Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  Nick yelled over the wind noise. "You were a star football player in college?"

  Scott nodded.

  "Why didn't you go pro?"

  "Wasn't big enough."

  "You never heard of steroids?" Nick laughed. "Tour started testing golfers for steroids, like those pudgy bastards wearing stretch-waist Dockers are juiced. Hell, they should be testing them for cholesterol, number of Big Macs they put away. Course, steroids wouldn't help those fat boys anyway-they hate to work out. More wives in the fitness trailer than players. Like your wife."

  "Ex-wife."

  Nick veered off the highway without slowing and screeched to a stop at a red light. Scott turned to Nick.

  "Were they happy together?"

  "Who?"

  "Rebecca and Trey."

  Nick shrugged. "Traveling first-class around the world, staying in five-star hotels, buying everything they saw-what's not to be happy about?"

  "Did Trey love her?"

  "That's a hard question when it comes to pro athletes. Their one true love is the guy in the mirror. But, yeah, I think he did." He gave Scott a sympathetic glance. "Gotta be tough to hear that."

  "I'm a big boy. Was he going to marry her?"

  "Never mentioned it to me." Nick cut a glance at Scott. "Seems odd, you defending her when she dumped you for Trey."

  "It's called loyalty."

  Nick snorted. "You wouldn't last long as a sports agent. You learn pretty quick that athletes got the loyalty of a pit bull. They cheat on their agents, their wives, and their taxes. So you take care of number one."

  "Agents have a fiduciary duty, Nick. The law says you've got to put your clients' best interests ahead of your commissions."

  Nick laughed. "The law never represented a pro athlete."

  Nick steered the Beemer into a high-end suburban community in far north Houston featuring tall brick walls and a waterfall on either side of the entrance, one of the many "gated golf-course communities" that had sprung up across the nation during the easy money years, places promising private country clubs and security guards patrolling the streets 24/7 and the new American Dream: a home in a neighborhood sealed off from the rest of America, like the Green Zone in Iraq. They drove down wide paved streets of brand-new ten-thousand-square-foot homes shaded by tall pine trees and sporting foreign cars in the circle drives; it wasn't River Oaks where the old money of Houston resided, but neither was it the Fifth Ward where no money resided. This was where the new money of Houston called home.

  Nick wheeled the Beemer through the open gates of a country club with a big banner that read "Houston Classic." Nick stopped at a barricade manned by two rent-a-cops. He flashed his credentials like an FBI agent, and he got the same respect; the guards scrambled to remove the barricade. Nick accelerated across the parking lot and turned into a vacant space. The lot looked like a Cadillac showroom.

  "Courtesy cars," Nick said. "Players fly into town on private jets, get a free Caddy for the week, free hotel, free food, free everything. Nice life, long as you can stay on tour. But there's always a younger hotshot wanting to take your place in the Caddy."

  Or Ferrari.

  They got out and walked toward the entrance gate.

  "Back in the days of Arnie and Jack," Nick said, "celebrities sponsored pro golf tournaments. You had the Bob Hope, the Bing Crosby, the Frank Sinatra, the Andy Williams… then the tour went corporate. Now you've got the Mercedes-Benz, the Sony, the BMW, the Barclays, the Deutsche Bank, the Stanford St. Jude…"

  He chuckled.

  "Tour had to drop Stanford from the tournament name when the Feds indicted him for running a seven-billion-dollar Ponzi scheme. Allen Stanford, he lives here in Houston-actually, he's living in jail until his trial-he bought himself a knighthood on some Caribbean island, calls himself 'Sir Allen.' Guy went to college in Waco, now he thinks he's a fucking Knight of the Round Table. Can't you see him in federal prison, demanding the other inmates call him Sir Allen? Those bad boys gonna show him To Sir with Love. That was an old movie I saw on cable."

