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“What'll it be?” asked the waitress who came up next to his table, an orange and blue hankie tucked in her pocket. She was one of those squeaky-clean fat women with sprayed hair and good makeup, the kind who took care of herself and made you say that she had a nice face underneath all that fat.
“Steak and home fries,” he said, handing her the menu. “Two eggs over easy, and another gallon of coffee.”
“You want it in a cup or should I shoot it straight into your veins?”
He chuckled. “You just keep it coming, honey, and I'll figure out where to put it.” Damn, he loved waitresses. They were the best women in the world. They were street smart and sassy, and every one of them had a story.
This particular waitress took a few moments to look at him before she moved away, studying his pretty face, he figured. It happened all the time, and he generally didn't mind unless they also gave him that half-hungry look that told him they wanted something from him he damn well couldn't give.
The Dread Mondays came back in full force. Just this morning, right after he had crawled out of bed, he had been standing in the shower trying to get his two bloodshot eyes to stay open when the Bear had come right up next to him and whispered in his ear.
It's almost Halloween, Beaudine. Where are you going to hide yourself this year?
Dallie had turned on the cold water faucet as far as it would go, but the Bear kept at him.
Just what the hell does a worthless no-account like you think you're doing living on the very same planet with me?
Dallie shook away the memory as the food arrived along with Skeet, who slid into the booth. Dallie shoved the breakfast plate across the table and looked away while Skeet picked up his fork and sank it into the bloody steak.
“How you feelin’ today, Dallie?”
“Can't complain.”
“You were drinkin’ pretty heavy last night.”
Dallie shrugged. “I ran a few miles this morning. Did some push-ups. Sweated it off.”
Skeet looked up, knife and fork poised in
his hands. “Uh-huh.”
“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”
“Don't mean nothin’, Dallie, except I think the Dread Mondays been gettin' to you again.”
He took a sip from his coffee cup. “It's natural to feel depressed toward the end of the season—too many motels, too much time on the road.”
“Especially when you didn't come within kissin’ distance of any of the majors.”
“A tournament is a tournament.”
“Horse manure.” Skeet returned to the steak. A few minutes of silence passed between them.
Dallie finally spoke. “I wonder if Nicklaus ever gets the Dread Mondays?”
Skeet slammed down his fork. “Now, don't start thinkin’ about Nicklaus again! Every time you start thinkin’ about him, your game goes straight to hell.”
Dallie pushed back his coffee cup and picked up the check. “Give me a couple of uppers, will you?”
“Shoot, Dallie, I thought you was going to lay off that stuff.”
“You want me to stay in the running today or not?”
“‘Course I want you to stay in the runnin’, but I don't like the way you been doin’ it lately.”
“Just lay off, will you, and give me the fucking pills!”
Skeet shook his head and did as he was told, reaching into his pocket and pushing the black capsules across the table. Dallie snatched them up. As he swallowed them, it didn't slip past him that there was a halfway humorous contradiction between the care he took of his athlete's body and the abuse he subjected it to in the form of late nights, drinking, and that street-corner pharmacy he made Skeet carry around in his pockets. Still, it didn't really matter. Dallie stared down at the money he'd thrown on the table. When you were born a Beaudine, it was pretty much predestined that you wouldn't die of old age.
