“That seems pretty good,” said Danielle.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
We both looked at Ron. He didn’t take his eyes off the view, but he clearly had more to say.
“The PGA Tour is a tax-exempt organization, like the NFL. Billions of dollars flow through them, but they don’t pay taxes on most of it. And many of the tournaments themselves are run by charitable foundations.”
“But you say charities get the bulk of the profits?”
“Depends on your definition of the word bulk, I suppose. We did a lot of charitable giving back when I was working in insurance. It’s good karma, good PR. The charitable watchdogs suggest as a minimum that a charity or foundation should be using at least sixty-five percent of their revenues to directly impact the beneficiaries of their charity. With tightly run charities it can be as high as eighty or ninety percent. PGA Tour tournaments average around sixteen percent. Some are as low as three percent.”
“How is that possible? How do they get away with that?”
“Well, like you say, there’s a lot of money around the tour. Even sixteen percent of that money is a heck of a lot. Are you better off getting sixty-five percent of a little or sixteen percent of a whole lot?”
“Seems like the players come out the best,” Danielle said.
“Sure, they probably do. But then again, without them there is no tour, there is no tournament, there is no charitable giving.”
“So what does the club get from it?”
“We get exposure. People want to play here because it’s a tour stop. The tournament also covers a lot of the costs of improving the course to championship standard. So the membership gets a better course as a result. The city and the county and the state all get economic benefit. Some tournaments claim big economic benefits that in reality probably just cannibalize the local economy. But here, we know people come from other states and countries for this tournament. Florida offers a whole package deal, not just a golf tournament.”
“But wouldn’t those people come anyway?”
“Some would. And that’s what makes it hard to quantify.”
“So why would Barry say the club is in financial peril?”
“Well, we cover a lot of the expenses up front—take the course improvements, for example. And if the event were canceled because of the club’s inability to host, I’m sure the tour’s agreement says they don’t have to pay us a bean. That’s not catastrophic. It costs money to run a country club regardless. But it might mean we don’t get the tournament again, and that would almost certainly lead to an increase in membership dues and a loss of prestige for the club. Together those things might hit the finances. But it wouldn’t necessarily mean the end of the club. Not unless the membership decided the opportunity cost was too great.”
I saw Natalie Morris wander below, pointing for someone to do something. I looked up at Ron before I got looked at myself.
“What do you mean, opportunity cost?”
“Well, the structure of the club is such that we are also a not-for-profit.”
“Tax-exempt?”
“Yes. Most private golf clubs are. The idea is that we shouldn’t make a profit anyway. If we do, we are overcharging our members in fees. So it’s the aim to recover costs. But we are also an equity club. This means that to become a member you must buy a share of the club. Your initiation fee is actually purchasing a share in the club. It’s a fair bit of money, but not as much as some.”
“How much is a fair bit?”
“About thirty thousand. But other clubs, like Bonita Mar on the island, have fees over a hundred thousand dollars, and then there’s also annual membership dues.”
Knowing the amount put the favor Keith had extended to Ron in waiving that fee into perspective. My impression of Keith went up a notch.
“Anyway,” continued Ron, “If a member wants out they have to sell their share. For clubs like Bonita Mar it’s not so hard. It’s very exclusive, and there are some very rich people who want in. We’re not cheap, but for a lot of professional people we are within reach. But there’s a lot more competition. A lot of clubs at the same level. That’s where the tournament helps a lot. It makes our membership a prestige item. So if a member needs to sell—let’s say they move to California—they can. Plenty of non-members want what they have. But without the tournament, our offering just becomes one of many.”
“So it’s possible another club is trying to hurt you in order to grab that prestige?”
“That sounds pretty drastic to me.”
“How does a bride with all exits open sound to you?”
He frowned at me the way my dad used to when he wasn’t pleased with my word choices.
“But there is another consideration,” he said. “If we did lose the tournament, and the prestige, and if potential members decided that other clubs were a better choice, then any members of ours who did want out might not be able to sell.”
“The memberships could lose value?”
“Sure. It’s like owning a stock in a company. Value is what someone else is prepared to pay.”
“What would that mean?”
“Well, this is just theory. It’s a lot of maybes. But if a majority of the members felt that their investment in the club was going to go bad, they might vote to dissolve the club.”
“But then they’d never get their money back.”
“Not necessarily. If the club was dissolved the assets would be sold.”
It took me a minute, and I looked at Danielle when I got it. As usual she had arrived well before me.
“The land,” I said. “They’d sell the land.”
“Right. And prime land in Palm Beach County? That would be quite the windfall. What the members invested and then plenty.”
“Would that be tax-free?” asked Danielle.
“No. That would be profit and the IRS would want their share. But even after tax it would be a nice chunk.”
“So you’re saying that someone outside the club might want to sabotage the event to steal the event, or someone inside the club might be doing it to engineer a sale of the club.”
“That’s about it.”
“Why would anyone want to put up with all that?”