  Nick again showed his credentials at the entrance gate, and they entered the tournament grounds. The world might be mired in the worst recession since the Great Depression and Texas in the worst drought in half a century-lakes were drying up, water was rationed and cost more than gasoline, the land was so parched and brittle that one cigarette tossed out of an automobile could torch the entire state-but the recession had apparently exempted pro golf and the drought this golf course. It looked like an oasis in the Texas desert with tall pine trees lining lush green fairways and a blue lake sparkling in the distance. A plantation-style clubhouse that harkened back to the Old South stood off to one side and massive white tents to the other. A red blimp hovered overhead in the blue sky, colorful neon signs adorned the tents, loud cheers erupted every few minutes, and the air smelled of popcorn and cotton candy, all of which gave the place a circus-like atmosphere. Nick abruptly stopped and spread his arms, his face that of a kid who had just spotted the clowns.

  "What do you see, Scott?"

  Scott glanced around. "Golfers, caddies, fans…"

  Nick was shaking his head. "You see WM squared."

  "WM squared? What's that?"

  "W-M-W-M. W hite m en w ith m oney. Affluent middle-aged white men, thirty-five to sixty-five, the target demographic for sports advertising. That's where your sports dollars are today, Scott, and that means pro golf. No other sport can offer advertisers WM squared. I made that up myself."

  Scott now noticed that the fans were in fact white and most were middle-aged men. There were no people of color in sight. It looked like Highland Park Day at the tournament.

  "What about football, basketball, baseball? Those are popular with white men."

  Nick snorted. "Working-class white men. WM squared are lawyers, doctors, CEOs-white men with incomes in excess of two hundred fifty thousand-the white guys Obama's raising taxes on." He chuckled. "This place could pass for the fucking Republican National Convention, especially the players. They hate paying taxes more than making a double-bogie." He shook his head. "You ain't gonna find anyone out here who voted for Obama, except maybe the guy shining shoes down in the locker room."

  They walked on, Nick pointing out the sights, past the white tents-"Merchandise tent… margarita tent… media tent"-the first tee and the ninth green, and white, well-dressed, and well-behaved fans. This was not the raucous atmosphere of a pro football or basketball game with loud drunken fans painted in team colors and taunting the opposing players with profanities. These fans waited patiently for their favorite golfers' autographs and politely fell silent when a player teed off or putted. Genteel applause greeted putts that dropped and empathetic groans putts that did not. The scene seemed from another sports era, perhaps not quite like the old newsreels of Yankee games with white fans dressed in their Sunday best, but the fans were still-

  "White and polite," Nick said. "That's the way WM squared want their sports, Scott. And that means golf. Go to a major league baseball game today, it's like you're at a fucking bullfight in Juarez. All the players are named Rodriguez and speaking Spanish. WM squared don't speak Spanish, Scott."

  Nick waved to a young golfer strutting past followed by his entourage.

  "And football and basketball players, they're all homeboys from the 'hood, foul-mouthed, chest-pounding, crotch-grabbing, gun-packing, tattooed-and-taunting homies who brought the 'hood culture to the pros." Nick shook his head. "WM squared don't like homies, Scott."

  Nick acknowledged another golfer trailed by kids seeking autographs.

  "Course, what do you expect? You give a twenty-year-old black kid from the ghetto ten million in cash 'cause he can dunk a basketball or catch a football, what do you think he's gonna do? Invest in a retirement account with Schwab? Hell, no. He's gonna bling himself out with a chrome-plated Hummer and gold jewelry and high-powered guns, then go back to the 'hood and show off to his homies. He ain't suddenly gonna start wearing Tommy Hilfige
r."

  Nick was amused by his own words.

  "Which leaves pro golf to provide the white-and-polite, English-speaking, non-violent, suburban sports experience for WM squared."

  "Tiger's black."

  Nick dismissed that comment as if he were annoyed by a gnat.

  "Tiger transcends race. He's the best there ever was and he's a marketing machine because he's programmed like a fucking computer-at least until he drove his life into a tree." Nick shook his head. "I preach to my athletes all the time: 'Never text your mistresses!' Do they listen? No, they don't." He sighed. "But Tiger, he'll be back. WM squared will forgive him because he ain't a homie-no trash talking, no tattoos, no guns. He always acted polite, and he endorsed white man products-Nike, Tag Heuer, Gillette, Buick, American Express." Nick grinned. "Homies wouldn't be caught dead behind the wheel of a Buick and they don't carry American Express when they go shopping-they carry Smith amp; Wesson."

  He thought that was funny.

