by Keith Miles
‘Zuke told me to give you a ticker tape reception.’
‘You certainly did that.’
‘I’m Mardie Cutler,’ she introduced, resorting to the formality of a handshake. ‘I was asked to come and pick you up.’
She waved to a short, bull-necked man, who grabbed my suitcase and golf bag and led the way towards the car park. A minute later, we were getting into the rear of a large and luxurious Buick. The chauffeur started the engine but it was almost inaudible as we pulled away. He spoke over his shoulder.
‘What d’ya want, lady? Freeway or Lincoln?’
‘Lincoln.’
‘Ya got it.’
As we turned on to Lincoln Boulevard and headed north, I had a closer look at Mardie Cutler. Slim, lithe and of medium height, she had a small, sharp-featured face that was lit by a pair of aquamarine eyes. Short brown hair was circled by a thick white ribbon. She wore a baggy shirt above tight jeans and somehow reminded me of a ballet dancer. I put her in her early twenties.
‘How was the trip?’ she asked.
‘Tiring.’
‘Do you always wear a track suit when you fly?’
‘Most comfortable way to travel.’
‘I guess so. One thing, anyway. I had no problem picking you out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Zuke just told me to look for him.’
I smiled and nodded. Superficially, there was a definite resemblance between Zuke Everett and me. He was also tall, thin and grey-haired and had something of my gait when he moved. From a distance, we could be mistaken for each other and it had sometimes caused a little confusion among television commentators. Close to, his face was much longer than mine, his nose more aquiline and his teeth more prominent. Again, his distinctive, roguish grin was something I could never match. It was the essence of the man.
There was another major difference between us. Zuke Everett was one of the most successful golfers around. I was not.
‘Sorry about the rain, Alan.’
‘I forgive you.’
‘We had bright sunshine this morning.’ She glanced out through the window. ‘Been to LA before?’
‘Quite a few times.’
‘Like it?’
‘Well, I always love coming here,’ I said, ‘but I’m usually ready to leave after a few days. Bit too over-whelming. I could never live in a pressure cooker like Los Angeles.’
‘That’s what I used to think, yet I’m still here. After five years. It’s got a grip on me now. And it sure is one hell of a big improvement on Pocatello.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Where I come from. Pocatello, Idaho.’
‘So what brought you here?’
‘College. I stayed because of my career.’
‘You work for Zuke?’
She giggled. ‘No, I couldn’t do that. He makes me laugh all the time. We’re just friends. Mrs. Everett is a client of mine. That’s how I got to meet Zuke. He’s a terrific guy.’
‘Mrs. Everett is a client of yours?’
‘Yes. I go to the house at least twice a week.’
‘For what?’
‘Workouts. Aerobics. That’s how I earn my bread.’
I hadn’t been too far off target with ballet dancing. There was a vitality about Mardie that suggested a high level of fitness and a real commitment to the work she did.
‘LA keeps me very busy,’ she continued. ‘My clients all need to look good and feel good. That’s where I come in. I keep them slim and healthy and on top of the world.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Valmai was into aerobics.’
‘Valmai?’
‘Zuke’s wife.’
‘Mrs. Everett’s name is Helen.’
‘Since when?’
‘As long as I’ve known them. Three, four months.’
‘What happened to Valmai?’
‘I didn’t even know that was her name. Zuke never mentions his first wife. They just split up, I guess.’
I was at once surprised and disturbed.
Zuke and Valmai Everett had almost convinced me that there could be such a thing as a happy marriage. They seemed ideally suited. While he was the effervescent entertainer who loved the spotlight, she was the loyal and devoted stage manager. Zuke once told me that he’d have got nowhere without Valmai. She brought calm and sanity and a sense of purpose into his life.
Valmai also brought luck. Wherever he played golf—in any part of the world—she went with him. Her presence always inspired him and his reliance on her was touching. I noticed it particularly because it contrasted so starkly with my own marital situation. I found it impossible to play well in front of Rosemary and stopped her coming to any tournaments.
Golf thrust us apart as surely as it drew them together.
Yet now they had broken up as well. It seemed inconceivable. Intelligent, kind, warm-hearted, Valmai had the sort of gentle beauty that slowly increases with age. Only a very remarkable woman could have supplanted her.
‘What’s his second wife like?’ I wondered.
‘Helen? Oh, she’s quite something.’ There was a slight reserve in her voice. ‘A real stunner in every way.’
‘Is she younger than Zuke?’
‘About ten years or so.’
‘Which part of the States is she from?’
‘No part. She’s Mexican. Used to be an actress.’
‘What was her stage name?’
‘Helen Ramirez.’
It rang a bell but I couldn’t remember why.
Some of the excitement had now gone out of my visit. Instead of staying with two friends whom I liked immensely, I was intruding on a second marriage that completely baffled me. I began to feel highly uncomfortable.
It was well over a year since I’d met Zuke Everett. He’d been a member of the victorious Ryder Cup team which had humbled us in the heat of Florida. On that occasion, Zuke had been Zuke. Friendly, full of fun, ruthlessly competitive out on the course. Valmai had been there to cheer him and the US team home. The couple had seemed as unashamedly in love as ever.
