Deadman's Bluff

42

Valentine drove Gloria back to the clubhouse in a golf cart. Rufus was ahead of them in a separate cart, having collected his winnings from a sobbing Marcy Baldwin. Seeing Rufus win had ignited a spark in him, and Valentine was eager for the tournament to end so that Rufus could play DeMarco in a winner-take-all showdown.

“Can I ask you a question?” Gloria asked.

He glanced sideways at her. “What’s that?”

“Will you let me film you when you expose DeMarco?”

Valentine thought about it. It would be an ugly black eye for the tournament, and the governor of Nevada.

“Sure,” he said.

She smiled at him. He’d come to the realization that Gloria was about to become a part of his life. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect ending to his trip.

Up ahead, Rufus’s cart had disappeared around a curve, and they were alone on the course. It was a flawless morning, the air crisp and clean, and he slowed down so they could stare at the mountains. The sound of an electric horn ripped through the stillness.

He glanced in his mirror. “What’s this jackass doing?”

“Who?” Gloria asked.

“The guy behind me. He’s driving like a suicide bomber.”

She turned around. A cart had come up behind them, and was hugging their tail. She waved for the cart to come around, which it started to do. The trail narrowed, and the cart’s driver needed to punch it to pass them.

Only the driver didn’t punch it. Instead, he turned his cart into theirs, and pushed them off the trail and down into a steep sand trap. Moments later, their cart hit bottom and slammed onto its side, the wheels still turning.

“Ohhh,” Gloria moaned.

She’d eaten the dashboard, and Valentine jumped out of the cart, came around to her side, and pulled her out. He heard footsteps and looked up at the top of the trap. The guy who’d forced them off the road was coming down.

“Can you run?” he asked her.

“I think so.”

He gently pushed her forward. “Go get help.”

The other side of the trap was not as steep. Gloria ran up it, her hand pressed to her face. She stopped at the top of the trap.

“Tony!”

“Run,” Valentine told her.

“But…”

“Do as I tell you. Please.”

Valentine spun around to face their attacker.

Little Hands saw Valentine kick off his shoes and square off to face him. For an older guy, he had guts, and Little Hands remembered Billy Jack doing that in a movie instead of running away from a fight with about a dozen guys. On the other side of the sand trap, the blond woman had taken off. The golf course was quiet, and it would be a few minutes before she’d find any help. He came to the bottom of the trap and stopped.

“Remember me?”

Valentine squinted at him in the bright sunlight. “Al Scarpi.”

“That’s right.”

“Thanks for the postcards. You made my Christmas.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Valentine threw a handful of sand in his face. Little Hands ducked it, but not the kick that followed. It caught him squarely in the groin. Little Hands went down on one knee, and as Valentine tried to deliver an other kick, grabbed his foot out of the air, gave it a twist, and shoved him away. Valentine flew back but managed to stay on his feet. The blonde reappeared at the top of the sand trap.

“I called the police on my cell phone,” she called down. “They’re coming.”

“Run!” Valentine yelled back at her.

“I can’t leave you here,” she said.

“Do as I say.”

Little Hands got to his feet. Valentine went into a crouch, putting himself between the woman and Little Hands.

“They ever figure out what’s wrong with you?” Valentine asked him.

Little Hands flexed his arms. “I’m going to mutilate you.”

“It was something to do with your mother, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up!” Little Hands said.

“Now, I remember. When you were a little kid, you saw her screwing a guy wearing a fireman’s hat, and never got over it.”

Little Hands charged him. Valentine adroitly stepped to one side and kicked him in the knee. Little Hands went down again. Valentine kept his distance, still crouching.

“I always have sex wearing a fireman’s hat,” Valentine said.

Little Hands tried to shake the image from his head. His mother on all fours on the bed, the fireman doing her from behind with the red hat perched on his head. Like his mother wasn’t worth hanging around for. In the distance, he heard a siren.

He slowly stood up. It occurred to him that he might kill Valentine, but wouldn’t get away with it. The police were already too close. He thought of the ninety-seven hundred in the bag, and the new life that awaited him south of the border. Pointing his finger at Valentine, he said, “I swear to God I’ll get you one day. And your girl friend. I’ll get both of you. That’s a promise you can take to the bank.”

Little Hands turned around, and scampered out of the sand trap.

Gloria ran to Valentine’s side, and threw her arms around him. “Oh my God, Tony, that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Valentine held her while watching Little Hands run. The siren that had driven him away was starting to fade, and wasn’t coming their way. He thought about Little Hands’s threat and looked at Gloria. “If I ask you to do something, will you do it?”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Stay here until I call you.”

“Of course.”

He went to the toppled golf cart. There was a driver lying across the backseat, which Rufus had loaned him. He clutched the driver between his hands.

As Valentine came out of the sand trap, he saw Little Hands climbing into his golf cart. The guy had more muscle than anyone he’d ever seen. So much so, that he probably thought nothing could harm him. He imagined Little Hands showing up on his doorstep someday, or worse, on Gloria’s doorstep. Showing up and ruining their lives. That wasn’t going to happen if he could have a say in the matter.

He ran up to Little Hands’s cart just as it started to pull away. Swung the driver like it was a baseball bat and he was trying to knock one clean out of the park. Little Hands glanced sideways at him with a look of disbelief on his face. Like he hadn’t expected an old guy to move so fast.

The driver hit Little Hands a few inches above his nose. It snapped his head straight back, and Little Hands jerked the wheel to his right, going off the trail and directly into a palm tree. Little Hands flew out of the cart and hit the tree as well.

Valentine approached him, the driver still clutched in his hands. Little Hands lay on his back, blood pouring out of his ears and nose and mouth. Beside him was a paper bag filled with money. The wind had picked it up, and hundred-dollar bills blew across the golf course. Little Hands’s eyelids fluttered; he looked up at Valentine and weakly shook his head.

“I should have quit when I was ahead,” he whispered.

Then he shut his eyes and died.