Deadly Divots

by Gene Breaznell

  “Anyone there? I paid my phone bill this month.”

  “Stay away from Dr. Fitch,” Kowalski repeated. “That’s an order.”

  “I had to question him. It was his five iron.”

  “Let it go, Kanopka,” Kowalski insisted. “Both our butts are on the line here. We got all the evidence we need on Randall’s cousin, and Fitch is innocent. Stay away from him. That’s final. Got me?”

  “Someone’s got you in their pocket,” I said.

  “I’ll try real hard to forget you said that,” said Kowalski and hung up.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I considered drinking myself catatonic, but instead drove to Broken Oak. Despite Kowalski’s orders to leave well enough alone, I felt compelled to prowl the links at night. The tenth hole water hazard, where O’Reilly bought the farm. The recently seeded areas, where Al Jones most likely bit the dust. The sixth fairway, where Randall’s fat cousin infarcted. If I could find them in the dark, I could put myself in the victim’s shoes, get the feel of the killer stalking me. Take a deep, cleansing breath before arresting him. In case Kowalski’s right and I’m dead wrong.

  It was half-past nine but the parking lot was filled with cars. The dining room had reopened and every table looked filled. They were having a buffet, free margaritas, and a lot of noise and merriment. I ventured down a cart path, past the practice putting green and pro shop, toward the mansion’s rear patio, where some of the beau monde were dining alfresco amid twinkling lights and clinking silverware. From my vantage point below, on the cart path in darkness, the members resembled passengers on the Titanic. Dr. and Mrs. Fitch were seated by the railing, at a table set with starched white linen and fresh-cut flowers, along with two other couples. All were laughing at some anecdote related by the evil doctor. About getting away with murder?

  I see you, and I see right through you, I thought. Your arrogance and smugness. Believing you’re God Almighty. Keep laughing, Doctor, but you’re as mortal as this lowly detective. You and your ilk can’t save supermarket green stamps when God intervenes. Your ilk couldn’t save my wife, damn you. Now I’m hot on your trail like the hound of hell. Keep laughing, though you just glimpsed me, crouched like a gargoyle on a gutter spout, about to bring you down.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  I wandered onto the golf course in the moonless night. There was also no moon for all three murders. Fitch must have good night vision. I stayed to the middle of the fairways, like good golf shots, wary of stumbling into sand traps, tripping over sprinkler heads, yardage markers. The killer has to know the course by heart. To me, it was like entering the heart of darkness. A bad read for cops, forced on me by my wife. Art should be uplifting, like Chopin, though his nocturnes can put me to sleep as quickly as Conrad. Let’s face it. They were both pretentious Polacks. My wife was a nocturne, but I’ll always be a polka.

  I imagined myself as the killer, trying to get into his mind. Stalking my victims. Despising them. Becoming one with the darkness. Letting all the evil in the world flow through me. Gleefully whacking O’Reilly by the water hazard. Coldly cutting down Al Jones. Callously chasing Randall’s cousin to a horrid, gasping death.

  I stared at the faraway sea of stars, fearing that one would suddenly flare down, disclosing me like a searchlight. I recalled Carol once telling me, after reading the Science Times section, that the stars are racing away from us. Something called the red shift, expanding the universe into complete darkness.

  Evil adores darkness and loathes men like Peter H. Couloir, men capable of cutting through chaos and obfuscation, through clouds of gunpowder filled with leaden comets. Men with computer-like minds, little gray cells, detecting delicate scents such as Eau de la Nuit, and performing alchemy to find a killer. Men with minds like satellite dishes, ever open to case-breaking insights and single flickers from the farthest stars. But what about men like me, Detective Wiseass, with only brass balls and alcohol haze to help me?

  Out there on the Robert Trent Jones–designed course—where every hole should be a hard par but an easy bogey, unless you leave in a body bag—instead of feeling like the killer, I suddenly felt like someone who’d kicked himself loose from the earth. If the hot-tempered Dr. Fitch, after glimpsing me on the cart path in the dark, had left the twinkling patio lights and his terribly bright dinner companions and called Kowalski, again complaining of continuing harassment, I might as well kick myself loose from twenty-plus years in homicide and my pension.

