The Lillian Byrd Crime Series

by Elizabeth Sims

  “Do you like to shop?”

  “I guess it depends where. I like”—and I knew this was dorky, I knew it—”I like hardware stores. If I have a few bucks, that is. They have so much cool stuff.”

  She cut me a look, slung the Jaguar around a tour bus and settled neatly into the blind spot of a guy in a sparkling Lexus. The Lexus was white, trimmed in gold.

  “That car looks like a Fabergé egg,” I said. “And I like Army-Navy stores. Because, well, for the same reason, plus everything’s so cheap. For instance, I got this Vietnam hat last year? It’s the neatest thing for the rain, and it only cost—”

  “I was thinking,” she said, “Rodeo, but now I’m thinking Melrose.”

  So we checked out the latest boutiques, the latest L.A. funk and junk, on Melrose Avenue. We went into a place called Golf Punk, where they sold little tiny teenager clothes that I couldn’t imagine any professional golfer wearing, even the cute diminutive ones.

  “You actually golf?” I heard a clerk ask Genie. The clerks had no idea, but they were very nice, and even though we didn’t buy anything they insisted on giving us a handful of stickers with the store logo on them.

  Then Genie spotted a sign across the street, for a particular brand of boots, those ones from Australia. We waited at a stoplight, and when it turned, Genie started across, her eyes already searching the shop window.

  I happened to be watching the traffic. And I happened to realize that a minivan with a Jack-in-the-Box head on its antenna wasn’t going to stop, was in fact still trying to beat the light, and was accelerating fast.

  With a quickness I can only describe as supernatural, I lunged for her arm and screamed.

  She perceived in an instant, and leaped backward powerfully, knocking me over. The minivan honked and barreled on, practically grazing us.

  “Wow!” I said, getting up.

  The few other people near the corner were looking after the minivan and shaking their heads.

  Genie said nothing. She’d gone white. Sinking sideways against a light pole, she was on the verge of fainting.

  I took her arm. “It’s all right.”

  “My God.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “No, I didn’t. You jumped away.”

  “I almost died,” she said wonderingly, “I almost died right there on that street—right there.” She pointed to the spot as if pointing at a ghost: arm straight from the shoulder, finger out. “I could be dead right now.”

  “Hey, let’s get you a cold drink. Let’s sit down somewhere. Over here, come on.”

  I escorted her to a little table at a sidewalk joint. “Do you like raspberry? Two raspberries, please.”

  For a few minutes we just sat there and breathed.

  _____

  By now I guess you’ve figured out that this was that year. The year the Dinah ended unlike any championship ever. If you were there, or if you saw it on television, or if you read the papers afterward, you know a little bit about it.

  Well, you’re going to find out what really happened, what it was to be inside the ropes when it appeared that the world was ending, and when, for a few people, it did.

  9

  That evening was a quiet one. A breeze swirled around the canyon, bringing smells of gnarled vegetation, spicy smells, green smells. We took Todd out for a romp on the terrace before dinner. I’d brought a harness and lead for him, and used them now. Thick shrubs surrounded the terrace; were there fences beyond? Impossible to know. Of course, you can no more walk a rabbit than a frog—it walks you. But Todd responded well to my voice. And I’d learned what to do if danger came around and I wanted him to freeze so I could pick him up: stomp very hard, as rabbits themselves do to signal danger. It’s not that they stomp so much as launch their hindquarters skyward, which then fall to earth with a bang.

  I’d known of this habit of Todd’s and thought it was random, until I’d inadvertently made him freeze when I opened my post-Christmas credit card bill.

  Some people take Valium to relax, but I relied on Todd. Whenever I was near him, I felt a warm, special kind of serenity. It’s hard to explain.

  I hoped a little of Todd would rub off on Genie, who still appeared shook up from our brush with the minivan. Now and then she’d close her eyes and take a deep breath.

