Chapter 11
Billy kept his eye on the ball as his driver sent it flying down the middle of the driving range.
“Nice shot,” Stone said. He was using the neighboring spot. “You’re much better than I remember.”
“Professional necessity,” Billy said. “You can’t imagine how many producers and actors want to have meetings while playing a round.”
They’d arrived at the Indian Canyons Golf Resort’s north course an hour before their tee time to get in some warm-up shots.
“It also helps that you can play year-round out here,” Stone said.
Billy sighed dramatically. “The weather in Southern California is a burden, but someone has to bear it.”
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
Billy and Stone turned to see Herb Fisher approaching them, a golf bag strapped over his shoulder. Accompanying him was a man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties.
“Morning, Herb,” Stone said. He walked over and shook his colleague’s hand.
“You remember Billy Barnett,” Stone said as Billy joined them.
“Of course,” Herb said. “Good to see you again.” He shook Billy’s hand.
“Likewise,” Billy said.
Herb turned to the man with him. “This is John Robb, CEO of JK Robb Industries. John, this is Stone Barrington, my colleague at Woodman & Weld, and Billy—”
John took a step toward Billy, holding his hand out and grinning broadly. “Barnett. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnett. My wife and I loved Desperation at Dawn.”
Desperation was the film that won Billy an Oscar for best picture.
“Thank you. That’s very kind. But please, call me Billy.”
“Billy it is, then,” John said, and then turned to Stone. “And a pleasure to meet you, too, Stone.” He paused. “I assume it’s okay to call you that?”
“It is indeed.”
While Herb and John found empty spots along the range, Billy checked his phone and saw that he had a text from Tina.
I might have been a teeny-weeny premature in what I said yesterday. Don’t worry. I’ll get it handled. But do me a favor. If Pike texts you, just ignore it. TTYL
Thankfully there was no message from Pike.
Billy retook his position at the practice tee and hit balls for several more minutes before he and the others relocated to the clubhouse.
There they met their caddies and loaded their clubs into the two carts they’d be using.
Their start was delayed a few minutes by the foursome ahead of them.
The older man of the group sliced his shot off the first fairway, over the ninth’s, and into the water hazard between nine and eighteen.
He insisted on taking a second shot. That one wasn’t particularly great, either, but at least it stayed on the course.
He grumbled something and tossed his club toward his caddie with just enough force that it instead landed at the man’s feet, then he walked to his golf cart as if he owned the place.
Once the man and his buddies had made their next shots and moved out of the way, Billy and the others took their turns at the tee.
Based on their first drives, they were a well-matched group, with each of them reaching at least two hundred yards and avoiding both the rough and the sand pit.
They were delayed again as they waited for the other group to finish up at the green.
“Looks like it’s going to be a long day,” Herb said, as the same guy who’d screwed up his tee shot missed yet another putt.
“But what a day it is,” Billy said.
There was no arguing with that. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sky was a sparkling, crystal-clear blue.
“I get the appeal of this place,” John said.
“Your first time in Palm Springs?” Billy asked.
“It is.”
“Where are you from?”
“Minneapolis.”
“Not a lot of cacti there.”
“I take it you’ve visited the Twin Cities?”
“Twice.”
“What time of year?”
“Once in January and once in July.”
“Two of our most memorable seasons—winter and mosquito.”
“Which is why I have only been twice.”
“What brings you here?” Stone asked John.
“The company jet.” John let the words hang there for a moment before chuckling. “Sorry. My kids say I have a terrible sense of humor. Industry convention. We make machine tools and auto parts.”
“There’s a convention for that?”
“There’s a convention for everything. This one is focused on tech innovation within the supply chain.”
“Do CEOs usually attend those kinds of things?” Billy asked.
“They do when they’ve been invited to be the keynote speaker,” Herb said.
“Congratulations,” Stone said. “I hope it goes well.”
“Already happened, and I’m told I was great. I brought my wife along, and we’re staying for another week.”
“Gentlemen,” one of the caddies interrupted. “The green is clear.”
Billy glanced toward the flag. Sure enough, the other group was starting to drive off.
—
Despite Victor Popov’s belief otherwise, he had never been a good golfer. His errant shots and countless missed putts were always something or someone else’s fault.
Compared to previous lackluster performances, however, today’s round was already shaping up to be one of his worst, and they were only on the fourth tee.