  I found the tenth hole water hazard by stepping in it. It was blacker than black. Had O’Reilly also stepped into it? Was the weight of the world also on his shoulders when he did? Could he hear his heart beating like a tribal drum? Did he know he was being stalked, like a lone kudu at the last watering hole on the Serengeti? Had the scents and sounds of his pissing attracted his attacker? Did he know deep down, in the pit of his dark developer’s heart, that there was no hope? Or was he just another happy drunk? Whether or not he’d stepped into this water hole by accident, he stepped into deep shit. As I was about to.

  Wetting my feet made me want to piss. What the hell. I may as well flash the frogs with my impotence in solving these murders. At least pissing feels useful and good. How many members have thusly watered this course?

  Aaah, that is good. No doubt the greenskeeper and his crew, most of the caddies, maybe even Al Jones, have taken leaks out here from time to time. I bet that more than a few women have relieved themselves behind a convenient tree or bush. If they used a sand trap, did they rake it afterward, as the little signs remind? The vision made me smile a little.

  Could the sound of my stream carry all the way back to the patio? Though it’s almost as loud and strong as waiters pouring big pitchers of ice water, I doubt it. At least I don’t have a prostate problem. Though Dr. Fitch may suspect otherwise and offer me a free exam, using a hand grenade instead of his middle finger.

  I shook the last few drops, zipped back up, and continued wandering in the darkness. Beyond the primal sounds of my urine, the course was dead silent and growing even darker. The kind of dark that makes you wonder if you’re awake or still having a nightmare. I encountered a mass, not far from the water hazard, looming like a burial mound. A high tee, I recalled, for launching little white balls up and out over the water hazard. Judging by the number of balls we found in the drink while fishing for five irons, however, high tees don’t help most of the club golfers.

  I followed a steep, winding path behind the mound to the elevated tee. I had followed it before in daylight and was almost sure of my footing. When I got to the top, I should have been able to see the roof of the clubhouse above the treetops.

  The last ten yards of the path was a stairway made from railroad ties, heading straight up. I tripped on the first step but quickly recovered my balance and bounded up the rest, all the way to the top, without losing any breath. And they say that golfers are not real athletes.

  From the elevated tee, the course looked like the dark side of the moon. Even so, I could differentiate between certain shadows and make out the water hazard. It looked like a black hole or a pool of India ink. I’ll leave the similes to the likes of Dame Winifred. Vraiment le coeur de la nuit, Peter H. Couloir might say.

  Someone standing atop the tee, even on the darkest night, could still see, and certainly hear, someone pissing into the water hazard. They could also see the sand trap where Al Jones and Mrs. Fitch were getting it on.

  Stepping toward the edge of the tee for a closer look, I tripped over a tee marker and fell flat. I laughed at myself, until I felt my ankle. It hurt like hell. I had twisted it once before, on a golf course of all places, and was on crutches for weeks. And they say that golf’s not rough.

  I rubbed the ankle, worried about being stranded all night in this blackness until Vince Henry, swinging his antique scythe and grinning like Freddie Kruger, found me at the crack of dawn. Or until Dr. Fitch found me, hopefully with his dawn patrol foursome, so he couldn’t finish me off.

  I
was not alone, however. A shadow suddenly moved and I sensed another presence, crouched beyond the edge of the slope down to the water hazard. “Who’s there?” I called out.

  No answer.

  Whoever it was had come up the slope, which was steep and difficult to climb. Don’t they know about the stairway of railroad ties? The figure moved again.

  “Who’s there?” I repeated.

  Again, no answer.

  It was too big to be an animal, unless it was a bear. But there are very few wild animals on Long Island, unless you count drivers on the LIE and shoppers at the Roosevelt Field Mall.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, thinking it must be a kid who’d been sitting up there smoking pot. “I won’t bust you for trespassing or anything. I need some help. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

  Jeez. I can’t believe I said that.

  The shadow lengthened, steadily upward, swaying like a bear that’s trying to stand on its hind legs. Kid’s still scared, I thought, until the shadow lunged at me.

