Chapter 7b

They headed over to the first hole, a picturesque but tough looking 430 yard par four with a narrow fairway that had a creek running across it at about 210 yards from the tee blocks.

"This one is a bitch," Greg said as he pulled a tee from his pocket. "It's the number three handicap. You gotta be sure to hit a solid drive or you'll end up in the creek."

"Or you could lay up like I do," Celia suggested.

Jake and Greg both scoffed at this.

"Laying up is for pussies," Jake said.

"Here here," Greg agreed.

Celia simply rolled her eyes at them. "I smell testosterone starting to simmer here."

"Funny you should mention that, C," Greg said. "I was just going to ask Jake if he'd care to make the game a little more interesting."

He was talking about a bet, of course. "That depends on the terms you offer," Jake said.

"Well let's see," Greg said, thinking. "You told me you're a twelve handicap, right?"

"As of the last time I posted," Jake said. "And you're a scratch golfer, as I recall you mentioning on a few occasions."

"Lately I've been playing a two handicap," Greg said.

"He's been sandbagging," Celia said.

"Shhh," Greg said. "Don't give away my strategy."

Jake laughed politely, as one did on a golf course when someone told a joke that wasn't all that funny.

"So anyway," Greg said, "I propose a one thousand dollar Nassau, match play of course, automatic press per nine when three holes down and automatic press for the eighteen when five holes down. I'll give you a stroke on the number one through ten handicap holes."

"I haven't played in months," Jake said. "I need at least fourteen strokes for that kind of money."

"I can't go fourteen," Greg said. "How about twelve? That'll assume one up on your handicap and one down on mine."

"Deal," Jake said, adding up the potential losses in his head. They would be playing hole for hole instead of stroke play. A thousand dollars would be paid to whoever won the most holes on the front nine, the back nine, and the entire eighteen as a whole. The automatic presses would come into play if someone fell behind by three holes on the front or back or five holes on the entire eighteen. That meant if Jake played poorly and Greg did not, Jake could lose as much as six thousand dollars.

Jake decided not to worry about the money and simply enjoy the day. It was easy to do. He quickly found that he enjoyed playing at a country club as opposed to a public course. The grounds were beautifully groomed and maintained. Each fairway consisted of rich, uniformly cut grass that allowed a golf ball to sit nicely upon it no matter where it landed. The rough areas were marked by a distinct border and provided a significant challenge if one landed there. The greens were immaculately sculptured landscapes nearly as smooth as a billiard table and nearly as fast as concrete when one putted upon them. Iced water dispensers were located at the tee blocks of every hole and bathrooms with actual indoor plumbing were located every third hole. The course was also not as crowded as a public course since only members and their guests were allowed to play there. There was no waiting between holes, no waiting on the fairways or at the par threes for other golfers to clear the area. What he enjoyed most of all, however, was the privacy. Though he did get the occasional snooty glare when crossing paths with some of the members no one came up to ask for his autograph or to tell him he was a sinner or to tell him about this great band they were in and offer to give him a demo tape.

Jake also realized by the third hole that if he didn't get his shit together, and soon, he was going to end up owing Celia's fiancé a cool six grand. He double-bogeyed the first hole after muffing his drive while Greg neatly and effortlessly sank a two-foot putt for par. He bogeyed the second hole while Greg once again put his in for a par. And on the third hole, though he managed to tie Greg for a push, that was only because he got a stroke there. He had another bogey and Greg tapped in neatly for his third consecutive par.

"You warming up a little bit?" Greg asked him as they mounted the tee block for number four. "You seem like you're getting a handle on your ball."

"I think I am," Jake said, looking out over the 168-yard par three. The tee blocks sat before a large canyon and the green was a small island on the other side.

"This one's easy," Greg said, "as long as you don't choke."

"I always choke here," said Celia, who had so far shot nothing better than a bogey and had already lost two balls in the scrubland that surrounded each hole. "I'm just gonna go up to the edge and throw my ball in now and save myself the trouble of hitting it in there."

"It's all in your state of mind, darling," Greg told her. "Don't think about the canyon. Just think about putting it on the green."

"Be the ball," she said, making Jake chuckle — he understood the reference she was making — and Greg look at her in confusion.

"Anyway," Greg said. "I believe I still have the honors?"

"I believe you're right," Jake said.

