"One try, from where you're standing."
"It's your big day, fat man," he said, "the world's a hundred-dollar b.j." There was more of the taste of the bad side in his voice all the time, although you had to be paying attention to hear it. He grinned at the golfers Pink had brought along, the proof of what was going on. "I'm just giving you a chance to make it twice as good."
Pink began to nod. "All right," he said. Then he turned to his partner and said, "What the f—, right?"
The man looked around and shrugged.
Train stood where he was, wondering what he was supposed to do now. "This all right with you?" Mr. Packard said. "You don't want to do it, you don't have to."
"Wait a minute, I thought we had a bet."
"We got a bet, Pink," he said, sounded like he was talking to a slow child. "Now I'm finding out if Mr. Walk wants to participate in it." He waited. Train's mouth tasted like he'd been licking stamps.
Mr. Packard took his bag off Train's shoulder and dropped it on the ground. The caddies never dropped clubs like that; the members was always checking them for dings and scratches, but Mr. Packard didn't care how his clubs looked, didn't seem to care about nothing but a good time was had by all. Taking something away from Pink. He bent down, looking through the irons, and pulled one out.
"That's the nine?" Pink said.
"You know," Mr. Packard said, looking at the other two men, "all these questions might make a person wonder if everything here's on the square."