'm glad you liked Reagan's remarks. You know who wrote them, don't you? No one else but Bridie here."

"Really?" Conor said surprised. "You're a speechwriter for Reagan?"

Bridie blushed slightly. "Just that event. It's one of the things I do. Married to Mitch I've gotten pretty involved in politics. So I write and advise and help to make things happen."

"She does more than that," Mitch added. "She's got a real feel for the message and for saying the right things at the right time. We're pretty proud of her,"

"As you should be, it appears." Conor said. Turning to Bridie he asked, "So how does a woman like you become a speechwriter? I thought politics was a man's world."

She gave a small laugh. "Well, the writing part I come by naturally. My mother is a writer, an author actually. The rest is pretty much just osmosis being married to Mitch."

Maybe it was the laugh. Maybe it was the way her eyes crinkled when she did so. Conor felt a pang in his heart. He began to make a connection. He had to know more. He leaned forward in his chair. "You say your mother is an author. What's her name? What has she written? Anything I might have read?"

Bridie gave a quick glance at Mitch sitting next to her on the couch surprised at Conor's intensity. Turning back to Conor she said, "She's Anna Hyde, although she writes under the name A.C. Harrington. It was her mother's maiden name. You might have read her first book, _Tuesday's Caddie_. Actually it was based loosely on the time she was a member at Biarritz back when she was young... back before she moved to Chicago. So maybe you read it?"

Conor was struck dumb. He settled back into his chair his hands gripping its arms, a look of shock on his face.

"Are you all right?" Mitch asked.

"Did I say something wrong?" Bridie added.

Conor struggled to compose himself. "No, no, it's all right. It's just I might have known her back then. I was around Biarritz back in those days, you know."

"Oh really?" Bridie replied. "What a coincidence! She wrote about an Irish caddie. I take it you haven't read the book then."

"No, no I haven't."

"Well, you should. I think you'd enjoy it. Especially if you were around Biarritz back then."

"Yes. Yes, I'll have to read it."

"It really launched her career as a novelist. I know it meant a lot to her to write it. It's still my favorite of what she's done."

As Conor's sense of the present returned he realized he had too many questions for the moment. He would allow himself just one. But it turned into two. "So where is she now? Is she married?"

"She and her husband live in Westchester, just outside New York City, although they're in the process of moving to Manhattan. He's actually been her editor for all three of her books."

The dagger piercing his heart turned ice cold. "I see." Then, once again composing himself, he said, "Well, that's wonderful. I'll have to make it a point to read the book." It was time to change the subject. He made a decision. "So you say you're looking ahead to '68. That I may be able to help with."

Mitch grinned. "That's wonderful. We could surely use your help. Did you have anything specific in mind?"

"I'll commit to the advisory committee for whatever that's worth to you," Conor said. "Then maybe after the election I can host some sort of fundraiser for you. I'm sure I have enough friends to make it worth your while. Maybe you can get Reagan to attend and we can split the proceeds between both of you."

Bridie jumped in. "That's perfect. I'm sure with enough lead-time we can get Ronnie involved. And he's always a great draw, especially now after what he did at the convention."

"I'm thinking of something different than the other night. I hate those black tie things. What if we made it some sort of daytime event, you know, for families? Maybe hold it at my ranch out in the Valley or even over at my friend Bill's place. Horse rides, hayrides, barbeque, that sort of thing. Reagan's into horses is he not?"

"Yes he is," Bridie replied again giving him that smile that was so familiar. "I think you have a great idea there. We could call it 'Riding for Reagan' or something like that. And the family angle is perfect. Not to mention the photo opportunities."

"You two have children?" Conor asked.

"Yes, a boy and a girl, eight and six. They'd love a day like that," Bridie assured him.

"Good. Well, let's start from there. You'll work with me on this, right?" Conor said looking at Bridie.

"Oh, sure, if you like. Maybe we can get together soon and talk about setting up a committee. That's usually the best place to start."

"Sounds good. Get in touch with my secretary when you're ready and we'll get it on the calendar," Conor said with a note of finality. Rising from his chair he added, "I'm glad you could come by. I look forward to working with you on this."

The other three took his cue and stood from their seats. Mitch spoke first, "Thank you, Conor, for the chance to talk. I know your help will make a big difference for the party moving forward."

"You're going to need all the help you can get after what Goldwater's doing to it," Conor said derisively.

Conor shook each of their hands then shepherded them to the door. They exchanged final goodbyes and Conor shut the door and leaned back against it eyes closed. He stayed that way for several seconds before moving back behind his desk and sitting down. He opened one of the doors in the credenza and pulled out a bottle and a glass. He poured himself a healthy scotch and took a swig. He replaced the bottle and then turned in his chair to look back into his office. His eyes went from the Calcutta loving cup to the painting of the yellow tulips. Apparently that was the memory that had haunted him all morning. He leaned into his intercom and buzzed for his secretary. When she responded he said, "I need you to get me a book. Harrington is the author. The title is _Tuesday's Caddie_. I could use it this afternoon. You can do that for me, right?"

"Yes sir, no problem sir," came the reply.

"Good. Now hold my calls until I tell you different."

"Very good, sir."

"Thanks." Conor released the intercom button and leaned back in his chair. He took another sip of his scotch and looked again at the painting of yellow tulips. She was alive and she lived someplace called Westchester. That was something to think about.

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# Chapter 34

## Tuesday's Caddie

Thursday, September 24, 1964

Rather than go to Biarritz for his usual evening drinks, banter and dinner Conor drove home. It had taken whomever his secretary dispatched on the mission the better part of the day to find the book. It had been published four years earlier and, while not a best seller, it had done well enough that there was still a copy on the remainder shelf at a small bookstore in downtown Los Angeles. _Tuesday's Caddie_ lay on the seat next to him as he neared his estate in the Hollywood Hills. He stopped at the entrance and pressed a button under the dashboard to open the wrought iron gate that hung from the two stucco pillars on either side of the drive. A bronze plaque on one proclaimed the estate's name: "Westlake." He glanced at the name as he had done a thousand times before. But this time he felt it connect with meaning. He recalled that day in the park. He was glad he'd named his home after it, especially since someone had since seen fit to change the park's name to MacArthur.

The house itself was huge. Too huge he'd always thought. But Sylvia had loved to entertain and a house big enough to entertain came with a lot of bedrooms. He parked the car in the garage and entered through the kitchen. The maid heard him and met him as he emerged into the dining room. He told her he'd take his dinner in the study. He went straight through the foyer and into his lair. He took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. He loosened his tie and made himself a drink. He settled into the chair behind the desk and examined the book again. He stared at the picture on the back of the dust jacket. She was still a great beauty. She was older, yes, but her child-like innocence had taken on a regal glow. He opened the back cover and again read the short author's biography with things he'd never known. She was from Iowa. She had gone to Coe College. She had written an entertainment column for the _Chicago Tribune_. She still played golf. She had two cats. Her husband's name was Nigel.

He put the book down on the desk and looked at the cover as he took another pull on his scotch. It was an illustration showing a woman golfer in period costume posed in her follow through. To the side stood a caddie looking out after the shot, her bag at his side. In the distance on a hill was a grand clubhouse. There was the title and the author's name: A.C. Harrington. No wonder she had been impossible to find. She had too many names.

He remembered how devastated and helpless he had felt when she disappeared after the Calcutta. There was nowhere to look, no one to turn to and no time to pursue her. Given how he knew they would feel, he dared not approach Robert or Meg for help. He did manage to learn that Meg had no idea of what happened to Annie and had never heard from her again after Franklin's death. He knew Annie must have been traumatized by the circumstances of his death, but he could not understand why she had not sought him out for comfort or at least a word of goodbye if leaving was what she must do. He knew only her married name and suspected it would be shed as soon as she got wherever she was going. Still, every time a new phone book was published he would look for a listing for Anna Burke.

A year ago, a year after Sylvia passed away, he had made a concerted effort to track her down. He hired a private investigator and paid him a princely sum only to find out her maiden name was Harper, a fact he could have learned himself had he gone to the Hall of Records and looked up her marriage license. With only that name to go on the thirty-year-old trail went cold. The P.I. had found six Anna Harpers in the country but none of them were his Annie. It was as if she had never existed.

The maid knocked on his door and entered with his dinner on a tray. He picked up the book so she could set the tray in front of him on the desk. He thanked her and she left closing the door behind her. He pulled himself up to the desk, put the napkin on his lap and began taking bites of his meal. He laid the book at the side of the tray and opened it. He turned past the title page and read the dedication: "To Bridie. Some stories have a happier ending then can ever be told." He wondered what that could possibly mean. He took another forkful of his dinner and turned to the first chapter and began to read.

As he read he realized her daughter had been wrong. It was more than a loosely based account of her days at Biarritz. The story was their story, if not embellished a bit with more romanticism than he remembered. Ryan was the Irish caddie, Charlene the ghostwriter with the abusive husband, although he was not a homosexual in this story. Ryan was strong, handsome, quick witted and chivalrous. His accent was like a musical instrument to the ear of the ghostwriter. Charlene had fallen madly in love with her caddie. Their nights together had been rapturous, taking her to places she had never been. Her husband and his girlfriend were killed in a car accident. Ryan and his friend won the Calcutta with Charlene in the gallery. But it was there the story veered. A pretty young scullery maid ran run out from the gallery at the moment of triumph and leapt into Ryan's arms. Charlene was mortified, incensed and instantly aware she had been a fool to believe there was no one else. But she found the strength to put those things aside along with all the embarrassment her husband's death and the ensuing scandal had caused. She too ran out onto the green and embraced her Ryan and kissed him passionately on the lips for all the world to see. And she was right to do so. The maid turned out to be but an overzealous friend.

Conor stopped reading. He got up from his chair and made himself another drink. He came back to the desk and sat down. He understood now what had happened. It had been Mary's joy and her embrace that had chased Annie away. She had been there in the gallery. She did see him win. She had wanted to celebrate his moment with him. But she didn't. She left never to be found again. Until now.

