Accused

EIGHTEEN

Murder is about motive. A reason to kill. The district attorney was right: there's always a reason for one human being to kill another. But Rebecca Fenney had no reason to kill Trey Rawlins. She had no motive to murder.

But Clyde "Goose" Dalton did. Men kill for money. Trey had refused to pay the one hundred thousand dollars he owed Goose. Bobby was also right: in some parts of America a few bucks will get you killed. A hundred thousand was a whole lot of motive.

And Brett McBride had a motive: Trey was having sex with his wife. Men kill in fits of rage and passion. History is replete and prisons are crowded with men who caught their wives having sex with another man and who then murdered that man-although until recently such an act had been deemed justifiable homicide in Texas.

Rebecca Fenney had no motive to murder Trey Rawlins, but she still stood indicted for his murder. She would stand trial and, if convicted, be sentenced to prison for life. Unless Scott found the real killer. Someone who had a motive to murder.

He was betting on a jilted caddie or a jealous husband.

Scott walked through the entrance gate to the Houston Classic just after one that same day. The circus atmosphere and WM squared and two-pieces had returned for the second round. He went into the merchandise tent and purchased an official tournament tote bag then found Nick Madden outside a hospitality tent drinking a beer and talking on his cell phone.

"Shit, is that a felony?… How old was she?… Sixteen?… He could just deny it, say she's lying 'cause he's a big star… Oh, they got DNA evidence?… Dumbass never heard of safe sex?… What's he looking at?… Five to ten?… Jesus, that's gonna kill his endorsements."

He noticed Scott and held up a finger.

Into the phone: "Keep me in the loop."

He disconnected and turned to Scott.

"Football player. His idea of a good time is getting stoned and screwing a high school girl. Sophomore. How am I supposed to make money off guys like that?" He sighed and shook his head. "We create the perfect public image for our athletes, teach them how to say a complete sentence without using the F-word, dress them up, get their teeth whitened, surround them with kids… then they have a fucking Serena moment on national TV or they get caught with drugs or dog-fighting or carrying a loaded gun into a New York nightclub or screwing an under-age girl and their perfect image is blown to kingdom come… and their endorsements with it. WM squared don't like that kind of shit, Scott."

He took a swig of his beer then pointed a thumb at the tent behind him that bore the name of a national bank.

"Bank's broke, using their bailout money for a beer bash." He held up his bottle. "Beer's free-you want one?"

"No thanks."

"So, did the grand jury indict her?"

"This morning."

"Goose still a suspect?"

"The prime suspect."

"But Rebecca's going to trial?"

"Unless I find the killer."

"What if you already have?"

"Why didn't you go to the funeral?"

"I was working a deal for another client, corporate sponsorship-"

"That's more important than Trey's funeral?"

"It was for that client-I got him two million, just to put a company logo on his bag and cap." He drank his beer. "Look, Scott, athletes are high-risk clients. Some are gonna self-destruct, with alcohol or drugs or girls"-he held up his cell phone-"like this guy. He's making ten million this year, next year he's gonna be making license plates. That's just the way it is with pro athletes."

"Did Trey self-destruct?"

Nick averted his eyes just as a loud cheer went up from the eighteenth green.

"Someone made a putt."

"No tour player showed up."

Nick turned his palms up. "Can't have a funeral on Thursday-first round of the tournament." He chuckled. "Some guys out here had their kids' births induced so they wouldn't interfere with their tournament schedules. No way a funeral gets priority."

"Where can I find Brett and Tess McBride?"

"Brett's on the course, which means Tess is in the margarita tent."

Nick led the way toward another white tent.

"Tell me about him."

"Not much to tell. Brett's only claim to fame is that he's a dead ringer for that guy in Sling Blade. Could be why Tess cheats on him. Anyway, Brett's thirty-seven and on the downside of his career, not that he ever really had an upside. Fifteen years on tour, he's never come close to winning."

"How can he make a living out here if he never wins?"

"Because everyone on tour makes at least a million bucks a year. See, Scott, maybe twenty players got a real chance of winning out here, the rest of the guys are just fillers-they fill out the field. But it beats working for a living as a country club pro, giving lessons to old ladies and selling shoes. Brett played every tournament last year, never finished higher than thirtieth, still made one-point-three million. Two years ago, he finished in the top ten at Tahoe-you'd think he'd won the fucking Super Bowl."

