The Tenth Hole Bridge Read online

today you're the one gettin' the opportunity.”

  “Which is?”

  “I want to make you the best golfer in the world.”

  Bobby gulped. “Me! The best golfer in the world?”

  “Yes, indeed. You're already pretty good. You just need a little push. A little magic, that's all you need.”

  Bobby relaxed, and leaned on the end of his driver. He looked out over the golf course, awed by its beauty: the expanse of the lush green fairway, the stately old oak trees and the smell of fresh blossoms. What a wonderful place. This was his kind of world. This was where he belonged. And now, dazzled and a bit frightened, he realized that maybe this world could be his.

  “Are we talking about the PGA tour?” he said, choking on the words. The tour was every golfer's dream, the zenith of achievement and prestige, an unreachable treasure sought by golfers everywhere, but only attained by an elite handful of the world's best.

  “Yeah, I'm talking about the tour, all the majors, big purses, and of course endorsements galore; the big time, as big as big gets.”

  From the first time he played a round of golf in his early twenties, Bobby knew he could be good at the game. But how do you compete with the great players out there doing it full time, and your working nine-to-five and hacking on weekends. The tour was unthinkable. Then along comes this little man out of nowhere, wielding magic powers and offering him the world. The world? Yes! To a man like Bobby Lambert, what Tops had to give amounted to the world.

  He was afraid to ask the obvious, but managed to get the words out. “What do you want from me?”

  The little man hesitated, a dramatic pause of insane silence before speaking. “Why. . . I want your soul, naturally.”

  Bobby was expecting to hear those words, but knowing they were coming didn't make them sound any better.

  “Golf is such a complicated game,” Tops said. “Do you really think a handful of players could have been that much better than the rest for so many years without a little push, a little magic from the man under the bridge? Course not. And they all paid the goin' price . . . one soul.”

  Tops chuckled, a scary sour sound. There was not a fiber of conviviality left in his voice. It was harsh, almost bitter. He was all business now, bottom-line time.

  “Just imagine your name in history, right up there beside all the greats of golf, players who've passed by old Tops' bridge at one time or another . . . players like you.”

  Bobby's mouth was so dry he could hardly swallow as he stood there dumbfounded, taking in the words of the magician. The images came into sharp focus in his mind, and his fantasy was complete as he saw himself walking the links at Augusta, Pebble Beach, and, of course, St. Andrews in Scotland.

  Could this really be happening . . . a dream come true? No more of that nine-to-five drudgery at the office. He would be playing golf for money, serious money . . . travel . . . fame. Man!

  And for all of that . . . my soul, he thought, nothing but my soul. That's not so bad, is it? For all I know, I don't even have a soul. And even if I do, what's it worth . . . the world, the whole damn world.

  “Okay, I'll do it,” he said. The words came out thick and soft, barely audible, the tone of a man breaking through the last thin layer of a trance.

  “How's that?” Tops said.

  Bobby turned and faced the little man. “I said okay, I'll do it.”

  “Excellent,” Tops said, with a cackle. “Excellent. You won't be disappointed. I promise you that.” Tops extended his hand. “Let's shake on it.” Bobby took the slender bony hand, noticing for the first time the disproportionately long fingers. He gave the scary little hand a weak pump and turned it loose.

  “Well, you better get goin' now and finish your round,” Tops said, without humor. “It's goin' to be gettin' dark before long.” With that, the little man turned and started back toward the old bridge. As he entered the yawning void underneath the wooden structure he began to laugh, a shrill high sound, the laugh of a man who had won a big victory but found no pleasure in the conquest.

  Bobby stood, motionless and dazed for a moment, staring at a spot three hundred yards down the fairway where his ball lay in perfect position. He lifted the club head to eye level and kissed the grooved titanium face.

  “Geez,” he muttered, and dropped the driver into his golf bag. He jumped into the cart, and rumbled down the fairway, and played the back nine with a style and finesse that came close to perfection.

  An hour later, he sat behind the steering wheel of his Mazda, examining his scorecard, reliving every magnificent shot of every magnificent hole. He had shot a five-under-par 31 on the back nine. Unbelievable.

  The events of the afternoon came rushing at him, emotion swelled in his chest, and he was overwhelmed by the prospect of what the future held.

  The sun sat low and dazzling, melting into the horizon, a brilliant orange half-ball framed in golden clouds, long and jagged. There was a slight breeze now, and the air was cool and damp--a sign of changing seasons.

  This should have been the happiest day of Bobby Lambert's mediocre existence . . . but he did not smile . . . he could not smile.

  In a neighborhood a few streets down, church bells rang out, issuing an invitation to the Sunday evening service.

  Bobby Lambert folded his arms across the steering wheel of his car and rested his head on the back of his hands. “Oh God, what have I done,” he said, and exhaled a deep troubled sigh.

  And somewhere in the distance he could hear the high shrill laughter of the little man they call Tops.