  "White and polite-that's the key to success in golf marketing, Scott. Boy scouts, not homeboys." Nick's attention was suddenly diverted. He called out to a player. "Yo, Jake! My man! You seen Goose?"

  The player's cap and clothes sported logos for a dozen different sponsors. He yelled, "Practice tee!" Nick waved a thanks to the player.

  "Jake's one of my guys, looks like a goddamned NASCAR driver. Why? Because advertisers are chasing WM squared onto the golf course. Nike started off selling sneakers, now they sell golf clubs, balls, shoes, and clothes. Under Armour, they made their name selling sports underwear endorsed by pumped-up black football players. Now they make golf clothes for fat white guys. Hell, even Clint Eastwood's got his own golf apparel company, Tehama. Good stuff."

  Nick Madden, sports agent, paused and inhaled his world.

  "This is the whitest place on the planet-a pro golf tournament. We're not at a muny course down in the Fifth Ward, Scott. We're in the suburbs, baby-because that's where WM squared lives. White men with money."

  His expression changed, as if he had had an epiphany, and he turned to Scott.

  "Can I trademark that? WM squared?"

  "Probably."

  Nick smiled. "Might be some money in that."

  "Let's find Goose."

  They found Goose on the practice range, drinking beer from a can, jotting in a little notebook, and sitting on a red golf bag with Pete Puckett stenciled down one side.

  "Hey, Goose," Nick said.

  Goose didn't look up at Nick or smile at Nick. Clyde "Goose" Dalton was a squat man with muscular legs protruding from baggy shorts and thick arms from a white T-shirt with "Who's Your Caddie Now?" printed across the front. His cap was pushed back on his head, revealing a sunburned forehead beaded with sweat. His hair was gray and pulled into a ponytail, and his matching goatee needed trimming. He had the complexion of a construction worker-

  "The fuck you want, Nick?"

  — and the vocabulary.

  "Jesus, you're still pissed off? Give it up, Goose-he's dead." Nick turned to Scott. "I got him caddied up with Trey, now he blames me because Trey stiffed him." Back to Goose: "Where's Pete?"

  "Eating lunch." He held up the beer can. "I'm on a strict liquid diet." He nodded at Scott. "Who's the spectator?"

  "That the infamous yardage book?" Scott said.

  "Got one for every course on tour. Make 'em myself, walk off the exact yardage from every tree and sprinkler head to every pin position on every green." He glanced up at Scott. "Who are you and what the fuck does infamous mean?"

  "It means notorious, and I'm Scott Fenney."

  "Rebecca's husband."

  "Lawyer."

  Now Goose smiled. He stuck a hand out, and they shook. Goose had big hands.

  "I'll contribute to her defense fund," Goose said.

  "Better save it for your own lawyer."

  Goose pulled his hand back and frowned. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

  "Where were you last Thursday?"

  "Caddying for Pete, at the Atlantic Open."

  "Where's that?"

  "Orlando," Nick said. "Pete played Thursday and Friday, didn't make the cut. Means he didn't play the weekend."

  "Well, actually," Goose said, "Pete didn't play Friday either. He DQ'd Thursday."

  " DQ'd? "

  "Yeah, he seemed real out of sorts at the pro-am and right from the git-go on Thursday. Opened with a four-putt snowman-"

  Nick, to Scott: "An eight… number eight looks like a little snowman."

  — "then threw his putter all the way to the second tee. I knew we were in for a long day."

  "Why'd he DQ?" Nick asked.

  "Wrote down the wrong scores for two holes, signed the card."

  Nick, to Scott: "Automatic disqualification." Back to Goose: "Why didn't I hear about that?"

  "Maybe because Pete's a grown man and don't figure he's gotta report in to his snot-nosed agent every fuckin' day." Goose shrugged. "That, or he forgot."

  Goose's attention was diverted by a flashy girl in a short skirt and a halter top slinking by on high-heeled wedges. Goose leaned over as if trying to look up her skirt.

  "She's gonna make a golfer happy tonight," he said.

  "Now that's a sweet two-piece," Nick said.

  "Two-piece?" Scott said.

  "She's wearing exactly two pieces of clothing: the halter top and miniskirt. Nothing else touching that body."