It was well past midnight when Conor finished the book. The rest of the story had been pure fiction. Ryan and Charlene married and moved inland to Redlands at the foothills of the San Bernardino Mountains. She found work with the local newspaper. He took a series of jobs... bartender, truck driver and waiter. But they were happy. Finally, he found a job at a golf course there and became a golf professional. He was quite successful. They conceived a child. But the happy story suddenly twisted. She died giving birth. Alone with his infant son, Ryan decided to return to Ireland, to his roots. He was a caddie no longer, he was a professional and he had a son to raise in the memory of his dear Charlene. The epilogue was that the son grew up to be a writer in the grand tradition of Irish bards.

Conor closed the book and turned it over to again look at Annie's picture on the dust jacket. Now he knew. She had loved him. She had wanted him. She imagined in her book being with him forever, just as he had yearned to be with her.

He decided he needed a nightcap. He got up and poured the rest of the bottle into his glass. He moved to the corner of the study were there stood two old golf bags full of clubs. One bag held the clubs he had used to win the Calcutta. The other smaller canvas bag held Annie's clubs – clubs he'd had Gino purloin from the bag room a few months after Annie disappeared. Sylvia had always complained about the golf bags, claiming them eyesores and dust catchers. Conor had simply replied they were a reminder of his poor caddie days and that they might be worth money one day as antiques. He touched her clubs and thought back to those few days when they had been together falling in love. Time had no meaning when they were together. But now it was time that separated them even more than an entire continent did. Where had those thirty years gone?

Conor sat down in the leather winged back chair opposite his desk. He took a sip of his drink. He leaned his head back and tried to think. She was married. But hadn't she been married when they first met? He dismissed that train of thought immediately. No, she was married with a husband and a daughter and a life of her own, a life he knew nothing about. Happy or sad it was a life she chose and had made for herself.

And what to make of Bridie? She obviously was her mother's daughter. The resemblance and mannerisms were uncanny. He wondered who the father was. He obviously wasn't Franklin. But had she married when she got to Chicago? He tried to guess at Bridie's age. She had to be younger than thirty-three. That would mean Bridie possibly would have been born not that long after the move to Chicago.

The more he thought, the more questions he had as each question begat more questions. He found his mind looping around everything he had learned that day. He had enough. He took a final drink from his glass and put it on the edge of the desk. He rose and made his way upstairs to his bedroom. Tomorrow would be time enough to sort everything out.

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# Chapter 35

## Westchester

Sunday, September 27, 1964

Annie put down the book review section of _The New York Times_ and sighed. She had to get a move on. The movers were coming Wednesday and she had to start packing the things she didn't want them to pack. There simply was no time for her usual Sunday morning lounging in bed. She got up and went to the window. It was a gray morning, a light mist clinging and building over the lawn, the trees, the rhododendrons. It was beginning to look like autumn. She could see Nigel in the backyard tending to Dylan, their cocker spaniel. She wondered how Dylan would like apartment life in Manhattan. Then again she wondered how she would like apartment life in Manhattan.

The move was all about Nigel. At sixty-seven he still wanted to work. The publishing house had been his life and it was a life he didn't want to give up. But the daily commute from Westchester was wearing on him. Up at five thirty to catch the seven thirty to the city, he often didn't return home until seven in the evening. It was too long a day for someone his age. Annie had been hesitant about agreeing to the move. She liked suburban living. The spare bedroom in their colonial house that she made into her office was sunny and quiet. It was perfect for her daily writing regimen. Since marrying Nigel and moving into his house five years ago she had made quite a nice and comfortable life for herself. There were her friends at Whippoorwill Country Club and their Tuesday golf games she so enjoyed. There was bridge on Thursday nights and dinner there on Saturdays. She'd made friends at the local butcher and delicatessen and had finally found a hairdresser that gave her just the cut and shade of blonde she liked. Life was almost perfect. It seemed like a lot to give up.

On the other hand, Nigel was worth it. She treasured his companionship. After so many years living with her aunt in Chicago, she had become incredibly lonely when Louise passed away. Bridie was out in California about to give birth to Tommy when Louise had the stroke. Annie had already begun work on her first novel and through some contacts at the paper had made Nigel's acquaintance. It was a sweeping time of change; becoming a grandmother, finding herself alone, starting what she hoped would be her new calling. It was somehow apt that a man like Nigel would become part of her life. Widowed for some years, he was kind, he was considerate and he was supportive of her creative endeavor. When her first book was finished and after a long-distance courtship in which he pursued her attentively, relentlessly, they married and she moved east.

After years of virtual abstinence the paucity of a sex life didn't bother her that much. Nor did the fact that Nigel preferred two bedrooms. She slept better alone. What she did enjoy were their conversations over morning coffee and evening suppers. He loved the museums and galleries of New York as much as she did. He encouraged her writing and was almost her muse, asking questions about her characters and plot that forced her toward more creative solutions. The friends they had as a couple were far more interesting and intellectual than those she'd once had in Hollywood, or in Chicago for that matter.

She saw Nigel heading back into the house with Dylan. She put on her robe and went downstairs to meet him in the kitchen for coffee.

"Good morning, dear," he greeted her. "You're down early this morning."

"Oh, there's just so much to do," she replied. "I'm not going to feel right until I get a handle on things."

"Well, don't forget the movers can take care of most everything. There shouldn't be that much to do. So don't tax yourself. Did you get any writing in this morning?" he said pouring her a cup of coffee.

"No, not really. I slept in a little. But I'm at a good break point. Need to think some things out before I go further."

"Well, I'm going to go out for the bagels and then work in the garage a bit this morning. Anything I can get you while I'm out?"

"Maybe just some peanut butter if it's not too much trouble. I think we're out and I just have a taste for it this morning."

Nigel chuckled. "Never before you had I ever heard of peanut butter on bagels. You are one of a kind, my dear,"

Annie smiled back. She loved the trace of an English accent that Nigel maintained even after a lifetime in America. It always made her feel somehow elegant, even on a Sunday morning in her pajamas and robe. "Oh you!" she teased back. "I'll be upstairs in the study so call me down when you get back."

Nigel took a last sip of coffee and grabbed his car keys from the counter. "I'll be quick. Keep the coffee warm!"

"I'll just make another pot," Annie said. As she did so she heard the automatic garage door open then shut as Nigel left on his errands. She warmed up her cup and took it upstairs to begin her mission.

Standing in the doorway of the study she surveyed the task. The room wasn't exactly cluttered, but it wasn't ready for _Better Homes & Gardens_ either. The stacks of manuscript pages and their carbon copies that had been building on the floor under the desk would be too precious to entrust to movers. She'd have to find a suitable box for those. She moved behind her desk and sat down in the chair in front of the typewriter. Framed pictures of Bridie and her grandchildren and Nigel occupied one corner of the desktop. In the other stood the chrome mermaid hood ornament from her long lost red Cadillac coupe. Years before she'd had a walnut wood base made for it so it could stand upright like a trophy. Where once it symbolized her freedom, now she took it as a reminder of the Oscar she almost won. And she always thought it certainly a better-looking piece of sculpture than that tacky little fellow. Those items would need to be specially boxed and carried down to the city in the car as well.

She opened the desk drawer and started picking through the pens, pencils, paperclips, erasers and dried out bottles of Whiteout for any important ephemera she could find. She was surprised to find several valuables. There was Bridie's baby ring that her Aunt Louise had given her with the comment that every princess needed jewelry. There was her laminated press pass from her days at the _Trib_. Pushed to the back of the drawer was her book of Keats poetry with the dried yellow tulip still pressed between the pages. Paper clipped together were two newspaper clippings of her parents' obituaries. They had died within a year of each other, her father first, her mother second pining at his loss. She always regretted that she never had that close a relationship with them. But she came to understand that it was only because she was so different from them. Louise had always been the only relative who had ever recognized her for who she was and who never judged her against expectations she could never meet.

Thinking of Louise she spied the black boxes stacked neatly on the bottom shelves of the bookcase on the wall opposite her desk. A professional photographer, Louise had made a life's work of chronicling Bridie's childhood and the boxes contained hundreds of mounted black and white prints from all phases of her daughter's life. She moved from behind the desk and sat down on the floor cross-legged in front of the bookcase. She pulled out the box labeled "1931-1934" and took off the lid. She never tired of looking at Bridie's baby pictures.

Her daughter almost hadn't been. Annie arrived in Chicago broken and empty, bereft of any identity. She spent her first weeks with Louise as a recluse often not dressing for days at a time. She couldn't understand how she could have been so stupid as to let Franklin use her and Conor betray her. All the work she had done in the past few years meant nothing now. It was in July that she found out she was pregnant. She felt as if she'd taken another mortal blow to her soul. She didn't share the news with Louise for some days. When she did she declared she would be looking for an abortion. But Louise would hear nothing of it, arguing that the only right thing to do was to go back to California and find Conor and marry him. Annie loved him and the two of them should raise their child together. Whatever she had imagined she had seen that day at the Calcutta would mean nothing if she would just go back and tell him how much she loved him and how much she wanted to give him their child. Every phone call Louise and Annie had those final weeks in California indicated to Louise the love was mutual.

Annie argued back that she couldn't return to California. The shame and embarrassment were too great. The tabloids would find her and make a mockery of any life she tried to live. Conor was but a caddie and could barely support himself much less a family. She saw what she saw, a scullery maid for goodness sakes. And she had no way to support herself there or here, for that matter. Louise countered they would find a way together. Annie said no and stormed from the conversation.

A few days later they talked again. Louise softened on the idea of Annie returning to California. That Conor was but a caddie kept her from contacting him herself. But she remained adamant that she have the child. She told her that she had saved enough over the years to support them all, despite the Depression. Finally, she threatened to turn Annie out if she didn't have the baby. Annie eventually relented. If her life so far had any meaning at all perhaps it would be in this child. She resigned herself to the pregnancy. When Bridie was born she realized Louise had been right all along. She loved the baby more than she could bear. Part of her wished she could share her with the father.