Though he’d taken the longest to finish the last hole, he was first to tee off. His men, who were playing with him, would never have presumed otherwise.
He looked down the fairway.
“How long?” he asked his caddie without looking at him.
“One eighty-eight to the hole today.”
Popov held out a hand, his gaze still on the course. “Driver.”
“That’s probably too much club,” the caddie said. “I would suggest the two iron or maybe the three wood.”
Popov turned and stared at the man. “Did I ask you for suggestions?”
“No, sir. But based on the previous—”
“Driver,” Popov growled.
The caddie gave him a tight-lipped smile, then pulled out the driver, placed the grip in Popov’s hand, and took a step back.
Popov eyed the shot and took his swing.
The ball sliced to the right and flew over the third hole fairway, where it fell just short of hitting an apartment building next to the golf course.
He cursed under his breath, then looked back at his men and said in Belarusian, “Center fairway, just short of the green.”
That was where he’d been aiming for.
“Of course, Mr. Popov,” Aleksei said.
Popov dropped his club and walked over to his cart to wait for the others to take their shots.
—
Billy, Stone, Herb, and John were waiting to take their second shots on the sixth hole when a raised voice drew their gazes toward the green.
Billy was closest, but still too far to understand what was being said. It was clear that the same jerk as before was not happy again, however.
All morning the guy had been vocal about his shots and had continued his careless discarding of clubs. But now his ire had ratcheted up several notches, and he was taking it out on his caddie by yelling in the man’s face.
When he was done, he walked purposefully back to where he’d dropped his club, grabbed it, and headed back toward the caddie, carrying the club like he planned on beating the man with it.
Billy had seen enough.
He gauged the distance, addressed his ball, then took his swing.
As soon as the ball lifted into the air, he yelled toward the green, “Fore!”
Still several feet from the caddie, the angry golfer stopped and turned at the sound of Billy’s voice.
From his point of view, the ball must have looked like it was heading straight at him, because he immediately dropped the club and ran toward the parked golf carts.
The ball landed about four yards short of where he’d been standing and bounced a couple of times until it came to rest within easy putting distance of the hole.
Billy was disappointed. He’d been trying to get it to land closer to the guy’s former position. Something to work on for the future.
For several seconds, everyone fell silent, then the guy with the temper roared, “You!”
He strode on to the fairway and headed straight for Billy, his face red with rage. His men and their caddies trailed behind him.
“Don’t move!” he yelled as he pointed at Billy.
Billy took a couple of practice swings, having no intention of going anywhere.
Stone, Herb, John, and their caddies hurried over to join him.
“I’m guessing that shot wasn’t a mistake,” Stone said.
“Well, it did fall about a yard or two short,” Billy said.
“I can’t tell for sure,” Herb said. “But it looks like you’ll have an easy eagle putt when we get to the green. I don’t think your new friend is too impressed, though.”
The irate golfer was only a handful of yards away now. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The man was a big guy with a barrel chest, a bald head, and a Slavic accent. He continued toward Billy like he was going to smash him into the ground.
As the man neared, Billy raised his club so that it was parallel to the ground and shoved the head into the man’s gut.
“I think that’s close enough.”
The guy tried to bat the club away, but Billy pushed it harder, lodging it just below the man’s ribs.
The other members of the guy’s foursome arrived and glowered at Billy.
One of them grabbed the club and tried to yank it out of Billy’s hand. Billy let him move it a few inches before he jerked it back, sending the guy tripping toward him.
As the man stumbled past, Billy shifted the club so that it got tangled in his leg and sent him face-planting into the grass.
“What is your name?” the older man demanded.
“You first,” Billy said.
“You tried to hit me with your ball!”
“Me? Not at all. If I wanted to hit you, I would have.”
The older man started toward him again. “You son of a—”
Billy jabbed him with the club head again.
One of the other men charged at Billy and found himself on the ground with his friend a quick moment later.
Billy then brought his club back to the older man, this time barely touching him with it. “You know what I don’t like? I don’t like people taking out their bad play on others.” He smiled. “Know what I mean?”
“You think you are a smart guy? Listen up, smart guy, you do not want to mess with me.”
As he was speaking, three golf carts arrived in a hurry, and several people in Indian Canyons polo shirts jumped out and rushed toward the group.