  "I think I'm having a Cialis moment," Goose said.

  "I may need to seek immediate medical attention," Nick said, 'cause this might last more than four hours."

  Nick and Goose laughed and fist-punched. They had bonded over a two-piece. She wasn't alone. There were many young, beautiful women wearing only two pieces of clothing in attendance-not as many as at a college football game, but more than Scott would have expected at a pro golf tournament.

  "Groupies for golfers," Goose said.

  "Bald, pudgy, out-of-shape bastards," Nick said. "But they got gorgeous gals hanging on their arms because they're rich. You know why they don't wear underwear?"

  "The players?"

  "The two-pieces."

  "I hate to even guess."

  Nick grinned like a teenage boy with a girlie magazine. "They sit right behind the green, wait for the players to walk up, then flash 'em a crotch shot."

  Goose chuckled. "Shit, every time me and Trey walked onto a green, there was a chorus line of crotches. Network guys had to be careful not to broadcast that across America on a Sunday afternoon."

  Scott tried to refocus the conversation on his murder investigation.

  "Goose, did you stay in Orlando Thursday night?"

  Goose reluctantly pulled his eyes off the two-piece. "Nope. Flew back to Austin."

  "What time did you get in?"

  "About five."

  "It's only a four-hour drive from Austin to Galveston. You could've been there by nine at the latest. Time of death was after midnight."

  "I didn't kill him."

  "You ever been to his beach house?"

  "I ain't never been to Galveston."

  "You didn't travel with Trey?"

  Goose snorted. "Don't work that way. Players, they travel in private jets. Caddies fly commercial. Coach, 'cause we pay our own way. Players stay in five-star hotels. We double up in cheap motels by the highway."

  "Will you take a polygraph?"

  "To prove I stayed in cheap motels?"

  "To prove you didn't kill Trey."

  "No one said I did."

  "You stayed in Austin Thursday night?"

  "I live there."

  "Any witnesses?"

  "That I live there?"

  "That you stayed in Austin that night."

  Goose finished off the beer, belched, and dropped the can by the golf bag.

  "I got drunk that night."

  "Where?" Scott said.

  "Broken Spoke."

  "Anyone who'd remember you being there Thursday night?"

  "The other
regulars won't remember they were there."

  "What about the bartender?"

  "It ain't that kind of place. It's a dance hall."

  "So you got drunk in a dance hall but no one can vouch for you. Pretty vague alibi, Goose."

  "Didn't know I needed one."

  "Six days since he died-you don't seem too upset."

  "He treated me like shit."

  "And he fired you."

  "You think I killed him 'cause he fired me?" He spit. "Hell, if caddies killed their pros for firing them, tour wouldn't have enough players to field a foursome."

  "Trey owed you a hundred thousand."

  Goose eyes flashed dark. "Damn right he did. I was gonna sue the bastard. I can't now… Can I?"

  "And he humiliated you on TV, replaced you with a Mexican girl."

  "He banged her after the round."

  "What?"

  "Yeah, Rebecca got the runs, drinking the water. While she's stuck in the bathroom, Trey's humping the Mexican gal in a pool cabana."

  Scott glanced at Nick; he gave Scott a "heck if I know" shrug. Scott turned back to Goose. "A hundred-thousand-dollar debt-that's a pretty good motive."

  "So is screwing my wife."

  "You don't have a wife," Nick said.

  Goose gestured at Scott. "I meant him… and Brett."

  " Brett? " Nick said.

  "Who's he?" Scott said.

  "Brett McBride. Tour player, ranked two-eighty-seven in the world."

  Scott turned to Goose: "Trey was-?"

  Goose nodded. "Screwing his wife."

  Nick's mouth dropped open. "Trey was screwing Tess?"

  Goose chuckled. "Who wasn't?"

  "When?" Scott asked.

  "Whenever he could."

  "How long do you think he was?"

  Goose shrugged. "I don't know. I never saw him naked."

  "No. How long do you think he was screwing Tess?"

  "Oh. They hooked up at the Hope back in January."

  Scott turned to Nick. "You didn't know?"

  Nick shook his head. "I tell my athletes, if I don't get twenty percent, I don't want to know about it."