  “Here’s all the help you’ll need,” Slim, the caddy, whispered, swinging a golf club at my head.

  “Shit!” I shouted, trying to get up, tripping again, so he landed only a glancing blow.

  “Dig in, motherfucker,” he spat. “Here comes eternity.” He loomed over me like a rabid grizzly and raised the club.

  I managed to pull my snub-nose from its holster, but Slim’s next swing caught me on the wrist and launched the pistol into the darkness.

  “Hole in one,” he said, waving the club like he’d just won the Ryder Cup.

  “Aaagh!” I shouted. My wrist now hurt more than my head and ankle. The pain was getting progressively worse. One more swing could send me into shock. Do something, Kanopka. But what? My right eye filled with blood, distorting my depth perception even more than the darkness, and I was still on the ground. As Slim swung the club at me again, it was all I could do to cross my arms.

  “Take that, you friggin’ pig!”

  The blade of the club bit into my forearm, audibly cracking a bone. I thought irrationally it must be a Cobra and tried grabbing it, but Slim was able to take another back swing.

  “You can’t escape,” he hissed, seemingly crazed by the scent of my blood as he angled for another, deadlier divot.

  I rolled as he swung and missed. Then I hopped to my feet, though the pain in my ankle was excruciating. No way I could run. I thought of lunging at him, like a desperate prizefighter, and getting inside his long arms. I could even try biting off his ear. But Slim swung again, too soon. I hopped backward, tripped over a bench, and fell flat on my back. His deadly blade whispered past my ear, biting only air this time.

  “You’re lucky,” Slim said, panting from the effort. I could almost smell the cheap wine and cigarettes on his breath. “But now your luck’s run out.”

  “What do you consider unlucky?” I said. Aching all over, shaking with fear, biding for time.

  “You ain’t dead yet,” he grinned. At least I think he grinned, but the darkness hid his rotten teeth.

  “You can’t kill a cop,” I pleaded. “You get the death penalty.”

  Slim gave a last crazy laugh and shouldered the Cobra like Barry Bonds with a Louisville Slugger. I feebly crossed my arms again, expecting more pain, until a clanging sound came. The clang of metal hitting metal, not flesh and bone.

  “What the—”

  Slim’s swing had connected with a ball washer near the end of the bench, instead of my cranium, snapping the blade off his club. As he stared disbelievingly, I gathered my wits, along with my brass balls, and told him, “You’re under arrest.”

  “You’re gonna get pinned like a friggin’ butterfly,” he said, aiming the broken end of the shaft at me.

  I twisted and rolled as Slim stabbed the turf. He was better at swinging complete clubs. I made it to my knees, managed to spring straight up at the tall caddy, and wrapped a bear hug around his chest. He dropped the shaft and pummeled me with half punches. I hung on to him for dear life. His arms and shoulders were strong from carrying all those golf bags. If he landed a roundhouse and knocked me out, he’d surely grab the shaft and stab me through the heart.

  “Let go!” he shouted.

  I obliged by throwing my best left hook at his temple. It should have decked him, but he was still standing. So I punched his dark heart, and we tumbled off the tee together. And they say that golf is not a contact sport.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I broke my ankle. Slim broke my forearm and put fifty stitches in my scalp. I managed to restrain him until the cops came, thanks to my dexterity with handcuffs in the dark, which had not come from anything kinky. And thanks to Dr. Fitch, who had called Kowalski to complain that I was harassing him. I wonder if my kumpel would have sent a patrol car so fast if he knew I was getting my head handed to me. He and Gleason will never change. Both captains will always bow to political pressure, and I’ll always be a lieutenant. They were also relieved that Fitch was not the killer, while I regretted it, and they were pleased that Slim confessed to everything, though it proved them wrong about Randy Randall’s cousin Gregory.

  Grinning like we were giving him a green jacket for winning the Masters instead of a straitjacket, Slim told our interrogating team about his “night game.” About playing the Broken Oak links after dark and beating all the legends, from Bobby Jones to Tiger Woods, unaware that it was only shadow golf. I often imagine myself as a great golfer, a legend in my own mind, but the next shot usually brings me back to reality.

