Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

The jackets are a bust and I move on to the golf bags. It would be easy enough for Chuckie to have dropped the envelope into one of them, but they’re all empty. I scan the room, and see nowhere else the note could have been left without the clerk potentially noticing it.

I head over to the counter. When I near, the clerk peels his gaze from the TV and says, “Find something?”

“A lot of things, but I’m going to have to pass today,” I say with a smile. “I have a question. I’m new in town. Used to do some golfing at my old place.”

“Where’s that?”

“Northern California.”

“Whoa. A Cali guy.”

I smirk. “You know, no one calls it Cali out there.”

“Really? I thought everyone did.”

“Sorry.”

“Huh. So, um, what brings you to Mercy?”

“What brings anyone anywhere?”

“Work?”

“Got it in one.” Before he can ask me what I do, I say, “I’m wondering how much it costs to use the range.”

He points at a sign at the other end of the counter.

½ Basket $3

1 Basket $6

2 Baskets $10

3 Baskets $12 Best Deal!

The BEST DEAL! part is in red ink.

“Ah, I should have looked around before I asked,” I say.

“A lot of people miss it.”

“I don’t see a sign about clubs. Do you rent them?”

“Don’t have any?”

“I do, but haven’t shipped them out yet. Wasn’t sure I’d have the opportunity to use them here. Now I’m regretting it.”

“Hold on,” he says, then disappears through an open doorway into a room behind the counter. When he returns, he’s holding a golf bag with several clubs in it, both woods and irons. “We do rent them, but seeing as you’re new here and this is your first time at Mercy Driving Range—this is your first time here, right?”

“Yeah, first time.”

He lifts the bag over the counter, and I help him set it on the floor by my side.

“You can use these for free today.”

“Seriously? That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Still going to have to charge you for the balls, though.”

“Of course. I’ll take, um, three baskets, I guess.”

“That’ll be twelve dollars.”

After I pay, he says, “You can use tee box number seven. Paul will bring you your baskets.” He grabs a microphone from under the counter, turns it on, and says into it, “Number seven, three fulls.”

The range has twelve tee boxes, all but three of which are being used. Wooden signs with the appropriate numbers are posted behind each tee box, box number one being closest to the store and the rest moving west from there. Cadillac Guy is in box number four. There’s another man in box six, but no one in box number five between them.

As I make my way to my spot, the guy I saw bringing Chuckie balls—Paul, I assume—jogs toward me, carrying a bucket.

“Morning, morning,” he says as he reaches me.

He has the weathered face of someone who’s spent a good portion of his life outside so it’s hard to put an exact age on him. I’d say somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five, though he could be younger. Like the majority of the people in this town, he’s white.

“Morning,” I say, and nod at the basket. “Those for me?”

“Yes, sir. Is here all right?” He hovers the basket over a spot at the edge of the box.

“Yeah, that should be fine.”

He sets it down with a smile. “When you’re ready for your next one, just give me a shout and I’ll bring it over. I’m Paul, by the way.”

“I’m Matthew.”

He starts to extend a hand, then pulls it back and seems to notice my face mask for the first time. “Sorry.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his own mask. After he puts it on, he taps the side of his head. “I keep forgetting that. I need to remember. Sorry, sorry.”

I wave off the apology. “We’re all trying to remember.”

“Yeah, I guess we are. Well, um, have at it.” He gestures at the range and turns back toward the shed attached to the rear of the store, where I’m guessing the range balls are kept.

Before he leaves, I say, “Hey, Paul?”

He turns back around.

“I’ve been known to have a bit of a hook. Any way I can move over there?” I gesture to box five. It’s the only one that’s open between me and the east end of the range. “Better chance of me keeping the balls where they can be found.”

He laughs. “Totally get it. Sure, go ahead. I’ll let Mr. Murphy know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He flashes a smile and moves back toward my basket to pick it up.

“That’s okay. I got it.”

As I grab the basket, he says, “I don’t mind carrying it for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I hoist the strap of the golf bag over my shoulder.

For a few seconds, he seems unsure about what to do. Finally he nods, says, “Thanks,” and heads back to the hut.

I set my bag up at box five, pull out the 3 wood, and put a ball on the rubber tee sticking up from the mat of artificial grass. I twist my torso a few times, stretching, and take several practice swings.

The only golf I’ve ever played was back in college with some buddies from the dorms. I was, to put it kindly, not good, but I did learn how to hit a ball. And in the years since, I have on rare occasions gone to places just like this to take some swings. It’s not a bad way to blow off pent-up energy.

But the last time was probably over two years ago, so it’s not a shock that my first ball travels farther vertically than it does horizontally.

I step back and take a few more practice swings. As I do, I glance at Cadillac Guy. He’s about halfway through his basket. Given how long he’s been here, it must be his fourth or fifth. He clearly knows what he’s doing. His swing is smooth, and his balls are routinely flying well past