"What's Tess's story?"

Nick just grinned.

"Every time I see her, I want to order chicken wings and a beer."

Tess McBride was lean, blonde, and dressed like a Hooter's girl. She wore red short-shorts and a white T-shirt tight across her ample bosom. They were admiring Tess from across the tent where waitresses in miniskirts and cowboy boots served cold beer to WM squared and margaritas to hot two-pieces. A big-screen TV broadcasting the tournament hung on one wall of the tent, a beer booth with neon signs occupied another, and a margarita bar with a tiki hut decor the third. Tess stood near the margarita machine and held a big plastic goblet filled with a slushy green concoction. Two young men who looked like college athletes bookended her.

"She's twenty-four," Nick said as they weaved their way around tables toward her. "Thirteen years younger and a helluva lot better looking than Brett. The money improves his looks, but still…"

When they arrived, Nick interrupted her conversation with the young men like a father breaking up a teenage groping session on the den couch.

"Excuse us, boys, but we need to talk with Missus McBride."

The men recoiled as if Tess had suddenly revealed a nasty rash.

"You're married? " one of the men said.

Tess answered with a lame shrug. The college boys retreated to the beer booth.

"Thanks a lot, Nick."

"You are married, Tess."

"I was just having a little fun."

"You're always just having a little fun."

"You sound like my mother when I was in high school."

"Well, Tess, corporate sponsors don't like their athletes' wives acting like horny high school girls. You keep this up, they'll dump Brett and you'll be back waiting tables at Hooters."

She smiled at Scott. "I finished second in the Miss Hooters Pageant last year."

Nick rolled his eyes. "So you've told everyone on tour."

"Which got me a spread in Playboy."

"And you sure as hell spread 'em."

Tess looked Scott up and down. He had stopped off at the house and changed into jeans, sneakers, and a knit shirt. She leaned into him, close enough for him to smell the tequila on her breath.

"And who are you, cowboy?"

"Scott Fenney."

Her eyes lingered on him for the long moment that it took for his name to register in her cloudy mind. She frowned and leaned away.

"You're Rebecca's…"

"Ex," Nick said.

"Lawyer," Scott said. "I need to ask you about Trey."

"I gotta go."

"I can subpoena you."

"I can lie."

"In a court of law that's called perjury."

"And that means what to me?"

She took a step.

"I can also subpoena Brett."

She stopped. "You're a bastard."

"I'm a lawyer."

"That's what I said." She inhaled the margarita then exhaled. "What do you want to know?"

"Were you having an affair with Trey?"

"My sex life is private."

Nick laughed. "Since when?"

She flashed him a dirty look.

"Tess," Scott said, "I can talk to Brett if you'd prefer."

"He'll divorce me if he finds out… Well, maybe."

"So you and Trey were having an affair?"

She shrugged a yes.

"How long?"

She held her hands apart.

"No. How long did your affair last?"

"Oh." She giggled. "Two months. Until the Riviera."

"You traveled to the Riviera together?"

"I wish. The Riviera tournament in L.A. Back in February."

"The affair ended four months prior to his death?"

She counted on her fingers. "February, March, April, May… Yes."

"But you did have an affair with Trey?"

"We had a little fling. Started at the Hope, ended at Riviera." She smiled. "Our California swing."

She drank her margarita and asked the bartender for another.

"Why?" Scott said.

She shrugged. "Why not? We were just having a little fun. Which I don't have with Brett. Before we got married, we partied every night. Now all he wants to do is sit in the hotel room and watch CNN. Nancy Grace."

Tess's expression changed, as if she had a revelation.

"Matter of fact, Nancy had a segment about Trey's case last night, they called Rebecca the Guilty Groupie." She frowned at Scott. "Are you a famous lawyer?"

"Maybe in this part of the world."

"Are you a rich lawyer in any part of the world?"

"No."

A knowing nod. "That's why she left you for Trey."

Scott started to think like a man, so he forced himself to think like a lawyer.

"So Brett doesn't know about you and Trey?"

"No. And I'd like to keep it that way."

"Did Rebecca know?"

"Nobody knew. We were discreet."

Nick laughed again. " 'Tess McBride' and 'discreet' in the same sentence? I don't think so."

