The Franchise Babe: A Novel

by Dan Jenkins

  “Ginger needs this one tomorrow,” she said. “It would be her first win since…you know.”

  “Since that thing I can’t write about.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to confess something,” I said. “I’m meeting Ann Wendell for breakfast in the morning. I want to interview her. I hope this doesn’t make you hot.”

  “It doesn’t in the least. I’m sure Ann will be polite and pretend that we’re good friends. If you have a chance, ask her about the Estee Lauder Classic last spring.”

  “Why would I ask her about the Estee Lauder Classic?”

  “That’s where Debbie blew a five-shot lead over the last nine holes and lost to Marian Hornbuckle. She was this close to winning her first tournament out here, but she cratered. She shot a forty-five on the back.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a pleasant subject to bring up.”

  “I’m not finished. Ann was so furious at Debbie, she stormed into the locker room and pushed her up against a wall and started slapping her own daughter in the face. Can you imagine? She should have been barred from the tour for a year…or forever.”

  “Were you there—in the locker room?”

  “No, but Jan Dunn and Linda Merle Draper saw it.”

  “Did this make print? If so, I must have missed—”

  “Ha! Guess again. It was covered up for ‘the good of the tour.’ Our new commissioner saw to that. Putting the lid on it was Marsha Wilson’s first big decision. The players weren’t happy about it, but Marsha convinced them that covering it up was in the best interest of the tour. The tour would deal with it ‘from the inside.’ But Marsha never did. She must have thought it would go away on its own.”

  We were at the door to Thurlene’s room. She put a key in, opened it slightly, and turned back to me with a smile, and said, “Even if you were hitting on me…”

  “Which I’m not,” I said.

  “But if you were, and if I wasn’t minding it…I couldn’t ask you to come in.”

  “Why would that be, hypothetically?”

  “Ginger and I are sharing a suite.”

  “Is she a sound sleeper?”

  Thurlene laughed and shook my hand.

  “Goodnight, Jack. I enjoyed tonight. See you on the tee?”

  “I’ll be the guy with no logo on his shirt,” I said.

  I considered treating myself to a nightcap in the pub, which was called the Nightgown. In printed matter it boasted of a margarita called Take Me I’m Yours. I thought better of it, the same as I thought better of buying a pack of Marlboros and renewing old friendships. Instead, I voted to reward myself with a good night’s sleep.

  Which didn’t happen. You could say I was startled, amazed, and otherwise astounded when I entered my room and found Allison of PR waiting there.

  Right there in good old Room 423. She was sitting in a chair on my balcony, a bottle of champagne iced down in a bucket on a table next to her, a glass of champagne in her hand. She wore a pair of low-slung designer jeans and a slipover top.

  “As you can see,” she said, “I take my public relations job seriously.”

  She stood, came over to me, and drenched my mouth with a kiss.

  I said, “Is it going to make any difference that I’m not married?”

  She whispered, “It’ll be less fun for me, but I’ll deal with it.”

  Soon enough, Allison of PR was slipping out of her duds, then helping me slip out of my duds, and we went tumbling onto the bed.

  There on the bed, while she was completing the rest of her PR chores, the lyrics of an old song kept going through my head.

  Maybe I was justifying my sordid, weak-willed actions, but whatever the case, I kept hearing, “It was just…one of those things…just one of those crazy flings…”

  12

  The next morning I woke up to find Allison gone and a note by my pillow. The note said, “We’ll always have 423. Compliments of the PR Department. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

  As I shaved and showered and dressed I realized I didn’t need to know Allison’s last name if I decided to put her in the lineup with Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, and Mantle…or maybe I should say in the shootout with Hogan, Nicklaus, and Tiger.

  Ann Wendell was waiting for me at a table by a large window that looked out on a fake waterfall when I went down to meet her in the Sips and Dins. She was having coffee.

  “I apologize if I’m late,” I said, taking a seat, doing a quick study of her. I determined that she was on the high side of forty. Nice-looking in a nominee for Best Supporting Actress kind of way.

