Mr. Packard looked away like it didn't matter. Like after what happened, he didn't even know.
"I lost the side and four presses, right?" the fat man said, flipping through the bills.
"Five," Mr. Packard said.
The fat man looked at him a moment, then flipped two more bills off the end of the roll and pulled all the bills he had counted away from the rest of the money. It reminded Train of a card trick, the way he handled his money, and he saw that the fat man did a lot of business out of his pocket. He handed the bills to Mr. Packard, who never even looked to make sure it was right.
"Maybe next time we won't be sitting around forty-five minutes while somebody dies," the fat man said.
Mr. Packard said, "He looked like he was dying as fast as he could." The fat man didn't look up at that, couldn't meet his gaze, and Mr. Packard chuckled again and put the money in Train's hand.
Train looked at the money, felt it sliding out his hand. Twenty-dollar bills everywhere. The fat man was also looking, trying to sort out the exact nature of this new insult. Mr. Packard waited him out, enjoying it again, in no hurry at all.
"Give this to the old man's wife, would you?" he said, still staring at the fat man. "Keep five for yourself," Mr. Packard said to Train, "and see that she gets the rest."
The fat man shook his head. "S—-," he said. Like he just saw life's grand design, as often happened in golf. "Good luck on that."
Train cleaned the clubs and set them out on the drop stand near the driveway; then he walked down the path past the machine shed and the storage barn to the tin-roof caddy shed and bought himself a grape Nehi out of the machine. He sat down in the corner with the nine-iron that he'd found in the reeds near the pond a year ago, on the same hole where Florida just died. It was a Tommy Armour autograph, with a thin blade and a smooth, hard grip. The shaft was spotted with rust, so he knew it already been there awhile when he found it. He played with it on Mondays, but took it to work every day, took it home every night, not wanting to get on the bus anymore without something in his hands. There were people living in cardboard boxes—or garages or tents—all over Darktown and Watts who took what they could.