by Keith Miles
‘I have been on the brink of stardom for years,’ she retorted with eyes blazing. ‘They said I could be a second Katy Jurado.’
‘Honey, I was only joking,’ he appeased.
‘Well, your joke is not very funny.’
‘You’re a fantastic actress. One of the best.’
‘Excuse me!’
Her exit was even more theatrical than her entry. With a dignified fury, she surged past us and swept up the stone staircase as if she had rehearsed the move a hundred times. A bedroom door soon slammed.
Zuke’s grin looked decidedly nervous around the edges.
‘Sorry about that. Helen tends to fly off the handle.’
‘Would it be okay if I took that nap now?’ I asked.
‘Sure thing. See you later.’
As I withdrew tactfully, he went upstairs to clam her.
After closing my bedroom curtains and slipping off my trainers, I lay on the duvet with my hands behind my head. That name. Helen Ramirez. It rang a bell again.
A second Katy Jurado.
It came to me in a flash. Just before Christmas, the BBC had screened a series of Gary Cooper films. High Noon was the first and we’d watched it one night at St Albans. The film still worked superbly. What puzzled me, however, was why our hero chose the repressed Grace Kelly character in place of the tempestuous Mexican Katy Jurado. Ice instead of fire. I know which one of them I’d have taken off in a buggy.
Katy Jurado had played the part of Helen Ramirez.
The new Mrs. Everett was still playing it.
I wondered what her real name was.
***
The Golden Haze Golf Club occupied a prime position in the San Fernando Valley and had the sort of facilities that put the majority of its competitors to shame. Inside the vast, domed, futuristic clubhouse were four bars, two restaurants, a coffee lounge, a hairdressing salon, a crèche, a gymnasium, a swimming pool, saunas, offices, storerooms and apartments for senior staff. There was also a golf shop the size of a small trade exhibition and, at the rear of the clubhouse, a magnificent driving range.
By the time we arrived, it was too dark to see anything of the course itself but opinions about it were being voiced on every side. Golden Haze seemed to attract extravagant praise or outright condemnation. There was no middle ground.
‘Take it from me, Al. It’s a killer.’
‘As bad as that, Howie?’
‘Some of the meanest holes I ever saw. Only a sadist could design a golf course like that one.’
‘Well, he has to get his kicks somehow.’
‘Listen to me. Wise up fast. You play in that tournament, check your life insurance first.’
Howie Danzig was a short, wiry, untidy man in his sixties with a squashed tomato face and a wry view of the human condition. He’d managed Zuke Everett from the start and taken him right to the top. I’d always liked Howie. His abrasive manner and deep love of the game made him a lively companion. He’d aged since we last met and I was sorry to see that he now used a walking stick.
His scorn, however, was as healthy as ever.
‘This tournament stinks!’
‘Then why did you let Zuke enter it?’
‘I didn’t, Al. Warned him against it like I warned a coupla my other players. They had the sense to pull out. Not Zuke. Got hold of the idea that he had to win the first ever Kallgren Tournament of Champions and that was that.’
‘So what’s wrong with the event?’
‘This place for a start,’ he snapped, waving his stick around. ‘Space age golf. Look at it, will you? Then there’s that deathtrap out there they call a golf course.’ His features hardened. ‘Most of all, there’s Kallgren himself!’
The party was being held in the conference room and it was in full swing. Howie and I stood in a quiet corner while the two hundred or so other guests drank, ate, talked, laughed, argued, circulated or simply listened to the band who were providing background music with a Latin flavour.
At the centre of it all, holding court with benign aplomb, was the man who conceived and built Golden Haze. Tall, suave and immaculate in a light grey mohair suit, Rutherford Kallgren had the kind of easy authority that only comes with the possession of immense wealth. Queening it beside him was his wife, a handsome woman with a blue rinse and a dress that cost more than my entire wardrobe. The Kallgrens had to be around Howie’s age but both looked fifteen years younger.
I’d never been that close to so much money before and I found it rather intimidating. Howie Danzig was in no way abashed.
‘There ought to be a law!’ he snarled.
‘Against what?’
‘Guys like Kallgren. I mean, you let them into the game, where does it end? They want every goddamn piece of the action.’ He gestured with his stick again. ‘How much d’you think it all cost?’
I shrugged. ‘Millions of dollars, I suppose.’
‘Bigger bucks than that, Al. You’re standing on some of the most expensive real estate in California. Millions went on simply buying the land. Then there were all the development costs and consultancy fees. Five years’ work on site to build the course and stick up this place. Now, I know—as sure as there’s shit in a goat—that Kallgren isn’t going to lay out all that dough just to have a golf course where he can take his smart Hollywood friends. That guy only spends it to make it. He’s in golf to bleed it dry.’ He puts his glass down on a table. ‘This party’s not good for my blood pressure. I’m off.’
‘Before you go, Howie,’ I said, anxious to get his opinion of something. ‘The second Mrs. Everett.’
‘What about her?’ His tone was gruff.