As Annie leafed through the photographs showing Bridie growing from infant to toddler she reminisced about the early years in Chicago. When Bridie was two she'd found part-time work as a stringer for a weekly newspaper on the North Side. Three years later she was able to talk her way into a column for the _Trib_ by dropping names and anecdotes she'd picked up during her years in Hollywood. Right from the beginning she used a nom de plume. Writing an entertainment column she knew she had to hide her past. She decided "A.C. Harrington" had a nice ring to it and would imply the gravitas of a male correspondent.

The years settled into a comfortable existence. Annie, Louise and Bridie created their own little cocoon of a household that sustained and protected them through the lean years of the Depression and the war. When the country emerged into prosperity in the fifties Bridie emerged as a beautiful, intelligent and talented young lady. Louise constantly reminded Annie of what a good mother she had been.

Of course it hadn't been easy for Annie. There had been longing for a man in her life. She had two brief affairs, but very brief. She realized both times she couldn't help but compare them to the feelings she had held years before for her caddie. He may have been a scoundrel, he may have been only a caddie, but she had loved him from a place deep in her soul that had no judgment to render.

With Bridie gone Annie had time to think of her future alone. Her thoughts of Conor were a constant impediment to another relationship. And she did want a relationship, a companion to share with her the rest of her life. She decided she needed to write a book, a book that would let her expel all the anger and hurt and sadness. A catharsis was needed and _Tuesday's Caddie_ was the result. The book did more than soothe her soul. Her life emptied of tortured memories and filled with hope for the future. It led her to Nigel and the kind of writing that did more than make money.

She was putting the photographs back into the box when she heard her husband return. She realized she'd wasted more than an hour lost in remembrances and she was miffed that she had indulged herself so. She replaced the box of photographs on the shelf and got up from the floor. It was time for a bagel with peanut butter and some time with Nigel. Maybe she would have grape jelly too.

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# Chapter 36

## Truth

Saturday, October 3, 1964

Conor closed the book and laid it down next to him on the park bench. He lifted his gaze out over the lake with the swans and the ducks and the rowboats drifting about and considered what he had read. Annie's third book had been much like the first two; a story of love found then tragically lost. _The Doctor's Daughter_ , her second book, took place in the Civil War and described an affair between a small town Northern girl and a Confederate soldier lost behind enemy lines. He'd finished that story last weekend. Her most recent novel, the one he just finished, was titled _Dateline Cicero_ and told the story of a young newspaper reporter falling in love with the daughter of a Chicago mobster in the 1920's. He'd been disappointed that the photographs and dust jacket blurbs describing Annie had been basically the same for all three books. He wanted more information. On the other hand, he could feel her in the words she wrote. Even after all the years he still felt like he knew her better than he knew anyone else.

He shifted in his seat and reached for his coffee in the paper cup he'd placed on the ground. He took a sip, put it back down and then lit a cigarette. He crossed his leg. He glanced at his watch. Ten thirty. Jim Taggert was due any minute. Reading Annie's books had not been the only research he'd conducted. Taggert was a trusted private detective the company used from time to time to turn up backgrounds on prospective clients and employees. He'd proven himself reliable and discreet. And discretion was critical for Conor. It was the main reason he'd chosen MacArthur Park for their meeting. The area around it had changed a great deal in thirty years and not in a good way. He could thus be sure no one he knew would be here. Of course the other reason was that he wanted to revisit this place. There had been precious little time shared with Annie and this place, the former Westlake Park, had been where he felt they had realized they were in love.

He took in the view and remembered their walk around the lake. The park was different now, but he could still imagine feeding the ducks and picking the tulips. He caught a glimpse of movement to his left and saw Taggert approach down the walk looking conspicuously out of place in his suit and hat and carrying a briefcase. Conor rose to greet him. They exchanged hellos and shook hands. Taggert sat down next to Conor on the bench, put his briefcase on his lap, opened it and took out two file folders, one labeled "CO #1" and the other "CO #2."

"Well, Connie, I have to say, the daughter was easy but the mother was hard."

"What do you mean?"

"The daughter and her husband are an open book. And right off I've got to tell you that if you're considering giving any support to Aiken you couldn't go far wrong. He's a solid guy – especially for a politician.

"And the mother?"

"Well, it's pretty ironic. Here's somebody whose words were read by thousands every day. And all the while she stayed more or less anonymous. Pretty neat trick if you ask me. Did it for years, too."

"Give me the basics," Connie prompted.

Taggert opened the first folder and spoke from the summary sheet on top. "Well, she landed in Chicago in 1930. She'd lost everything here – everything had been in her husband's name and the banks took it all. Worked for a little weekly suburban paper for a while then got herself a gig as a columnist for the _Chicago Tribune_. Always wrote under a pen name even though she went back to her maiden name as soon as she landed there. Daughter was born in 1931. Lived for years with an aunt so she never had a phone listing or an address that could be traced. Stayed to herself, too. No clubs or organizations I could find. Quit the paper in '58 and married a guy named Nigel Hyde, a widower and an editor with a publishing house in New York. Has lived in Westchester, New York ever since. The novels you know about."

Conor heard only one fact. He tried to look nonplused. "No other marriage?" he managed to ask, feeling himself start to shake.

"Nope. Looks like she just lived with her aunt and raised her daughter. We've got her earlier history here too. But I think you know most of that already. It's here in the file, anyway."

"So what about the daughter?"

Taggert shuffled the folders and opened the second. "Like I said, she's an open book. Born in Chicago in '31. Mother gave her the last name of Harper rather than Burke even though he was listed as the father on the birth certificate. Went to private schools there. Got her degree in journalism from Northwestern. That's where she met her husband. He was getting his law degree there at the time. He's from a long line of lawyers here in Southern California. They married in '56 and moved out here and bought a house in Costa Mesa with his dad's help. She worked for a small advertising agency in LA before the kids came along. He was elected to the State Senate in '62. She's been very active in his career. He's a real up and comer. Doesn't seem to be playing the usual games. A lot of people are predicting big things for him. Like I said before – solid."

Conor wasn't surprised to hear Burke was listed as the father. But he knew the file would contain a piece of information that would tell him the truth, the truth he'd dared not consider ever since meeting Bridie and learning about Annie. But he couldn't bear to ask or find out in front of Taggert. "Thanks, Jim. That's what I needed." Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out an envelope. "And here's your fee – five hundred, right?"

Taggert took the envelope and put it in his briefcase, closed the lid and snapped the latches. "Right – and thanks, Connie. Glad to be of help. Call me anytime. Here you go..." With that he handed Conor the two file folders. They rose and shook hands. Conor watched Taggert walk away. He sat on the bench and slid the two folders between the pages of the book. He picked up the coffee cup and rose from the bench. He would read the files alone, in private.

* * *

The anticipation was almost too much to handle. He had to know, but didn't want to. Too much was at stake. He'd set the book and folders on the seat of his car on the drive home and had kept glancing at it as if it could magically open and reveal its contents. Once home he went into his study and put the book with the folders on the desk then made himself a drink, all the while eying the folders. At last he sat down. He lit a cigarette and took a drink. He put the glass down and took another drag on the cigarette. Finally he took the folder labeled "CO #2" from between the pages of the book. He leaned back and opened it in his lap. The word leapt off the summary page as if it were the only word typed there. February. She was born in February. February 16. It was true. It had to be.

He flung the folder across the room, the pages inside flying everywhere. He screamed a curse. His whole life people had tried to cheat him. As a caddie it was with tips, as a restaurateur it was with provisions, as a golfer it was with rules, as a businessman it was with contracts. And he had found them all out. But this was the biggest deception of all. He'd been cheated out of a child, a daughter. He'd never held her, never taught her, never watched her grow into a woman. Why? Why had the woman he'd held in his heart all these years done this to him?

He sat motionless in his chair his heart pounding. He was more than incensed. He suddenly felt broken and empty. The greatest thing in his life had been hidden from him for thirty years, years he could never reclaim. He sat there and tried to reason with himself. Yes, she had been disgraced and stripped of her home and possessions. But trains ran both ways. He had never been hard to find. She knew Meg and Meg always knew where he was. Why had she never sought him out? He tried to make sense of it. Was it her shame? Had it been Mary's embrace at the Calcutta that had driven her away forever?

He had to do something about this. What that would be he could not begin to think about in his shock and anger. He started to take another drink then stopped. He put the glass down. He would go to Biarritz. He would play golf and he would walk and carry his bag alone. The game would tell him what to do.

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# Chapter 37

## Mitchell

Tuesday, October 13, 1964

Mitchell Aiken was a very busy man. The general election was only three weeks away and he had much to do. It was clear Goldwater was a lost cause. Still the congressional and state races were close. Running for the U.S. Senate, George Murphy, the Republican and former actor, had a great chance against Pierre Salinger, the incumbent Democrat, who'd recently been appointed to fill the vacant seat. Aiken had speaking engagements almost every day and phone calls to make to volunteers who were organizing get out the vote campaigns. And there was his practice to attend to. Coming out of law school he had chosen to go into private practice rather than join a big firm like his father or go the corporate route. He knew he would sacrifice income but he felt a need to help real people with real problems. Thus he handled a variety of civil matters ranging from divorces to real estate transactions. He'd also taken on municipal work and it was there, working for town councils and zoning boards, that he developed an interest in politics. He was a natural. Good looking, charming and intelligent, he soon parlayed a seat on the Costa Mesa Town Council into a state Senate seat.

So it was this morning that he sat in his office above retail stores in Costa Mesa's downtown juggling phone calls and dictation and giving orders to his secretary at an urgent, harried pace. His eleven o'clock appointment was nearing and it was going to be more a distraction than an annoyance, but still he didn't relish the meeting. There was just too much to do. But he had put Conor O'Reilly off for more than a week and that was not good form. He was an important man with the potential to do a lot of good for the campaigns.

O'Reilly had been most insistent with his secretary about setting up the meeting. Yes, he understood the election was looming. Yes, he understood Mitchell was busy and booked solid with commitments. Yes, he understood he would only be in his office a few days in the coming weeks. No, he could not wait until after the election for the meeting. No, it could not be handled with a phone call. No, he could not go into the reason for the meeting. But as much as it was his tenacity, it was more his charm that got him past Mitch's secretary.

