Sweet come out of his chair, as if to check for himself. "Aw, s—, Mr. Dugan," he said. "I forgot his name was Lionel, everybody just call him Train...."
But the starter didn't have no time for that. "Come on, lad, come on," he said, and Train got to his feet. "We've backed up one foursome already, waiting on this business."
Train staggered in the sunlight but then got himself right and walked up the path to the first tee. The Mile Away Man was up ahead with Dugan, the starter, who was saying malfeasance of some sort was all you ever got when you gave the Negro authority, even over other Negroes. You had to expect it, he said.
It was the fat man again, and two players that Train never seen. They'd all hit their shots and were standing around with their caddies when Train finally got to the tee. Nobody looked too happy about waiting all this time while Mr. Packard hand-picked his caddy, but it didn't look like none of them were going to say it out loud.
Mr. Packard walked straight to the box, got ready to hit, and then stopped. "Have I introduced you all to Mr. Walk?" he said. Nobody thought it was funny but Mr. Packard himself. He chuckled the way he did and dropped a ball on the ground and then swung without even teeing it up, and was walking after it before it hit the ground. On the way down the fairway, one of the other men came over to make sure of the bets. He had a cigarette in his lips and didn't take it out to talk. He sounded smooth and low, like the radio, like this was old business to him, but Train saw that he was afraid of Mr. Packard too, just like Pink.
"So what's the game?" he said.
"Whatever you want, I guess."
"Pink says it's two hundred a side, a hundred a press. And it looks like we get two strokes on the front, one on the back."
Mr. Packard nodded and moved away, like he preferred to walk with Train. "I thought it might tickle you to see how this comes out," he said. The other man had gone back to Pink, unsure if Mr. Packard had agreed to anything or not.
The partner they gave Mr. Packard was a wild man, bigger and younger than Pink, called everything he hit whore. The kind of player would hit six balls out-of-bounds in a row, then hit one good one and think the last shot was how he played golf. And every time Pink or his partner f———something up, it seemed like Mr. Packard's partner did something twice as bad. Like he did it on purpose.