‘You tell me.’
‘Man wants a nice piece of Mexican ass, it don’t come any nicer.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking.’
‘Zuke’s private life is his own,’ he asserted, fixing me with a glaucous eye. ‘But I liked it better when he used to win.’
Howie gave me a nod of farewell and hobbled off.
When I looked across at my hosts, they were still revelling in the occasion. Helen wore a low-cut, tightly fitting dress of white satin that gave her an almost bridal radiance while Zuke had opted for a red, open-necked shirt beneath a white tuxedo. Both were happy and animated as they chatted to a group of friends. For the first time, the couple seemed really together.
I was glad to be able to linger on the fringes of it all. Too much champagne and too little sleep had combined to make me quite groggy and I was in no mood to socialise. I was especially grateful to dodge all the media attention. This was focussed on the American stars like Zuke and Phil Reiner and Dayton Willard, and on the sensational young Egyptian golfer, Gamil Amir, who had astounded the USPGA tour the previous April by winning both the coveted Masters and the Sea Pines Heritage Classic within the space of eleven days.
Though still in his early twenties, Amir was handling all the attention with great coolness. His striking good looks were a magnet for every camera, and almost every woman in the room had mentally photographed him as well. As I glanced across at him now, he was still surrounded by adoring female company.
I suddenly missed Katie Billings. I was jealous.
‘Come and join the party, Al.’
‘No, I’m fine where I am, thanks.’
‘But you need to meet people,’ said Zuke, who had strolled across to me. ‘Lemme introduce you to someone.’
‘I have actually spoken to lots of people,’ I pointed out.
‘Kallgren?’
‘We shook hands when I first arrived.’
‘Tom Bellinghaus? You gotta meet the course architect.’
‘I already have, Zuke,’ I replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ve also talked to Phil Reiner, Bob Tolley, Norman Underwood, Howie and many others.
I even had a few words with a man who could have passed for James Garner.’
He chuckled. ‘That was James Garner.’
‘The film star?’
‘Kallgren knows everybody. If your eyes weren’t half-closed with jet lag, you’d have noticed Telly Savalas, Andy Williams and Lee Majors here earlier on. And they reckon Stallone may drop in later. That’s what Golden Haze is going to be, Al. A home for the Hollywood set.’ He slapped my shoulder. ‘Let’s face it. They’re the only ones who can afford to join.’ We shared a laugh. ‘By the way, don’t ever play against Garner in a pro-am. That guy is some golfer on his day.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ I suppressed a second yawn. ‘Any chance of me taking a taxi back to the house? I’m bushed.’
‘We’ll all go soon,’ he promised. ‘There’s just one more person you have to meet. Suzanne Fricker. Come on.’
‘Who is she?’ I asked as he guided me through the crowd.
‘Works for Kallgren. One of his head honchos. Suzanne is a bit special. That’s her in the black dress.’
I’d spotted her earlier. If Helen Everett hadn’t been in the room, Suzanne Fricker would have been the most attractive female. Slim and svelte in a black evening gown, she had a face that could have come straight off the cover of a glossy magazine. Short hair flecked with grey was brushed back from her forehead in porcupine style. Even across a large room, I had seen how much jewellery she was wearing.
Zuke embraced her and gave her a kiss on each cheek.
‘Hi, babe. Want you to say hello to my good friend, Alan Saxon.’ He turned to me. ‘Al, this is the boss lady of the whole tournament—the beautiful and talented Suzanne Fricker.’
‘Good to have you with us, Alan,’ she said, flashing a smile.
‘Thanks,’ I replied, shaking her hand and finding it rather cold. ‘It’s a real bonus for me to be here.’
‘We’ll be seeing a lot of each other this week.’
‘Can’t be bad,’ I remarked, manufacturing a grin. ‘And are you really the boss lady?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’m just part of the Kallgren team. I handle the contractual side of things.’
‘Suzanne is a hot-shot lawyer,’ explained Zuke, putting an arm casually around her waist. ‘You watch out, old buddy. She can tie you up so tight in legal jargon, you’ll need an escape clause to go to the john.’
Her laugh was immediate but quite hollow.
Suzanne Fricker lost a lot of her attraction close up. There was an artificial quality about her that went beyond the heavy make-up and the careful poise. When her face slipped into a smile, her eyes remained detached and watchful. She reminded me of something.
A Barbie doll with a law degree.
‘What do you think of the clubhouse?’ she asked me.
‘If we had places as luxurious as this in England, we’d never go out and play golf.’ Her gaze never left me. I was being assessed. ‘How long have you been with Mr. Kallgren?’
‘Eighteen months. It sure beats court work.’
‘Court?’
‘Suzanne was at the US Attorney’s office,’ said Zuke. ‘Her job was to send some poor bastard to the state penitentiary.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘Especially when some poor bastard embezzled millions of dollars. I was with the Special Prosecutions Unit. Had its moments. I was into large-scale fraud.’
‘So what’s changed?’ teased Zuke.