She made a face and stuck her tongue out at Nick. Scott felt like a recess monitor at the elementary school. Tess drank her margarita and stared at Scott.

"You're her ex-but why are you her lawyer?"

"It's called loyalty," Nick said.

"It's called lunacy," Tess said.

Nick chuckled. " Lunacy? That's a big word for you, Tess."

She nodded. "One of Nancy's guests said it last night. They were all laughing about him and one said, 'We know the old saying that "a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client," but what's a lawyer who has an ex-wife for a client?' Another guest said, 'Nuts.' They all laughed, and the first one said it's lunacy for a lawyer to defend his ex, said she had no idea why you'd do that. I like Nancy, even if she is kind of scary."

"She's the mother of my child," Scott said.

Tess's eyes got wide. " Nancy Grace is the mother of your child? "

Nick laughed. "Tess's bra size is also her IQ."

"Rebecca," Scott said. "Rebecca is the mother of my child. That's why I'm defending her."

"Oh, yeah… Boo." Tess smiled. "Rebecca showed me her picture. Cute kid." The smile left her face. "My mom and dad got divorced when I was ten. It was never the same." She drank her margarita and said, "I miss him."

"Your dad?"

"Trey."

"Did you love him?"

"My dad?"

"Trey."

"No. I miss the sex. Best sport sex I ever had."

"Sport sex?"

"You know, athletic sex… wild sex… crazy sex." Tess McBride's eyes glazed over, and she licked her red lips. "Better-than-a-workout, full-body-sweat, hot-steaming-panting-and-grunting-like-wild-animals sex."

Scott and Nick blinked hard in unison.

"Wow," Nick said. "I didn't even need Viagra."

Tess leaned toward Scott. "Don't you have sport sex?"

"Not anymore."

She gave him a coy smile. "I could help you with that."

"Did you practice safe sex?"

Rebecca would need to know.

"I'm not stupid."

"Just loose," Nick said.

She shot him another dirty look.

"Where was Brett last Thursday night?" Scott said.

"Where else? In a hotel room watching Nancy Grace."

"He played Friday morning," Nick said. "In Orlando."

"At eight," Tess said. "They don't fire up the margarita machine until noon, so I slept in."

It seemed improbable that Brett could have killed Trey between midnight and 3:00 A.M. in Galveston and gotten back to Florida for an 8:00 A.M. tee time. But a defense lawyer never discounted someone with a motive to murder.

"Have you ever been to Trey's beach house in Galveston?"

"No."

"Has Brett?"

"No. Look, Brett doesn't have the balls to make a five-foot putt to win, much less murder someone… or satisfy me." She shook her head. "I should've been a Mormon."

"A Mormon? " Nick said.

"Yeah. Then I could have four husbands-one to support me, three to satisfy me." She smiled. "And they'd have built-in beer buddies. A win-win deal."

Nick stared at her in apparent disbelief at what he had just heard.

"Tess, Mormon women don't get four husbands. Mormon men get four wives."

" Really? Well, that sucks."

Tess downed her margarita. She placed the goblet on the bar and waved to the bartender. Scott opened the tote bag and pulled out one of the freezer-sized Ziploc plastic baggies he had brought with him that day. He reached past Tess, took the goblet by the stem between his fingers, and dropped it into the baggie. He then put the baggie into the tote bag. Tess had observed Scott's actions with a wry smile.

"I didn't kill him."

"Who did?"

"Maybe Rebecca. She's the Guilty Groupie."

"Was she?"

"Guilty?"

"A groupie?"

"No. I'm a groupie. I love having sex. She loves having things."

"So why would she kill Trey and lose everything?"

"She wouldn't."

"Did he say anything about marrying her?"

"When? While we were having sex?"

"Anytime."

"That was the only time I saw him. And no, he didn't."

She sipped the fresh margarita the bartender had delivered.

"You ever see them fighting?"

"No. Never. They were happy."

"Did they drink?"

"Everyone on tour drinks. There's a lot of free time."

"Why didn't they get married?"

A shrug. "She didn't want to push him, risk losing everything."

"Why'd you end the affair?"

"I didn't. He did."

"Why?"

" 'Cause he started up with Lacy."

" Lacy Parker? " Nick said.

