The Franchise Babe: A Novel

by Dan Jenkins

  Mom said, “There might not be anything he likes on the menu.”

  “Thanks,” I said to Thurlene.

  “I still don’t get it,” the kid said. “What’s a wounded sparrow?”

  I said, “If it’s not cooked in bacon grease, it’s not worth eating.”

  She sped past that and said, “Mom says you have a sense of humor…but I don’t see how anybody can have a sense of humor and write about golf at the same time.”

  I smiled. “I have readers who would agree with you.”

  “You do?”

  “They think golf is a religion. You’re not supposed to make fun of religion.”

  “Do you make fun of religion?”

  “No. But given the opportunity I might make fun of atheists.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I guess because of what my grandmother used to say. One day your atheists are going to be all dressed up and nowhere to go.”

  “Are you a religious person?”

  “I think so. I don’t go to church too often, but I believe there has to be a higher power in this life than managing editors. What about you?”

  The mom said, “We’re Christian.”

  “As opposed to Muslim?” I said. “That’s a relief.”

  Thurlene said, “No, Jack Brannon. Not as opposed to Muslim. We’re members of the Magnolia Christian Church in Dallas.”

  Chewing an olive, I tried to inject another bit of humor into the conversation, saying, “I was raised a Whiskeypalian.”

  Mom grinned. Daughter stared.

  Ginger said, “Golf is hard work, Mr. Brannon. To be good at it. You agree with that, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “So why make fun of it?”

  I looked at the mom. “Help me out here.”

  “He’s a wiseguy, Gin,” Thurlene said.

  “But shy and likable,” I said. “Tell me about your round, Ginger.”

  “It sucked,” Ginger said.

  I said, “It’s been my experience that most sixty-eights don’t suck.”

  “Yeah, well. You ought to throw down a sixty-five on this shitty track. There’s nothing out there but birdies.”

  The mom said, “Excuse her language. But she did miss three makable putts on the back nine. Three short putts spun out…They hung right on the lip.”

  Ginger said, “Man, I got so margarita-d. I’m like, Where’s the salt?”

  I announced to Ginger that I was originally from Fort Worth.

  “Yeah?” the daughter said. A glance at Mom. “He can’t be all bad.”

  Back to me, she said, “I love Colonial. I’ve played it three times. Were you there when Annika played in the Colonial with the guys?”

  “I covered it. Great two days. Everybody was pulling for her.”

  “I was there! I was twelve. Mom took me. Annika’s the greatest ever.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “Babe and Mickey must have been pretty good.”

  “Annika was seismic. She would have handled ’em.”

  “I suppose you think Tiger would handle Ben Hogan too, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, we’ll never know, will we?”

  “I know.”

  If this was a debate, I declared myself the loser. I smiled at mother and daughter and sat back in the chair with my martini.

  “Oh, here you are!” a voice behind me said. It was Allison of PR.

  “Toppy and Connie are on their way,” Allison said. “They’ll be coming in any moment. They’re dying to meet you.”

  Allison of PR asked Thurlene and Ginger if she could borrow me.

  The kid said, “What for?”

  Thurlene said, “I believe the Pembertons would like to meet Mr. Brannon, Gin.”

  “They very much would,” said Allison of PR. “Perhaps you’re not aware that Toppy is a major stockholder in Firm Chick.”

  “Oh, sponsors,” Ginger said. “Go for it, Jack.”

  6

  They seemed to float in out of nowhere. Suddenly, as if on cue, the orchestra and vocalist stopped what they were doing and launched into a rendition of “Baby Face”—and here came this bandy-legged, white-haired gentleman in a red and white checkered sport coat, white slacks, and white shoes, and with him was this woman with platinum hair and a frozen smile. She wore a short hoopskirt, a glistening top and vest, and silver high heels. The guests made room for them and the couple went quickstepping onto the dance floor.

  People applauded vigorously. I could see and hear the woman with the platinum hair singing along with the vocalist.