  “You are right on time,” she said. “Coffee?”

  “Hmm,” I said, holding up my cup. She poured from the pot that was on the table.

  I announced that I was starving. She announced that she was only having a toasted English muffin. When our blond, sleepy-eyed waiter named Dale acknowledged my presence and wandered over—another surf bum in action—I ordered two glasses of V-8 juice, a large glass of ice water, a fresh pot of coffee, the biggest breakfast steak available, four eggs over medium, hash browns, sliced tomatoes, white buttered toast, and honey.

  “My, you must have missed dinner last night,” Ann Wendell said.

  I said I’d done more or less the same thing. I’d eaten in the gourmet room.

  I couldn’t tell whether it registered or not.

  Trying again, I said they should call this place Rancho Trusto Fundo.

  No luck there either.

  As we waited for our order, she asked if I was going to the Speedy Arrow Energy Bar Classic in Ruidoso next week.

  I said I was considering it.

  It was a new tournament on a new golf course—Mescalero Country Club. Commissioner Marsha Wilson was urging all the players to show up. She was taking the credit for creating it, and deserved the credit.

  “We must support the commissioner,” Ann Wendell said.

  I hadn’t been to Ruidoso since I was a lad in Texas, but I assumed it still had a quarterhorse racetrack and its share of trailer parks.

  “Not the ideal schedule,” I said. “You’re in California, you go off to the New Mexico mountains, then come back to California—to Palm Springs—for the Dinah Shore. I mean, the Kraft Nabisco. If the Nabisco weren’t a major, the top players might skip it.”

  She said, “I hear more people call it the Dinah, and yet it hasn’t been that for years.”

  I said I would get right to it. My goal was to get Ginger Clayton on the cover of SM and pronounce her the next great lady golfer. Would that be overstating it, in her opinion?

  Ann Wendell said, “Ginger is a talented young lady and she is very ambitious. But calling her the next great player might be going a little too far. There’s a good deal of competition out here.”

  I said, “Let me tell you what I see. I know a great golf swing when I see it. Ginger has one. She has as good a natural grip as God ever gave a human being. She has size. What is she, five-ten? She has an athletic body…If she were a man, you’d say she has the physical stature of a Tiger Woods. That’s going to be hard for the other young ladies to compete with. The way she goes about everything is picture book. She doesn’t stroke a putt until she’s ready. She says she’s never missed a putt in her mind. In other words, she’s mentally tough. On top of it all, I’m convinced she wants it bad—the fame and glory. Something tells me she wouldn’t mind carrying the burden of number one at all. She would relish it.”

  “Her mother couldn’t say it better,” Ann Wendell replied. “But Thurlene is a mother, isn’t she? We’re all proud of our girls.”

  “You are friends, right? You and Thurlene?”

  “Heavens, we’ve been ‘golf moms’ together for seven years. My Debbie and her Ginger are very close. They’ve known each other since they were eleven.”

  I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Allison passing through the Sips and Dins with an armload of stuff. She was pantsuit perfect. The anchorwoman in stride. Spotting me from a di
stance, she tossed a quick smile and a finger wave—me, the casual acquaintance—and continued on about her business.

  “Isn’t Allison wonderful?” Ann Wendell said. “I have never encountered a hotel person who tries so hard to please the guests. All hotels and resorts should have someone like her.”

  “They certainly should,” I said.

  My massive breakfast arrived and I started to inhale it while I conducted the interview.

  We didn’t speak for a moment or two. Then Ann Wendell said, “It’s a shame about Ginger’s father.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Innocent. Slicing up the fried eggs at the same time.

  “Surely Thurlene has told you they’re divorced.”

  “She has. But she seems to think she’s well rid of him. Why is it a shame?”

  “Ed and I always thought Pete was a wonderful man and a good father. Ed is my husband. He doesn’t come out here much. Our three hardware stores keep him busy.”

  “Where are your stores?”

  “All around Houston. We have a home at Champions.”