Mitchell was in the middle of a phone call when his secretary buzzed him on the intercom and announced O'Reilly's arrival. He didn't want to make him wait so he ended the call with a promise to return it in just a few minutes. He buzzed the secretary back and asked her to show him in.

Conor entered the room unsmiling. Mitchell rose from behind his desk to greet him. They shook hands and said their hellos. Mitchell gestured with his hand for Conor to take a seat. "So what can I do for you today, Mr. O'Reilly?" he opened. "You made this sound pretty urgent."

"It's Connie to you. And it is. For both of us."

"How so?"

"What's your usual retainer for general counseling?" Conor asked taking control of the conversation,

"On an ongoing basis?" Mitchell replied, surprised at the question.

"Yes."

"Well, the usual is two hundred and fifty a month. But of course if you're talking about something you need..."

Conor held up his hand to cut him off then reached into his suit jacket pocket. He pulled out a wallet and counted out five one hundred dollar bills on the desk. "Here," he said pushing them toward Mitchell. "Here's a first month's retainer. I'll send you a check like that the first of every month. You're my attorney now, right?"

Mitchell grinned nervously. "Well, yeah, I guess so. Thanks. But...

Conor again held up his hand to interrupt. "Before we go any further I just want to get something straight between us. As my attorney I expect you to honor client confidentiality. Nothing that passes between us is to be repeated to anyone at any time. And I mean anyone. Not your wife, not your secretary, not anyone. Is that clear? Is that abundantly clear?" he said holding Mitchell's eyes in his own.

"Well, yes, of course. I mean I don't..."

"Good. Then we're in agreement. Complete confidentiality."

"Yes. But I don't quite understand. What is it that you need?"

"I don't need anything. I'm here to tell you a story that affects you and your family and is of great importance to me."

Mitchell tensed, his hand rising to his neck. This was getting personal. He hadn't bargained on this. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll give it to you straight. Your wife, Bridie, is my daughter. And by extension your children are my grandchildren."

Mitchell was stunned. As if struck by a blow he fell back in his chair. He stared back at Conor, his mouth open.

"I know. I know. It's got to be a shock," Conor continued. "It was for me too. But it's the truth and I have to deal with it and I need your help to do so."

Mitchell struggled to find the words. "But her father was some guy named Burke who died before she was born."

"No. That was a lie her mother made up to cover the truth when Bridie was born. She was a widow who didn't want to be labeled an unwed mother or Bridie branded a bastard child. There are only three people alive who know the truth and you're one of them now."

"You've got to be kidding. How can this be?" Mitchell objected growing distressed as he began to realize the ramifications.

"It's no joke. Annie's husband was a homosexual who never came near her. She and I had an affair in 1930, in May. When he was murdered, she lost everything and ran off to Chicago and had Bridie in February 1931, nine months later almost to the day."

"Murdered? He was murdered?" Mitchell blurted unable to grasp all the information.

"Yes. His boyfriend killed him, and then committed suicide. It was horrible for Annie. In some ways I understand better now why she had to leave California."

"I don't think Bridie knows that."

"I hope not. It was pretty ugly."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I can't change what happened, her mother leaving and all. But I am in a position to take care of my daughter and grandchildren and that's what I intend to do."

Mitchell was becoming ever more uncomfortable. It was sinking in that he would be carrying a heavy burden with this knowledge. "But why aren't you telling Bridie this? Why me?"

"Bridie is not to know!" Conor snapped back. " Ever! You got that straight? Capisce?"

"Capisce?"

"Understand?"

"Yes, but..."

"Look, Bridie's mother made a decision thirty years ago to keep me out of their lives. I can't begin to fully understand it or forgive it. But for whatever reason it's what she did. She and Bridie went on to live their lives and they are good lives and for all I can tell they are happy lives. I'm not going to interfere. I'm not going to barge my way into them and compound the mistakes of the past. The only person Bridie can hear this from is her mother. The truth was hers to hide and it's hers to tell."

Mitchell went quiet for a second as he tried to comprehend. Then he said, "I still don't understand why..."

"Why I'm telling you this?" Conor interrupted. "Because I need your help. Here's the deal; I'm setting up trust funds for Bridie and your children. The money for Bridie will be available to her on my death. The children's money will be released when I die or when they come of age, whichever happens first. In the latter case the fund's source is to be anonymous. You're to be the secondary beneficiary and the trustee."

"Trust funds? I hate to ask, but what are we talking about?"

"I'm funding them at half a million apiece to begin with; a mix of securities but mostly shares in GCI. It's going to be up to you to make sure they grow."

Mitchell exhaled softly. "Half a million? Each?"

"Yes."

"But that's a lot.... How can you..."

"How can I afford it?" Conor again interjected. "I just can. I've worked hard my whole life. And part of the reason I did was to make myself worthy of Bridie's mother. By the time I gave up on her coming back into my life I was well along. So I guess in some ways I'm repaying her daughter for the incentive she gave me back then,"

"But don't you have anyone else in your life to take care of?"

"No. I'm alone. I took care of the two sisters I have left years ago. Same with my cousin and his wife. They're set. And a niece and nephew are taken care of too. There's nobody else"

"But why not just name them in your will?"

"Taxes. I can see the Democrats licking their chops over estate taxes. One day nobody will be able to leave anything to anybody without the government robbing most of it. But that brings me to the other issue and that is my will. I need a new one and I want you to draw it up with me. And I want you to be the executor."

"Well, I don't know what to say. Of course I can help with that."

"You don't have to say anything. You just have to do it."

"Of course, of course. Is that it, then?"

"Mostly. The rest is more delicate. While I don't want to interject myself into your lives, I want to get to know my daughter and her children. And I think I can do it through your political career."

"What do you have in mind?"

"The fundraiser we talked about when we met. I want to work with Bridie on that. I'm thinking we can start on it after the election. Maybe hold it in the spring. And I definitely want it to be a family thing."

"Well, if you do work with Bridie on that I'm sure there'll be times when she has the kids tagging along. She doesn't leave them with the nanny any more than she has to. And the family angle is a good idea anyway. I'll do what I can to make sure you get some time."

"There's something else. You and Bridie play golf, don't you?"

"Yes, when we have time. Which is not very often."

"I understand. That's what I figured. So I'm going get you a corporate membership at Biarritz. The kids will love the place, especially the pool right now, the ages they are. And it'll be good for your business too. And that way maybe I can spend some time with the children there."

"That's really too good of you. Thank you. We'll enjoy it I'm sure."

Conor leaned back in his chair. "Good. Then I think we're done here. And you're clear that this is to always remain confidential between us."

"Yes, of course. But I think Bridie would want to know that it's you, her father. That's an important truth she really should know."

"No. The truth is she had no father. And for all intents and purposes she still doesn't. Use your head, man. You're a public figure like it or not. If word of her mother's past ever got out in the open she'd be crucified and you along with her. The press would have a field day dredging up an old scandal and your opponents would be laughing all the way to the polls."

Mitchell mulled the scenario before responding. "Yes, yes. You're probably right."

"I am. And you need to know this; if I find out you've violated our little agreement all bets are off. No trust fund, no will, no retainer. You got that?"

"I do. And don't worry. I understand completely. You're my client. You can trust me."

"And I do. Or I wouldn't be here."

"So when do we get started on the trusts and the will?"

"I know you're busy and what you're doing in this election is important. So we can wait until after it's over and you catch up. In the meantime you may hear from David Glass, my accountant. He may have a few questions of you as he starts to pull some things together."

Mitchell jotted the name down on the legal pad he kept on his desk. "David Glass. Got it."

Conor rose from his chair. "That should do it. You know how to get in touch with me, right?"

"I do," Mitchell said, standing up himself. "And I will be in touch right after the election. I really don't know what to say except thank you. Thank you so much,"

"Thank me by being a good husband and father."

Mitchell smiled. "That's something I try to do every day,"

Conor smiled back. "Good."

They shook hands across the desk. Conor turned to leave and got as far as the door when Mitchell called out after him, "What about her mother? Are you ever going to tell her you found out about Bridie?"

Conor turned back to him with a grim look. "No."

And then he left.

(back to top)

# Chapter 38

## Providence

Sunday, June 12, 1965

It had been a beautiful morning for golf at Biarritz. The air was warm, the breeze was mild and the sun shone brightly from an azure sky dappled with little white cotton ball clouds. It was the kind of day that made California famous. Conor had felt well enough to walk the round with a caddie. He always considered that walking was real golf and that to ride around in a motorized buggy was an entirely different game called "cart." But between his bum knee and his doctor's advice, a golf cart had become increasingly necessary. As he walked off the eighteenth green he noticed he hadn't lost his breath once during the round. That was encouraging. He decided that called for something of a celebration and so, after he changed shoes in the locker room, he went up to the men's grill and had a Bloody Mary served up in a large paper cup he could take back outside. He walked out onto the veranda and made his way to the north side where he could look out over the pool and see if the Aikens were there. Bridie and Mitch had come to make Sunday afternoon visits to the pool with the children after church a fairly regular occurrence and Conor always made it a point to stop by and say hello if they showed up.

They were there. Bridie in her swimsuit, sunglasses and wide brimmed hat was reclined on a chaise lounge reading a book looking the very image of a movie star. Mitch was standing in the shallow end of the pool holding Aimee in the water and showing her how to doggy paddle. Conor smiled as he watched little Tommy's antics, jumping in the pool, splashing about, then climbing out to repeat the process, a non-stop Whirling Dervish of energy. Conor lit a cigarette to go with his drink and leaned forward and put his elbows on the railing as he took in the scene. He thought back over the past several months and how well it all had gone. The advisory committee meetings were just about as deadly dull and pointless as he'd feared. But working with Bridie on the fundraiser had been wonderful. She was bright and quick and engaging. When he got beyond how much she looked like her mother he began to notice little things that delighted and touched him. When she talked she often gestured with fluttering hands much like his mother had done. When responding to a question she would sometimes blink both eyes at once, something his oldest sister had done. But it was her charming way that most pleased him as he hoped that had been a bit of his own legacy. At a number of their meetings she had brought along the two children. They were so different in personality they were a perfect complement to each other. Tommy was outgoing and spontaneous, Aimee reserved and cautious. Both warmed to Conor much to his happiness. His relationship with them never rose to the level of an uncle, much less a grandfather. But he did become a close family friend and that was all he'd ever hoped for.