Tess nodded. "I told him we could do a threesome, but Trey was kind of small-town, you know. He would only cheat with one woman at a time."

Scott turned to Nick. "Who's Lacy?"

"Donnie Parker's wife. Hot little number, used to do porn movies. They met during the first round of the Vegas tournament, got married right after the last round." He shook his head. "Something about Vegas."

Scott turned back to Tess. "Did Rebecca know about Lacy?"

"She never said anything to me. We were friends."

" Friends? And you had an affair with Trey?"

She shrugged. "I was better friends with him."

"What about Donnie?"

She laughed. "No way. Shortest driver on tour."

Scott turned to Nick. "What's his story?"

"His story is, I can't buy an endorsement for a player married to a former porn queen. One day he was bitching because of all the endorsements I got for Trey, I told him, 'Donnie, patrons of porn don't get paid to endorse chocolate milk!' "

"Were they at the Orlando tournament? Lacy and Donnie?"

"No," Nick said. "They were home in San Diego. Donnie's been rehabbing a bum rotator cuff the last two weeks, with his therapist out west."

"But if Trey was having an affair with Lacy at the time of his death-"

"He wasn't," Tess said.

"How do you know?"

"Because he left her for Riley."

" Riley Hager? " Nick said. He threw his hands up. "Jesus, is there any woman on tour Trey didn't screw?"

Tess's eyebrows crunched slightly, as if she were thinking.

"Maybe the older wives."

Nick faced Scott. "Riley is Vic Hager's wife. He's ranked fifteenth in the world. He made the cut in Orlando, finished eleventh."

"And you're his agent, too?"

Nick shrugged. "Riley used to be an underwear model in L.A. She was voted second hottest WAG on tour."

"What's a WAG?"

"Wives and girlfriends. There's an online rating system for athletes' WAGs, for each sport. It's a big deal, all the girls want the title."

"I was third," Tess said with pride.

"Who was first?"

Nick and Tess exchanged a glance.

"Rebecca," Scott said.

Nick nodded.

"She's eleven years older than me," Tess said, "and her body is still perfect. And abs like that after a baby? Amazing."

Scott turned to Nick. "You didn’t know about this?"

"Yeah, her abs are amazing."

"No. About Trey's affairs?"

"I was his agent, Scott, not his pimp."

"What's the deal out here, all this Desperate Housewives stuff?"

"You got four groups of players on tour." Nick ticked them off on his fingers. "You got your single guys, they screw everything with tits. You got your guys with girlfriends, they party hardy every night. You got your married without children-some stray, some don't. Most of the guys are real sticklers about the Rules of Golf, not so much the vows of marriage. Ask Tiger. And you got your married with children, they bring the wives and kids on tour during the summer, it's like being in fucking McDonald's every day. Trey-I guess he found those wives looking for a little fun. Like Tess."

"My middle name," she said with a smile.

"No wonder we found Viagra in Trey's bathroom."

"Hell, looks like he was servicing half the women on tour. Can't keep that up on protein shakes alone." Nick smiled. "They pop those blue pills like M amp;Ms out here."

Scott turned back to Tess. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did all these wives have affairs with Trey? Why did you?"

She smiled. "You saw him-he was gorgeous. Our husbands aren't. Jesus, Brett looks like that guy in Sling Blade."

"But you married him," Nick said.

" 'Cause he's rich. Sort of. And I was really drunk that night."

"Ah, true love."

"Did Rebecca know about Riley?" Scott said.

"She didn't act like it," Tess said.

"So at the time of his death, Trey was having an affair with Riley Hager?"

"No."

“But you just said-"

"I said he left me for Lacy and Lacy for Riley. But he left Riley, too."

"For whom?"

"Billie Jean."

" Billie Jean Puckett? " Nick said.

She nodded. "He started up with her a few weeks before he…"

Nick, to Scott: "Pete's daughter. She’s seventeen."

"Hard to compete with a teenager who doesn't even know how to spell cellulite," Tess said. "Even for Riley."

They left Tess to the margarita machine and walked outside. Scott needed a breath of fresh air, even if the air were ninety-five degrees.

"Five WAGs plus the Mexican gal, all before the U.S. Open," Nick said. "That's a whole season for most guys."

"Is every WAG out here a Hooter's girl, a porn queen, or an underwear model?"