  “…there’s not another one to kick your taste…

  My old head is thumpin’

  You done did do with somethin’.”

  Those couldn’t be the right words. I wondered if Junior Alzheimer was doing the singing.

  “I didn’t light a stove,

  I’m just dumb in love

  dip his silly baby paste.”

  After controlling her applause, Allison of PR said to me, “It’s their theme song. Connie chose it. The orchestra is instructed to play it when they enter to dine and dance every evening. It’s rather become a tradition here at the Villa.”

  Allison of PR didn’t look so stiff when she favored me with the hint of a smile. And she was generous enough to tell me all I’d ever care to know about Toppy and Connie.

  Toppy’s full name was Topham Clewis Pemberton III. He was heir to a large chunk of the Sinclair Oil fortune, and once a year he liked to celebrate this fact by putting on a dinosaur costume and parading through the streets of downtown La Jolla. Many of the residents and shopkeepers looked forward to the annual event.

  Connie Shaughnessy came from showbiz. Toppy met her sixty-three years ago in New York City at Bill’s Gay Nineties in the fading heyday of Fifty-second Street. She was part of a popular trio called Cholly, Connie, and Solly.

  She and Toppy fell in love and married quickly, and just as quickly Connie hired Cholly and Solly to work for them. Cholly was their personal limo driver and banjo player for many years until he died, and until Solly died he was the head of security and the piano player at their 30,000-square-foot home in La Jolla that overlooked the Pacific Ocean and the comings and goings of the United States Navy.

  Toppy and Connie became interested in golf in the seventies when they met Dinah Shore in Palm Springs. It was during the Colgate–Dinah Shore, which would be ordained a major championship by the LPGA even though it would be renamed the Kraft Nabisco. It still resides in the same high-rent category as the U.S. Women’s Open, the Women’s British Open, and the LPGA Championship. One of the Big Four.

  Connie and Dinah became friends that evening. Dinah was entertaining guests at the party with songs. When she asked if anyone knew the words to “Smiles,” Connie seized the moment, and the two of them roared into a medley of old favorites.

  The Pembertons took up golf the next day, and ever since they’d been dreaming of one day sponsoring their own tournament.

  While I was learning all this, it was hard not to notice that Connie had gone up on the bandstand and was doing harmony with the vocalist. We paused for a moment to hear…

  “There are styles that have a numbing stinking

  that the files of me you bet can pee…

  But the styles that flip my heart with poopy

  are the kikes that you lift to me.”

  I was led past two ice sculptures to the table where Connie was returning from the bandstand. Toppy was sitting with two other couples, who were forced to shift around and make room for me.

  “Connie…Toppy…everybody,” Allison of PR said. “This is the famous author and golf writer from New York…Jack Brannon.”

  “Do they get to vote on famous?” I said.

  Having done her chore, Allison of PR backed away and was gone.

  “The old scribbler,” Toppy said, sounding like Dean Martin, although maybe not intentionally. “What would the old scribbler be d
rinking?”

  An Oriental waiter was hovering.

  I said I didn’t want to get boxed, but I might do with one more Bombay Sapphire martini on the rocks with four olives.

  “Hear that, Kato?” Toppy said to the waiter. “You and the Green Hornet get on it. I don’t mind getting boxed. Bring me another Scotch.”

  Connie inched close to me, squeezed my arm, and softly sang, “I’ve bought a crush on you, sweetie who…all the night and morning, hear me coo.”

  I judged her to be in her high seventies. The jewelry on her neck, ear, wrist, and arm could light up all of La Jolla if a brownout occurred.

  In the brochure for the Enchanted Villa I was alerted to the fact that among its many luxuries it offered an opportunity for ladies to visit the resort’s “Academy of Body Sculpturing” and allow the academy to put its experience to work on them.

  Among the “contouring procedures” available were “liposuction, breast augmentation, belly button approach, tummy tucks, arm lifts, buttock implants, fat transfer, vein treatments, and facial rejuvenation.”

  A shrewd observer might guess that Connie had experienced all of it.