The fundraiser had been a grand success. They held it in April at Billy Compton's ranch. It turned out Billy knew Reagan fairly well from their mutual interest in horses and the proximity of their two spreads. Reagan had been Reagan and charmed the crowd with his self-effacing humor and what Conor considered a common sense approach to the problems facing the state. Conor had an opportunity to chat for some time with Nancy Reagan and thought her a perfect match for her husband. He sensed a steely resolve that would help her keep him focused. Tommy and Aimee had the time of their lives. With their parents working the crowd, Conor seized the time to shepherd the children around the ranch and show them the horses and chickens and dogs. He got them pony rides and indulged them in too much ice cream. He treasured every moment.

Since then Conor's time with the family had been confined mostly to encounters with them at Biarritz. He'd played golf with Mitch and Bridie one Saturday afternoon. He'd had a wonderful time of it, showing off a bit for them by breaking eighty. He was happy to see too that Bridie was an athlete, although not the golfer her mother had been. Mitch's game looked exactly like that of someone who spent the vast majority of his time as a lawyer, politician, husband and father. Conor thought that a good thing. It had been a most pleasant time. He hoped they could repeat the experience sometime soon.

Conor took the last sip of his drink and put out his cigarette in the ice remaining in the cup. He would head down to the pool to have a chat.

* * *

Annie shouldered her way through the apartment door her hands and arms full of shopping bags with the doorman in tow similarly burdened as all the while Dylan barked and ran around her feet in greeting. She made it to the sofa in the middle of the room before dropping everything over the back and onto the cushions it in a jumble. She turned to the doorman and said, "Mario, come in, come in. Don't let the dog out. Just leave everything on the floor there. That'll be good enough." Mario did as he was bid then stood in the open doorway. "Thank you so much for helping. Just hold on a second." She leaned across the back of the sofa and rooted through the bags as Dylan helped by nosing his way through the pile. She finally found her purse. She opened it and retrieved her wallet and took out a dollar bill. "Here you are," she said smiling as she offered him his tip. "Thank you so much. I don't think I could have gotten it all up here without you."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Hyde," Mario smiled back taking the bill from her. "Anytime you need anything you just let me know." He touched the bill of his cap in salute and backed out of the doorway to leave.

"I will, and thank you again," she said as she moved to close the door behind him while Dylan barked his own good riddance. She turned back and looked into the room surveying the damage. It had been some time since she'd spent any time in California and with the summer approaching she needed to update her wardrobe. She would be gone for just over three weeks and would start in Los Angeles then move on to Dallas, Denver, Kansas City, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta and Pittsburgh before returning home. They'd all be warm this time of year. She'd been on book signing tours before but this one promised to be a real odyssey.

A.C. Harrington's latest book was titled _Chelsea Goodbye_ and was a transatlantic love story that had been rushed into print to take advantage of the so-called British Invasion of rock and roll bands that had grown into a major fad in the past year. Annie had protested that the story had nothing to do with pop music or any music at all, much less the antics of a bunch of rock and roll bands. But her publisher had argued back that if it sounded British it would sell. And so it was that her fourth book was set to launch with the ink hardly dry on the pages.

She began sorting through the packages. She decided New York was too wonderful a place to shop even on a Sunday with the limited hours. If it was new and trendy, it was there for sale. She'd managed to find one of the new G.I. Joe dolls for Tommy at F.A.O. Schwarz along with the very newest version of Barbie for Aimee. Saks Fifth Avenue had supplied most of her daywear while she'd picked up a couple of cocktail dresses at Lord & Taylor. Bridie was always hard to shop for so she had settled on a pair of simple gold earrings at Macy's. They would be easy to pack.

She began moving the items into the bedroom. The apartment was spacious for its kind but it had nowhere the closet space of the suburban Westchester house she had left. She resolved to weed out some of her older clothes and give them to the Salvation Army. But that would be a chore for another day. She sorted her purchases, folding those that would need to be ironed and hanging those that didn't. She came across the golf outfit she'd bought at Saks. She would only have time for one round on her trip and she'd thought the purchase a bit extravagant given she had a number of such outfits in her closet. Still, she did so want to play and buying the clothes seemed to speak to the anticipation. There hadn't been much golf since she and Nigel had moved to Manhattan and she did miss it. And there also was the matter of her staying with Bridie and Mitchell. An afternoon away from the house would be a good thing.

She loved her daughter greatly but there had always been a distance between them. Annie could never quite put her finger on why that was so. Were they too much alike? Was it a repetition of her own relationship with her mother? Had Louise been the better mother figure? Or had the lie of her birth created some sort of unseen, unspoken chasm that prevented any closeness? She just didn't know.

As much as touring the country Annie was looking forward to the round of golf in California. She had written her first novel in an attempt at some sort of catharsis. The thought of Conor had haunted her, stalked her. And the book had helped her let go some. But now she intended to exorcise more demons. This trip was the perfect opportunity.

She had been insistent on her initial itinerary. She was flying out to Los Angeles on TWA early Friday morning. There would be a layover in St. Louis and then it would be on to her scheduled arrival at Los Angeles International late that afternoon. She would spend Saturday at a signing at a bookstore in downtown Los Angeles followed by press interviews and then have dinner with her daughter's family. She would rest up Sunday morning while they went to church and then she would play her round of golf in the afternoon. She would fly out to Dallas Monday morning. Nigel was busy on a project with a deadline and would not be able to catch up with her until she got to Atlanta. By then, she reasoned, she'd be ready for the help and the company. She regretted not taking at least one leg of the trip by train but she recognized there was no time and, besides, she thought, the days of travel by rail were probably over.

She shooed Dylan from the bed and began to sort the clothes for packing later in the week. As she did so she began to realize how many yellow things she'd bought.

* * *

Conor sat on the edge of a chaise opposite Bridie as they chatted about the children and how much she and Mitch had enjoyed a recent trip with them to Disneyland. Conor told her how he had taken Sylvia there shortly after it opened and how they had found it nothing short of a miracle of modern technology and ingenuity. Nearly a decade later it must surely be something he offered.

Mitchell and Aimee emerged from the pool and joined them at the chairs. Bridie pulled her legs up to give Mitch room at the end of the chaise to sit as he toweled off Aimee. "So what have you two been talking about?" he asked.

"Oh, just the trip to Disneyland," Bridie answered. "Connie here was there right after it opened."

"Really? That's quite a place isn't it?" Mitch said. "So it looks like you played golf today. How'd you do?"

"Let's just say I had fun. Took a couple of bucks from my buddies so it wasn't a total loss. But a pretty day it was. Enjoyed it."

"I hope the weather holds like this next weekend," Bridie said. "My mother is coming out for a visit and we've got a church picnic Sunday afternoon."

Conor worked hard not to change his expression. Mitchell gave him a glance then looked back to Aimee and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Mitchell tried to change the subject. "We've got another committee meeting coming up in a couple of weeks. You're good to attend, right?" he asked.

Conor seemed not to hear the question for an instant and then turned to look at Mitchell. "Yes, yes, I'm sure it's on my calendar." Then he looked back at Bridie. "So your mother's coming out? Does she visit often?"

"No, not often at all. So this should be fun. She's starting a tour for her latest book here in L.A. She'll only be here a couple of days before she heads off somewhere else. But at least she'll have a little time with the children. They're excited to see her."

Mitchell considered his next comment carefully before speaking. "She's planning on playing golf here at Biarritz next Sunday afternoon. Going to play with my mother. She really seems eager to see the place again. We can't play with her because of the picnic, but I'm sure she'll have a good time with my mom."

"Maybe we could arrange for you to meet her if you're going to be out here that day. It's possible you know each other from back then. You once said you were around Biarritz when she was, didn't you?" Bridie asked.

"I did and I was. But that was a long time ago and it's hard to remember what happened last week much less back then. But I'm not going to be here. I've got other plans that day."

"Oh, that's too bad. It would have been interesting to see if you two knew each other. Perhaps there'll be another time."

"Yes, perhaps another time." Conor said having increasing difficulty holding the conversation as his mind weighed the news. "Well, I guess I'll be going now. Heading out to Billy's place for a Sunday dinner," he said standing up. "You all take care now."

"Good to see you as always," Bridie said. "You take care yourself."

Conor gave a wave then turned and walked toward the gate. Mitchell called after him once he was halfway there. "Connie, wait up a second." Mitchell got up from the chair and hurried up to him. With his back to Bridie he said quietly, "Listen, I'm sorry the conversation got around to her mother. That was awkward. But you probably needed to know."

"I did. And it wasn't a problem. Things like this are bound to happen given the situation. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, thanks. We'll see you then."

"Right, we'll see you."

Conor continued on his way and Mitchell returned to the chaise.

"What was that about?" Bridie asked.

"Oh, nothing... just remembered something I wanted to tell him about the committee meeting."

"Oh. Well, it's a shame he can't be here next week to meet my mother. They'd probably hit it off. I can tell."

"Yes, they probably would. They probably would."

(back to top)

# Chapter 39

## Remembrances

Sunday, June 19, 1965

Annie thought the drive up from Costa Mesa was like something out of a _Twilight Zone_ episode. First there was the long ride on the 405 where she rocketed along like some space traveler through a completely alien landscape, a different world, with clusters of tall buildings of glass and steel hop scotched along the way all looking alike, all looking somewhat eerie in the blurry yellow smog. Then, after she picked up Mitchell's mother Blanche in Encino, there was the drive through quiet tree-lined streets she thought she could almost recall from another life. But maybe not. It was all quite surreal she supposed.

It became even stranger when she turned down La Habra Street and approached the entrance to Biarritz Country Club. Nothing had changed, except everything had. The same trees and hedges were there but they were larger. The same houses were there but of a different color. A gate still guarded the entrance but there was no gatekeeper. She stopped at the call box beside the gate, pressed the button on it and announced herself through the car window. The gate rose and she drove through and on to the bag drop where the attendant took their bags from the trunk and leaned them on the rack.

