“And you believed him?” Fitz shook his head. “The closest he’s ever gotten to medical science was when he bought a box of Band-Aids. He faints at the sight of blood. And when he has to get a shot-”

“That’s about enough of that,” Conner said, diving out from under the covers. He made a beeline for the bathroom and disappeared. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Ten?” Fitz raised his eyebrows. “To get ready? Normally only takes you two.”

Conner’s head reappeared in the bathroom doorway. “Today’s a special day. I want to look my best.”

Twelve minutes later, Conner emerged from the bathroom. Fitz almost didn’t recognize him.

“Wow,” Fitz said with admiration. He let out a slow whistle. “I’m impressed.”

“You should be.” Conner was wearing traditional golf attire-cotton Polo shirt, khaki pants, golf shoes. Even a sporty red baseball cap. “Took me two precious minutes to iron this stuff.”

Fitz pulled a face. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, it took me two precious minutes to find this stuff. Happy now?”

“I heard you got called to the woodshed last night. I see they made an impression.”

“Yeah,” Conner mumbled. “They definitely made an impression.” He checked his watch, then followed Fitz out of the cabin toward the clubhouse. “We don’t have much time. Have you gotten my clubs out of the locker room?”

“You left them on the driving range last night, you nincompoop.”

Conner slapped his forehead. “Damn. I was practicing, then Freddy lured me down to the locker room. Then on the way back up, I bumped into this coed golf groupie from Emory and one thing led to another…”

“I’ll bet.” Fitz offered his best disapproving look. “Don’t worry. I always check on your clubs before I turn in at night. When I saw they weren’t in the locker, I started looking around. I know you like to drive the night before a tournament, so they weren’t hard to track down. Once again, I pulled your butt out of the frying pan.”

Conner pushed through the clubhouse door and exited onto the walkway that led to the first tee. “That’s why I pay you the big money.”

Fitz grimaced. “Believe me, kid-seven percent of your winnings is not big money.”

Conner approached the first tee marker, which was flanked by officials anxiously looking at their watches. “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’ve made it, just in time. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

Conner inched forward, but the officials didn’t budge.

“Pardon me, boys,” Conner said, retaining his sunny demeanor. “See, I’m a player. Except it’s hard to play if you won’t let me on the course. So am-scray.”

The officials didn’t move. They looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“They don’t move till I say so.”

Conner’s face fell. “Derwood. How miserable to see you again. Why are you here?”

“I told you last night. You don’t play unless I say so. These officials have been instructed that you are not to approach the first tee until you are authorized to do so. By me.”

“Derwood, you are experiencing serious delusions of grandeur. A Napoleonic complex. But you have nothing in common with Napoleon, except of course your height.”

Derwood’s teeth clenched together. “Laugh all you want, clown boy. But you don’t play till you pass my inspection.”

“Fine. Inspect away, Little Corporal.”

Derwood did a slow circle around Conner, taking him in head-to-toe. “Shirt is regulation, slacks are regulation,” he muttered as he passed. “Shoes are tattered and tacky, but regulation. Even the cap is regulation.” He nodded officiously. “Very well, gentlemen. This entrant is authorized to participate in today’s tournament.”

The officials appeared keenly relieved.

Before he moved away, Derwood pressed close to Conner and smirked. “I knew we could whip your gonzo-ass into line,” he whispered.

Conner didn’t reply. He pivoted silently, took the club proffered by Fitz, passed through the gauntlet of officials, and approached the first tee. He placed his ball on a tee, pulled on his right-hand glove and, almost as an afterthought, removed his cap.

Gasps sounded in the spectators’ gallery.

Derwood’s eyes went wide. “He’s shaved his head!”

Indeed he had. Not only buzzed it to the scalp, but created a discernable zigzag pattern across the back, sort of like an Iroquois on speed.

“That is not acceptable!” Derwood shouted. “Someone stop him-”

Too late. Conner swung, and the white dimpled ball flew down the fairway. An instant later, Conner and Fitz had entered the course in pursuit.

Derwood threw his hat down and stomped on it. “You won’t get away with this!” he shouted. “You haven’t heard the last of me.” But in fact, Conner had heard the last of him, at least for the moment, because he was already well out of earshot.

Safely ensconced on the third tee, Conner thought he could slow down and engage in a bit of conversation. “Where’s John, anyway?” he asked Fitz. “Aren’t we playing together?”

Fitz shook his head. “He drew an earlier tee time. Problem is, he didn’t show up.”

“Didn’t show up? That’s not like John.” He paused. “Come to think of it, he never showed up last night.”

“I searched all over the grounds. Couldn’t find him. Even checked his cabin. His wife said she hadn’t seen him since last night.”

“You mean he didn’t come back to the cabin last night? John? That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Like when? During that languorous stretch between when you got out of bed with your coed and when you appeared at the first tee?”

“Well, sometime.”; Conner dug the head of his club into the ground. “This is totally unlike John. I’m concerned.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“Yeah, but still-”

“Concentrate on your game. We’ll find John later.”

Conner frowned. “I suppose.” He scanned the fairway. “I don’t think I need the wood for this. Hand me my nine-iron.”

“Are you joking? That hole is four hundred and fifty yards away. Plus there’s a water trap. Plus the dogleg left.”

“I like the nine-iron. It’s my best club.”

“You’re making a mistake-”

“Fitz. I’ve made my decision. Pass me the club.”

“Your wish is my command, sire.” Fitz passed the requested club.

Conner shielded his eyes and gazed at the distant green, mentally recalculating the distance. There was a water trap about two thirds of the way up the fairway, but if he hit hard, shot over it, avoided the rough…

He turned to his caddie. “Fitz, how do I get to the green in one?”

“Practice.”

“But seriously.”

“You don’t. Especially with a nine-iron. Lay up.”

Conner groaned. “I hate that cheesy play-it-safe crap. I think I can make it to the green in one. I’m going for it.”

“Conner, don’t be a fool. It’s a sucker pin.” Meaning the pin had been placed such that only a sucker would try to get close to it.

Conner held a finger against his lips. “Please. A master is at work.” Conner shook himself down, adjusted his stance, brought back his club, and fired.

The golf ball flew into the air, taking a tremendous lift and forming a beautiful line right down the center of the fairway… then took a sudden veer to the right, crashing to earth deep in the rough.

“Damn!” Conner swore. “What happened?”

“You swung,” Fitz answered.

The two men tracked down the ball, killing a good ten minutes of course time.

“I could still make the green in two,” Conner opined. “I’m going to blast it out of here.”

“With the nine-iron?”

“It’s my best club.”

“That’s what you said-”

Before Fitz could finish his commentary, Conner had swung. Once again, the ball took off beautifully… and once again, it took a sudden and dramatic turn to the right.

“A fatal slice,” Fitz commented, under his breath. “Fatal for you.”