  Smiling, I said, “I understand you used to sing professionally.”

  She sang softly to me again. It could have been lyrics from “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” but maybe not. Could be she forgot the rest of the words as she let go of my arm and drank the rest of her glass of vodka.

  Vod and Junior Al. Great combo. There was the answer.

  If this was a nostalgia night, I wondered if it would do me any good to request a little Bruce, some Ray Charles, some Bonnie Raitt?

  A man across the table said, “Brandon…Brandon…New York City…Manhattan…Any relation to my good friend Wild Bill Brandon? Goldman Sachs? Yale ’sixty-five?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  The man’s blazer was yellow. His pants were maroon. The other man’s blazer was green. His pants were pink.

  “Jumpin’ Jimmy Brennan?” he said. “Morgan Stanley? Yale ’sixty-seven?”

  “Missed me again,” I said.

  “Shipwreck Shep Benton? Lehman Brothers? Princeton ’seventy-one?”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  The two couples lost interest in me. I reached that conclusion when they never spoke to me again.

  My cocktail arrived and I was trying not to gulp it when Toppy leaned over and said, “I’m pins and needles, scribe. What do you think of my golf course?”

  I said, “I haven’t seen all of it yet, but I will tomorrow. It looks interesting. I understand it’s well bunkered and there are plenty of water hazards. But there were some low scores today, weren’t there?”

  “Yes, there were,” Toppy said. “It made me sick.”

  “It did?”

  “I hire Burch Webb to build me a championship golf course and what do I get? The women tear it apart. Women! Little girlies! They go out there and gnaw on it like puppies.”

  I said, “It’s hard for any course to hold back today’s equipment. You’ve got a nuclear shaft, a steroid golf ball, custom fitting, square grooves. Match the technology with the golf swing, it’s a new world.”

  Toppy said, “Eight million to build it. Two million for the idiot to design it. What made Burch Webb famous? He can’t design a toilet.”

  I said, “These young girls are raised on titanium…graphite…composites…the new technology. They’ve never seen a wooden golf club. They think persimmon is a town in France.”

  “Do what…?” Toppy said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It was just something I said that was wildly hilarious.”

  Connie stood up. She grabbed her small shining purse that could well have been covered with diamonds. I ascertained she was headed for the restroom because she quietly sang to the table:

  “Chowder your face with moonshine,

  put on a floozy pile.”

  I could have sworn that when I heard Dean Martin sing it one time on TV he’d said “powder your face with sunshine.” Nevertheless, the other two women at the table went with Connie.

  “How’d the little girlies get so good?” Toppy asked me.

  I said, “As I understand it, Mom or Dad start them out young now. There are financial incentives today that weren’t there yesterday. A kid shows some talent, she can become a family meal ticket. Golf academies contribute. College programs are getting better all the time. Young girls with ability are coming along every year now. The good news is, a lot of them are cute. The better news is, I’m told, they’re straight. Only one player in the top ten money list last year that was on the Other Team—so to speak.”

  Toppy slumped in his chair. We sat in silence for a while. I savored my cocktail, ate an olive, looked around the room.

  I noticed a group of the older, established stars sitting together at a large round table. From their photos I recognized Jan Dunn, Marian Hornbuckle, Linda Merle Draper, Suzy Scott, Peaches Crowder.

  I saw Ann Wendell and what must have been Debbie at a table with another mom and daughter. Debbie was on the small side, and I could see where she might give up considerable distance to Ginger Clayton and therefore want to poison her.

  I didn’t count them all, but most of the forty or fifty South Koreans on the tour were scattered about. Through ace reporting I uncovered the reason there are so many now. They turn pro at fourteen in South Korea. They start competing in Asia. Thus, they arrive in the USA with four years of professional experience already behind them.

  I broke the silence with Toppy. “Quite a resort you have here. My room is terrific. I can see Tucson from my balcony.”

  He said, “It was a great place till Burch Webb designed me a sack of shit for a golf course.”