Blanche had been chatting at her the entire ride. Annie had managed to respond appropriately even as her mind took in and pondered all that she saw and felt. It helped Blanche was a talker. She liked Blanche. They hadn't met until the wedding but they had immediately gotten along. Always a bit reserved, Annie seemed to gravitate to people who weren't.

As the two walked to the clubhouse from the car, Annie began to feel uncomfortable. Biarritz still exuded the same overstated aura of wealth and grandeur and privilege it had all those years ago when she thought she would live that life. And then she hadn't. She'd become comfortable in the more modest existence she'd created over the years, learning to appreciate the joy of smaller, simpler pleasures. Now Biarritz seemed to loom too large in its pretentiousness.

As they entered the locker room the attendant directed them to a vacant locker. Annie could see the room had been refurbished recently but it was still in the same style as its original décor. They changed shoes and complimented each other on their outfits; Blanche in a simple white blouse and pink skirt, Annie in a powder blue knit polo and yellow skirt. Annie loved the shoes she'd brought; white oxfords with baby blue kilties.

They made their way down to the pro shop. Fred, the starter, was long gone but his little kiosk was still there. They checked in and were directed to the golf cart with their bags already loaded on the back. They assured the starter they had both played the course before, so it didn't matter who drove and the placement of the bags on the cart would be just fine. Blanche would drive. The starter told them their forecaddie would be waiting for them at the first tee. Annie noticed the grape stake fence around the caddie yard had been replaced with a chain link fence woven with green plastic slats. The caddies still needed their privacy. They got in the cart and drove up to the practice green to stroke some putts before the round.

Annie looked up after hitting a few putts and took in the view of the course. Once again things were familiar but definitely different. The trees had grown taller and fuller and now cast longer shadows out along the fairways. The sand in the bunkers looked whiter. The grass was greener. "I remember this place being beautiful," Annie mused aloud. "And it still is. But it has changed. I don't know, somehow the course looks a little smaller than I remember."

Blanche smiled. "Well," she said, "The trees grow up and so do we, I guess."

"Yes and rightly so," Annie replied thinking how true that was. "I wonder if the course has changed that much. It used to be so much fun to play."

"I couldn't tell you. I only started playing here after Mitch became a member last year. So I guess it's always been the same for me. And I like it."

"Well, I'm ready if you are. Shall we get going?"

"I'm ready and I'd love to."

As they drove down the cart path to the first tee they could see their caddie waiting for them by the ball washer. He was older than Annie had somehow expected and was dressed in rumpled khaki pants, an un-ironed white polo shirt and a sweat stained white baseball cap with a Biarritz logo embroidered on the front. Well-worn, once white canvas Converse basketball shoes completed his outfit.

Blanche stopped the cart alongside the caddie and Annie got out. "Hello, I'm Mrs. Hyde and this is Mrs. Aiken," Annie addressed him trying to look past his sunglasses and the scruffy white beard.

"Good afternoon," he replied in a pleasant, if formal, voice. "My name's Duff. You've picked a beautiful afternoon for your round."

"We have at that, Duff," Blanche responded taking her driver from her bag. "We look forward to having you with us for the round."

"My pleasure, Ma'am. Have fun."

Blanche took to the tee first and hit a credible drive down the middle of the fairway. Annie was next up and took several practice swings to loosen up. Then she went into her routine; standing behind the ball, picking her line, then addressing the ball and swinging. The ball cracked off the face and flew high and straight down the middle.

"Nice shot!" Blanche exclaimed. "Bridie told me you were a good player and I guess you truly are."

Annie smiled at her. "Thank you. I was okay once. But now it seems I'm either hitting it shorter or the courses are getting longer. I expect the former, though."

Blanche laughed and they got into the cart and drove off after their balls. The caddie followed on foot carrying their putters.

* * *

Conor tried not to say too much. His heart was pounding so hard he was afraid they would hear a quiver in his voice and wonder what was wrong. The sight of her had been overwhelming and even after eleven holes he still couldn't quell his emotions. She still got to him. She certainly was older. But she was still beautiful. The book jacket pictures had not done her justice. She still moved with a rare grace he could never forget. He'd gone through the duties of a caddie silently; tending pins, cleaning clubs, raking bunkers, wrangling the putters. He was thankful they hadn't asked him to read the greens, even though he knew every inch of them. He was terrified that he might give himself away.

He was getting tired, too. The shoes had been part of the clothes he'd borrowed from Terry the caddie master when he'd sworn him to secrecy, paid him a handsome sum and arranged to caddie for these two visiting golfers. He'd changed clothes in a shower stall so no one would see him then sneaked out behind the pro shop and down to the first tee at the appointed hour. The shoes didn't really fit and his feet hurt. He wished he'd worn his golf shoes. He thought in hindsight that they probably wouldn't have noticed the difference.

When in their proximity he'd listened attentively to the conversation. Much of it had been about their grandchildren and Annie's book tour. But he had heard snippets of her remembrances of her time at Biarritz and how much she had enjoyed the golf.

Their play slowed on the eleventh hole when they caught up to the groups of mixed foursomes that had gone out ahead of them. Conor was grateful for the breather as the three of them stood on the twelfth tee waiting to tee off. Suddenly Annie turned to him and spoke, "Tell me, Duff... that's your name, right, Duff? There was a caddie here many years ago. Early thirties. They called him Mick. He was Irish and would probably be about our age now. He and his partner won a Calcutta. Is he still around? Did you know him?"

Conor could feel himself tense up. He tried to choose his words carefully. "No Ma'am. There aren't any caddies still around from those days. And I'm relatively new here myself." He wished he could say more, but knew he couldn't.

Blanche spoke up. "I think I hear a little lilt in your voice. You aren't Irish are you?"

"No Ma'am. I came over from Scotland a long time ago. That must be what you hear,"

Then Blanche turned to Annie. "Was the caddie you had back then someone special?"

"No," Annie lied. "He was the regular caddie a friend and I shared on our Tuesday rounds back then. He was a good caddie and an even better coach. It would have been nice to know whatever happened to him."

"Well, maybe someone up at the clubhouse would know," Blanche offered.

Conor was now frozen in terror. He hadn't considered that possibility and so had made no arrangements to cover his charade from that angle. He inwardly cursed his own stupidity.

"Oh, that's all right. I was just curious," Annie said dismissively. "I'm sure nobody up there has any idea. There's nobody there I knew back then."

Conor was too frightened to relax immediately at her response. While he was disappointed in her answer he understood she would never be disposed to owning up to the whole story. He hoped that was what had been behind such an offhand remark. He hoped she held him in higher regard than that. But maybe she didn't. The book she wrote said she did but that was a work of fiction. He just didn't know.

Their play resumed at a snail's pace and Conor found himself walking slowly and hanging back to avoid any more conversation. He gave them their putters and drivers at the twelfth green and walked ahead to forecaddie for them on thirteen, then walked ahead to the green to watch their incoming shots. All the while he studied her. She was obviously no longer rich based on what he knew from Mitchell, but she still carried herself with obvious class. His mind raced at the possibilities. After all, she had been married when they first met.

He watched her especially closely as she played the fourteenth hole. Her tee shot found the green and he looked on as she walked around it while Blanche played a pitch shot and then a chip shot to the putting surface. He saw her look at where he'd practiced, then gaze back at the hedge behind the green. Then she walked to the place at the back of the green where they'd lain that night looking at the stars. She stopped at the spot and turned and looked up at the sky. She did remember, he thought.

As they stood waiting on the next tee Annie spoke to Blanche. "You know, the last time I played here I didn't finish the round. And I thought about that for a long time, about how I didn't get to finish much in those days. Since then I've tried to make a point of it, of finishing things I mean. So these last few holes are kind of important to me."

"Why didn't you finish?" Blanche asked.

"Oh, I forget. Something came up I guess."

Conor turned away to smirk at the unintended reference. Then he heard Annie address him.

"Duff... another question. There used to be a place beyond the hedge back there. Bogey House it was called. Is it still there?"

"No, Ma'am. They tore it down a few years ago. Put up some rooms for the help on the greens crew."

"That's a pity," she sighed.

"What was this Bogey House?" Blanche asked.

"Oh, it was just a little bungalow the members used from time to time. It was just cute. I always thought it a quirky little thing about this place. I guess its time had passed."

Conor wished for a moment he'd never had it razed. Then he thought about walking the last four holes, most of them going uphill. He hoped he could make it. Adrenalin had been pumping through his body from the beginning of the round and now he was starting to crash. He wanted this round to last forever, to be able to be in her presence even if only as a voyeur. He'd vowed to himself not to think anything or do anything beyond this round of golf. But he found himself again and again considering the possibilities. He couldn't stop thinking there could be a chance. He began to wonder if he shouldn't introduce himself and offer to buy her dinner. Or maybe even follow her to Dallas for her next book signing. As quickly as he would dismiss such thoughts, angry with himself, a similar thought would appear. His only saving grace, he thought, was that in the end he wouldn't have the nerve.

When the round was finished the women took their wallets from their bags and each handed the caddie a five dollar bill and two ones. He gave a quick bow of his head and thanked them. Then they asked him to leave the bags up at the bag drop by the front entrance. Conor smiled and nodded a yes. He unstrapped the bags from the cart and hoisted them to his shoulders and started up the path. Behind him he heard them talk.

"So you do have time for dinner tonight, then?" Blanche asked.

"Absolutely," Annie laughed. "If it's to be on Mitchell's tab I'd say we've earned ourselves a very healthy dinner."

"Right you are!" Blanche chuckled back.

The two then carried their wallets with them into the locker room. Conor continued up the path with their bags forming a plan.

