"Yo, Pink," his partner said. "What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?"
Pink smiled at that. "What?"
"Nothing, she's already been told twice."
The other players hit their shots and then it was Pink's turn again. He stood in the middle of the fairway, just behind the 150-yard marker, and took the five-iron out of his bag. He took a practice swing—he was swinging better today, and Train guessed that the extra players made him feel safer around Mr. Packard—and then hit the ball to the green, where it bounced once and rolled past the pin 20 feet.
He turned and held the club up close to Train's eyes, where he could see the number on the blade. "Five-iron, Leroy," he said. "It's the five."
He dropped the club for his caddy to pick up and took out the flask and had another drink. His eyes watered, and he shook and said, "Ah, breakfast." And that was when the connection Train been waiting for finally come around, what he reminded him of. It was one of the young wives around the club, married to a member of the walking dead, and she had a bulldog she took everywhere she went—mostly to the pool, where she could tan herself in the mornings. She was young and pretty, and they always had on a ribbon of the same color, the wife and the dog, and every time Train saw them, the dog was always on the brakes, trying to s—, when she was pulling it to the car. That was what it was, the bulldog and the lady; everything want to go their own way at once. That was the fat man from behind.
The man screwed the top on the flask, carefree and happy, and begun walking down the fairway as light as air.
Train started to walk along too, but Mr. Packard stood where he was, like he still out there in the unknown regions. He looked at the pond and the green a little while, then had a look up, like he was just noticing the day. He said, "Pink?" and the fat man stopped. "You know, I was just thinking, if we're going to do this, let's do it."
Pink squinted at him, suspicious. "What now?"
"Double or nothing, from right here."