CHAPTER ONE

A LARGE BUCKET

It was a dump.

The best thing you could say about the driving range was that it had a nice view of the commuter trains as they caromed back and forth from Chicago on the Union Pacific West Line. And that only three of the fifteen ancient and threadbare artificial grass mats had been stolen in the past month.

But it was Max "Hard Way" Mitchell's dump—or it would be in 109 more monthly payments. Located near an industrial park about twelve minutes west of his hometown of Wheaton, Illinois, the driving range covered seventeen acres. He had bought it on a whim after the commercial real estate agent convinced him that it would be a smart investment property. Back then, Hard Way was making solid money on the PGA Tour as a caddie. He could afford to take a financial flyer. Of course, that was before "The Incident."

Now he was eating cold Beefaroni out of the can for lunch and living in a converted storage room in the driving range office shack. He had a TV, a bed, a hot plate, and a toaster oven. He did his dishes in the office's bathroom sink. Even after giving up his apartment, he was struggling to pay his utilities, his grocery bills, and the monthly nut on the driving range. His checking account needed CPR, his savings account was a myth, and his pickup truck was approaching beater status. Marching bands made less noise.

Hard Way had purchased the property in the dead of winter, when snow masked the width and breadth of the landfill, and the hawk wind blew the smell of the methane gases away from the former cornfield. But it was summer now, and there was no mistaking that ever-growing garbage pile as it sat like a raised mole on the flat skin of western DuPage County. No amount of technology or venting pipes could eliminate the stench. And yet, Hard Way had grown to love his scruffy property.

It was late Tuesday afternoon. Other than the adjunct professor from the DePaul extension campus who had snuck over before his first class that morning, and the elderly couple who had split a small bucket during lunchtime, nobody had been there all day. A new SmashGolf facility only three miles away had stabbed his business in the heart. Everyone wanted to be entertained: electronic scoring, circle targets, animation, data monitors, a waitstaff, queso and chips. Whatever happened to finding your swing in the dirt, like Hogan did?

Hard Way's place, whimsically named To the Linksland (in honor of one of his favorite golf books), did have one thing that SmashGolf didn't: real grass. It wasn't much, but it was actual bentgrass, which was lovingly cared for by Hard Way and was the exact same variety found on Chicago Golf Club's fairways. He had seeded the area at the far end of the artificial mats, where there was enough room to rotate the hitting areas so the grass could recover from use—not that To the Linksland got much use these days. But the bentgrass was his baby, which he push-mowed and hand-watered on a regular schedule.

Hard Way was laboring through the New York Times crossword puzzle when he heard the screen door to the range shack open and close. He didn't bother looking up.

"How much for a bucket?" said the man's voice.

"Eight bucks for a large, five for a small," Hard Way said. "An extra two bucks for either if you hit off the grass patch instead of the mats."

"Thanks," the voice said. "Left you a ten."

Hard Way was only half listening as he scrolled down the row of crossword clues. As the door banged shut, he looked up just in time to see the back of the man through the screen, the green plastic bucket in his right hand, a Sunday bag slung over his left shoulder.

"Hey! What's a ten-letter golf saying that dates back to 1681?" Hard Way shouted.

In the distance, Hard Way heard the voice.

"Try Far and Sure!"

Hard Way filled out 31-Across.

"I'll be damned."

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