* * *

He sat on the bench in front of his locker, a towel wrapped around his waist, wondering whether he dare go through with this. He'd shaved off the week-old stubble of beard and showered. He'd splashed on the Lilac Vegetal aftershave he thought she once said she liked, although he couldn't quite remember for sure. He decided he didn't want to approach her as she ate in the dining room. That would be too awkward with members around and Blanche sitting there too. No, he would wait for her outside. He would walk up to her as she left as though meeting her by chance. And what would he say? "Hello Annie. Remember me?" "Hello. Are you the Annie I remember?" "Hello Annie. Glad you could find your way back." "Hello Annie. And where did you get off to?" "Hello. I'm Conor O'Reilly the father of your child?" He finally decided on simply "Hello Annie" and would then let the rest just happen.

He dressed in his suit and tie and then went to the sinks to check himself in the mirror and comb his hair again. He made his way upstairs and out onto the front portico. He took a seat in one of the wrought iron chairs, crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. The sun was setting behind him and he watched the shadows grow longer out over the parking lot until the dusk settled in over everything. There was so much to say to her. She needed to know that it was Mary who had jumped into his arms at the Calcutta. She needed to know that he could forgive her for running away and leaving him. She needed to know that he loved her still.

He was on his third cigarette when Blanche came through the door. She stopped and took a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one. She stood there smoking as if waiting for someone. Conor sensed his chance to get Annie alone. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked past Blanche to the front door. He was relieved she didn't recognize him. As he entered the foyer, he could see Annie in the small alcove by the office door that served as a phone booth. She was intent on her phone conversation and did not see him walk past. He stopped a few paces beyond the opening and leaned his back against the wall. He would wait for her to come out and then introduce himself.

He couldn't help but eavesdrop her call.

"Yes, yes we had so much fun... no, I'm still at the club. Blanche and I had dinner here... it was good, I had abalone for the first time in years... it just got too late to call last night... I miss you too... no, more than that... ha ha... no, like I said, I just needed to put an end to this place... ha, yeah, well the ghosts are gone... are you eating enough?... good... I can't wait to see you in Atlanta... no, really... meet me earlier in Detroit then... oh, okay... well, I should go... I miss you like crazy... I love you more... bye... love you.

As he listened he could feel his heart grow sick. This was wrong. He was wrong. She had a husband. He wasn't Franklin. She loved him. She had her life. He shouldn't ruin whatever happiness she had found. And for what? A chance at romance in the twilight of life? Life had already passed by and any chance with her along with it. He let the bitterness grow so as to dam up the pain.

As she came out of the alcove he turned his back to her and moved away. He heard her walk through the foyer and go out the door. He waited a minute before following her out. He took a position in the shadow of one of the columns on the portico and watched them get into the car chatting and laughing. The car backed out of the space then turned and made its way out to the gate. Conor watched the taillights stop as the gate rose up and then move forward and disappear. Against his will his eyes welled up. He blotted them with his sleeve. He would go back inside once he had a grip. He needed a drink.

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# Chapter 40

## Reckoning

Sunday, February 23, 1969

Annie watched out the window as the snow flurries started to accumulate on the cars parked on the street six floors below. The sliver of gray daylight in the sky between the apartment houses was fading. The cab bringing Bridie from LaGuardia would be arriving any minute. She couldn't put aside the anxiety she felt. When Bridie had called from California to say she was coming out for a visit, she had deflected the questions about her reasons. She had done the same thing when she called from the airport to say she'd arrived safely ahead of the weather and would be getting to the apartment soon. Annie couldn't imagine what it was that would bring her daughter to New York in the dead of winter. And there was the fact she'd asked to meet her mother alone. Poor Nigel had been dispatched into the cold early evening to have dinner with some friends and then catch a movie. It was unlike Bridie to be so evasive. She hoped there wasn't any trouble with Mitchell or the children. It had been a couple of years since Bridie had come east. She couldn't imagine what was going on.

Finally she saw the battered yellow Checker cab stop in front of the apartment house and Annie get out from the back door. She saw her motion toward the entrance for the doorman as the cab driver got out and opened the trunk. He took out two bags and what looked like a golf bag in a travel cover. She couldn't imagine why Bridie would bring a golf bag to New York this time of year. And two pieces of luggage for a two-day stay? She moved from the window to corral Dylan and close him up in the bedroom. She waited nervously by the door for the knock. When it came, she opened it to see Bridie smiling and Mario the doorman behind her carrying the bags.

Bridie came through the door and hugged her mother. Mario set the bags inside and waited for his tip. Bridie had the two singles ready in her hand, turned from the hug and gave them to him. He smiled and nodded. Annie closed the door on him then turned to Bridie "So you're here! What a treat! How was your flight?" she said excitedly. "And what's with all the bags?"

"Oh it was just long, that's all. Luckily I was able to get on a direct flight at the last minute. But it's a lot of time in the air. It smells good in here. You making dinner?"

"Just some spaghetti. I thought you'd be hungry when you got in. But the sauce can keep simmering until we're ready. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?"

"How about a martini on the rocks? And you can hold the vermouth. I could use a drink." Bridie said as she took off her coat and put it on the chair next to the door.

Annie smiled. "I bet you could. Come with me into the kitchen and I'll make us a couple." The two went into the kitchen as Annie tried again to fathom the reason for the visit. "So is everything all right out there? Is Mitchell okay? How about the children?"

"Everybody's fine," Bridie assured here as her mother made the drinks. "Mitch's been very busy. Reagan's been talking about having him chair some committee or other. The kids are doing well in school. Aimee's really blossomed with this teacher. She's almost like a different child, not so clingy anymore. And Tommy is looking forward to Little League starting next month. He loves his baseball."

"That's nice to hear, dear," Annie said. "Come, let's go sit down." They took their drinks back into the living room and sat down next to each other on the couch. "And so how are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Great, I suppose. Just a little confused at the moment."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"Well something happened I just don't understand. Actually Mitch and I quarreled about it a little. I mean it's a wonderful thing. But I don't understand. And apparently it involves you somehow."

"Me?" Annie said in great surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"I should start at the beginning. It gets complicated."

"Okay, go on. Take your time."

"Well, we met this man a few years ago during the Goldwater campaign – so nearly five years ago – very wealthy corporate type, president and CEO of some conglomerate. Nice man. He helped Mitch with his campaigns and I worked with him on a couple of fundraisers. He became something of a family friend. We'd see him at Biarritz occasionally. He had us out to his ranch a number of times. Well, the thing is, he died a few weeks ago. Heart attack."

"Oh my, that's too bad."

"Yes it is. And very sad. I liked him a lot. But what happened next is amazing. It turns out he had set up trust funds for me and the children back when we first met. Mitch was sworn to secrecy and he was the administrator. I knew nothing about it. But not only that, when he died he left us more than half his fortune. And he made Mitch the executor. We're talking millions. I'm still in such shock I can't believe it. It's just unreal."

Annie shared her astonishment. "That's just amazing. How wonderful and unexpected! But why would he do such a thing?"

"That's what I don't know. And Mitch won't tell me the whole story. I told him if the guy was his client he's dead so there's no reason for client confidentiality but he says he vowed to stay silent on the story. We actually fought about it a bit. But he said that it was part of the deal he made."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

"Who, Mitch?"

"No, the man."

"Well that's where it really gets strange. I don't know. But here's what happened. As part of his will and as a condition of his bequests he specified that I personally bring this bag and these golf clubs out to you. I haven't looked inside either one because Mitch told me not to. He said it was part of the instructions that only you open them up."

Annie was becoming more and more uncomfortable as this turn of events obviously involved her in some way. She just couldn't imagine how. But it was coming from California where she'd left too many secrets, too much tragedy. Now she was getting frightened. She needed more information. "So who exactly was this man? What was his name?"

"Like I said, he ran a corporation. He was wealthy. His name was Conor O'Reilly."

Annie gasped and brought her hands to her mouth.

"What's wrong mother? Did you know him?" Bridie asked.

Annie sprang up from the couch and moved to the window, her back to Bridie, unable to speak.

Alarmed, Bridie stood up and turned toward her mother. "Mother, are you all right? What's the matter? What did I say?"

"Just give me a moment," Annie pleaded as she tried to gather herself and get some control of the situation. Her mind was racing back to a time and a truth she had tried to purge from her life forever. She had worked hard to do so. She had even gone to analysis over it. And now her own daughter had brought it into her home to haunt her. It was back and it was alive in a leather satchel and a golf bag sitting in her living room.

"Can I get you anything? Some water?" Bridie asked feeling lost in her mother's reaction. "Please tell me what's wrong."

Annie quickly decided the only way to deny the truth was with half-truth. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was just such a shock. We were great friends once."

"Really? I think I mentioned you to him and he acted as though he didn't know you."

"What name did you give him?"

"Anna Hyde. And your pen name."

"Well, perhaps that's why he said what he did. He didn't know me by those names back then. Especially the pen name."

"But still..." Bridie objected.

"No, he was someone I knew well. That's all. Let's see what it is that he had you bring me. Let's start with the golf clubs." Annie moved across the room and stood the golf bag up and unzipped the cover. She pulled the bag out of the cover and let out a soft, "Oh my."

"What are those things," Bridie asked. "They look ancient."

Annie smiled. "I guess they are in a way. But look how they've been kept. They're still shiny. You can smell the oil he must have used to keep them from rusting. And look at the bag! The canvas is in bad shape but look how the leather trim has been kept. It smells like saddle soap or something. Amazing." She pulled one of the irons from the bag. "And he must have done the same thing with the grips. They look brand new!"

"Were these your clubs?"

"Yes. Yes they were," she said putting the club back in the bag and leaning it up against the side table.

"How did he end up with them?"

"Oh, I don't remember. I have no idea, really. It was so long ago. I just know I didn't want to take them back with me to Chicago." Annie was feeling more in control. "Let's look in the bag." She picked up the tan leather satchel and put it on the coffee table and sat back down on the couch. Bridie sat down next to her.

"Looks expensive," Bridie commented.

"It is. Hartmann, I think," Annie said. She unsnapped the two brass latches and pulled the top apart. The contents were wrapped in white tissue paper with crumpled newspaper packed between them. She removed some of the newspaper and took out the first package. It was very light and felt fragile. She set it on the coffee table and carefully unwrapped it.

