The big guy shifted in his wet boots. He glanced back at my sunken car.
“Oops.” It wasn’t exactly poetic, but I got the meaning.
“I still need your help.”
He frowned. “Okay.”
He stepped to me and offered his hand as if a schoolteacher had made the bully shake hands with his victim. Because that always solved the problem. But I took his hand.
“You don’t want the money?”
I shook my head. “But you are paying for that.” I looked at my sad car.
His face dropped. “A Porsche, huh?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry. It was an old one.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Being a caddy was easy. In the same way running a front office at a baseball organization was easy. In the front office you just put on a suit, sat on your butt for ten hours a day, and went to a lot of meetings where you ate donuts and drank coffee. But the success of a front office isn’t in what you did—it’s how you did it. Caddying was the same. Any schmo can carry a bag. Within reason anyway. They are heavy. A player is allowed a maximum of fourteen clubs in their bag, and most carry the maximum. Why wouldn’t you, when you aren’t actually carrying the damn things yourself? Half of them would have their caddy carry more, but there was actually a penalty in the rules for having more than fourteen clubs.
In the 2013 PGA Championship a player named Woody Austin discovered he had accidentally started his round with fifteen clubs in his bag. He was assessed a four-stroke penalty for the error, even though he never used the extra club. And here’s the kicker. He reported himself to officials. He might have been able to sneak around and hope no one noticed. But he didn’t. He turned himself in and took his licks. For all the pomp and environmental degradation and corporate largesse that I could blame on the game of golf, I had to admire how often players acted with that kind of honor. If I ever have kids, I’d be okay with them taking up golf. They could do worse than learning that kind of personal responsibility.
Of course the reality was that it was Woody’s responsibility but his caddy’s fault. Alfie made that clear to me as he walked me around the course after he drove my car into the water. When he wasn’t drinking or had a full head of steam he was actually an okay guy. Personally I thought he needed to sort those shortcomings out before I would actually declare him decent. Decency isn’t a part-time gig. Despite that he did take his job seriously. The bag and everything in it were the caddy’s domain. If the player liked lip balm, carry it. If he liked to eat a banana at the turn, make sure one was waiting as you came off the ninth green. He knew exactly how far Heath hit each club, and he made notes about the distances to the green based on features that I didn’t even see, like sprinkler heads and knots in trees. Not approximations, but measured to the nearest yard. He explained when I should talk to Heath and when I should not. He told me to watch for the whites of Heath’s knuckles when he putted, because that meant he was getting stressed and was gripping the club too tight. He told me a couple of very raunchy jokes that I could use to put Heath at ease, and advised me to make sure no television cameras were close by when I told them.
* * *
When we took the first tee the next morning, everything was different. The course looked the same—the lime and tangerine branding was everywhere—but the crowds were bigger and the air seemed heavier, like a storm was brewing. But the skies were clear and Heath’s first tee shot made a stunning sound and flew straight down the middle of the fairway to gentle but appreciative applause.
I kept my eyes open. Searching the gallery, and the trees and fairways for anything suspicious. I saw nothing. I handed Heath clubs and talked about yardages. I didn’t see the white knuckles. He seemed well at ease, despite the death threat. He was in his office, doing his thing. I had a million questions to ask him, but I didn’t want to put him off his game so I kept them to myself. We both passed the water hazard known as the Pacific without a word. I noted the white out-of-bounds line painted on the rough grass. I didn’t see Lorraine Catchitt or anyone else in there.
Heath shot a decent three under par, sixty-nine shots for his round. He was the clubhouse leader when we got in about lunchtime, which meant he was in first place of all the players who had completed their first round so far. He wanted to work on a couple of things, so he gave an interview with the television guys, and then went to the driving range. I went with him. Alfie had told me he would be hanging around but he wouldn’t make an appearance. The story doing the rounds was that Alfie had the flu, and I was carrying the bag until he got better.
“You were top-notch today,” Heath said as he swung through a chip shot that looked perfect to me.
“You didn’t do too bad, either.”
“There’s a lot of hazards just short of the greens. This thing could come down to short play.”
I nodded. I knew short play meant hitting shorter shots, which were usually done using the higher-numbered irons, which had a greater angle on their heads to create loft. Heath’s short game looked as good as a short game could get, but he hit two hundred chip shots on the range anyway.
Afterward he asked me to clean the clubs and lock up the gear. He left to do another interview, and then he was escorted by a unit of deputies over to the corporate hospitality tents to make an appearance on behalf of one of his sponsors. I wasn’t sure where he got the energy. I was beat. Granted, I had carried the bags, but he had hit the shots, and using up mental energy sapped you as much as using physical energy. I knew something about expending mental energy. The physical and the mental were connected. If an athlete got physically tired, their mental acuity dropped off. Gym time wasn’t just about hitting the ball farther—it was about keeping as mentally sharp at the end as they were at the beginning.