  “I read where you were from Houston in the press guide.”

  “We moved to Houston from Wichita, Kansas, when Deb was five.”

  I said, “Talking about Pete Clayton and Thurlene, I guess there’s always two sides to every story. Except in my two divorces. There was only one side. Mine.”

  No laugh. Blank-faced Ann Wendell said, “The tragic thing about Pete…he’s missing out on Ginger’s success. It was Pete who started Ginger in golf. Oh, I can’t tell you how hard that man worked with his daughter when she was eleven, twelve, thirteen. I don’t know any father who has made more sacrifices than he did. Ed and I often talked about what a splendid father Pete was.”

  Good old Pete.

  I said, “This isn’t for my story by any means, but Thurlene is of the opinion that Pete was mishandling their daughter’s funds. I suppose that’s one way to put it. Did she ever speak to you about that?”

  “She did…and I don’t believe it for a second. I don’t mean for this to sound the way it’s going to sound, but the fact is, I don’t think Pete Clayton, sweet man that he is, would be, well, smart enough to know how to steal anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  “The other thing is, anyone in a family-owned business will tell you there’s a fine line between mishandling money and making an honest error in bookkeeping. Now, that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  She sat back in her chair.

  I tried to look as though I understood what she said. I nodded as I dwelled on one person’s theft being another person’s bookkeeping error, and how this went right in there with a loon-dancing professor saying one person’s terrorist is another person’s “freedom fighter.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “I hesitate to ask you about this, but intrepid journalist that I am, I have to. Two different sources have told me about you and your daughter having a little dustup at the Estee Lauder Classic last year. I’d like to hear your side of it.”

  She laughed ho-ho-ho. “Lord of mercy, is that old rumor still going around? I must say! Some people have nothing better to do.”

  I waited.

  “Jan Dunn and Linda Merle Draper were completely mistaken about what they observed. Debbie was bitterly angry at herself for the way she gave the tournament away. She let the bad breaks get the best of her, and believe me, she suffered one bad break after another. When I went in the locker room to console her, she was beating her fists on the wall. All I did was restrain her before she injured herself.”

  I said, “Jan Dunn and Linda Merle Draper apparently thought enough about what they saw to report it to the commissioner.”

  Ann Wendell said, “Yes, well. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I think before you accept Jan and Linda Merle’s version of what happens regarding anything at all, you might want to consider their…sexual orientation, shall I say?”

  Later on, when I was halfway down the first fairway with Thurlene and we were waiting for Ginger to tee off in the final round, I reported my conversation with Ann Wendell as best I remembered it.

  Thurlene couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud three times.

  13

  Why so many sports agents have been allowed to become part of the human race is still something of a mystery. Nevertheless, they are here, they’ve been here, they’re multiplying, and two of the finest liars and thieves among them joined us in Ginger’s gallery as the kid was finishing the front nine three under par and turning the tournament into cake.

  They were a rare sight on the golf course. Two guys in dark suits, sweating, ties loosened, slipping around in street shoes, lugging briefcases, punching on their BlackBerries.

  They looked like they’d dropped out of the sky. Maybe it’s more accurate to say they looked like they’d jumped out of an American Airlines 767 and flapped their arms enough to land safely.

  Howie (the Dart) Daniels, the one with bushy black hair and a thick mustache, had been a top thief at Creative Sports Enterprises, CSE, for a decade. Sid (Smacky) Lasher, completely bald and five-two, had been a reliable crook for ten years with LTG, Logos to Go.

  If the two agents had cared about anything other than money, they would have admired Thurlene’s outfit for the day. She wore what I would swear was a tennis ensemble. Her white top was sleeveless, showed an expanse of back, and was cut dangerously low in the front. The white skirt was mid-thigh. Another jacked-up mini.

  I remarked on how much I liked her tan. Oh, and nice outfit.

  “You’re very observant,” she said. “You must hear that often.”