"What on earth is that?" Bridie asked.

Annie could only stare for a moment at what she saw. "It's a wreath," she said. The eucalyptus had long ago dried out and lost many of its leaves. But it was still recognizable as the crown of her champion golfer.

"A wreath? Isn't it a little small to be a wreath?"

"Well, it was more like a crown."

"Oh, you mean like one of those laurel head things the Greeks and Romans used?"

"Yes." Annie said quietly, lost for a moment in a memory.

Bridie understood her mother wouldn't explain the meaning. "What else is in there?" she asked.

Annie looked back in the bag and took out more of the newspaper. As she did a small square packet of tissue paper fell to the floor. She picked it up and unwrapped it. It was a carefully ironed and folded white handkerchief yellowed slightly with age.

"That had to be yours with that yellow tulip on it," Bridie commented.

"Yes," her mother agreed as she placed it beside the wreath. Then she reached into the bag and took out the rest of the newspaper. There were three packages left. The largest lay on the bottom between the other two.

"Open the big one," Bridie prompted.

Annie lifted it from the bag. It was heavy. Underneath it was an envelope with her name written on it. She put the package on her lap and pulled off the tissue paper. It was a silver trophy, a loving cup. Engraved on it were the words "Biarritz Country Club, 1930 Calcutta Tournament, Champion." Annie held it by its two handles and stared at it. This was a memory she didn't need to revisit. Once again she saw the pretty young woman in the black and white uniform leap into Conor's arms. She closed her eyes against the specter.

"That must have been something he won," Bridie said. "You know, he was a very good golfer. We played with him a few times and you could tell he had been really good. I think he said he was club champion at Biarritz more than once. But why would he give this one trophy to you?"

"I have no idea, dear," Annie said with some honesty. She stood it on the table next to the wreath and then reached in the bag and pulled out another package, this one nearly square. When she unwrapped it she saw it was a small framed oil painting of a little bungalow surrounded by trees with a dirt lane in front of it. She could make out just a dot of yellow low in one of the windows. It was a candle. She couldn't help herself. Tears began to well in her eyes.

Bridie noticed the tears. "Are you all right?" she asked once again. "What's going on?"

Annie sniffled slightly and shook her head to gain some composure. "It's all right, I'm okay. It's just sometimes the silliest thoughts can set you off. Really, I'm okay."

"I don't get it. It's just a house."

"Yes. Well, that's just what it is. It's just a house." Still gazing at the image she propped it up against the trophy. She turned back to the bag and pulled out the last package. It felt like a book. She tore off the tissue paper and saw that it was her book, _Tuesday's Caddie_. She opened the cover afraid of what she might see. There was a handwritten inscription. It was too late to hide it from Bridie.

"What does it say? Read it to me."

Annie closed the cover. "No, dear, it's private."

"Nonsense. I didn't carry these things clear across the country to hear that. After all, he's dead now anyway. Read it," Bridie demanded. "I think he wanted me to see it too."

Annie had to relent. She opened the cover and read the words aloud. "Would this have been our story. But a daughter for a son and long life for you. Mick." Her voice cracked at the end.

"Who's Mick? What does he mean a daughter for a son?" Bridie said, now become agitated. "Wait a minute. Was he the caddie? He was, wasn't he? So he was your lover! That explains what he did!"

"What do you mean?" Annie asked fully alarmed now.

"Mitch told me Conor caddied for you and his mother that time you came out on the book tour. He disguised himself. Now I know what that was about. He wanted to see you again. Amazing!"

Annie felt herself crumble. He had actually been with her! She couldn't keep up the show against her feelings any longer. She raised her hands to cover her face and began to sob. Bridie instantly regretted her own outburst. She moved closer to her mother and put her arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, mother. It's all right. You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry. It's okay."

Annie was shaking as the tears flooded out unchecked after a lifetime spent waiting to fall. She leaned her head on Bridie's shoulder. They sat together like that for a time until the tears went dry. Then Annie sat up and tried to wipe them from her face. Bridie left the couch and came back with a box of tissues. Annie dabbed at her face and blew her nose. She sat with her hands in her lap, her head bowed.

Bridie reached into the bag and took out the envelope. "Here," she said handing it to her mother. "This is the last thing."

Annie took the envelope and then looked up at Bridie. "Please, dear, not now. Please let me read this alone. I can't bear to right now. Please."

"All right. I understand. It's okay. Take a minute for yourself. I'll make us a couple more drinks." Bridie got up and went into the kitchen and returned with two glasses and put them on the table and sat down.

Annie had not moved. "Thank you," she said finally as she picked up a glass and took a sip. "I think you can tell this was all a bit much for me."

"Yes, I know. I see that. And I think I understand. He was your lover back then, wasn't he? And you lost touch with him all these years, right?"

"Yes."

"But there's still something I don't get. You have to help me. Why would he leave all his money to the children and me? What was it about him that would make him do such a thing? Why didn't he just leave it to you?"

Annie's hand flew to her mouth. She nearly choked. It was time for the truth. But it was nearly impossible to utter. "Oh my God," she coughed. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I'm so very, very sorry." She shook her head unable to go on.

"Mother! It's okay. Just tell me."

The words tumbled out in sobs. "I just couldn't... you must understand the time was... it was... so awful... I didn't know what... oh my God I am so sorry..."

Bridie put her arm around her mother again. "Come on, come on, it's okay. Just say it."

"He must have known. He must have. The truth is," she turned to look at her daughter, "the truth is... he was... he was your father."

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# Epilogue

## Forest Lawn

Sunday, April 8, 2012

She sat in the back of the limousine recounting the story to herself as she had done every Christmas and every Easter for decades now. In all that time she had missed the days but a handful of times. The trip had become a pilgrimage of sorts, a way to somehow connect with a past she never had. It hadn't been until years after her mother passed away that she'd gotten up the courage to read the letter and come to fully understand the story. Since then she never tired of imagining all that happened. It had answered so many questions about their lives, about her life.

As the car turned in to the cemetery she leaned forward and spoke to the driver. "You remember the way, don't you Lester?"

Lester had heard the question twice a year for many years now. His answer was always the same. "Yes, ma'am, I surely do. Don't you worry yourself. We'll be there soon."

She looked out the window and watched Forest Lawn inch by. There was always a lot of traffic on the holidays and she was content to be patient until they could wend their way to the gravesite.

The letter had said a lot. It had all been a terrible, tragic mistake compounded by the horror her mother was going through in her last days in California. She understood the terrible irony that had shaped the rest of their lives. He became rich to be worthy of her, to give her the life he knew her to want. In the meantime she had given up that life understanding what she had wanted was nothing but an empty shell without love, the kind of love she had with him but never found again. And they had loved one another. Even more deeply than their few days together could have ever told. It had been a love they held in their hearts to the end of their days.

They finally reached a parking spot near the gravesite. Bridie looked out the window and saw a man with his daughter putting flowers on a grave. Such scenes always brought back to her all the bitterness she'd felt when she'd learned whom her father was and how she had been cheated of his love for so many years. She eventually got over the anger at her mother. But it wasn't until she had read the letter she was able to forgive her completely and come to some peace with the story. After her mother passed away, Bridie learned in the will she wanted to be buried next to her father. She had been thrilled at the request. It was only right.

She picked up the spray of eucalyptus and yellow tulips from the seat next to her with one hand and took hold of her cane with the other. Lester got out and came around the car and opened the door for her. "Can I help you over there, Ms. Bridie?" he asked.

"No, thank you Lester. I can make it on my own. Just like always."

Lester watched as she performed her ritual. When she reached the gravesite she pulled away the now dried arrangement that had lain at the foot of the gravestone since Christmas and replaced it with the fresh one. Then she knelt and prayed. Then she stood and read the inscription on the gravestones for the hundredth time.

Bridie had worked hard on the inscriptions. She wanted them brief, but meaningful. She had selected snippets of translations from poems by Pablo Neruda. She loved to read them aloud and hear the words:

Conor John O'Reilly

1903 – 1969

Faithful Husband

Beloved Father

Tuesday's Caddie

Love is so short. Forgetting is so long.

Anna Charlene Harper

1904 – 1988

Loving Mother

Devoted Wife

Ghostwriter

It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

###

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# Acknowledgments

This book was years in the making simply because I wouldn't start it. Then I met someone who turned out to be my muse and then, more importantly, my wife. A true artist of talent far beyond mine, she understood what it meant to launch into an all-consuming project and the sacrifices that would ensue. She not only got me started, she kept me going. This book would not exist without Jean Cormier who forced me to tell her a story as we laughed and joked on her couch late one night. That silly little story somehow evolved into this book. Along the way I had help from Khloe, her cat, who always managed to pick the perfect time to distract me and jump on the keyboard to offer her own editorial comments like "gffffffffffffffffff." Finally, if you find this book entertaining in the least it's due to the perspicacity, tenacity and sagacity of one of my most enduring friends, Dara Price, who was the perfect critic and editor for a work she had asked of me years ago. I must also acknowledge my good friend Ken Birnbaum who got me to Florida where many good things happened, as well as Mary Welch who made important corrections, and Alva, Alma and Terese who read the early versions and helped me get to a final. Special thanks, too, to Tatiana Vila of Vila Designs (www.viladesigns.net) who is responsible for the new, revised and wholly awesome cover.

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# About the Author

_Tuesday's Caddie_ is author Jack Waddell's first foray into fiction after a career spent writing what other people wanted. Following brief stints in newspapers and public relations, he became a freelance writer successful enough that there was no time for fiction. Or so he thought. He is a life-long golfer who for many years wrote about the sport for television and instructional videos. An erstwhile caddie both for money and as penance for being a friend, he bears the emotional scars that come from watching too many awful swings and searching for too many lost balls, his own among them. He spent his youth in Southern California and Illinois, his adult life in the wilderness of New Jersey. He currently is happily at large in Central Florida while his second book, _Road to Rouen,_ awaits publication and his third emerges from the firmament.

The author welcomes your comments and queries. His website includes notes on developing the book and its inspiration: www.jackwaddell.net. He can be reached by email at: jack@jackwaddell.net

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