“It’s part of the game of being rich. Keeping score.”
“Count me out.”
Danielle put her hand on my shoulder. “We already did. And that’s why we love you.”
I glanced at Ron and he winked.
I was tossing up suspects on both sides of that coin when we heard a female voice shrieking, He’s here! The three of us wandered down the stairs from the bar into the lobby. The front door hung open despite the air-conditioning. A small crowd had gathered outside. They formed a penumbra around a guy who was climbing out of a black SUV. He looked like a golfer. He wore white trousers and a black polo, and a black cap with the logo for a European car manufacturer on it. I thought he must have been getting out of the back of the SUV because he wasn’t old enough to drive, but his chest pushed at his polo in a way that suggested there was a good, strong body underneath. He was pale of skin and dark of hair, and offered the gathered group a winning smile. He waved his hand like he’d just holed a birdie putt, and the driver of the SUV pushed through the crowd and made a hole. The young guy shook hands and gave low fives as he walked in. He stepped up to where we stood. He was a few inches shorter than me, so a couple ticks under six. He shot me a wink as he passed and strode inside.
“Who was that?” said Danielle with a grin that suggested it might have been my turn to be jealous. But for better or worse I didn’t do stuff like that. People were with other people for their own reasons, and being jealous of them or of attention they might get didn’t change that fact. I might never understand why Danielle was with me. I was flawed like a sitcom character, but that was beside the point. She was with me, and that was her call. Don’t get me wrong—I was beyond grateful to the relationship gods that they had made it so. I was luc
ky beyond words. But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to guarantee it stayed that way. So I shrugged.
Ron said, “That was Heath McAllen.”
“Who?” asked Danielle. “Is he a golfer?”
“Number one in the world.”
“I thought golfers wore plus fours and paunches.”
“Name another golfer,” said Ron.
Danielle thought. “Arnold Palmer.”
“Another?”
“Jack Nicklaus.”
“Another.”
“Was there a Greg somebody? And maybe a Bubba? Or was that baseball?”
Ron smiled. “Welcome to the new PGA Tour.”
“I really do have to give this game another look.”
And she was. She was looking back into the clubhouse at the empty space where the kid had been. So was everyone else. Except me. I was the only one looking out at the parking lot. So I was the only one who saw the truck pull out of the service road that led down behind the executive course. It moved across the back of the lot and stopped at the gate where the security guard stood with his clipboard.
It was an old red Toyota Tacoma pickup.
Chapter Fifteen
I jumped down the steps to the sidewalk and ran to my car, which was still parked in the fancy car spots. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, but it wasn’t the first time I’d madly dashed away without a word, so I figured Danielle and Ron would work it out. I slipped into the Porsche and screamed out of the space without even putting my seatbelt on. That didn’t last long. By the time I reached the gate the car was beeping at me like a nagging mother-in-law. I slipped the belt on with one hand and thought about the mother of the groom at the wedding. I really need to rid myself of visions of that wedding. I skidded to a stop and asked the security guy which way the pickup had gone. He pointed west in the direction of the turnpike, and I took off in pursuit.
I picked the Tacoma up pretty quickly. He wasn’t exactly going at light speed. From behind the driver was short and dark-haired, and although I’d never met Ernesto the facilities guy, I bet that would fit his general description. The Tacoma’s steering was loose and the pickup wobbled around the lane like a newborn deer.
We headed out toward the turnpike on Southern Boulevard. Ernesto’s apartment was south from there, so I waited for the truck to move into the other lane to turn left onto the turnpike. But he didn’t. He went straight under the turnpike and kept going west. We drove on, past miles of stuccoed fences hiding gated housing developments that seemed to never end. Eventually the truck pulled off the road and into a small light industrial development. He took a slot in the shadow of a palm, and I pulled in right next to him. He wasn’t the most observant character because he didn’t even bat an eyelid at me. I stepped fast around the front of the Porsche and met him at the grill of his truck.
“Ernesto,” I said.
He glanced at me.
“Ernesto, I need a word.”
Ernesto frowned.
“I’m no Ernesto, man.”
“Really? We’re going with that? You want to show me some ID?”
He stiffened. “Who are you, man?”
“Miami Jones.”
“Huh?”
“ID?”
He reached for the pocket in his shirt. Then he ran for it. I had to roll my eyes. It was hot out in the sun, west of the turnpike. I really didn’t feel like chasing him. But in the end it wasn’t too much of a chore. He was short and thick and had the athleticism of a beer keg. I took five strides and grabbed him by the collar and spun him around into the grill of a parked Dodge Ram. He was sweating.
“What do you want, man?”
“A word, Ernesto. That’s all.”
“I tole you, man. I ain’t no Ernesto.”
“Really? What’s your name?”
“Paulo.”
“That’s what you came up with?”
“I don’t know no Ernesto.”
“So show me your driver’s license.”
“I forgot it at home.”
“That so.”