  Slim also told us that O’Reilly had promised to back him on the pro tour. What a cruel joke. I was almost convinced that O’Reilly deserved getting whacked and Slim should get a reduced sentence, until he confessed to killing Al Jones, believing he should be the pro at Broken Oak instead of Jones. After caddying for Jones in the Long Island Open, Slim was convinced he could beat him. Puh-leese. It takes a lot more than shadow golf. Slim had the added incentive of a failed blackmail attempt, after spying Jones and Mrs. Fitch getting it on in the bunker. As Slim revealed, “Damn tight Texan wouldn’t fork over so much as a friggin’ fin for me to keep my mouth shut.” He would not admit, however, to chasing cousin Gregory to death. “The fat dude was already dead when I found him,” Slim insisted. “I only planted the five iron on him, and left the trail of golf balls outa respect. He couldn’t play a lick, but he had his own night game goin’ with collectin’ them friggin’ balls.”

  Gregory was buried in the family plot at Locust Valley Cemetery, beside his aunt Dame Winifred. I wanted to attend the funeral, to pay my respects and see if Gregory was meeting his maker in a piano crate, but I was in too much pain. Two weeks later, however, I made it to the memorial service Randy Randall held on the first tee at Broken Oak. I must admit that I was mostly paying my respects to the great game of golf, while hoping that Randall would invite me to play that fabulous course, when I could walk.

  I crutched from my car to the first tee, wondering how my wounds would affect my swing. Ben Hogan was never the same after the car accident that nearly killed him. Randall and a local minister were there, trading homilies through their Locust Valley lockjaw, oblivious to the heavenly fairway behind them. Gleason and Kowalski stood off to the side, patting themselves on the back. There were several others I had never seen, most likely Randall’s out-of-town relatives, plus a few curious members. They were also memorializing O’Reilly and Al Jones, but I did not expect an overflow crowd. Few knew Gregory, fewer liked O’Reilly, and though Jones may have had a sizable fan club, consisting mostly of lonely women, his body had been shipped back to the Longhorn State.

  I failed to notice Vince Henry until I reached the tee. The greenskeeper’s tailored business suit, minus his black baseball cap with the big white X, made him look almost like a member. Fat chance. Vince will get into Broken Oak when women are admitted to Augusta National.

  “Been there, done that,” the burly ex–football player said to my crutches, “when I blew out m
y knees.”

  “Paying your respects,” I said, “or looking for job security?”

  Vince bristled, then chuckled. “Gotta do what you gotta do,” he said. “Bet no one knows that better than you.”

  The comment caused me to glance at Gleason and Kowalski, who waved for me to join them. Considering my crutches, they should have come to me. They may want to tell me something that Vince shouldn’t hear, I considered. But they had already told the whole world how brilliant they were to keep me on the case when I was floundering, and how they had always suspected that Slim was the killer. “It was risky sending Karl out on the course at night by himself,” they repeatedly told reporters, “but we needed a decoy.” Though I made that dumb decision all by myself, I had decided not to dispute them. Why make waves? Why not be grateful they didn’t let you nail Dr. Fitch, which would have killed your career, and let it go at that? You did come up smelling like a rose, though they’re taking most of the credit. I hobbled toward them, doing what I gotta do, as Vince so aptly put it, and ran into Mrs. O.

  “You look much better,” she said, cutting me off from the captains, who collared someone else and started explaining how they broke the case.

  “You told me you weren’t coming,” I told Mrs. O, whose sheer summer dress was more suited for a garden party than a memorial service.

  “At the hospital,” she shrugged, “you had more visitors than the pope. How could we talk about anything?”

  I nodded and frowned. Even Dr. Fitch had dropped by while making his rounds. He enjoyed seeing me flat on my back and seemed more pleased with the course reopening than with the killer being caught. Where was he now? Out on the back nine? Back at the hospital? Beating his wife? She’d better not show up to mourn her golf stud.

  “I suppose this is also no time to talk,” Mrs. O added, “but you didn’t call me.”

  “I just got out,” I said. “I would have stopped later at the Tides.”