After locking up his clubs I did what caddies seemed to do, and I headed up to the bar. Folks were seated along the windows, watching the afternoon rounds go by. I sat at the bar. Ron wandered in.
“How’s the new career?” he asked, taking a seat.
“A good walk ruined.”
“Your man did well.”
“He did. He’s a good kid.”
Ron smiled and ordered a beer.
“Thanks for helping out,” he said.
“They’re paying me.”
“You know what I mean.”
We touched glasses. “Any time. How’s the rest going?”
“All good. The gate receipts are up. The alligator thing has brought a lot of folks in.”
I shook my head.
“I’d say the weekend will be a sellout. We’ll be turning them away.”
“Good result. For the club, I mean.”
“Stellar.”
We sipped our beers and I watched the bartender, Chip, doing his thing. It was a good spot and I could see what Ron liked about it. There was something familial about it. Some folks went to church, some folks played golf. Both groups often spoke to deities, just in different terms. And they both got a good dose of community from the experience. I used to have that, in the locker room. Sports are like that. It doesn’t matter if it’s professional or collegiate or just a bunch of friends running around on the weekends. Sports bring people together. And then we get older. Professional sports careers like mine end. A lot of guys struggle with that. It’s not just the fact that they suddenly have to go and get real jobs. They miss the camaraderie, the brotherhood. Or sisterhood, for that matter. I knew plenty of female athletes who suffered the same malaise when the family that had built up around them was suddenly no longer there. People graduated college and got jobs and had families and found all manner of reasons to stop being active and let those relationships drift away. I knew more than a few guys who had been the life of the party in college but hit their forties and found they had no true friends left. We’re social beasts. Solitary confinement is a punishment for a reason. I was glad Ron had this place. I was glad Jackie Treloar had this place. I was glad it and all the other clubs and churches and com
munities existed. I didn’t always agree with their view of the cosmos, but I knew the world was a better place for the people coming together like that.
I was almost done with my beer and considering whether it would be to my and Heath’s detriment if I had another, when Special Agent Nixon came striding up the stairs. He nodded when he saw me and he came over.
“Nice round,” he said.
“He did well.”
“Can we talk?” he said it in a way that suggested it wasn’t something he cared to share with Ron or anyone else.
“I was just about to leave,” Ron said, which was a lie because he was only halfway through his beer, and Ron would rather lose a limb than leave a beverage unfinished.
“No, you finish your drink.” I got down from my stool. “Let’s take a walk,” I said to Nixon.
We wandered out the front of the club toward the corporate hospitality tents.
“Where’s your car?” asked Nixon.
I shrugged. “Shop. They fished it out early this morning.”
“Shame. It was a nice car.”
“It was too small. What was it you wanted to say?”
“I followed up with my old college friend at the FBI. About Martin Costas.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“You wanted a private chat to tell me you learned nothing? In the future let’s just agree to assume that unless notified otherwise.”
“No, I didn’t learn nothing.”
“Then what did she say?”
“Nothing.”
I stopped walking and looked at him like he was a bad dog.
He said, “You’re not getting it.”
“Or maybe you’re not saying it.”
“She told me nothing, in a way that told me plenty. You understand?”
“Go on.”
“I asked her if she had spoken to her colleague in Guam, and she said there was nothing doing. I asked what she meant by that, and she said forget Guam, there is no guy in Guam.”
“Okay, that’s weird.”
“It gets weirder. I asked about Martin Costas, if she had learned anything more. She said Martin Costas was not a person of interest to the FBI.”
“He was the other day.”
“It’s a new dawn. Today’s he’s clean.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to try to hit up some other avenues, but I don’t think they’ll go anywhere. This was a friend of mine. She wasn’t just telling me in a professional capacity that there was no interest. She was telling me to stay away from Martin Costas. Maybe for my own good.”
A guy in golf attire wandered by and slapped me on the back and said good round, and I realized I was still wearing my caddy’s coveralls, complete with Heath McAllen’s name on the back. I wondered how many shots the guy thought I made. I turned back to Nixon.
“Why would your friend warn you off? Is it political?”
“Everything is political. But it’s also a red rag to a bull. I want to know now, even more than I did before.”
“Did this woman know you well at college?”
“Are you asking if I slept with her?”
“No, I’m asking if she really knew you. Would she know that telling you to back off would have the opposite effect?”
He nodded. “I see what you mean. Sure, she probably knew me well enough to think that.”
“So, either she really wants you clear because it could hurt you, or she wants you looking.”
“Because she can’t?”
“Maybe. It’s a theory.”
“He’s connected to some powerful people in Palm Beach, right?”
“That’s the word,” I said.
“Someone in the FBI is covering up. Maybe they’re covering up for someone powerful.”
“Maybe.”
“Someone like Nathaniel Donaldson.”
“The guy has clout, that’s for sure.”
Nixon looked around the course and then back to me.
“What are you doing now?”
“A shower, and a massage if I can find one.”