He nodded. His eyes were dark and full of fear. He’d been caught, that was for sure, and he had obviously done something pretty bad. Maybe he thought he had killed one of the wedding party.
“No one’s dead, Ernesto. Only sick. So you can make it better by just talking.”
“I keep telling you, man. I ain’t no Ernesto.”
“Okay, Paulo. What were you doing at the golf course just now?”
He frowned. He couldn’t come up with a story quick enough.
“The golf course,” I repeated.
“Delivery.”
“You sell golf balls?”
“Huh? No, man. CO2. Gas, you know.”
“CO2? For what?”
“For the beer lines, the kegs. At the hospitality tents.”
A wee little pang of doubt rang in my ear. Doubt about me, not him.
“Who do you deliver for?”
He didn’t speak. He just pointed. I left my hand on his chest but I glanced over my shoulder. There was a sign on the building that told me it was the office of West Palm Beverage and CO2 Supply. I looked back at Ernesto. Except it wasn’t Ernesto.
“Paulo?” I said.
He nodded. “Si.”
I straightened his shirt out and stepped back.
“Sorry. My mistake.”
“Si.”
I nodded and walked backward for a half dozen paces and then turned on my heel and slipped down in the Porsche. Paulo was still against the Dodge Ram, watching me. I gave him another nod and pulled out.
I felt like an idiot. It was only compounded when I saw another old red Toyota Tacoma pickup pull out of a side street and drive away in the opposite direction. The darned things were multiplying like bunnies. I decided since I was out this way, I might as well make some use of my time, so I pulled onto the turnpike.
* * *
I got off at Okeechobee Boulevard and pulled into an old strip mall. It was original Florida, faded paint and cracked asphalt in the parking lot. I parked right in front of Sally’s Pawn and Check Cashing and walked in. There was a Latina girl behind the Perspex screen where the check cashing was done. She looked at me with hope, like I was going to give her something to do, but my face told her otherwise and she slumped back into her seat and kept on chewing her gum.
Sally was behind the glass counter at the back, taping up a packing box. It didn’t seem to be going well. It was war and the packing tape was winning. He had about three feet out of the dispenser, and it was winding around itself like a python. One of his hands was stuck to the tape, the other on the box, and his reading glasses were slipping off the end of his nose.
“Need some help?”
He looked up. “Aach, damned internet.”
“Internet?”
“Even the bums that buy in a pawn shop are too lazy to come into the store these days. It’s all internet orders. Like I’m the damned UPS man.”
I took the tape dispenser from him and ripped it with my teeth and then bit the box end off and rolled the tape into a ball.
“You need to get a kid to do that.”
“I got a kid. How do you think I got a damned website?”
“Business slow, Sal?”
“Business is business. The top of the iceberg ain’t where the business is.”
Sal was into a lot things, and not all of them passed muster. I learned not to ask. I had met him back when I played ball and he watched, and we’d developed an odd but true friendship. He was kind of like the father I never should have had.
“What’s news?” he asked, wiping a solitary strand of hair across his head.
“I hear the Jets are going to draft a high school quarterback.”
“You’ll get yours.”
“So that should be an improvement.”
“What comes around goes around, Patriot boy.”
“I’ve just come from the golf.”
“What golf?”
“The what?”
“Aqueta.”
“What is that? Portugee?”
“I have no idea.” I told him about the wedding ceremony and the vandalism of the green and the whole box and dice.
“Those rich guys, they got nothing better to do?”
I shrugged. “So someone within or something from outside.”
“Narrows the field.”
“Tell me about it. What do you know about the father of the groom?”
“Coligio? Yeah, he’s a big deal. Property developer. Started in office blocks, built half of White Plains, New York, is what I heard. Then he got into resorts and such.”
“His son thinks it might have been payback from a competitor.”
“Wouldn’t have happened in the old days. People had respect. But these days? Who knows.”
“He mentioned a name. Donaldson.”
Sally nodded to himself. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“What do you know about Donaldson?”
“What do I know? What do you know? He’s everywhere.”
“Yeah, I know about the TV and magazines and the wives.”
“The older he gets the younger they get. I should have such problems.”
“Tell me about it.”
He frowned, although he had so many wrinkles it was hard to tell. “The hell you talking about? You got the nicest filly I ever seen. Even if she is a cop. No one’s perfect. Especially you.”
“I know, Sal. It’s just a turn of phrase.”
“You sure you know? You never seem to be in no hurry to make it right.”
“What are you talking about, Sal?”
“You the one talking about weddings.”
“You think a wedding is what Danielle’s waiting for? She’s already done that. It didn’t work out so good.”
“I once peeled a mango that had a big nasty bruise on the inside.”
“Are you going senile, old man?”
“But it didn’t stop me buying mangos. The next one I had was the sweetest I ever ate.”
“I don’t know if you are Rudyard Kipling or Dr. Seuss.”
“I’m senile enough to kick you to kingdom come.”
“Settle down—I don’t want to have to carry you to the hospital.”
Deep Rough Page 10