Another empty laugh, then her eyes flicked across the room.
‘Hey, buster, you got competition.’
‘What?’
‘Not that I blame Helen. That guy could charge stud fees.’
Zuke’s manner altered at once. As soon as he saw Gamil Amir talking to Helen, then kissing her hand with excessive courtesy, he let go of Suzanne and raced off. We watched him say something to the Egyptian, who tensed angrily in reply before nodding politely to Helen and moving away. Suzanne kept her eyes on Amir and spoke softly to herself.
‘Six foot two and handsome all the way down! Oh boy!’
We left the party soon afterwards.
The drive back was hair-raising. Zuke took his Mercedes well over the speed limit, zigzagging through the late-night traffic with complete disregard for our safety, doing his best to provoke some sort of response from his wife. None came. Helen remained silent and vengeful in the rear of the car.
When we reached the house, she went straight upstairs and he chased after her. A row erupted in the bedroom and I took my cue to slide off to my own room. As I prepared myself for bed, muffled shouts continued and then ended abruptly. I was relieved. Marital bickering always reminds me of Rosemary.
I got into bed, switched off the light and snuggled down. There was a knock on the door and Zuke came in. Rage had left him now and he was in high spirits. He pulled back my duvet.
‘Come on, Al, one last drink. Help me unwind.’
‘Zuke, I’m all in.’
‘Just one. Be a pal.’
He ushered me along to his den, installed me in an armchair and poured two glasses of brandy. Unlocking a drawer in the oak desk, he took out a video cassette and laughed with childish delight as he slipped it into his recorder. After pressing buttons, he flopped into the chair beside me and pointed at the television screen.
‘This is what we need, Al. Wait till you see it.’
The film was called Country Pleasures. It was made with a low budget and high seriousness. The opening shot gave us a Porsche haring along a country road and then gradually slowing. A close-up of the dashboard confirmed that the petrol tank was empty. The car halted and the driver got out. Since he had the sort of physique that would have enabled him to kick sand into Arnold Schwarzenegger’s face with impunity, I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just lift the car on to his shoulder and carry it off to the nearest garage.
Instead, he took a petrol can from the boot and began to walk. Cut to a wooded area. Excited female noises. Muscle man registers curiosity and crosses to peer through the bushes. The girls, of course, are stark naked. One black, one white. More reaction shots of the voyeur, then into the heavy breathing.
Zuke began to laugh and sat forward on the edge of his chair.
I fell asleep during the first orgasm.
***
I awoke next morning to a double surprise. Someone had put me to bed and a pop group was using my skull as a rehearsal studio. When I sat up and shook my head, I realised that the pounding music was, in fact, coming from the living room and that its din was intensified by a rhythmical thumping and a series of high-pitched yells. All was explained when I crept into the hall and followed the noise.
Mardie Cutler was leading Helen Everett in a strenuous workout. They were bending, stretching, leaping and kicking in time to the venomous beat blasting out of quadriphonic speakers. Both wore leotards that advertised their natural charms and both were caught up in the hysteria of their ritual.
I felt exhausted just watching them but the indefatigable Mardie had enough breath to yell commands to her client. Her voice kept to the music and rose above it.
‘So we stretch to the right on a count of ten—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Then we stretch to the left and do it again—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Now we keep on dancing and stay on our toes, then we lift those knees and…’
I sneaked away before they noticed me.
An hour later, I’d shaved, showered, dressed, breakfasted and was being driven northwards on the San Diego freeway in a Grand Wagoneer. Zuke was much more subdued and said very little. It gave me the chance to look around and take stock.
The San Fernando Valley is a quintessential part of the burgeoning megalopolis known as Los Angeles. Covering an area of 177 square miles, the Valley
runs from the Ventura County line on the west, to the San Gabriel Mountains on the east and north, to the Santa Monica Mountains on the south. Geography is an inadequate description, however. The Valley has a psychic importance. Its fertility, its beauty, its prosperity and its infinite variety help to shape the minds of Angelenos.
As I watched craggy mountains rise up ahead of us in the morning sunlight, I felt my spirits surge. Even when viewed from a busy freeway, the Valley could stimulate and liberate.
It eventually brought Zuke out of his untypical silence.
‘Valle de Santa Catalina de Bononia de los Encinos.’
‘Sorry. Don’t speak Spanish.’
‘Old name for this place. When a guy called Father Juan Crespi first climbed over the Sepulveda Pass in 1769, he saw what he described as “a very pleasant and spacious valley”.’ Zuke gave a mirthless laugh. ‘That was before the Kallgrens of this world moved in.’
We left the freeway and headed for the Golden Haze Golf Club.
When I first saw the card of the course, it had induced quiet panic in me. It was less about golf than about a reign of terror.
hole
par
yardage
1. Spyglass Hill
5
600
2. Cascades
3
158
3. Pinehurst
4
345
4. Firestone
4
465
5. Winged Foot
5
515
6. Merion
4
420