I couldn’t believe so much had changed since then.
Mardie chatted on amiably about the Everetts. Though it was the wife who employed her, she was clearly much fonder of the husband and described some of the practical jokes that he’d played on her. In those, at least, I caught a glimpse of the old Zuke.
The rain eased off and the sun made its first appearance of the afternoon. We’d reached Santa Monica now and were gliding along Ocean Avenue with the Pacific below us on our left. Mardie gazed out as Palisades Park loomed up on our right.
‘Almost there,’ she observed.
Another surprise. The Everetts had owned a beautiful mansion further up the coast in Malibu and Zuke had always sworn that he would never part with it. Yet we were slowing to a halt in front of a hacienda-style dwelling that commanded a view of the ocean. It was a big, dramatic building in bleached-white stone, but it didn’t compare with the Malibu home.
Our chauffeur sounded his horn and waited until the wrought iron gates were opened electronically from inside the house. The car slid through the archway and around the crescent drive, stopping in front of the porch. We got out. Almost immediately, Zuke came bounding through the door and grabbed me in a bear hug.
‘Hi, Al! Great to see you!’
‘Good to be here.’
‘How was the flight?’
‘I survived.’
‘You made it—that’s the main thing.’
He released me and stood back to appraise me. There was no apparent change in him. Casually elegant in blue slacks and sweatshirt, he still conveyed his usual charm and zest. The famous grin was intact.
‘How’s th
e weather in England?’
‘Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.’
He laughed. ‘We’ll have to thaw you out.’
Mardie had got the chauffeur to put my luggage in the hall. As they came out of the house, she gave him a tip, then came to join us. She looked from Zuke to me and then back again.
‘No,’ she decided, shaking her head, ‘you don’t really look alike side by side. I’d never mix you guys up.’
‘That’s a relief,’ noted Zuke, slipping an arm familiarly around her shoulders. ‘Did you get a proper welcome at the airport, Al?’
‘Couldn’t fault it.’
‘That’s my girl!’ He gave her a kiss, then turned towards the house. ‘Let’s go inside.’
We followed him into a large hall with a tiled floor. Mardie checked her watch and made straight for the telephone that stood on an elaborately carved table. Her manner showed that she was completely at home there.
‘Mind if I use your phone? I’m going to be late for Mrs. Hahn.’
‘Cancel her and stay for a drink,’ he advised, easily.
‘You don’t cancel a woman like Mrs. Hahn.’
‘Okay. Have it your way.’
Mardie took an address book from her shirt pocket, flicked to the right page, dialled a number. Zuke handed me my golf bag and picked up my suitcase.
‘Lemme show you your room.’
‘Nice place,’ I admired as I trailed him across the hall. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Almost six months.’
‘Very different from the Malibu house.’
‘That was the idea.’
He led me into a bedroom which ran to a matching wardrobe and chest of drawers, an upright chair, two heavy armchairs and a coffee table with a scene from a bullfight painted on it. There was a colourful duvet on the bed. Apart from an ornate mirror, the white walls were bare.
‘Bathroom through there,’ he said, indicating a door, then he nodded to the arched window. ‘Feel free to use all the facilities.’
I looked out at the luxury swimming pool that was surrounded by wrought iron tables and chairs. The sunshades were still wet from the rain, and water dripped steadily. Beyond the pool was a long, wide lawn that stretched on to a cluster of palm trees and some thick bushes. Something was glinting in the sun between the tops of the trees but I couldn’t make it out.
‘Must dash,’ called Mardie, popping her head into the room. ‘Good to’ve met you, Alan.’
‘Yes…’ I began.
But she was already gone. A second later we heard the front door open and slam. Zuke slapped me affectionately on the shoulder.
‘Come and see the rest of the house.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘You’ll have to get used to Mardie flashing in and out,’ he explained as we strolled back into the hall. ‘That kid is a human dynamo. Never stops buzzing.’
We went into the living room in time to see a Renault 5 shoot past the window and out through the open gates. Mardie Cutler was evidently in a hurry to reach her next client.
‘What d’you think?’ asked Zuke, as if needing reassurance.
‘Fantastic,’ I said, gazing around.
‘Isn’t it terrific?’
‘Very impressive.’
‘Wait till you see the dining room.’
We continued the tour of the ground floor. Apart from the ultra-modern kitchen, all the rooms were the same. Large, imposing and with an exotic-primitive feel to them. Brightly coloured rugs scattered over tile floors. White walls covered in tapestries or Aztec paintings. Minimal furniture chosen for its bulk and solidity. Stoneware lamps and pieces of sculpture.
None of it spoke of the Zuke Everett that I knew.
‘I bet you could use a drink,’ he offered.
‘Just lead me to it.’
‘Let’s go in the den.’
