Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  ‘Yes sir. It was left by Mr Krostanov’s assistant this morning. He was very insistent that you received it personally. We were about to send it up with this letter to your room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel slowly to the man. He tore open the note. It was handwritten in spidery blue ink. Ink from a traditional fountain pen, Daniel noted. Somehow the old fashioned touch added deeper cadence to the sentiment of the gift. It read:

  Dearest Daniel,

  I was saddened today to hear of the loss of your treasured watch. A gift from your grandfather, no less. This modest replacement will not recompense for such a thing but I hope will go some way to showing that we all work together as one on the Tour and as the newest member of our family, I feel great responsibility for your wellbeing. Enjoy the Rolex.

  I look forward to completing many deals with you in the near future.

  Yours,

  Sergei.

  Daniel shook his head. Exhaled sharply through his teeth as he walked away, cradling the box in both hands. This was a different world.

  By the time he reached the practice green the new watch was snugly on his wrist and the accompanying guarantee and documentation stuffed into a back pocket, the box deposited into a nearby litter bin. Bob Wallace knelt on one knee holding a stimpmeter in place to record the ball speed of a patch of green. A row of balls were neatly lined up in preparation of the pre-round warm-up session he would be giving to one of the players later that morning. ‘You surviving out here, are you laddie?’ he chirped without glancing up from under the tattered flat cap.

  ‘You could say that,’ replied Daniel. ‘In fact, so far, I think it’s coming together quite nicely.’ He glanced down again at his new watch.

  Wallace struggled to his feet with an overt display of effort. ‘That new then is it, m’boy? Mighty fine time piece you got there.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s great isn’t it? I was just given it at the hotel, a gift from the Rublex Corporation. It works out pretty timely though, excuse the pun, as I had my watch stolen the other night. It was my granddad’s. It was all I had left of him since he passed and I’m still gutted it’s gone, to be fair.’

  ‘I see, laddie. I thought it looked like the sort that some vulgar Ruski might wear to show off their bloody money. As they say, there’s always a deal to be done out here,’ the old dog sniffed, practically turning away with contempt.

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re saying?’ replied a brooding Daniel, stuffing his left hand deep into his pocket as if wishing to conceal the watch from view. It now felt unnaturally heavy and conspicuous on his wrist.

  Wallace looked back towards Daniel. ‘There’s a lot more going on out here than meets the eye. Some unsavoury characters who don’t have the game’s best interests at heart to be sure.’

  ‘Who do you mean? I can’t really imagine that myself.’

  ‘I’ve long been of the belief that those celebrated Russian benefactors of ours, with all their boorish money and ostentation, actually resent the British game deep down. I think they hate our history, our rules and exclusive clubs, because they dragged themselves up from the dirt. They could never be part of it and now that some of them have made a fortune by raping their own people, they want to own it. Well it’s our bloody game, laddie, and this Scotsman isn’t giving it up without a fight.’

  Daniel stood quietly, uncertain what he should say in response to this quite unsolicited rant.

  Red faced and worked up into something of a sweat, Bob continued, ‘Have they approached you about your players shaving shots yet? I know that damn well goes on out there.’ He nodded darkly towards the lush green golf course that stretched out behind him.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘They always start with some sort of a sweetener.’

  ‘What are you saying Bob?’

  ‘Some of the caddies. They like to get the agents onside all right. They work a system out here, I’m sure of it. There’s secret gambling and players’ results not matching up to their form and all sorts. I’ve raised it with the Tour’s top brass at the AGM before now but the ramblings of an angry old man have just been laughed off. I’ve got a bit of history with those fuddy-duddies who run the game, a bit like Will Carling’s fifty-seven old farts at the Rugby Football Union back in the day, you see, laddie. No one takes a blind bit of notice of angry ol’ Bob anymore. Not one bit.’ He took a hard drag on his tatty cigarette end.

  ‘Are you suggesting that they’re really fixing tournaments then? That’s all a bit too Moon Landings/ Area 51 conspiracy stuff for me. Besides you can’t fix golf, the best guys stand to win too much money, don’t they?’

