There are tough times ahead for sixteen-year-old Billy. After his mother dies, he goes to Fort Worth with his father, whose drinking and gambling leave them all but penniless. Desperate to make a life for himself, Billy heads over to Colonial Country Club, where he hopes to get work as a caddie. He finds much more than he bargained for. Before long, Billy makes a place for himself behind the privileged walls of Colonial. His attitude draws the approval of an eccentric millionaire club member, while his looks draw the attention of the millionaire's beautiful granddaughter--much to the displeasure of her boyfriend, the club champion. But Billy's run of luck is short-lived, as he confronts the hard realities of the world and of human nature both on and off the golf course. Now, Billy must face down his fears and doubts about where he comes from, where he wants to go, and who he really is. Bud Shrake's Billy Boy is an unforgettable coming-of-age tale of life, love, and beating the odds, set against the far-reaching horizons of the American West. Michael Griffith The Washington Post A quick-paced, sturdy, plainspoken novel. Larry McMurtry Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Lonesome Dove A brilliant novel...Bud Shrake has done himself proud. The San Diego Union-Tribune Takes a swing at at golf fiction with enjoyable results. Mike Shea Texas Monthly A big-hearted tribute to the Zen of golf in Fort Worth, circa 1950...This golf fable doesn't shy away from honest emotions. Shrake's version of the past is not scratched and dinged by reality but worn to a pleasing patina by the passage of time. Judi Goldenberg Richmond Times-Dispatch A vivid account of a golden age of golf and the men who made it memorable. Bud Shrake is the coauthor of Harvey Penick's Little Red Book and the author of many novels and screenplays. He lives in Austin, Texas. Chapter One The boy awoke to the snuffles of a woman softly sobbing in the bed across the room near the open window. For a moment he thought he was dreaming of his dead mother. Then he heard snoring and saw his father's undershirted back turned toward the woman, who was whimpering, "Where am I? Oh God, what has happened to me?" She looked at the boy, surprised to see him. He rolled off his foldaway cot already dressed in Levi's and a white cotton polo shirt and white socks. He kept his eyes away from her as he tied the laces of his black tennis shoes and combed his hair with his fingers. The room stunk of whiskey and cigarettes. "Who are you?" she said. "Where am I?" "You came here with him," the boy said. "He's my daddy." "He's too young to have a son your age. Why are you here?" "This is our room," the boy said. "I've never done anything like this before." The boy nodded. He had pretended to be asleep when his father brought her to their hotel room after the saloons closed. A half bottle of bourbon lay on the floor on top of her white cotton dress and her earrings and her white gumsole shoes. The boy figured she was a waitress or a nurse. A cool breeze blew across his father, who slept nearest the window. They heard from down below a street-sweeping machine blasting water into the gutters. "Please tell me you wasn't laying there watching me all night," the woman said. "I was asleep." "You promise?" "We drove all night and all day and into the night again to get here. I was tired." "Your daddy wasn't tired." "He didn't do the driving." With a snort, the boy's father slapped at a fly on his face, sat up and opened his eyes. He had the look of a cowboy, wide shouldered, lean, blond hair rumpled, firm jaw that needed a shave. He licked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of a golden hairy wrist. He shook a cigarette out of a pack of Camels on the windowsill. Using the lucky Zippo he had carried through France and Germany during World War Two with his old artillery unit, he lit the cigarette and inhaled. He coughed. "Billy Boy. Where you going in the middle of the night?" he said. "The sun'll be up in a few minutes." "You don't need to clear out because of her. She's leaving." "You filthy rat, you got me drunk," the woman said. "Billy Boy, I'm truly sorry about this. I didn't set out last night to bring a woman to the room." The woman clutched the sheet tighter around her breasts and began weeping again, weakly. "I don't know your name," she said. "What's your damn name?" "I'm Tyrone, remember? You said I look like Tyrone Power with a bleach job." "Please, Jesus, I'll never drink again," the woman said. "What is your name, really?" "Troy." The woman looked around at the greasy wallpaper with faded roses on it. "This room is trashy. What hotel is this?" "The Half Moon," said Troy. "You told me you kept a suite downtown at the Blackstone," she said. "I'm liable to say most anything, Marie." Hearing him speak her name, the woman looked at Troy with interest, seeing anew his opaque blue eyes that could frighten a person, his hair,