CHAPTER FIVE.
Fitzgerald and I were staying at a rented unit in Addison Street, not far from his favourite golf club in Shellharbour. The pro there, with the improbable name of Shaun O'Toole, became friends after a Saturday morning round of golf, when Fitzgerald had hit a satisfactory 94.
For him, it was like winning the open at Saint Andrews. Anything under a hundred was good, anything in the low nineties, was flair... or at least that's what he told me.
The only thing to mar his delight, were the crows stealing golf balls on the 15th fairway. If he'd had a shotgun in the bag, I'm sure he would have used it, right then and there. It would have been his only birdie all day.
Today was a different Fitzgerald. Today he couldn't hit anything straight or make a simple putt. As I was hacking along with him at the time, I overheard swear words, which I can honestly say I had never heard before, the inspiration for which can only be attributed to an ex-girlfriend of Fitzgerald's, called 'Anna Tomical.'
It was only as we moved from the 18th green he became human again, and I had a chance to tell him about Joe Pluck.
"I would have told you last night, but you didn't come home till after one this morning. I'd had it by then."
"You're beginning to sound like my mother, Elizabeth. I thought it would be me chaperoning you, not the other way around. This Pluciennik fellow seems quite a character."
He replaced the small sand bucket on the rack, then waved to Shaun in the pro shop, yelling,
"Don't ask... then I won't have to tell any lies, okay. Only the Scots could have invented a game so tight."
O'Toole flapped his hands and returned inside. At least he had the good sense not to make fun of high handicappers. He'd have had a fit at my 167 though, so I didn't offer to announce it.
As we strolled back to the car, pulling our trolleys behind us, only the sound of our studded shoes filled the air, that and the distant 'Ck-cawww' from a watchful crow. I hoped it wasn't another ominous warning.
"So what do you think?" I finally ventured to ask.
"Your intentions with the newspaper were good, but somewhat impractical. If you'll pardon the pun... I'm not in my own divot here. In Wales I could have made a few phone calls, talked to an ex-colleague or two. But here..."
He shrugged his shoulders and started to lift his bag from the trolley, folding everything down and placing the clubs into the back of the car.
I sat on the edge and removed my shoes, replacing them with a cool pair of thongs.
"So I blew ten bucks for nothing." It was more a statement built out of frustration, than a question.
"Nothing is ever for nothing," Fitzgerald stated. "Not even nothing."
I scratched my head, it was still rough, Yet I kind of understood what he meant.
[hidepost]We shut the trunk and left the carpark. As usual, I was driving, as Fitzgerald only did so on very rare occasions, preferring to walk, catch a bus or ride a train if he could. Told me once, driving interfered with his view of the world. I didn't argue. I love to drive, so both of us were happy.
"This Tom Geary," I queried, almost thinking out loud, rather than making conversation. "If he's involved. If he was the one I saw, and I'm pretty sure he was. How come he's still around? Why doesn't he try to disguise himself?"
"Twenty three putts on the first nine. Tst, I tell you child, I'm getting worse, not better."
I looked over. Fitzgerald was adding up his score. He always analyses that too, marking his putts separate from his other shots, in the vain hope he'd find a magic cure to the game. "The question is, 'Involved in what' wouldn't you say?" then continued to add up the back nine.
I turned right into Addison Street, past the old club and over the hill. Our unit was down the bottom, opposite the pub and not far from the beach.
I must confess I was a bit surprised when Fitzgerald found it. If I had suggested living there during our stay in Australia, he would have accused me of wanting to 'Party' all night, and loaf around in the sun all day. And he'd probably have been right.
As it was, it turned out to be quieter than I first thought, being the back unit in a block of three.
We parked under the car port and stepped out. The heat was humid, without the open breeze from the golf course.
As we entered the flat, Fitzgerald just strolled in, still counting, hoping the numbers would change.
"Say again..." I said, closing the door and crossing to the air conditioner to switch it on. In a few minutes the room had cooled and I was more alert. "...That bit about, 'Involved in what' you said back there in the car."
"It's plain logic," he said. "Think I'll have a shower. Never used to get so sticky from a round on the links."
It was thirty minute before I could tackle him again. He was sitting in the lounge, feet up on the settee, sipping a small, ice cold beer from the fridge.
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