  Bob ignored the attempt to lighten the mood. Straightening up, like a wizened minister readying a scathing sermon to his chastened congregation, he began.

  ‘It breaks my heart, Danny, it truly does, but it is only about the money now, and there’s too much of it out here for sure. You can forget about the love of the game. The honour and tradition. Proud and honourable gentlemen founded this fine Tour and grew it from nothing but an impoverished sideshow into a genuine rival for the US Tour. They made it so that there was no longer one show on the world stage and the cream of European golfing talent had bigger and better tournaments and purses to compete for right on their doorstep.’

  Daniel nodded sagely.

  ‘Ay, that indeed built some confidence,’ Bob muttered to himself. ‘We started beating them in the Ryder Cup, filling the top spots in the world rankings, and winning more and more Majors. That attracted the best international players to our events and in turn the commitment of the sponsors and TV.’ He picked absently at the dirt under his thumbnail with a metal pitching fork.

  ‘Europe doesn’t mean Europe any more. We play in any country that is willing to foot the bill. The cycle self-perpetuates. You see, laddie, money attracts talent. But time moves on as they say and I think the new guard at the Tour got greedy with the success and wanted even more.’ Bob shook his head.

  ‘It wasn’t good enough to simply compete anymore, they wanted to out-gun the US PGA altogether and stick it up them after all the showboating about the huge money available in the FedEx Cup. So in came Rublex with all their dirty energy money, and how things have changed!’

  ‘You’re pretty passionate about this.’

  ‘I still know a thing or two about this ancient game of ours. But it’s always been fair. The best golfer won out. It doesn’t feel like that anymore,’ said Bob, pawing at the turf with his foot. ‘Maybe some of them are just happy to take a cheque and do what they’re told and forget about the winner’s circle.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘I want to keep away from all that if it is going on. I wouldn’t want to lead any of our guys down the wrong path or get Crown Sports into any bother either.’

  ‘You might want to catch up with that big lump Michael Hausen from the physio truck for his take on all this then. He told me that last month a player leading an event came to him in tears on the Saturday night asking for a medical exemption to withdraw from the tournament. Daniel, there was nothing wrong with him. Michael didn’t want to sign anything but apparently he had a little visit afterwards from the player’s bag man which helped him to change his mind. He was left with little option.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Daniel shaking his head again. ‘Golf’s always been beyond reproach. It’s so skilful that drugs can’t really enhance performance and the huge prize funds available mean it will always be a meritocracy with the best talent winning out on the course.’

  ‘Like I’ve said, it just seems to me that a certain element doesn’t want the best guys to win out here at all.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, I suppose,’ Daniel said sullenly. It felt like he’d been punched hard in the stomach and he was keen to leave.

  The old man nodded once solemnly, casually swung the trusty seven iron in his hand, swishing it across the top surface of the grass in front of him. He turned back silently to the arrangemen
t of balls and practice drills on the green. Daniel sloped away. He had some figuring out to do.

  The rest of the morning was spent following a brooding François as he moped his way around the golf course. Each hole appeared to deepen the darkness of his mood as a succession of errant drives and lipped-out putts forced the South African farther and farther from the cut mark and the chance of making it into the weekend money. Daniel welcomed the silence and his anonymity amongst the galleries as an opportunity to clear his head. It had been a hectic few days. He needed space to reflect on the enormity of what he’d learned about the dark workings of the golf Tour. And it was distinctly uncomfortable, leaving him feeling vulnerable and frighteningly exposed. There was no way he could act on any of the information until he knew more and was sure of the facts. He couldn’t do anything simply on the hearsay of one angry old man. He would be risking his job too. A job he was beginning to love. He figured he’d already been on the receiving end of how some of the caddies, to whom Bob had referred, operated out here. What if he got drawn in deeper? How would it play out if his own players were asked to co-operate in any kind of results fixing? he fretted. Suppose there was actual proof showing guys in the field misshaping the Order of Merit through deceit? By ignoring and avoiding this, he would be tacitly assisting a dishonourable practice to thrive, cheating the sponsors, and the paying public who adored the sport and supported the players. And perhaps this wasn’t even Daniel’s choice anymore. Even if he wanted to keep his head down, hold a low profile, and stay away from trouble; it seemed apparent that some of the people on the Tour were determined to get him involved one way or another.