“Do that later. I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“To do something I can’t do.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nixon and I headed for the VIP hospitality tent. It had been ground zero as far as the norovirus was concerned, and I was tempted to hold my breath as I entered. I thought Nixon was a bit of a chicken for staying outside, but I heard his idea and saw his point. I showed my access pass to the big unit sweating in his suit by the entrance, and then felt the cool of the fans as I took a look over the space. It was still arranged in a series of round tables that each held ten very important mouths. Waitstaff shuttled between the bar at the end and the tables. Food was on a number of tables, a late lunch that must have been brought across from the clubhouse kitchen, but most of the VIPs seemed to prefer wine or beer. The patrons were well dressed even for a golf club, and I was glad I had chosen to delay Nixon’s plan and grab a shower and ditch my caddy coveralls. As it was, a polo and khakis still felt underdone.
I saw Martin Costas toward the rear of the room. He was suited up but still had an open collar. Formal casual, or casual formal. I wasn’t sure. But I weaved my way between the tables to the vice president of the club. He had a vacant seat on one side and a blond woman on the other. The woman was older than her outfit or lack thereof suggested, and Martin was paying it all due attention. I moved around the table toward the vacant seat, and Martin lifted his eyes for the merest second and saw me.
“Mr. Jones,” he said. “Good round today.”
I still wasn’t sure why people kept congratulating me for Heath McAllen’s work, but I let it slide.
“Martin,” I replied with a knowing smile. I stood by the vacant chair until Martin offered me a seat. I took the seat and smiled at the blond woman.
“Mr. Jones, this is Miss Tiffany.”
Miss Tiffany was stretching the definition of the word miss, but I gave her a nod and she offered me a smile that wasn’t quite as cute as she thought it was.
“Did you enjoy the round?” Martin asked.
“It was a good walk.”
“A good walk spoiled, I think was Twain’s quote.”
“It would have been spoiled if I was hitting the shots.”
“Point made. Heath’s one heck of a golfer.”
“He is that.”
“I thought you might be at practice. Isn’t that what the pros do after their round?”
“They do. But I was pretty happy with my performance.”
Miss Tiffany had developed a look of confusion, which manifested itself as a vacant stare. If I had to guess, I’d have said her face had been rendered incapable of a frown.
“You’re a golfer?” she asked.
“Today I’m a caddy,” I said.
She nodded and gave a breathy oh, as if she couldn’t fathom why the help would be sitting down in the VIP tent. It all became too much for her, and she asked Martin to excuse her while she powdered her nose, which was a phrase I hadn’t heard in a while, and suspected in her case it was literal rather than a euphemism. She stood gingerly and made her way to the exit in footwear not designed for the terrain. We watched her go and then Martin turned to me.
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Perhaps a water.”
“Taking your new role seriously?”
“I think the kid deserves it.”
He nodded and waved to the server, who brought a pitcher of ice water and poured me a glass.
“How is your other job?” Martin asked.
“I think the two are one. I’m certainly not carrying Heath’s bags because I know the course inside out.”
“Quite.”
“But I am learning a thing or two, on both fronts.”
“Good to hear.”
He didn’t ask what I had learned, which most people did. I stayed quiet waiting for h
im to continue. Folks generally liked to fill the silence, lawyers more than most. Talking was their game. But Martin Costas wasn’t one of those. He was a listener. I got the impression that was exactly what he had been doing with Miss Tiffany, and I wondered if that was the reason he did so well in Palm Beach. He was a five-hundred-buck-an-hour listener. Attorney-client privilege was better than the psychologist-patient version.
I sipped my water and took another tack. “So, my guy’s got a real shot at winning this thing.”
“He certainly does.”
“Big payday. For him and for me.”
Martin raised an eyebrow.
“Apparently the caddy gets ten percent,” I said. Although I wasn’t planning on keeping the dough, Martin didn’t know that.
“Even the step-in caddy?”
“Whoever carries the bags, according to the tour.”
Martin nodded. “Well, good for you.”
“It is. So I was thinking, if I do get this little payday, I don’t want to squander it.”
“No.”
“So, I heard about an investment opportunity.”
“Always smart to invest.”
“Someone mentioned something about a new development. Capricorn Lakes.”
He didn’t flinch. He dressed like a used European car salesman, spoke like a librarian and had the facial expressions of a Russian politician. He wasn’t giving anything away.
“Your name came up. Is there anything you can tell me?”
Martin sipped his wine. “Who was it that referred you?”
“I don’t recall. It wasn’t a referral as such—it was just a conversation I heard.”
“A conversation you heard.”
“Yeah. Since I already knew you I figured I didn’t need to arrange a referral. I’d rather keep my investments to myself.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, Capricorn Lakes. It’s the latest thing, I hear. Eco-this-and-that.”
“Mr. Jones—”
“Miami.”
“Miami. I really don’t think Capricorn Lakes is for you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Deep Rough Page 23
