Double Eagle

by Keith Miles

  ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘I have this trouble with men.’

  ‘Fighting them off.’

  ‘Quite the reverse, Alan.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Just look at me.’

  ‘Terrific view from here,’ I heard myself saying.

  She took my hand and squeezed it gratefully. In the glow of the candlelight, she looked almost beautiful. A synthetic illusion. I kept hold of her hand as she talked on.

  ‘Most guys run a mile when they see me. I know what they think. Suzanne Fricker has got ball-breaker written all over her. Who wants to lay a mega-bitch like that?’ Her tone hardened. ‘Oh, there are plenty of dirty old men like Tom Bellinghaus who’ll make a grab at anything that moves and I also get the weirdos who can’t resist taking a crack at me in order to put me in my place. I even had one guy who told me he could only screw women who earned more than he did—then he was surprised when I invited him to stick it up his own ass!’ She took a deep breath, then smiled. ‘You see my problem, Alan. Real men are in short supply. That’s what made Zuke special. He wasn’t like the rest of those jerks. He knew about love.’ She leaned in closer to me. ‘That’s my story. What’s yours?’

  ‘I’m still trying to live it down.’

  ‘Old wounds?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She gazed deep into my eyes and I found myself kissing her hand. Though I’d been wary of her at our first meeting, I was now drawn to her. Suzanne had confided in me. She’d shown me her weaknesses and touched on one of mine in doing so.

  ‘Would you like anything else?’ she asked softly.

  ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Come and find out.’

  The bedroom had a formal luxury to it. Subtle tones of white and pink complemented each other everywhere. The carpet was ankle deep. The bed was a four-poster with a billowing canopy.

  Naked apart from the coin around her neck, she lay in the middle of the duvet with me and searched my body with her fingers. Her kiss had an urgency to which I responded at once. Suzanne held nothing back. The four-poster shook violently.

  Suzanne Fricker was a proficient lover. She seemed to be going through an established routine and there was a slightly functional quality about it all, but I didn’t mind that in the least. Earlier that day, I’d almost driven over the side of a cliff in a Chevy Chevette. It was wonderful to be alive and I could think of no better way to celebrate the fact. It gave my ego a tremendous boost.

  When it was all over, I lay on top of her in a state of mild exhaustion. The gold coin had been pressed hard between us and I saw that it had left its imprint on both of us.

  ‘A double eagle,’ I noted.

  Suzanne eased me off her, then reached out to the bedside table and handed me a box of tissues. She vanished into the bathroom and I heard the shower running. When she finally emerged, she was wearing a pink bathrobe and mules. Her manner was briskly affectionate.

  ‘Get dressed. I’ll make some coffee.’

  Zuke Everett might have brought love into her life but he’d taught her nothing about afterglow. I felt used. Hurt.

  While I was drinking my coffee, she rang for a limousine. It soon arrived. She took me to the door and slid back the bolts.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ she said.

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Was it because I reminded you of Zuke?’

  She kissed me on the cheek. ‘That, too.’

  I went out into the hallway and she locked the door behind me. After making love to Helen Everett, I’d felt guilty and ashamed. This time, it was different. There was pleasure, surprise and a degree of wounded pride. I couldn’t fathom Suzanne. It worried me.

  The limousine was waiting to take me back to the motel. When I reached the privacy of my own room again, something occurred to me for the first time.

  I’d been seduced.

  ***

  Clive Phelps had never looked worse. When he lowered himself on to the seat beside me, I had grave doubts that he would ever get out of it. His skin was sallow, his eyes bloodshot, his moustache drooping sadly. His crumpled suit and general air of listlessness completed the impression of a man who’d spent a very long night on a very short park bench.

  While I ate a hearty breakfast, all that he could face was a cup of black coffee. The first sip made him grimace.

  ‘As bad as that?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he croaked. ‘I’m just not up to it any more, Alan.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I tried to build one bridge too many.’

  He groped in his pocket and brought out a packet of cheroots. I took them from him and stuffed them back in his pocket. He moaned.

  ‘No, Clive. Not while I’m eating.’

  ‘I’ll expire without a smoke.’

  ‘I promise to catch you as you fall.’

  ‘You’re a sadist,’ he accused.

  ‘Sadism is better than pollution.’

  He forced himself to try the coffee again. After one more taste, he spooned in extra sugar and stirred. I got down to business.

  ‘Right,’ I announced. ‘Spill the beans.’

  ‘I feel like spilling the contents of my stomach,’ he warned.

  ‘Save that for your encore. Give me the facts first.’

  ‘Can’t you manage a little human bloody sympathy?’

  ‘Wait your turn in the queue behind Zuke Everett.’

  ‘Sorry. I asked for that.’

  ‘So how did you get on last night?’

  ‘Very slowly.’

  ‘What’s the word on Kallgren?’

  ‘Less than flattering,’ he replied. ‘The consensus of opinion is that he’s the biggest shit in the history of the arsehole—and that’s only what his friends call him. He’s smooth, slimy and too fucking successful by half. Kallgren is a bloated capitalist who’s been on an F-plan diet. He’s into every damn thing.’