  Daniel made up his mind. He needed to know the actual state of play, to understand how far this went for himself. Making eye contact with François for a final time after he had splashed his beleaguered ball out of a bunker and straight into a patch of thick penal rough, Daniel pumped his fist in solidarity, willing the erratic streak to rescind. He splintered away from the throng of fans scurrying between hole and tee, vying with each other for premium vantage points along the fairway. He headed back towards the hotel complex, deciding to pay a quick visit to Matilda before getting to grips with Aaron’s Rublex agreement and trying to learn more about the depth of influence that this cartel of malevolent caddies really leveraged in affecting tournament scores and finishing positions.

  He stole a shortcut through a grassy parking area, closed to the public this week and used for housing the wealth of trailers and trucks required to service the infrastructure of the event. Daniel’s eye was drawn to two figures in heated discussion, partially hidden behind a massive generator. He decided not to approach but, intrigued to get a better view, sidled up between two black articulated lorries and edged closer until he was within ear shot.

  He recognised the men in the throes of a vociferous argument. Sean, the ginger Glaswegian caddy, whom on the balance of probabilities Daniel blamed as at least one of the authors of his first night drunken ignominy, was grabbing the hulking frame of Michael Hausen, Matilda’s co-worker, by the scruff of his T-shirt and was shouting at point blank range up at him. Sean’s face was screwed up into a hateful snarl, a grotesque spray of saliva emanating from his mouth as he berated and admonished the German. From the shadow between the trucks, Daniel tried to make some meaning out of the ranting. He had trouble understanding Sean in casual conversation, let alone when he was screaming and swearing uncontrollably. Michael owed some money. He had gambling debts that needed to be repaid and it sounded serious. The sight was somewhat farcical. The muscular German dwarfed the pugnacious Scot in both height and bulk yet he was being totally dominated in the exchange. He seemed genuinely scared. Daniel was transported back to school where, one hot afternoon, his geography teacher had yet again decided that actually teaching something would be too much bother and instead switched on a video about cattle ranching in Australia. The enduring comic image was of a small, yet acutely aggressive and determined cattle-dog perched on the back of a huge dumb cow nipping and yapping away until the beast bent to its will and returned to the ranching station.

  But this was heavy. Michael was pleading for more time to pay and it was falling on deaf ears. What happened next shocked Daniel to his core. Uncontested, the Glaswegian grabbed a fistful of Michael’s hair, dragged him forward and slammed his face into the hot metal grate of the generator, twisting and grinding it against the scalding hot grill. Daniel’s instinct was to intervene. To take on the bully. To get the victim away from his torturer and the dreadful situation. Gripping the side of the Callaway equipment trailer that was shielding him from sight he suddenly paused, checking himself. Something was wrong about this situation. Michael could easily overpower the little thug tormenting him. He wasn’t even resisting, instead he was allowing it to happen. When finally Sean pulled Michael free from the grill he was moaning in pain. The entire side of his face red with raw welts and burns. Next, Sean opened a can of Red Bull, casually took a swig admiring his handy work, before emptying the rest over the pitiful German’s head. ‘Fockin’ pay up this time sausage meat or you’re a dead man. You know all about our connections, Sauer Kraut. The Russians have always despised you Germans. Things could start to get very nasty for you indeed pal,’ he hissed. Turned and strolled away.

  Daniel felt cold sweat streaming down the back of his neck. He didn’t stop running until he reached the hotel.

  Chapter 16

  SPAIN. EUROPEAN TOUR. DAY FIVE. 18.00 HRS.

