“So?”
“So I started to think about other connections,” I said. “Who would benefit from Action A and Action B. Nobody didn’t like Parker Long, making the list of potential murder suspects very short. Everybody, as you heard here tonight, was a little suspicious of Arnie Wasserman. Maybe not enough to kill him, certainly, but at least there were possibilities.”
“So how did you put it together?”Mary Jane asked.
“Well, Kelsey and I talked with Parker’s widow,” I said. “And we learned that Parker was planning to retire at the end of this year, but that Arnie had threatened to move on him sooner. Parker and his agent got hold of Ben and put a stop to that, but it got me wondering about who else knew about that. Information is power. And who controls the information?”
“The tech guys,” Mary Jane said. “Tech guys is shorthand for information technology.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And that fit back into my original theory on Parker’s murder being a tech event. The electrified headphones. So I began thinking of the techies on staff. Right away, I thought about Digby, because he’s a little weird and because he was considered a genius with all the equipment you guys use. I mean, if you thought someone had jiggered around with a pair of headphones, figured out a way to turn them into a murder weapon…well, Digby Allen would be one of the first people you’d think had the smarts to do that. And, being Digby Allen, it wouldn’t be a tough sell to think he might do something like that.”
I paused, thinking.
“And I thought I had him,” I continued. “When I figured out how he had done it…the static phones would lead to a call to the tech department, Digby would run out to the booth, give Parker a new set of lethal headphones and, once he had killed himself plugging them in, Digby would be right there to switch the headphones back again and take the killing pair away.”
“But?”
“But then I found out that it wasn’t Digby who’d answered Parker’s call for help. It was Sheila,” I said. “That also surprised me. But she had just changed a fuse out or something. Then I got the warning note. That’s when I knew it was Digby.”
“How?” Kelsey asked this time.
“Because Sheila wasn’t there when I was asking about headphones and the service call in Savannah,” I said. “It was just Benny and Digby I was talking to. So when I got warned off, I knew it was either one of them. And I always liked Digby more. He’s got the outside-the-box brain that would come up with something elaborate and weird like this.”
“And what about that car bomb?” Van Collins said. “Did Digby do that, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That was a pure diversion, which is why it didn’t do much damage. He wanted people around here nervous and thinking about bombers. Gave him the space to sneak away. But then Boz and I accidentally showed up and interfered with his plan to use Kelsey to help him sneak down to Television City. He figured if the cops were looking for lone wolf, they might not notice a man and a woman strolling together. Especially with millions of others milling around.”
“So stopping in for a cold beer actually saved somebody’s life?” the Boz said, and he began to grin.
“You could say that,” I said.
“I think I just did,” the Boz said. “And to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to feel the need to save a few more. Like right now. I’m buying. Who’s in?”
33
Against all the odds, Tommy Scannell held on for the win. His first on Tour and, of course, his first major. With the victory, he got to heft the Wannamaker Trophy, bank a couple million bucks, pocket a Tour card for the next ten years, and punch his ticket for golf immortality. He would always be remembered, from this day forward. Of course, if he never won again, he would be remembered as the one-shot wonder. But if he did win again, which I suspected he probably would, he would be remembered as a better-than-most player, a winner of regular tournaments and a major winner. And there was always the chance that he would win lots more, both majors and not, lead the U.S. Ryder Cup team to glory and maybe invent the cure for cancer. Hey, it’s possible.
The Boz and I had a good time on Sunday watching the field make a few runs at Tommy during the afternoon. We helped ratchet up the pressure when the lead was one stroke with five to play, and we expressed our admiration for the young pro’s fortitude in fighting hard all the way in on the back nine, making great birdies on thirteen, sixteen and the final hole, where he drained a nice ten-foot birdie to accentuate the win and earn the ovation of the huge crowd gathered to watch.
Mary Jane hired Maria the babysitter for the early part of the day, and she came with me to sit in our airless booth and watch the fun. She went out and got us some sandwiches and drinks in the middle of the afternoon, and chuckled quietly at our patter.