  ‘Including golf.’

  ‘That started some years ago,’ he said, pulling a notepad from his pocket and flicking to the right page. ‘Someone told him what the commercial potentialities of the game were and he moved in fast. He bought a stake in club manufacture, golfwear, accessories, the lot. And being Kallgren, of course, he had to have his own course.’

  ‘Golden Haze.’

  ‘That’s when Tom Bellinghaus came on the scene. He’s very much the rogue elephant among course architects and you can see why. Most of his work has been outside the States and it’s needled him. He’s a prophet who wants to be accepted in his own country. Golden Haze was his big chance. Bellinghaus wanted to design a course that was good enough to host a US Open.’

  ‘No danger of that, I hope.’

  ‘Not at the moment. The USPGA have been very wise so far. They know the kind of man Kallgren is. They’ve refused to commit themselves to including his Tournament of Champions on their circuit. Bellinghaus is none too pleased about that. He feels rejected.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for him,’ I said with measured irony.

  Clive took out his cheroots again and pleaded silently.

  ‘No,’ I decreed.

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘I’m still eating my breakfast.’

  ‘Alan, I’m gasping.’

  ‘Self-denial is good for the soul. Now, put those filthy things away before I get angry.’ They disappeared grudgingly into his pocket. ‘Any joy with Phil Reiner?’

  ‘None. Wouldn’t even take my calls.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘The Bel Air Hotel. At Kallgren’s expense.’

  ‘Mm. Nice place.’

  ‘Very nice,’ h
e agreed. ‘I almost screwed one of the waitresses there last year. Italian piece with earrings the size of strap-hangers on the London underground.’ A tired grin split his pallid face. ‘She ran too fast for me.’

  ‘Is Reiner playing in the Phoenix Open?’

  ‘No,’ he reported. ‘He’s staying here to get adjusted to his new management. Or maladjusted, as the case may be. The mystery man is a Kallgren golfer now.’

  ‘He may not be the only one.’

  I told him about the takeover of DLZ Management, a company which represented sportsmen from many fields. I also mentioned the dinner engagement that Kallgren had that evening with Gamil Amir.

  Clive was in no way surprised by the intelligence.

  ‘All fits in with what I heard. Kallgren’s been on the sniff for ages. He’s what one of my American colleagues calls an ambitious fucking sonofabitch. Remember Harold Smith?’

  ‘The boxing promoter?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ he confirmed. ‘When they finally nabbed him, he was on the verge of taking over the entire sport. Kallgren is trying to do the same thing with golf.’

  ‘Wasn’t Smith involved in computer embezzlement?’ I recalled.

  ‘To the tune of more than $20 million, old son. Right here in Los Angeles. He had a contact inside Wells Fargo Bank who worked out the perfect fiddle. They got away with it for years and Smith was able to build himself a boxing empire.’

  ‘The police caught up with him in the end, though.’

  ‘Only because he’d been breaking the law.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘That’s what makes Rutherford Kallgren so much more dangerous than Harold Smith. He’s moving into golf legally. It’s his own bloody money, not something he’s embezzled from a bank.’

  ‘Fair point,’ I conceded.

  ‘Smith was an out-and-out con man but everyone loved him. He was the last of the big spenders—drugs, women, racehorses, you name it. Kallgren’s the opposite. A legit businessman but everyone loathes him. And one of the reasons is that he’s too good to be true. The façade is marvellous. Devoted family man, dynamic tycoon, patriotic American.’

  ‘And what’s behind the façade?’

  ‘A monomaniac who wants to buy up the game of golf. Over the last year, he’s approached several players and waved his chequebook under their noses. Fortunately, they all turned him down.’

  ‘Phil Reiner didn’t. Why was that?’

  He sighed. ‘That’s the great enigma, Alan.’

  ‘How ever did Kallgren tempt Reiner into his camp?’

  ‘Only one answer, to my mind.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Big money.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘Kallgren made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

  It sounded plausible but I was still unconvinced.

  Clive finished his coffee and rallied enough to demolish a piece of toast. We chatted until it was time for him to go up to his room to pack. He remembered that he would be leaving something behind at the hotel and he sought to pass it on to a friend.

  ‘Are you still determined to stay on?’

  ‘I have to, Clive.’

  ‘Then why don’t I introduce you to Miss Rosario?’

  ‘Waste of time.’

  ‘You don’t like building bridges?’

  ‘I hate warm croissants.’

  ***

  A taxi took us both to the airport and I helped him in with his luggage. Issuing a string of dire warnings against my staying, Clive urged me to hop on the next plane to England while I could. I waved him off, then went to hire myself another car. After the disaster with the Chevy Chevette, I chose a Honda this time. I drove away with one eye scanning the mirror.

  I was not being followed.

  The hospital was vast and it took me some while to locate the wing of it in which Howie Danzig was being looked after. Uniformed bustle surrounded me. The place was ultra-modern and expensive.

