The rest of us looked at each other, with more than one or two raised eyebrows. We all knew, of course, that the PGA of America was pretty much an organization for sale. It is, after all, the trade organization of golf professionals…the ones who work at country clubs and municipal daily fee courses alike, selling shirts, balls, clubs and tee times. Giving lessons to hackers and running the annual Member-Guest.
Once upon a time, the PGA of America had also operated the professional golf tour, but by the end of the 1960s it was obvious to everyone that the Tour needed professional management. And independence. The club pros from the PGA of America just didn’t have the expertise in sports marketing or management to run a major competitive sports league.
So the PGA Tour had branched off and become the worldwide moneymaking behemoth it was today. They left the PGA of America with two small bones: the annual PGA Championship and the biannual Ryder Cup Matches. At the time of the split, nobody gave much thought to the Ryder Cup’s future potential. Up until the late 1960s, the USA side always won the event, on both sides of the Atlantic, usually by huge margins. It wasn’t much of a sporting spectacle…it was mostly boring.
And the PGA Championship was still trying to find its footing as one of golf’s four major events. It had originally been contested in match play, the only major in that format, which made it interesting and different from the Masters and the two Opens. But the PGA of America decided to change the tournament over to stroke play, like the others, because it believed that the all-important TV money would disappear if they couldn’t promise a dramatic Sunday afternoon showdown featuring the best players. In match play, there’s always a chance that Joe Nobody and Fred Whodat could ride a hot streak into the finals amid the sounds of TVs clicking off all across the fruited plain.
The PGA of America got lucky with the Ryder Cup. The European Tour took off in the 1970s and ‘80s, and it was Jack Nicklaus who suggested to Lord Acton that his Great Britain and Ireland team be expanded to include all the good new players from Germany (Bernhard Langer), Spain (Seve Ballesteros) and elsewhere into a new Team Europe. When the feisty Euros began actually winning against the once-dominant USA team, the Ryder Cup took off as one of the great spectacles of sport and began making the PGA of America buckets of money.
The PGA Championship used to follow the U.S. Open around the same basic rota of famous old clubs: Winged Foot, Oak Hill, Baltusrol, Hazeltine. But they had to talk those clubs into extending invitations: the tournament tied up the course in the middle of summer and while the PGA got the TV revenue, the clubs got little other than a little more notoriety. Nobody was happy.
So the PGA of America went in a new direction: they pretty much announced they were for sale. They began awarding their major event to newer courses around the country. Newer courses which were far more willing to pay big fees to get the national attention the PGA Championship could bring.
One of the first was Shoal Creek in Birmingham, Alabama, a hellish place to play a golf tournament in the heat of August. But the developer of that real estate development with a golf course got the right money in the right pockets and landed the event in 1984. (Of course, the PGA of America got a little more than they bargained for when it became known that Shoal Creek didn’t have any members of color. They quickly found a suitable local gent to draft into the club and life and the tournament went on.) A few years later, the PGA was played at Oak Tree in Edmond, Oklahoma, a course owned by a couple of PGA of America members who were building a network of clubs and real estate around the country. Again, serious money changed hands.
That inspired the organization, after a few years of selling its major championship to the highest bidder, to begin bidding itself. The PGA of America began investing in building residential real estate projects with championship golf…and then arranged for those courses to host the PGA Championship. Valhalla in Kentucky, owned in part by the PGA, landed two PGA Championships. It was good business, albeit a little cynical.
And here was Conrad Gold, proprietor of a worldwide chain of upscale golf developments, telling us that he had bid, and won, a major tournament for the price of $25 million. None of us at the table were surprised, except maybe at the price tag. Some of my colleagues might have been gobsmacked; I thought it was pretty low.
“Is that the going price of the PGA Championship these days?” I asked.
Gold looked at me with a smile. “I have no idea,” he said. “That was the number I threw out there, and they accepted. Make of that what you will. I’ll make make some of it back on my share of the concessions and ticket sales.”
The waiters began bringing out the food, and we all concentrated on eating for a while.
“How many members do you have here now?” Jimmy Williams asked.
“I think we’re up close to 450,” Gold said. “I can get you the exact number. Two-thirds are New York metro residents. The rest are what we call national members. They have official domiciles outside the metro area. And we have a few dozen international members as well, most of them reciprocal members from other Gold Clubs around the world.”
He paused as the main courses were brought in.
“We have twenty-five guest rooms on this floor for members who wish to spend the night,” he continued. “And our long-term plan calls for construction of some villas along the riverfront. Some of those will be sold to members, but the club will retain title to a handful so that members can stay there if they wish. I think some of you are planning to spend the night with us, yes?”
Several of us murmured our assent. I was planning to spend the night in luxury before heading back to Boston’s North End and DJ’s diaper duty.
“Who do you like for the PGA?” Kelsey asked. “I can’t decide if length or shot-making will be key here.”