Greg mounted the tee block and put his ball in the ground.

"So how goes the recording process?" Jake asked, as Greg picked up grass to check the wind and checked his yardage one last time.

"It's the usual grind," she said, speaking softly. "We're spending about sixty hours a week trying to get the new album put together. I may be a crappy golfer but it's nice to get away from that underground dungeon for awhile."

"Did they let you record any of your songs for this one?"

She smiled. "I used every ounce of rebellion I had in me and more than a few of those temper tantrums we Latin types are so famous for and, as a result, they agreed to let me record three of my original songs."

"That's better than the last album, isn't it?"

She withheld her answer for the moment as Greg was finally addressing his ball. They watched as he smoothly swung and launched it into the air in a clean ballistic arc heading directly for the green. It landed less then two feet from the pin but there was enough backspin on it to bring it back almost five feet."

"Nice," said Jake.

"It's on the dance floor," Greg agreed, his tone implying that he should have done better.

"Anyway," Celia said as Jake pulled his golf ball and a tee from his pocket, "it wasn't quite the victory I was hoping for. The producer didn't like the heavy acoustic guitar rhythm of the song and converted all the melodies into synthesizer and piano dominated pieces. They're not bad, but they're not what I envisioned either."

"I told her she should just tell them to take their album and cram it up their ass," Greg said. "It's disgraceful how those executives manipulate her music and package it into something they think will sell instead of what she wants."

"I'm the first to agree with you there," Jake said, mounting the tee and putting his ball in the ground. "Although it's not that easy just to walk away. Not the way they write those first time contracts."

"They pretty much own my soul," Celia said.

"You guys need a guild like we screen actors have," Greg said. "We're the ones with the power in our industry, not the producers and the movie studios. I got paid eight million dollars for my last film. I'm negotiating to get eleven million for my next one. And I'm just a character actor who's not even in the top ten. Meanwhile Celia, who is the primary talent behind the most popular contemporary band in the United States, a woman who has been nominated for more than six Grammy awards, is losing money with each new album she puts out. A recording artist's guild would put an end to all that exploitation."

"That's the same thing Mindy Snow used to say to me," Jake said. "I just don't see it happening in my lifetime."

"That's the truth," Celia said. "The only way to get ahead in this business is to stay popular enough through your first contract so that you can negotiate from strength for your second contract." She cast a knowing eye on Jake. "Kind of like someone I know, huh, Jake?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jake said, leaning over his ball so she couldn't retort. She kept her silence and Jake focused on his shot. He kept his eye on the ball and his swing smooth. The six iron hit with a resounding smack. It felt good but when Jake looked up he saw that he'd pulled it a bit. It was drifting to the right. Instead of landing on the green it landed in a sand bunker just to the right of the green.

"Good contact," Greg said analytically. "Just a little bit of a pull."

"Yeah," Jake said sourly.

"Remember," Greg reminded Jake as Celia mounted the tee (she refused to play from the ladies tees), "if you lose this hole you're three down and the press goes into play."

"I remember," Jake said, carefully keeping the irritation from his voice. Greg had felt the need to remind him of this on the last hole as well.

Celia, to her surprise and to Greg's, actually blasted her ball quite nicely over the canyon. Unfortunately it also went over the green. In a classic case of overcompensation she had decided to hit a four iron instead of a five or a six. Her ball was safe but it was also more than twenty yards off the green.

They got in their carts and drove across the wooden bridge to the other side. While Celia went after her ball Greg and Jake stood near the edge of the trap Jake's ball was located in.

"So how goes the wedding plans?" Jake asked. "Have you set a date yet?"

"We're thinking about late January," Greg said. "That way it will fall in her break between recording and going out on tour so we'll have some time to spend together before a long seperation."

"January huh?" Jake asked. "Are you gonna go somewhere warm for it?"

"Celia was thinking about Hawaii," he said. "We haven't started planning anything just yet though because she's still balking at the prenuptial agreement."

Jake nodded, remembering how bitterly she'd mentioned that particular sticking point in the past. "Women really don't like those things much, do they?"

"Yeah," said Greg with a sigh. "I've heard all the arguments against it. It's not romantic, it's saying that we're planning to fail, it means you don't trust me, so on and so forth." He shook his head. "I don't like to think of myself as a tight-ass or anything but I do like to deal in reality. I'm worth twenty million dollars and Celia has no net yearly income at all. We live in a community property state for God's sake. I can't risk half of my earnings like that. You understand, don't you, Jake?"