  A soundless lift took me up to the fifth floor, where I stepped out into a wide, gleaming corridor. The nurse on duty at the desk told me that Howie was only receiving visits from close relatives and she didn’t even pretend to believe my story that I was a favourite nephew who had flown the Atlantic to be at my uncle’s bedside. I tried the plain truth instead and it eventually bore fruit. She allowed me five minutes with the patient.

  I hoped that it was going to be enough.

  The room was small, featureless and full of medical equipment. Howie was propped up in bed and connected to some bottles by plastic tubes. He looked older, smaller and lay quite motionless. His watery eyes flicked in my direction as I entered.

  ‘Hello, Howie,’ I said. ‘Are they looking after you?’

  ‘Al…’ His voice was weak and hoarse. ‘I’m fine.’

  I brought a chair to sit beside the bed and leaned in.

  ‘Howie, I need some help,’ I explained.

  ‘Help?’

  ‘To find the man who murdered Zuke.’

  ‘Told the cops…’

  ‘I want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘…all I know…’

  ‘Zuke had financial problems, didn’t he?’ He nodded his head very slightly. ‘How bad were they?’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Could he have gone bankrupt?’ Another slight nod. ‘Why did he marry Helen Ramirez?’

  ‘Ha!’ His contempt was muted but very evident. ‘She… made him.’

  ‘Did you know he was on drugs?’

  There was a pause. ‘Next question…’

  ‘That means you did,’ I deduced. ‘When did it start?’

  ‘Told the cops…’

  ‘Was it before he married Helen—or after?’

  ‘Man’s dead, Al…’

  ‘It was before, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘Did Valmai know about it?’

  ‘Valmai?’ The name brought a semblance of a smile to his face. ‘She was…lovely. Valmai understood about…his golf. He won. With her…he won. We all won…’

  ‘I saw Valmai yesterday,’ I said. ‘She sends her love.’

  ‘Saw her?’ Another smile tried to break through.

  ‘I flew up to San Francisco. She lives at Stinson Beach. Valmai was very sorry to hear that you were in hospital. She asked to be remembered to you, Howie.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We talked about the good times.’

  ‘Valmai was lovely…’

  ‘She knew, didn’t she? About the drugs.’

  ‘Great golf…’

  ‘Valmai knew.’

  ‘We won. We all won…’

  The watery eyes flickered as they looked at me, then he nodded his head almost imperceptibly. My guess had been correct. Valmai Everett had lied to me. She had denied that Zuke had taken drugs. I wondered if she had lied to me about anything else.

  Howie Danzig was fading fast. The effort of speaking even for such a brief time had taxed him and he was about to drift off to sleep. I wanted one more answer before I left the room. I shook his arm gently until his lids fluttered open. He needed a moment to identify me.

  ‘Al…’

  ‘I’m still here, Howie.’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I won’t keep you, I promise.’

  ‘Told the cops…’

  ‘One last question. That’s all.’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘What sort of contract did you have with Zuke?’

  ‘Sleep.’

  ‘Howie, can you hear me?’ I whispered. ‘What sort of contract?’

  But his eyes had closed again and his breathing had become more regular. I waited for a full
minute but he didn’t stir. Howie had gone beyond me. I put the chair back, then came to take one final look at the manager. He seemed terribly frail now.

  ‘Goodbye, Howie,’ I said, quietly.

  His hand twitched and then inched forward over the sheet. I reached down to take it. With the last of his strength, he squeezed my fingers. His hand went limp.

  Howie had answered my question after all. He and Zuke Everett had never had a written contract. It was all done on a handshake.

  It was typical of both of them.

  Chapter Six

  When I left the hospital car park, I drove straight back to Santa Monica. It was time to return to Zuke’s house. Caution had been keeping me away but I now swept it aside. I had to confront Helen Everett. There was certain information that only she could provide and I was determined to coax it out of her. I hadn’t forgotten the threat made by my attacker. It gave me an additional reason to go back.

  The house looked rather jaded against the dark sky. It needed fine weather to set it off and the sunshine had disappeared. Outside and inside. The drive was empty. No battered Oldsmobile this time. I stopped at the gates and sounded my horn. After a few seconds, they opened to admit me. I came to a halt, then got out.

  Dominga opened the door and alarm filled her eyes when she saw me. I was ready with a Spanish greeting for her.

  ‘Buenos días.’

  ‘Mil rayos!’ she exclaimed.

  I put my palm against the door as she tried to slam it in my face. Pushing it open again, I stepped into the hall. Dominga looked up at me with a mixture of fear and hatred.

  ‘Fuera de aquí!’ she shouted.

  ‘I want to see Mrs. Everett,’ I insisted.

  ‘Vaya al diablo!’

  Another Spanish voice quelled her at once.

  ‘Basta!’

  Helen Everett was standing in the doorway to the living room. She nodded towards the kitchen and Dominga scuttled off. Wearing a white blouse with a full red skirt, Helen was as arresting as ever. She put her hands on her hips and struck her Katy Jurado pose.

  ‘Good morning,’ I began. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’

  ‘I think we do.’

  ‘Please, Alan. I don’t want to speak to you.’

  ‘At least give me the chance to say I’m sorry.’