  What I hadn’t said was that a man who didn’t know she was forty years old would swear that she couldn’t be more than twenty-five. But somehow I had an idea she knew this.

  Her outfit brought something else to mind. Lady golfers were dressing more like tennis players now. Showing more skin. Maybe the next step in their progress would be to dress like gymnasts. Show their legs up to the crotch. Then in their final marketing—branding—step they could dress like topless dancers in a T&A club. It was only a thought.

  In other news, it was a handy thing that Ginger Clayton had the Firm Chick Classic under control—she was seven strokes clear of the field going to the last nine holes. That’s because Howie and Smacky were determined to occupy Thurlene’s time.

  As we walked down the tenth fairway, Howie the Dart said to Thurlene, “Why is he with us?”

  Meaning me.

  She explained that I was doing a piece on Ginger for SM. The kid might make the cover.

  “We can do better,” Howie said. “I can get Sports Illustrated, ESPN, Golf Digest, GQ, Esquire. I’ve got ’em all right here.”

  He showed us a fist.

  “That’s a lot of magazines for only one hand,” I said.

  Howie said, “I thought I was talking to the lady. Do you mind if I talk to the lady? I’m here to do what’s best for the Clayton family, and the last time I looked, sportswriters didn’t know crapola about finance.”

  I said, “You can’t guarantee a cover, Howie. It doesn’t work like that, and even if it did, you don’t have enough stroke to get it done.”

  Howie said, “Tell me something you don’t know, Jack. There must be something you don’t know anything about. What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you something I read once about agents,” I said. “Ben Hogan said you always say no to the first three offers.”

  Howie said, “Ben Hogan, huh? He was, what, sixty years ago? Wow. He must have made a hundred grand in those days. What do you make, big-time golf writer? One seventy-five? Two bills? Yo! My watch and car cost more than that.”

  Smacky jumped in. “I go in a different direction. I get her Vogue, Teen Vogue, Glamour. We turn the kid into Twiggy.”

  “Twiggy?” said Howie the Dart to Smacky Lasher. “What decade are we in here?”

  Smacky said, “I say we go glitter all the way. L
TG slides her into fashion. Fashion and sports have a head-on. We’re talking hot mix here. We’re talking Sharapova plays golf. Know what I mean? The Russian babe? Blonde? Legs up to here? It rains money on her. We do the same thing with Ginger. Good looks and golf talent on the fast track to Coinville. Open the vault, here we come.”

  Thurlene said to both agents, “My daughter needs to win this golf tournament before she does anything else. If you don’t mind, I would like to concentrate on the tournament.”

  Howie said, “The stove is hot, Thurlene. It may not get any hotter. I have a deal memo with me. All we need is your signature, we put on catcher’s mitts, they start throwing it at us.”

  She said, “Guys, Ginger’s going to New Mexico next week, then she’s playing in the Nabisco. We’re not making a decision until after Palm Springs. If she does well in the Nabisco, well…you guys are familiar with arithmetic.”

  Way to go, Thurlene, I thought. Stick it right up there where agents can understand it.

  Smacky retreated. He walked over to find a little shade in a palm grove and toyed with his BlackBerry.

  Howie stood there, studying a message on his own BlackBerry.

  “Just curious, Howie,” I said. “Is that from John Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde?”

  As it often happens when somebody tries to nurse a lead, the back nine turned into a thriller. The combination of two overcautious bogeys by Ginger and three birdies by Suzy Scott left the kid with only a two-shot lead as they went to the treacherous seventeenth hole.

  Burch Webb, the famous golf course architect, had thrown all of his artistic skills into the design of the par-three seventeenth hole at the Villa. He’d copied the twelfth at Augusta National.

  There were only two differences. This seventeenth hole was thirty yards longer than the twelfth at Augusta. It was 185 compared to 155. And the backdrop at the Villa was a fake waterfall instead of bunkers and bushes. Everything else was the same. Water front and right. Shallow green. Today the position was front right. Same as it always is at the Masters for Sunday’s final round. A nerve-tester.