Jake nodded truthfully. "I surely do," he said. "If you were a cop or a fireman or some other kind of middle-class wage earner I'd tell you to get over yourself. But when you're talking about more than a million dollars... well... you're right. You have to protect yourself."

"Exactly," Greg said, clapping him on the back. "Hey, you like cigars? I got a couple of Cubans in my cart."

"You talked me into it," Jake said.

There was a crack as Celia chipped her ball. It bounced three times on the green and then rolled off the front edge, stopping just beyond the fringe. A profane and very unfeminine articulation came drifting over the ground to their ears.

"You might as well pop out of that trap now," Greg told Jake. "She's liable to hit that thing back and forth across the green two or three more times before she starts putting."

"Right," Jake said. He climbed into the trap and addressed the ball, careful to keep his club head from touching the sand until he actually made his shot. As he'd been taught, he hit two inches behind the ball, scooping it out of the trap on a cushion of sand. It bounced once on the grass and then dribbled slowly onto the green, stopping about eight feet from the pin.

"Nice out," Greg said, although it really hadn't been all that spectacular.

By the time Jake was done raking the sand bunker back to smoothness, Celia had chipped her ball onto the green, only rolling five feet past the pin this time. The three players mounted the green and Greg removed the pin and placed it on the ground.

"You're up, Jake," Greg said. "You get a stroke here but be sure not to miss this putt. I plan to get my bird."

Jake nodded and kneeled down behind his ball, looking at the slope of the green and trying to decide which way the ball was going to break. It appeared the slope was just a hair to the left so that meant if he aimed for the right edge of the cup it should, in theory, drop right into the center. He stood up and lined up, glancing from the ball to the cup a few times. He took a deep breath and struck the ball with his putter. His line had been just a little bit off but not enough to matter. The ball rolled smoothly across the green and dropped neatly into the cup.

"Nice sandy par," Greg said. "Now the pressure is on me to keep you from winning the hole."

Celia was further away from the cup than Greg was so she putted out, taking two strokes to do so and ending up with a five for the hole. Greg then stepped up to his ball and spent the better part of two minutes examining the green from three different angles.

"Come on," Celia said playfully. "Let's do it while we're young."

Jake laughed at her second reference of the day to Caddyshack but Greg didn't seem so amused. He shot her an irritated look before finally bending over his ball and making his stroke. His read was off. Instead of catching the center of the cup it hit the outside edge. For a second it looked like the ball was going to break loose and roll on by but it managed to hang on by the thinnest of margins. It swirled three times around the cup and dropped in.

"Yes!" Greg said, pumping his fist as if he'd just sunk the winning shot in the final round of The Masters and would soon be getting his green jacket.

He was once again jovial as they went back to their carts. He reached into his golf bag and produced two Cuban cigars and a cutting tool. He prepped them and handed one to Jake.

"What about Celia?" Jake asked. "Doesn't she get one?"

Greg acted as if this was a joke and gave a polite laugh. Jake glanced at Celia and saw she was shaking her head at him and giving a throat-cutting gesture with her finger. Jake nodded and brought up the subject no more.

The next hole was a long par five with a sharp dogleg right, a creek along the left side, and a green that was liberally guarded by lipped sand bunkers. Celia managed to hit her ball into every hazard there was and ended up with a ten. Jake and Greg both put their balls on the green in a regulation three strokes. Jake's ball was about thirty feet from the cup but he putted it close and then tapped in for a par. Greg's ball, on the other hand, was only about five feet from the cup. Eagerly anticipating another birdie he putted carelessly and missed long. He had to concentrate just to sink the next one for his own par. Since it was the number five handicap hole Jake got a stroke there and took the hole.

"All right," Greg said as he mounted the tee for the sixth hole. "I'm done screwing around. It's time to start kicking some rock star ass here."

"Bring it on," Jake said, puffing from his cigar and wishing for a beer.

It seemed that Greg was going to be true to his words. Though Jake shot a par on the next hole Greg got another birdie and won it. On the seventh, where Jake got a stroke, Greg was only able to pull off a par but Jake hit his second shot out of bounds and ended up with a six.