  Sergei Krostanov shook the hand of the tanned young Australian and handed across the oversized trophy. Applause resounded in the winner’s circle on the 18th green. Aaron Crower raised the cup aloft and beamed his pearly whites towards the bank of flashing camera bulbs. His maiden victory was evidence that his much vaunted attributes as a strong front runner during a glittering amateur career could translate into the big money Pro Tournaments. It was one thing being able to shoot the lights out and get on a hot streak to execute a run of birdies. It was quite another having to sleep on a lead in the first professional golf event you were in contention for, with a hungry chasing pack snapping at your heels ready to prey on any sign of weakness. Only the purest of swings and those players endowed with genuine self-belief and mental toughness would make a habit of it. He was now an official winner on Tour, recipient of a fat winner’s cheque, a one-year playing card exemption and, most significantly, he had become ‘the one to watch’.

  Aaron scanned the crowd gathered behind the ropes as they showed their appreciation with polite applause and searched for Daniel. It annoyed him that the new manager Rudy assigned to him hadn’t bothered to show up on the biggest day of his career to date. He turned to Sergei standing beside him and asked if he had seen anyone from Crown Sports.

  ‘I hear a rumour that Daniel Ratchet has returned to England I’m afraid. I don’t think he was quite up to the job. Didn’t seem to have what it takes to make it out here. I take it he didn’t discuss your new contract from the Rublex Corporation with you either Aaron? It’s a sixteen million dollar contract so to me it seems a little remiss of him to not have raised this with you. After such a fine display on the course today, now seems like the perfect time to have that conversation, don’t you agree?’

  He ushered the lean athletic golfer through a roped off pathway, dismissing requests for interviews with a wave of his hand. They weaved through the temporary cabins serving as Tour offices, which were assembled at every scheduled event, and entered one of the private meeting rooms together. Aaron sat at the table. Sergei laid paper and pen before him and stood hovering behind like a hungry buzzard studying a mouse. ‘Let’s get down to business,’ he began dryly.

  Andy Sharples was counting money. It was his favourite thing to do and he liked to take his time doing it. Stacks of crumpled notes sat piled beside his little black notebook as he tapped away on his tablet, doing sums and accessing accounts. The other caddies sat around him in a semicircle drinking bottles of beer, rolling dice, and animated
ly discussing the golf round that day. A dark-skinned Spaniard named Salvatore was lazily tipping ash on the back of an Asian girl as she moved between him and Sean on all fours, ready for his turn to receive the soft attentions of her mouth. They had ‘borrowed’ her from behind the counter of a Chinese takeaway in the town which hadn’t been able to contribute adequately to their protection fund. It was clearly in their own best interests. A kind of business protection insurance they had explained. And, pleasingly, the group had found this ‘payment in kind’ to be more than compliant. Sometimes it just worked out like that.

  ‘Great numbers lads! We’ve earned our trip to The Pussy Palace this time and no mistake,’ exclaimed Andy, slapping his thigh.

  ‘With the wire transfers from Macau and Gibraltar we are nudging two and a half million euros in takings this week. Such a shame for the punters that the house will never lose big and then each week we just ship on out of town to the next event.’

  Razor, who had been holding a lighter flame to the charred bowl of a ceramic hashish pipe, spluttered out a lungful of silver smoke by way of agreement.

  Sharples smirked in satisfaction. In one swift motion he used his foot to deftly flip the Asian girl from her crouched position to flat onto her back. Then he slowly poured the remainder of his beer bottle over her small pointed breasts, drawing howls of laughter and derision from the room.

  They had earned the celebration.

  Chapter 17

  SPAIN. EUROPEAN TOUR. DAY FOUR: 16.00 HRS.

  Daniel Ratchet bolted the chain across the hotel door before slumping onto the bed, head in hands. He was sweating hard, his mind racing over and over what he’d just witnessed. He took a Coke from the mini bar, hoping to rapidly increase his blood sugar levels and help to regain some control. He reconsidered. Removed a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels from the door-rack of the fridge, emptying it into his glass in one motion. Took a deep swallow.