“Hopefully both,” Gold said, sipping some wine. “We’d like to think the course demands an all-around game. But I don’t keep up with the Tour enough to tell you who I think is going to do well here. We’ll have the usual field of stars from around the world, so I’m expecting it to be a good show.”
Kenny Craig, the Swing Doctor, and Bill Fairfield, one of the tower announcers, began tossing names back and forth. We all had a fun fifteen minutes or so arguing our favorites and non-favorites. I think most of us at the table agreed that Tiger was officially past his use-by date. Which probably meant he was one of the favorites.
Another chef wheeled in the dessert cart when the plates had been cleared and we all demurred before capitulating and ordering up something chocolate, caked or, in my case, a big piece of strawberry rhubarb pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
I was sitting next to Van Collins and I heard his phone go off. Almost simultaneously, the phones of Jimmy Williams, Kelsey Jenkins and Ken Craig began buzzing. I laughed.
“Breaking news,” I said.
Van Collins excused himself and went out into the hall to answer his. The others ignored theirs, more interested in dessert. A minute or two later, Collins came back into the dining room. He looked shocked, blood drained from his face.
“Arnie Wasserman is dead,” he announced gravely.
There were gasps around the table.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He was shot late this afternoon,” Collins told us. “An apparent robbery or mugging. He was on the way home after work, stopped at a local market on the upper West Side and someone shot him in the head.”
“They get the guy?”
“Not yet,” Collins said. “Police are looking for the perp now.”
“Holy crap,” Kelsey said. “That’s awful.”
Conrad Gold looked confused.
“Did I know this Wasserman?” he asked.
“He was Ben Oswald’s chief assistant,” Collins told him. “He kept the production side moving. He seemed pretty indispensable. This is going to cause some big problems for us.”
“Well,” Gold said, “I’m sorry to hear about this. My condo
lences for your loss. Please tell Ben that if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
The dinner broke up. After news like that, talking about golf seemed pretty insignificant.
17
I called Mary Jane from my luxury suite. It had a big queen-size bed with a canopy, a seating section with a sofa and two chairs and a 48-inch flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, a small kitchenette with a fridge, microwave and coffee maker, a luxurious bathroom and a balcony overlooking the Hudson River valley. My balcony had a hot tub on one end, water bubbling away with wisps of steam rising into the chilly air of evening. Had I been there with Mary Jane and a bottle of chilled Taittinger’s, I could have envisioned some fun possibilities. Alone, I dialed my phone, fully clothed and mostly sober.
“What’s your opinion of hot tubs?” I asked when we connected.
“Generally good,” she said, “Even though they have a reputation for spreading disease.”
“How about chilled Taittinger’s?”
“Again, good, although I’ve always preferred a good Dom Perignon. Why these interesting questions?”
“There’s a hot tub on my balcony,” I said. “I’m looking at it and was envisioning being in it with you.”
“Aww,” she said. “How sweet.”
“My visions were more carnal than sweet, I think.”
“I should certainly hope so,” she said. “Did you win?”
“Win what?”
“I don’t know…I assumed there was some kind of match today and that means someone won and someone lost. Which was it?”
“I guess I won,” I said. “But he was into it more than I was. We just had a fabulous Conrad Gold dinner and then got some bad news.”
“Oh, no …one of you had to pick up the tab?” she said. I could hear the hint of mischievousness in her voice.
“Ha ha,” I said. “No, we found out that Arnie Wasserman was shot and killed this afternoon down in New York.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Who was Arnie Wasserman and has anyone blamed you yet?”
“Not so far as I can tell,” I said. “He was Ben Oswald’s aide-de-camp. Or go-fer. He did all the dirty work.”
“So, he was the Assassin’s assassin?”
I smiled. “Pretty good,” I said. “Yeah, he was.”
“Well, from what you tell me about Oswald, that means there’s probably a long list of potential suspects,” she said. “Not including you, I hope.”
“I think I’m off the hook,” I said. “After all, I was here playing golf all afternoon. I’ve got witnesses to the witnesses of my alibi.”
“Thank goodness for that,” she said. “So who killed him, if it wasn’t you?”
“They think it was a mugger,” I said. “Still haven’t caught the guy. Seems to be one of those random Big City things. Kinda tragic.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” Mary Jane said. “Is this going to affect your job in any way?”
“Don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sure IBS will have someone new ready to insert into place in a day or two. Like Conrad said at dinner a while ago, ‘No one is indispensable.’”
“Conrad?”
“Conrad Gold,” I said. “He owns this place. Came up to have dinner with us.”
“I can’t believe you are sitting around talking with someone like Conrad Gold,” Mary Jane said. “I mean, I see him on television all the time. He’s always on one of the gossip shows. Stepping out with some scrumptious starlet or other. And he’s always on the front page of the National Enquirer.”
“You read the National Enquirer?”
“Only waiting in line at the supermarket checkout,” she said. “Don’t think I’ve ever actually purchased one. Conrad Gold seems to be one of the tabloids’ go-to guys.”