When Scannell and the last group finished our hole and went over to seventeen, she gave the Boz a hug and me a kiss.
“I gotta get going,” she said. “Got a three-hour drive back to Beantown and classes tomorrow. Back to the salt mines for me.”
“I’ll be home late tonight,” I said. “Don’t wait up. And I’ll start loading boxes out to Milton tomorrow.”
MJ looked at the Boz.
“Why don’t you come back east to Boston and visit?” she said. “Aren’t you guys doing the New Jersey Classic in a couple of weeks? Bring the wife and kids. We’ll go eat fried clams and take in a game at Fenway.”
“Little lady,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, “That sounds like an excellent plan. I’ll have Sheila call you and get it going.”
He turned to me.
“Hack-Man,” he said, grinning at me. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“OK, Bogie,” I said. “Just keep the Nazis away.”
He saluted and disappeared.
I stopped in to say good-bye to the rest of the crew after the tournament was over and the heartfelt speeches had been made on the eighteenth green. Ben Oswald was in his private office in his trailer, and I went and knocked on his door.
“Come,” the raspy voice said. I went in.
He was sitting at his desk. His feet were up on the desktop. There were two glasses in front of him, each filled with a couple of inches of amber something. Neither glass had been touched. He was staring at them.
He looked up at me, and motioned me into a chair in front of his desk.
“Arnie and I would come back here after a tournament and have a little celebratory drink,” he told me. His voice sounded a little husky. “We’d talk about what went right, what didn’t, then one of us would say, ‘awww, fuck it’ and we’d slug ‘em back. It was like our private ritual. That job’s done. Next job’s on the schedule, next week, two weeks, whatever. Draw a line under this one, get ready for the next. That’s the business. Always the next job. Never stops. ” He stopped, looked at me with sad red eyes. “Until it does.”
I reached over and picked up one of the glasses.
“Awww, fuck it, boss,” I said.
He sat there a minute, staring at the glass on his desk. Then, with a little half smile, he picked it up. Held it over towards me. We clinked. Tipped them back. It was bourbon, and a good one.
“Draw the line,” I said.
“Draw the line,” he repeated.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Y. Bartlett is one of the most-published golf writers of his generation. His work has appeared in golf and lifestyle publications around the world for more than thirty years. He was a staff editor with Golfweek and Luxury Golf magaziones and edited Caribbean Travel & Life magazine for several years during his “golf hiatus” period.
Bartlett was the golf columnist for Forbes FYI magazine for the first fifteen years of that publication’s history and wrote a similar column on the golf lifestyle for Hemispheres, the in-flight magazine of United Airlines, for nearly twenty years under the pseudonym of “A.G. Pollard, Jr.”
His first Hacker Golf Myste
ry, Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty, was published by St. Martin’s Press in 1991. Death from the Ladies Tee soon followed and Yeoman House Books proudly continued the series with Death at the Member-Guest, Death in a Green Jacket, Death from the Claret Jug and An Open Case of Death.
Bartlett has also written seven nonfiction books. He recently published CaddieWampus, his hilarious tales of carrying the bags of Hall of Fame golfers including Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Ernie Els, Ben Crenshaw and Corey Pavin. Working with the Professional Caddie Association of America, he also wrote Think Like A Caddie/Play Like A Pro, and Mastering Golf’s Toughest Shots, both published by Sellars Publishing.
www.jamesybartlett.com
To learn more about Bartlett’s books, buy copies of the Hacker Golf Mystery series, read the author’s informative blog and sign up to get notified whenever a new book is released, please visit the website above.
Have you read any of the other Hacker Golf Mysteries?
Here’s an excerpt from An Open Case of Death:
PROLOGUE
The visitor opened the door to the hospital room and was immediately struck by the dense, humid and fragrant air. The temperature in the room felt like it was set at about 80 degrees, and the fragrance came from the banks of cut flowers that competed for every square inch of counter space in the small private room.