  Todd was still pretty frisky when it was time to go in, so Hesper and I fixed up a run for him up and down the hallway that led to the bedroom Genie and I were using. Hesper shut the other doors that opened onto it, and I pushed some furniture and plants that I hoped were nontoxic into the other end. He liked it.

  “But won’t he just jump over this stuff?” Hesper asked. Her face had gotten sweaty as we worked; she lifted the hem of her T-shirt and ducked her face into it. I got a shot of her belly, which was a stack of perfectly curved, perfectly white rolls.

  “You’d think he would,” I said, “and he would if he wanted to, but that’s not the way rabbits think. He sees this wall of plants, and he has no idea whether jumping over them would be worthwhile. Maybe he doesn’t know he’s being confined. Anyway, if he thinks he’s safe where he is, he’s happy to stay there.”

  For dinner, Hesper turned out a platter of the most darling little lamp chops you’ve ever seen, plus baby vegetables and an odd delicious pilaf made from oats. There was a lovely wine, all for me; Genie was not drinking from now until after the tournament.

  We talked through the meal, which we took outside. Part of the terrace extended into a deck that stuck out over the canyon. You could see the lights of L.A.

  That evening I learned many things about Genie, and didn’t learn others. She considered winning the Dinah her first year on the tour to be a fluke. She hadn’t won it since and was anxious to repeat her victory. I learned she didn’t have much in the way of folks.

  “Your parents are dead, then?” I asked.

  “More or less.”

  “I see. Brothers, sisters?”

  “One of each, but they’ve both disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that.”

  “I see.”

  I learned that the camaraderie on the LPGA tour wasn’t what it used to be. In the old days the gals on the fledgling tour shared rides to tournaments, shared motel rooms, and, one could safely suppose, beds every so often. Prize money was paltry. Today it’s only paltry compared to what the men get.

  “Oh, everybody’s friendly,” said Genie. “You know, you’re polite enough—you say hi and everything, but there’s, like, an edge to everybody. That look in the eyes, you know?”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Your mouth is smiling, but your eyes are saying, I’d just as soon kill you. The money’s bigger, the girls are better trained—not just as golfers, but as athletes—heck, nobody even eats doughnuts anymore.” She looked wistful. “There’s more at stake. The media attention’s bigger, not that it’s big enough.”

  “I know. They cover the whole last round of the men’s majors on TV, and I’m lucky to get the last six holes of the women’s. That is so sucking.”

  “It’s very sucking.” She liked that construction.

  I like to watch golf on television. Even if you’re not really interested in golf, televised golf is a valuable tool for wellness. The next time you’re home sick on a summer weekend, or have really bad cramps, or whatever, close the blinds, find some golf on TV and curl up on the couch with a nice cold glass of ginger ale. You can sort of drift in and out to the subdued tones of the announcers, the murmur of the crowd, the cool green glow of the screen. You’ll feel better after an hour or two.

  Genie said, “You know, the LPGA and the sponsors work like crazy to minimize the appearance of lesbianism on the tour. They’re always playing up publicity for women with husbands and kids.”

  “The stigma thing. Dykes hurt the tour, right?”

  “That’s what they think. But the truth is, it’s prejudice against ga
y players that hurts the tour.”

  Every so often as we dined, Hesper would come out on her little cat feet and remove a dish or refill something.

  I told her, “Hesper, this is all just wonderful.” She smiled, then cocked her large head toward the shrubbery, listening. I’d heard nothing but the birds and the bees; I guess after a second Hesper decided that was all she’d heard, too. She withdrew to the kitchen.

  Genie said, “I’m glad I’m not a rookie anymore.”

  “Tough times?” I knew she’d come up from a pretty humble beginning; that much I’d retained from reading magazines.

  “Oh, those days. I was on my own. All those black golf gloves.”

  I was baffled. “What about black golf gloves?”

  “Well, they wear longer than any other color. The black dye makes the leather stronger. Plus they don’t look dirty after one week. Serious golfers on the cheap wear nothing but black gloves.”

