A simple farmer receives a horse from the gods, a man sells ice creams named after missing schoolkids, the demolition of a hotel brings an old horror to light, a wounded soldier finds the real enemy is in his own camp, a family inherits a peculiar r...
When Mr. Green had walked away the gypsy turned to Quint. "Could you score for me?"
"Okay," Quint heard himself say. He looked down at the scorecard. "What should I write for - "
"D. Smith. Thank you."
Quint wrote the names on the scorecard and clipped it to the handle of Mr. Green's buggy. He felt as if Smith was watching him, but when he looked up Smith's eyes were on Mr. Green.
Mr. Green's tee-off preparations were legendary. He would first walk back and forth across the tee like a dog looking for a place to urinate. Then, deciding on a spot, he would place the ball on the turf. He would step back, crouch down with both hands around the haft of his club, sight up the fairway with one eye closed, lick his lips, stand up, perform two or three preparatory stretches, walk up to the ball, wiggle his feet in the turf, take a couple of practice swings, step forward, put the club head behind the ball, wiggle his feet again, look up the fairway, look back down at the ball, wiggle his feet, lick his lips, and adjust his grip. This would be followed by an interminable period of complete motionlessness. Finally he would swipe at the ball, which would, four times out of five, curve gracefully off into the trees.
Not this time.
The ball rode elegantly with the wind, climbing at such an arc that it landed vertically, like rain. Mr. Green was not a good golfer. Even Quint could beat Mr. Green on a good day. But this shot was a great one: the ball bounced once, then came to rest beside the pin. Mr. Green whooped and punched the air. Smith clapped slowly from the background. It was a dry sound, like dead tree branches creaking in a storm.
Smith slid a club from his golf bag. It had a rusty head and a wooden haft smooth and dark with years. The grip had come unravelled at the bottom. He went to the tee and set a mustard-coloured old ball on the turf.
"Quint."
"Yes Mr. Green?"
"Clean my seven iron. I picked up a divot."
"Yes Mr. Green."
Smith didn't take practice swings. He looked once up the fairway, then back down at the ball, and chopped at it with a strange, crouching action. It disappeared into the air. When it reappeared it was on the green, rolling to a stop beside Mr. Green's ball. Smith didn't whoop or punch the air. He just smiled.
Mr. Green had already set off down the fairway.
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