The last room into which he showed me was the smallest so far but easily the most comfortable. Shelves supported an amiable clutter of books, magazines, trophies and golfing memorabilia. Photographs and golfing prints stood or hung everywhere. The place was warm, inviting, pleasantly untidy and exclusively masculine. It was identical to the room I remembered at the Malibu house. Zuke had brought his old den to his new home.
There was one significant difference. He no longer had any photos of Valmai on display. She’d been lost in transit.
He waved me to a leather armchair and opened a cupboard.
‘What’ll it be?’
‘Have you got any white wine?’
‘Sure.’
‘Medium dry, please.’
‘On its way.’
He reached into the nearby refrigerator to pull out a bottle and uncorked it as we talked. Now that he was in his private sanctum, he was totally relaxed and sounded genuinely pleased to see me.
‘Been a long time.’
‘Florida,’ I noted. ‘Don’t remind me who won.’
‘We take the European challenge more seriously these days.’
‘You’d better, Zuke. We intend to snatch the Ryder Cup back when you come to Britain later this year. Spread the warning.’
‘I will.’
‘I was hoping to see you last summer,’ I continued. ‘Not often you miss an Open Championship. What went wrong?’
‘Few things to sort out at this end,’ he said, off-handedly.
Parting from a wife of twelve years’ standing. Marrying a new one. Moving to Santa Monica. Changing his whole lifestyle. A few things to sort out. It was the euphemism of the month.
‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ I took the proffered glass of wine.
He poured himself a neat vodka and flopped down in a chair beside me, then raised his glass to clink mine.
‘Welcome to Dreamland, old buddy!’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
The Californian wine was excellent and chilled to perfection.
‘How’s the jet lag?’ he asked.
‘I can still see you out of one eye.’
‘Say, maybe you ought to grab a few hours’ sleep while you can. Something tells me it could be a long night.’
‘What could?’
‘There’s a big party at the club. We’re expected to join in the celebrations and say all the right things to the press and to the sponsors.’ He pulled a face. ‘Especially to the sponsors. Could be a real drag but it’ll give you a chance to meet everybody and to take a look at the Golden Haze set-up.’
‘Count me in.’
‘We don’t need to leave until around nine.’
‘I’ll be ready.’ I sipped more wine. ‘Is it true what Clive Phelps told me? There’s only thirty of us in the tournament?’
He grinned. ‘Means that none of us’ll have the embarrassment of missing the cut because we’ll all play four rounds. Mind you, the field may be small but it’s classy. There’ll be some good golfers out there. They were chosen either because they’d won something on last year’s tour over here or because they’d picked up a major championship along the way. Like you.’
‘Yes, I still haven’t thanked you properly, Zuke.’
‘For what?’
‘Putting my name forward.’
‘It was nothing,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I made a few phone calls, that’s all. What else is a pal for?’
‘The invitation couldn’t have come at a better time.’
‘We needed you, Al,’ he argued. ‘They’re selling this goddamn tournament on the strength of its international stars yet they had no British golfer in the line-up. Except Bob Tolley, that is, and I don’t count him. That guy practically lives here!’ He drained his glass, then put it down. ‘Whole thing seemed crazy to me. So when H
orton Kincaid was forced out with that bad back of his, I jumped in and suggested Alan Saxon.’
‘Can’t tell you how grateful I am, Zuke.’
‘Then don’t even try,’ he said, punching me playfully on the arm. ‘Besides, I get my cut out of the deal. Off the course, I got you all to myself. Be great having you around again. Just like old times.’
‘Just like old times.’
But it would not be and we both knew it.
Zuke’s grin slowly faded as he looked into my eyes, then he lowered his head as if collecting his thoughts. When he raised it again, he seemed to be on the point of confiding in me but the words never came. A car horn beeped outside and he stood involuntarily. Zuke became the genial host once more.
‘That’ll be Helen. Come out and meet her.’
‘Right.’
‘She’s been with her hairdresser all afternoon.’
As we got to the hall, the front door swung open. Helen Everett did not so much come in as make a grand entrance. When she saw me, she stopped in her tracks and posed in the open doorway. The effect was quite startling and it made me blink.
Tall and shapely with a full bust, she was dressed in a vivid red suit with matching red fashion boots. Her glistening black hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders and large red earrings peeped out from beneath it. Dark round eyes were set in a face of almost classic beauty. Perfect white teeth showed in a dazzling smile.
I began to understand what had happened to Zuke.
‘Hi, honey,’ he called. ‘This is Al.’
‘Hello,’ she said, extending a hand towards me.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I replied, shaking it and feeling the delicate warmth of her fingers. ‘Very kind of you to put up with me.’
‘Zuke’s friends are always welcome. As long as they don’t expect me to go and watch them play that silly game.’
Her English was good but her heavy accent seemed forced.
‘Helen doesn’t care too much for golf,’ explained her husband, beaming fondly at her. ‘Haven’t got her house-trained yet but I’m working on it. She’ll come round.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ she warned.
‘I believe you were an actress,’ I observed.
Pride came into her voice. ‘I still am an actress.’
‘This is the famous Helen Ramirez,’ teased Zuke. ‘One stage play, six commercials and bit part in Rocky IV.’