  I made a mental note to look for black gloves the next time I went through the sale bin.

  “Did you stay with families at the tournaments?” I asked.

  “Yes, my whole first year.”

  At most tournaments, people living near the course, some of them, offer their homes to the golfers. At the high end a golfer can rent a luxury home right next to the course for a fat fee. At the low end, some families simply make a spare room available for nothing to a young pro on a tight budget.

  “They’re all nice, the families,” Genie said. “Only once in a while you sort of have to sing for your supper.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Like, they make these nice meals for you, and then they sit with you and ask you your life story, and they tell you theirs, and they try to get you to gossip about the other golfers. But you know, even that’s not so bad compared to guys who want to help you with your swing.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You mean, like you’re sitting there at dinner after your round, and the dad says something like, ‘You know, I noticed that your right elbow is flying a little bit on your backswing’?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Once I had a host—this was at the Tour Championship—this guy takes me out in the yard after dinner. It was Saturday night, and I’d gotten into the lead by two shots. At first I thought he wanted me to correct his swing, but suddenly I’m realizing that he’s trying to coach me. He kept talking about my hips, my hip turn. ‘Do you know you’re tilting slightly, he says?’”

  “Oh, God.”

  “The next day during my round I kept hearing this idiot’s voice in my head, talking about my hips. I tried not to think about my hips, but it’s like the blue horse in that movie, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What’s-her-name tells the jury to think about anything but a blue horse.”

  “All I could think about was my hips. So essentially, I blew the round and tied for fourteenth. That wouldn’t happen today.”

  I nodded. “You’ve learned greater mental discipline?”

  “I’ve learned that sometimes you gotta belt people in the mouth!”

  I laughed.

  “I’m kidding, yeah,” said Genie.

  Hesper came in with some coconut sorbet for dessert.

  Genie’s knowledge of golf history was awesome. I’d thought mine was pretty good, but I didn’t live and breathe the game. I did know who Glenna Collett Vare was, after whom the Vare Trophy was named, and I owned instruction books by Vivien Saunders, Judy Rankin, and the great Mickey Wright.

  “Have you ever met Mickey Wright?” I asked. Most people have never heard of her, although she won almost as many titles as Kathy Whitworth and received the highest compliment in the history of golf: Ben Hogan was on record saying that of all the golfers he’d ever seen, the one with the best swing, man or woman, was Mickey Wright.

  “Oh, she’s my total idol,” Genie said. “I’ve met her a few times. She’s getting old. I wish she’d been born later, so I could study her at her peak, in person. She’s the chairman of the board. That swing, she could do anything with it. Of course, it wasn’t just that she could put anything she wanted on the ball.”

  “It was her confidence.”

  “That’s right.” Genie leaned in to me, her sandy brows scrunched. “Knowing how to do it and doing it when you have to—do you have any idea what a difference there is between those two things?”

  “I’ve never hit a golf shot under pressure. Say, you said you didn’t want to dwell on golf this weekend.”

  “This isn’t dwelling. You don’t know what dwelling is. If I was dwelling on golf, we’d have the Golf Channel on all the time, then I’d be going over every hole at Mission Hills shot by shot. I’d be talking about all my past rounds there. I’d be speculating how thick they’re growing the rough this year—plenty thick, that’s always a safe bet. I’d be obsessing over whether I’m going to go for the green in two on eighteen or lay up—”

  “Ah, the water hole, right?”

  “Yeah. There’s a few of us who can do it—Laura Davies can, when her head’s straight, which is most of the time. I can. It’s a risk for anybody. You’ve got to have two perfect shots. Should I go for it in the early rounds? Or just if I need a miracle?”

  Suddenly she leaned forward and drilled her eyes into mine. “How old are you, anyway?” Her eyes, I’d determined, were hazel, tending very slightly to green. Beautiful flecks of color that changed all the time.

  I drilled her back. “I lie about my age.”

  “You’re too young to lie about your age.”

  “You’re never too young.”