“I’m beginning to think he uses them as much as they seem to use him,” I said. “He keeps his name in the public arena with his outrageous political comments and his dating habits. But that makes him famous for being famous, which I think he uses to his advantage in selling real estate at places like this. You know, if I buy a place at Conrad Gold’s development, maybe there will be scrumptious starlets and other famous people hanging around. He actually strikes me as a pretty intelligent guy.”
“Well, if he’s turned dating scrumptious starlets into making millions of bucks, I guess one has to tip their hat,” Mary Jane said. “Even though most of us non-starlets hate him.”
“Once you get to know him, he’s not all that hate-able,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said. “I’ve got some tests to grade. When are you coming home?”
“I’ll head home after breakfast,” I said. “Should be there when you get home from work.”
“Excellent,” she said. “We have leftover tuna noodle casserole. I made a big batch tonight.”
“I had roast duckling tonight, so that actually sounds pretty good,” I said.
“Roast duckling with Conrad Gold,” she said. “Are you beginning to see why so many of us hate the man?”
We rang off. I looked at the empty hot tub, bubbling away on my balcony. But I turned away, and instead got ready for bed. No Taittingers.
In the morning, before I went downstairs in search of breakfast, I put in a call to Delbert Connor of the Savannah PD. I was a little surprised when he picked up the call. It was just before 8 a.m.
“Ah, yes, Mister Hacker,” he said when I identified myself, “The case of the dead golf announcer.”
“Right,” I said. “I was just wondering if you’ve been able to pinpoint a cause of death for Parker Long? I know you were running a battery of tests.”
I heard him shuffling some papers around on his desk.
“Yes,” he said, “Here it is. The preliminary coroner’s report came in about three days ago. It shows that Mr. Long was electrocuted.”
“How?”
“That particular data point is not clear at this moment,” Connor said. “Our investigation continues.”
“Of course it does,” I said. “Do you have any theories at least? How it happened that an announcer on a live TV broadcast could suddenly find himself zapped into oblivion?”
He paused. “Is there a reason why you are asking?” he said.
“Besides the fact that Parker was a friend and a colleague?” I asked. I figured he wouldn’t know that I really didn’t know Parker Long that well at all.
“And a member of a national broadcast media operation,” he said dryly. “Perhaps looking for a scoop that will let out the news of this case before we are ready to release any.”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Well, yeah, there’s another reason.”
“Thought there might be,” he said.
“Another member of our broadcast crew was shot and killed yesterday in Manhattan,” I said.
“I’ve heard New York is a dangerous place,” Connor said. “But my condolences nevertheless. What happened?”
“Apparently he was confronted and shot on the street,” I said. “Assailant unknown, at least as far as I know.”
“Where did this happen?” Connor asked.
“Upper West Side,” I said. “I heard it was in or near the Fairway Market on Broadway.”
I heard him scribbling notes.
“I know a few of the guys in NYPD,” he said. “I’ll give them a call later this morning and see what I can learn.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“You know the old saying,” Connor said. “Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action. Except for one thing.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence.”
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“You’re a cop,” I said. “No cop believes in coincidence. It’s against your religion or something.”
“Furthermore, I don’t know exactly why my victim died, whether it was an accident, an act of God or a violent attack,” he said. “So I don’
t know what kind of connection you think there might be between my incident and the one in New York. But I’ll call and ask. All I can do at this point.”
“Right,” I said. “I understand.” I paused for a bit, thinking. “Did you ever figure out what that smell was? The burning smell? We both noticed it.”
“I can only surmise that the burning smell was somehow related to the electrocution,” he said. “I’ve sent all the electronics equipment we impounded up to the state crime lab in Atlanta. Those guys are pretty good, but it’ll take another couple of weeks before we hear from them.”
“OK,” I said. “Will you call me when you learn something?”
“Probably not,” he said.
“If I call you back, will you talk to me?”
“I’m a public servant,” he said. “Our goal is to serve and protect.”
I figured that was as good as I was going to get from Delbert, so I thanked him and hung up.
18
The following week, I took the train down to New York again. There was a memorial service for Arnie Wasserman, and all of us on the broadcast crew had been told to be there.
“You get your sorry ass down to the city, and that’s an order,” said Ben Oswald when he had called me. “I want the entire IBS golf team to be there without exception. If anyone doesn’t show, the Times and all the media gossipers in this fucking town will wonder what the problem is. I don’t need crap like that at a time like this. So get your ass down to New York. Understand?”
“Got it, boss,” I said. “The cops have any leads on who might have done it?”
“Naw, they’re pretty much worthless,” Oswald said. “Ever since this mayor decided he wanted to run for president some day as the progressive’s progressive, he’s been cutting the force down, telling them what they can and can’t do, and letting out half the population of the prison on Riker’s Island. He thinks this will win him votes, but instead, the city is on the edge of collapsing into anarchy. If it gets much worse, Mayor Dumbshit won’t be elected dogcatcher, much less president.”
P.G.A. Spells Death Page 12