There was just one bed in the room, occupied by an old man with a shock of long white hair. His face was loose and jowly, his skin was pale and patchy and he was connected, via a bewildering array of wires and tubes, to a bank of machines that were keeping track of every one of his bodily functions. Some of the machines emitted soft beeps and whirrs, while others just presented rows of colorful numbers and lines moving endlessly across the graphs and screens.
The old man’s eyes had been closed, but now he opened them and, with a blink or two, focused them on his visitor.
“Geez,” the visitor said, “You’d think someone died up here, what with all these flowers.”
“Not yet, sonny boy,” the old man said, his voice soft and wheezy, but still with some spirit. “Not goddam yet.”
The visitor pulled a chair over next to the hospital bed and sat down. He reached over and patted the old man’s hand, which was resting on his chest atop the sheets and blankets that were drawn up almost to the old man’s chin.
“How ya doing, J.J.?” the visitor asked. “Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer.”
The old man struggled a bit, trying to sit upright. He was old and sick, but he still had pride, still wanted to sit up straight and talk business, man to man. He eventually gave up and let his head sink weakly back down on the pillow.
“I’ve been better,” he said. “I think this is my fourth heart attack. None of them were any walk in the park, but I don’t think this one was too bad. The docs tell me that I need a week or two to rest, and then I might be able to get the hell out of here and get back to work.”
“Well, no sense rushing things,” the visitor said. “The business is running itself. We made sure of that after your second incident a year ago. And you’ve got three partners ready and willing to pitch in if needed.”
“Worthless pricks,” the old man said. “The lot of ‘em. Not worth a tinker’s dam.”
The visitor laughed. He’d heard this before, only about a thousand times. The four partners in the business were not overly fond of one another. Board meetings could be challenging, as alliances formed and broke. They were all willful. Proud. Used to being the alpha dog.
“All the more reason for you to rest up and get back in the saddle as soon as you can,” the visitor said.
“Listen,” the old man said, reaching for the visitor’s hand, and gripping it tight. Surprisingly tight, for an eighty year old man who’d just had his fourth coronary in three years. “We have to do something about that real estate deal,” he said, his eyes focused on the visitor. “There’s exposure there. Too damn much.”
The visitor nodded. “I know,” he said. “I’m taking steps. Don’t worry. It’s under control.”
The old man’s head sank back on the pillow and a look of relief washed over his features. “Good, good,” he said, muttering almost to himself. He was obviously tired, weak. Not himself.
The visitor stood up and walked over to the banks of medical machines buzzing and wheezing by the bed.
“What the hell do all these things do?” he said, speaking to no one in particular.
The old man, who had fallen into a brief, sleepy reverie, started, eyes flying open.
“Whaa?” he said. “Oh, those things? I have no idea. I guess one machine pumps shit in to keep me alive, the others keep track of what’s going on inside.” He paused, thinking. “You once thought of becoming a doctor, didn’t you? Back when you were in college?”
The visitor kept looking at the machines, the intravenous tubes, the clear bags of liquid something hanging from the metal poles. He was reading labels and trying to figure out what was going on.
“Hmm?” the visitor said. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I was in pre-med, then I joined the Navy and served two tours on an aircraft carrier. Medical corps. Taking blood samples. Shooting sailors full of antibiotics after shore leave. They’d come back from the whore houses happy but infected with every STD known to man.”
He glanced over at the bed. The old man had slipped away to sleep again. He was weak, very weak. No wonder, given what he had been through.
“But then the old man called and I had to go back into the family business,” the visitor said. “But that’s life. Doesn’t always work out the way you think.”
He turned away from the machines, returned to the bed, patted the old man’s hand again. “See you down the road, old friend,” he said softly, and left the hot, humid room filled with the scent of a thousand flowers.
The old man continued to sleep. His lips moved a few times, like he was trying to say something, but was too tired to make the words come out. His chest rose and fell … once … twice. And then it stopped. And he died.
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P.G.A. Spells Death Page 23
