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"You whore," the fat man said, almost like whispering in her ear, and dropped the club on the ground. Train picked it up and followed him out of the trees. Another saying come to him—The wrong place at the wrong time—and he had the sudden realization that that was the direction things was going ever since he got up.
"You see that, Miller?" the fat man said. "The whore don't hit the trap, it's on the green."
Mr. Packard had that Mile Away Man look on his face, but he turned back to the tee box, saw there was nobody waiting, in spite of how long it took the fat man over the ball, and said, "Hit another one. I don't care."
The fat man seem to considered that, then shook his head like he couldn't bring himself to break the rules. "No, f—-, we got a bet...."
Train seen by now that Mr. Packard had his bait in the water, even if he wasn't paying no attention to the game, but now it occurred to him that the fat man might be doing the same thing. Mr. Packard was the golfer—he was giving the fat man a stroke a hole—but who was in the boat and who was in the water, that was anybody's guess now. It was about money, though; the two of them wasn't friends.
"Two ten, sir, but most of the gentlemens say it seem to play an extra club."
Mr. Packard thought it over, then took an old, scarred persimmon wood from his bag and hit the ball high over the pond. It landed just on the cut of the green, 30 feet below the hole. Train noticed he quit the swing a little short again, like something was bothering; with his knee.
As they were walking up, the fat man moved closer to Mr. Packard, breathing hard from catching up, and said, "Miller, you don't mind, I just as soon trade caddies at the turn...."
He looked back quickly at Train and said, "This f———kid I got is giving me the willies. I don't think he can talk."