"No, of course not, Scott. Some are former Playboy Playmates and Penthouse Pets. For gorgeous gals like Tess and Lacy and Riley, those gigs are straight shots to the altar with a rich athlete."

"Why?"

" 'Cause that's where pro athletes shop for wives. Playboy and Penthouse, that's like the social register for them. Guy wins the World Series, he marries a Playmate. Guy wins the NBA championship, he marries a Pet. Guy wins the Super Bowl, he marries a supermodel."

"Why?"

"Because he can. See, Scott, football and basketball stars, they've had gorgeous gals all through high school and college, they ain't suddenly gonna settle for the nice girl next door. Did you? And golfers, they've been dreaming of having a gal like Tess or Lacy or Riley since they were thirteen with acne and whacking off in the shower. They were the guys who had to wear husky pants, who didn't have a date to the prom, who weren't good enough athletes to play football or basketball. So their dads took them out to the golf course. Ten years later, they're on tour and filthy rich. Now they can have those girls they dreamed about. This is their adolescence-with money."

Tess McBride had walked up.

"The margarita machine break down?" Nick said with a smile.

But Tess wasn’t smiling.

"There's something else you should know," she said.

"What?"

"Pete knew… about Trey and Billie Jean."

"How do you know?"

"Pete confronted Trey in the locker room at the Challenge, slammed him up against the lockers. Brett was there and…"

"And what?"

"Pete threatened to kill Trey, if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean."

Scott walked away fast; Nick caught up.

"Pete's temper is legendary on tour," Nick said. "If you haven't been cussed out by Pete Puckett, you either haven't been on tour very long or your name is Tiger."

"Tell me about him," Scott said.

"Pete's ranked five-seventy-eight in the world, which means there are high school juniors ranked higher than him. Won the British Open twenty-four years ago, a few minor tournaments along the way. He's forty-nine now, been running on fumes the last decade, hoping to make it to the senior tour next year, kind of like a pension fund for old golfers."

"Where does he live?"

"Ranch outside Austin."

"Where Goose lives."

Nick nodded.

"Rebecca said he looks like Rambo."

Nick snorted. "Shit, he'd kick Rambo's ass. Pete ain't one of these fat boys out here. He's big, got arms like tree trunks, from chopping cedar on his place. And he's an ornery old cuss. Old-style, smokes big cigars, eats red meat, drinks hard liquor, ain't afraid to say what he thinks-more like an Arnold Palmer than a Tiger Woods, but without Arnie's ability. Or charisma. Pete's a prick."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Yeah-don't piss him off."

"He threatened to kill Trey a week before he was murdered. Then he DQ'd last Thursday. So if he flew home from Florida with Goose and got into Austin at five, he could've driven to Galveston before midnight. He could've killed Trey." Scott looked at Nick. "Or they could've killed Trey. Both had motives, the golfer and his caddie. Is that just a coincidence? We've got to find Pete Puckett."

They found Billie Jean Puckett instead.

They were jogging up the eighteenth fairway when Nick spotted her sitting alone under a tree on the far side of the fairway. Between them and her lay forty yards of green grass roped off on both sides. Allowed inside the ropes were the players, caddies, scorekeepers, officials, on-course reporters and cameramen, marshals, and security for the big-name players. Kept outside the ropes were players' wives, girlfriends, groupies, and children, vendors, sponsors, and agents, and a lawyer trying to defend his ex-wife against a murder charge.

They couldn't cut across the fairway. So they jogged all the way around the green and down the far side. When they got to Billie Jean, she didn't look up. She was leaning back against the tree with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her face was buried in her arms. She wore shorts and sneakers and a T-shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Nick spoke softly to her.

"Billie Jean."

No response. Nick squatted next to her and touched her shoulder.

"Billie Jean."

She slowly looked up. She was a cute kid. She didn't look like a Hooters girl or an adult movie star or an underwear model. She looked like a high school cheerleader. And she had tears in her eyes.

"Hi, Nick."

Her voice was small.

"You okay, kiddo?"

She wiped her face. "Just sad."

"About Trey?"

She frowned a bit. "What do you mean?"

"I know… about you and Trey."

"You were at his funeral," Scott said.

She glanced up at Scott then said to Nick, "Who's he?"

Nick stood. "Rebecca's ex-husband… and lawyer."

