"You don't know where he's at."
"Well then, where is he, nigger?"
"Sixth green." Train pointed, and the bartender looked out in that general direction, then went back into the lounge. He was staring Train in the eye as he locked the door against the chance that there was any more like him out there waiting to come in.
Train walked to the edge of the green, past the man practicing short putts, and sat down and pulled on the toe until he heard it pop. Then he tore off the nail, which only been hanging by a piece of skin anyway. He had calmed down enough to feel these things exactly, and the pain rolled up at him in waves, the way his stomach did when he was scared.
He stood up and walked back down the long slope of the ninth hole and headed for the sixth green, leaving small round spots of blood on the grass. You come along later, you might think it was a dog had hurt his paw.
Florida was the same place he had been before, only he seemed smaller now, like he dried up. Mr. Packard was sitting on the grass next to him, his thoughts in a distant land. The fat man was off the green, sitting on his own bag, holding the thermos between his legs. Train saw all this as he jogged down the fairway—favoring the injured foot, not really hurrying anymore, just jogging for appearance sake—past the same old men who shouted at him before. There was several groups of them now, backed up and mean. The club had its rules about starting times and the speed of play. Train kept his eyes straight ahead, and he stopped only once, to pick up his shoes.
Mr. Packard looked up and watched Train come the last 30 yards. He seemed tired. "They call an ambulance?" he said.
"Yessir." Train didn't want to, but he had a quick look at Florida anyway, saw that Mr. Packard had closed the lids over his eyes. Somewhere behind them a golfer yelled "Fore!" and Mr. Packard looked slowly back in that direction. Chuckled in some way that was not amusedment at all.
"You wonder what gets into people," he said, and if whoever was back there could see the way they were being looked at, they wouldn't be shouting anymore. Train realized suddenly that Mr. Packard was talking to him, not to the fat man. That in fact he might be talking about the fat man.
"Yessir," he said.