  I said, “I’m not prepared to judge it on the basis of one round. There was no wind today. If the wind blows and the greens firm up, it could be a different story.”

  Toppy said, “No, it’s ruined. I’ll have to rename it. Change it from the Villa to the Sack of Shit. How’s that for a sales tool? Come to the Enchanted Villa, buy a four-million-dollar lot, play golf on Burch Webb’s Sack of Shit.”

  Toppy lapsed back into a slump in his chair. I sat and drank.

  Presently Connie and the ladies returned to the table. A waiter appeared at Connie’s shoulder.

  “Another vodka rocks, Mrs. Pemberton?” the waiter asked.

  Connie looked up at him.

  “Anytime you’re sneaking bonely,” she sang, wiggling her empty glass. “Anytime…you’re slipping through.”

  The waiter hurried off.

  She took my arm and kept singing. “Anytime you shame…you kick me in the thing…that’s the chime I’ll bundle up to you.”

  I yawned, reclaimed my arm, glanced at my watch, stood up, said I was glad to meet everyone, I’d see them on the course tomorrow, I had work to do in my room.

  I retraced my path past the ice sculptures to look for Thurlene and the kid, but they weren’t at the table where I’d left them, or anywhere else as far as I could tell. They’d retired. Early tee time.

  I made the long trek to my own room in the Villa, a variety of old songs ringing in my head.

  Headline: Man Survives Lawrence Welk Reruns.

  7

  Ginger Clayton birdied the first five holes of the second round and took over the lead in the tournament. I said to Thurlene that her daughter did it so quickly she probably gave the chinks a head cold. Thurlene said the Asian girls weren’t chinks. They were South Korean. I said I meant chinks in the best sense of the word.

  For my information, Thurlene said, the name of the player I’d been calling Kim Yim Yum was Jin Hee Soong, and the name of the player I’d been calling Soong Sang Sung was Su Lee Kim. She said they lived in the United States now.

  I said that would make them South Korean Americans. The politically correct loons had already given us Native Americans, African Americans, Japanese Americans, and Asian Americans. Now they were hard at work on giving us Illegal Alien Ameri
cans, Terrorist Americans, and Suicide Bomber Americans.

  One of these days, I said, your law-abiding, English-speaking, tax-paying Americans will have to find another planet to live on.

  “I know how to slow down the terrorists, if you’re interested,” I said. “Give every Praise Allah a thousand dollars and a list of sports events to bet on. Then the suicide bombers among them would only blow themselves up when the Patriots and Colts don’t cover.”

  “You must share that with the White House.”

  “Nuke them before they can nuke us. That’s my political position. Only way to save the planet and the future. I’d nuke every fanatical lunatic in the world if we could scrape ’em into one pile.”

  She sighed. “No point in trying diplomacy, huh?”

  I said, “Oh, you want to talk to them? Okay, I’ll try that. How you doin’, Abdul? Got a minute? What can we do to keep you from trying to wipe us off the map? Want to blow up some more of our buildings? Have at it. I know we deserve it because our toilets flush, we like cheeseburgers, and we wear jeans. Sure, we’ll get rid of our military for you. No problem. How about this? We’ll all kneel down and hum a bunch of shit and thump our heads on the carpet. Will that help? By the way, can I have my head back? How can I reason with you people when my head’s rolling around down here on the floor?”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Yeah, it is. I have to stop watching the news. Want to take a terrorist to lunch?”

  She said, “My Uncle Otis used to say you could add five years to your life if you never listened to the news.”

  “My Uncle Will used to say he’d like to kill every Jap on the face of the earth. He was a marine in the Big Deuce. He hit the beach at Okinawa. I don’t feel that way myself, you understand…except when I hear a Jap holler ‘Fooka Babe Ruth!’”

  “Humanitarian traits run all through your family, do they?”

  “My grandparents were Democrats, like everybody else’s in Texas. It went back to that FDR thing. But I started to lean conservative when I went to work at the paper and saw how much the Democrats took out of my paycheck every two weeks.”