She held her hand up to Nick. He took her hand and pulled her up.

"Thanks."

Without another word, she ducked under the rope and ran across the fairway, dodging the players and caddies and marshals and cameramen.

"Shit."

Scott and Nick looked at each other then shrugged and ducked under the rope and chased her.

"Hey, get off the fairway!" one of the players yelled.

"Nick!" another player shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"

Nick glanced back and yelled without breaking stride, "Hey, Paul-I got you three million, on your club deal!"

" Three million? Wow! Thanks, Nick!"

Paul gave his caddie an enthusiastic chest bump.

They reached the other side, ducked under that rope, and ran on. Billie Jean had a head start, and they weren't gaining on her.

"She's fast for a girl!" Nick yelled.

"She's fast for a human!"

"She's cutting through the margarita tent!"

They ran into the margarita tent. They didn't find Billie Jean, but they found Tess McBride flirting with another Joe College. She pointed to the back exit without being asked or breaking eye contact with her new beau. They ran out back and spotted Billie Jean heading into the merchandise tent. They followed and cut through displays offering golf apparel and equipment and- shit! — Scott knocked over a pyramid of golf balls and sent hundreds of balls bouncing off the concrete floor like pin balls. They lost her. They stopped outside the tent and scanned the crowd. Nick jumped up onto an official's golf cart. He pointed like a hunting dog.

"She's heading to the clubhouse!"

They arrived at the clubhouse just in time to see Billie Jean duck inside the door to the ladies' locker room.

"Damn."

They stood there and caught their breath.

"This is fun," Nick said.

"Why's she on tour? Shouldn't she be in school?"

"Pete's wife died five years ago, breast cancer. Pete brought Billie Jean out here with him, raised her on tour. Instead of home schooled, she's been tour schooled. She's a real spunky kid, always pulling pranks on the network guys." He smiled. "One time she mooned-"

The smile suddenly left Nick's face. He was now staring past Scott. Scott turned and found himself face to face with a large, angry man holding a long iron over his right shoulder like an ax.

"You chasing my girl?"

"Scott," Nick said, "meet Pete Puckett."

Pete Puckett was a tall, thick-bodied man with a hard face and a cigar clamped between his teeth. He looked as solid as a brick outhouse, and from his expression, he possessed a similar personality. His shirt sported dark sweat stains under both arms; his gray hair was matted below his white cap. His thick mustache was gray. His skin was leathery and sun-reddened. He was a golf pro, but he had the hands of a roughneck. Pete Puckett had very big hands-and his left hand was now clenching Scott's shirt.

"Oh, Pete," Nick said-he was obviously trying to defuse the situation-"I got you a million, for your club deal."

Without removing his eyes from Scott, Pete said, "Thought you said not a penny less than two."

Nick gave him a lame shrug. "It's the economy, Pete."

Pete addressed Scott. "What do you want with my girl?"

Scott did not feel physically threatened by Pete Puckett-Pete was bigger, but Scott was younger-although that club would certainly leave a mark. And he wanted Pete pissed-off-a pissed-off witness doesn't think before testifying. So, at the risk of a pro golfer swinging a long iron at him, Scott decided to ramp up Pete's anger.

"Did you kill Trey because he was having sex with Billie Jean?"

Pete put his red face close to Scott's; his breath smelled of whiskey and cigars.

"You leave her out of this."

"She's in it, and so are you, Pete. You threatened to kill Trey. There's a witness."

Pete released Scott's shirt.

"Who are you?"

"Scott Fenney. I'm Rebecca's lawyer."

"He's her ex," Nick said.

"Maybe you killed Trey," Pete said. "For taking your wife."

"I have an alibi-do you? I didn't have a motive. You did."

"She's only seventeen, goddamnit! But that don't mean I killed him."

"Did you?"

"No. Your wife beat me to it."

"How do I know you didn't kill Trey?"

Pete snorted. "That should be obvious."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I wouldn't have stabbed the little bastard. I would've beaten him to death with this fucking one-iron." Pete pointed a gnarly finger in Scott's face. "You leave Billie Jean alone or I swear to God I'll take this one-iron to you."

Pete Puckett pivoted and stormed off. After a long moment, Nick shook his head and chuckled.

"He is such an old-timer. No one carries a one-iron anymore."