  “You’re older than me.”

  “You have a beautiful smile.”

  That made her laugh, and she looked out at the lights of Babylon. “Peaches and I’ve been working on course management,” she told me. “We’ll get together tomorrow and go over our plan.”

  “Who’s Peaches?”

  “Peaches Oshinsky, my caddie.”

  “Are you happy with her?”

  “Peaches is a he, you goof. Oh, my gosh, I’d die without him. You will not find a better caddie on the tour. He knows every blade of grass on every course we play.”

  “Peaches—that’s so funny.” It made me smile.

  “His real name is Herman or something. People call him Peaches because of his beautiful face. He makes movie stars look ugly. He’s a doll, completely, and he’s a good guy. I’d put my life in his hands any day. You’ll meet him. He’s been with his wife in Tallahassee. She just had a baby, so he was glad to get a week off. But we’re gonna buckle down tomorrow.”

  “How’re you going to have time to shoot a round of golf with me and meet with Peaches?” I asked.

  “We’ll start early.”

  “In that case.”

  “Yes. To bed.”

  I liked Genie’s directness, her up-frontness. She was a specialist at golf and a specialist in the sack. Oh, yes.

  Before we dropped off to sleep, I asked, “Where do you get your drive from?”

  “A lot of who I am, I invented.”

  It didn’t occur to me until later that she had answered a different question.

  10

  Sunday’s highlights most certainly did not include the round of golf Genie and I played at an out-of-the-way public course called Woodley Lakes, starting at daybreak. I mean to say, my play wouldn’t have made any highlight tapes, except the accidentally wonderful shot I hit by viciously topping my ball off the tee on one of the par threes, which ricocheted off a bunker rake and came to rest a foot from the cup. I missed the putt. It was a typical outing for me. Using rented clubs and Genie’s advice on strategy, I shot a 97.

  “You’re really not that bad,” Genie said as she slammed the trunk on the Jag. “You hit some good shots.” She’d slaughtered the course.

  It’s interesting to realize that golf pros don’t hit every shot great. When you watch them on TV, you mostly see the leaders, who are all over the
ir game, or they wouldn’t be out front. You don’t see the pro who can’t hit the broad side of a brewery that day. Genie had a fine morning, but even she hit a few lousy shots.

  “The main difference between you and me,” I observed, “is that your bad shots come only one in a row. Then you make the putt for your par or your birdie anyway.”

  “You gotta make putts.” She felt good.

  A guy in a primer-painted Buick, about a ’79, zoomed up from behind and cut in front of us as Genie was trying to merge onto the expressway.

  “Goddamn it!” I yelled, as Genie braked and swerved. “What an asshole!”

  Genie just kept driving. “You can say that again.”

  “You never swear, do you?”

  “It’s not my style.”

  “That’s nice,” I told her. “That is very nice. I’ve been swearing like a sailor since I could talk.”

  “What, did you grow up in a bar or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You grew up in a bar?”

  “Yeah! Even people who run bars have kids.”

  “Well,” she said, “I take pride in not having to use gutter talk.”

  I played with the power window control, fighting feeling ashamed. “Good for you, Goldilocks, but every time I try not to swear I feel flaky.” I sat there wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

  When we got back to the house, Peaches was already there, drinking iced tea at the kitchen table and flipping through his yardage book. I didn’t spend more than a minute meeting him before leaving Genie alone with him, but I liked him at once. Unlike many strikingly handsome people, he didn’t appear conceited: You could sense his warmth right away. Beneath his impeccable skin and dimples, he had that scoutmaster look, as if he’d wade through a lava pit to rescue a stranded fawn. Plus he was big enough to haul Genie’s heavy leather golf bag all over a championship course, hustling back and forth with divots and towels, without needing supplemental oxygen.

  They talked strategy while I looked after Todd, taking him out for a stroll on the terrace, then brushing him and talking to him. I felt him all over, feeling for his bones, to make sure he was eating enough.