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The man named Lou said； 〃This the neighborhood？〃
〃We're almost there；〃 said Bud Schwartz。
〃I can't get over all these trees；〃 Lou said。 〃Parts a Jersey look like this。 My wife's mother lives in Jersey； a terrific old lady。 Seventy…seven years old； she bowls twice a week！ In a league！〃
Bud Schwartz smiled weakly。 Perfect。 A hit man who loves his mother…in…law。 What next…he collects for the United Way？
The burglar said to Lou： 〃Maybe it's better if you rent a car。 For tomorrow； I mean。〃
〃Sure。 Usually I do my own driving。〃
Danny Pogue tapped his partner on the shoulder and said； 〃Slow down； Bud； it's up here on the right。〃
Kingsbury's estate was bathed in pale orange lights。 Gray sedans with green bubble lights were parked to block both ends of the driveway。 Three men sat in each sedan； two more； in security…guard uniforms； were posted at the front door。 It was； essentially； the plete private security force of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills…except for Pedro Luz； who was inside the house； his wheelchair parked vigilantly at Francis Kingsbury's bedroom door。
Bud Schwartz drove by slowly。 〃Look at this shit；〃 he muttered。 Once they had passed the house； he put some muscle into the accelerator。
〃An army；〃 Lou said； 〃that's what it was。〃
Danny Pogue sank low in the back seat。 With both hands he clutched the Macy's bag to his chest。 〃Let's just go；〃 he said。 〃Bud； let's just haul ass。〃
TWENTY…NINE
On the morning of August 2； Jake Harp crawled into the back of a white limousine and rode in a dismal gin…soaked stupor to the construction site on North Key Largo。 There he was met by Charles Chelsea； Francis X。 Kingsbury and a phalanx of armed security men whose crisp blue uniforms failed to mitigate their shifty felonious smirks。 The entourage moved briskly across a recently bulldozed plateau； barren except for a bright green hillock that was cordoned with rope and ringed by reporters； photographers and television cameramen。 Kingsbury took Jake Harp by the elbow and； ascending the grassy knob； waved mechanically； it reminded Charles Chelsea of the rigidly determined way that Richard Nixon had saluted before boarding the presidential chopper for the final time。 Except that； pared to Francis Kingsbury； Nixon was about as tense as Pee Wee Herman。
Jake Harp heard himself pleading for coffee； please God； even decaf； but Kingsbury seemed not to hear him。 Jake Harp blinked amphibiously and struggled to focus on the scene。 It was early。 He was outdoors。 The sun was intensely bright。 The Atlantic Ocean murmured at his back。 And somebody had dressed him： Izod shirt； Sansibelt slacks； tasseled Footjoy golf shoes。 What could this be！ Then he heard the scratchy click of a portable microphone and the oily voice of Charles Chelsea。
〃Wele； everybody。 We're standing on what will soon be the first tee of the Falcon Trace Championship Golf Course。 As you can see； we've got a little work ahead of us。。。。〃
Laughter。 These numbnuts are laughing； thought Jake Harp。 He squinted at the white upturned faces and recognized one or two as sportswriters。
More from Chelsea： 〃。。。and we thought it would be fun to inaugurate the construction of this magnificent golfing layout with a hitting clinic。〃
Jake Harp's stomach clenched as somebody folded a three…wood into his fingers。 The golf pro stared in disgust： a graphite head。 They expect me to hit with metal！
Charles Chelsea's well…tanned paw settled amiably on Jake Harp's shoulder； the stench of Old Spice was overpowering。
〃This familiar fellow needs no introduction；〃 Chelsea was saying。 〃He's graciously agreed to christen the new course by hitting a few balls into the ocean…since we don't actually have a fairway yet。〃
Laughter again。 Mysterious； inexplicable laughter。 Jake Harp swayed； bracing himself with the three…wood。 What had he been drinking last night？ Vodka sours？ Tanqueray martinis？ Possibly both。 He remembered dancing with a banker's wife。 He remembered telling her how he'd triple…bogeyed the Road Hole and missed the cut at the British Open； missed the damn cut； all because some fat Scotsman booted the ball。。。。
Jake Harp also remembered the banker's wife whispering something about a blowjob…but did it happen？
He hoped so； but he truly couldn't recall。 One thing was certain： today he was physically incapable of swinging a golf club； it was simply out of the question。 He wondered how he would break the news to Francis Kingsbury； who was bowing to the photographers in acknowledgment of Charles Chelsea's effusive introduction。
〃Frank；〃 said Jake Harp。 〃Where am I？〃
With a frozen smile； Kingsbury remarked that Jake Harp looked about as healthy as dog barf。
〃A bad night；〃 the golfer rasped。 〃I'd like to go home and lie down。〃
Then came an acrid gust of cologne as Chelsea leaned in： 〃Hit a few； Jake； okay？ No interviews； just a photo op。〃
〃But I can't use a fucking graphite wood。 This is Jap voodoo； Frank； I need my MacGregors。〃
Francis Kingsbury gripped Jake Harp by the shoulders and turned him toward the ocean。 〃And would you please； for Christ's sake； try not to miss the goddamn ball？〃
Chelsea cautioned Kingsbury to keep his voice down。 The sportswriters were picking up on the fact that Jake Harp was seriously under the weather。
〃Coffee's on the way；〃 Chelsea chirped lightly。
〃You want me to hit it in the ocean？〃 Jake Harp said。 〃This is nuts。〃
One of the news photographers shouted for the security officers to get out of the way； they were blocking the picture。 Kingsbury manded the troops of Pedro Luz to move to one side； Pedro Luz himself was not present； having refused with vague mutterings to exit the storage room and join the phony golf clinic at Falcon Trace。 His men； however； embraced with gusto and amusement the task of guarding Francis X。 Kingsbury from assailants unknown。
Having cleared the security force to make an opening for Jake Harp； Kingsbury ordered the golfer to swing away。
〃I can't； Frank。〃
〃What？〃
〃I'm hung over。 I can't lift the bloody club。〃
〃Assume the position； Jake。 You're starting to piss me off。〃
Tottering slightly； Jake Harp slowly arranged himself in the familiar stance that Golf Digest once hailed as 〃part Hogan； part Nicklaus； part Baryshnikov〃…chin down； feet apart； shoulders square； left arm straight； hands interlocked loosely on the shaft of the club。
〃There；〃 Jake Harp said gamely。
Charles Chelsea cleared his throat。 Francis Kingsbury said； 〃A golf ball would help； Jake。〃
〃Oh Jesus； you're right。〃
〃You got everything but a goddamn ball。〃
Under his breath； Jake Harp said； 〃Frank； would you do me a favor？ Tee it up？〃 〃What？〃
〃I can't bend down。 I'm too hung over； Frank。 If I try to bend； I'll fall on my face。 I swear to God。〃
Francis Kingsbury dug in his pocket and pulled out a scuffed Maxfli and a plastic tee that was shaped like a naked woman。 〃You're quite an athlete； Jake。 A regular Jim Fucking Thorpe。〃
Gratefully Jake Harp watched Kingsbury drop to one knee and plant the tee。 Then suddenly the sun exploded； and a molten splinter tore a hole in the golfer's belly； spinning him like a tenpin and knocking him flat。 A darkening puddle formed