Chapter 23: Six O'Clock

On Tuesday morning I woke before the alarm, with the sky still the color of dishwater.

I dressed in the green polo, which no longer smelled like plastic, and I loaded forty bottles of water into cart number nine.

The rule sheet was still taped to the steering wheel.

The first rule was still underlined twice.

Never enter a tee box while a member is addressing the ball.

I read it and thought of a man with a driver on his shoulder, going white at the sight of a name.

I drove up the hill to the 4th hole with the dew spraying off the tires.

The air smelled of cut grass and wet pine.

At the top of the slope, I stopped the cart.

The tee box lay below me, perfectly mown, and a figure stood in the middle of it in a gray polo.

He wasn't holding a driver.

There was no golf bag on the grass either.

He only stood there with his hands at his sides, looking up the hill at the cart.

I looked at the wristwatch Ramsay had given me, which I now wore.

It was 6:01.

I took my foot off the brake.

The cart rolled.

It rolled quietly and politely down the cart path, past the bunker and the hedge.

It stopped about three feet from his shoes.

"It is 6:01," Ramsay said.

"The brake is soft."

"You had it fixed in April."

"Then somebody should tell the cart."

He smiled.

It wasn't the thing that had crossed his face that first morning and gone away.

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