Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik Read Free Book Online Page B

them.”
    â€œI’m telling you, Leonard, we’re looking for an intruder here.”
    â€œSo tell me how this intruder got on the grounds.”
    â€œMy guess is he climbed the fence between our 12th hole and the Augusta Country Club. You should be talking to them about their security.”
    â€œWe’re looking at that, David. But we got to eliminate any suspects who were already on your grounds, too. Now, I need you to be dead honest with me here: Do you know of any individual at the club who had a grudge against this guy?”
    â€œLeonard, our members are not killers,” Porter said. “For Christ’s sake, half the members here are too old to strangle a chicken.”
    â€œYou know how this looks, David. First Drucker announces she’s going to hold another one of her protests. Everybody knows you got members who don’t want women, and some who do. Then one of your boys turns up dead in Rae’s Creek. My investigators are going to need to talk to your people.”
    â€œI don’t want you conducting some goddamn witch hunt, Leonard. We’re a private club. Our members expect confidentiality when they join, and as chairman, I intend to protect their privacy.”
    â€œHell, David, this ain’t a church and you ain’t a priest,” Garver said.
    David Porter paused to form the answer that would most directly address the sheriff’s objection. Finally, he said:
    â€œAs far as our members are concerned, this is the Vatican, and I am the pope.”
    Garver rolled his eyes. He’d rather be dealing with an uneducated car thief than these high-and-mighty tycoons.
    â€œI could subpoena you and force you to give me names,” Garver said.
    â€œYou don’t want to do that, Leonard,” Porter said. “We want this bastard caught more than you do. But nobody here is a killer.”
    â€œIt ain’t for you to decide who did it,” Garver said. “That’s our job.”
    â€œThen I suggest you do it, Leonard.”
    â€œDammit, how’m I supposed to do my job when you won’t cooperate? You think a bottle of George Dickel and a couple of Masters Badges lets you people hold yourselves above the law?”
    â€œI can’t stop you from talking to our members,” Porter said. “But you’ll be wasting your time.”
    â€œYou’re tellin’ me,” Garver said. “You’ve got 300 members.”
    â€œNow it’s two hundred ninety-nine,” Porter corrected him. “And I’ll vouch for every one of them.”
    Chapter Five
    The assistant pro ran his finger down the day’s tee sheet on his clipboard and told Sam that he could get him out with Al Barber in about 45 minutes.
    Sam knew his Masters history. Al Barber had won the tournament—and his lifetime exemption—during one of those years when Nicklaus was slumping, Palmer was fading, and Watson had not yet arrived. Playing with him would be an advantage. Even if Barber couldn’t hit the shots anymore, he had 40 years of course knowledge, if he were willing to share it.
    â€œYour caddie will be Dwight Wilson,” the caddiemaster said to Sam. “He’s waiting to meet you in front of the locker room.”
    Sam walked through the breezeway between the pro shop and the bag room and up the sidewalk to the locker room entrance, where an enormous black man in a white jumpsuit was waiting for him by the door with his golf bag.
    The caddie extended his huge hand and shook Sam’s with a firm but gentle grip—that of an experienced caddie, who would know that a golfer with crushed fingers wasn’t going to earn him any money.
    â€œMorning, Mr. Sam,” the caddie said. “Dwight Wilson.”
    Sam assumed it was standard Masters caddie lingo to address players as “Mr. Phil” or “Mr. Ernie,” but this formality made him uncomfortable.
    â€œPlease just call me Sam,” Sam said.