Death at the Member Guest

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Thanks,” I said, “But I’ve got to go get some dinner into my partner. We’ve got an early start tomorrow. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Papageorge.”

  I left her standing there, underneath the ancient old oaks and the dwindling light of the day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I found Jack upstairs and told him I was hungry. He took a quick shower, poured his bourbon into a plastic “to-go” cup and followed me out to the parking lot. There were less than a dozen cars left. Night had fallen and dew was already gathering on the grassy surfaces around us. In September in Massachusetts, the heat of the day ceases with the last ray of sun, as if someone had thrown a switch. The air had turned from balmy to cold. I shivered.

  “I’m driving,” I told my slightly inebriated friend. He concurred without an argument. Jackie could hold his booze better than anyone I had ever known. He was loose-limbed but still pretty much in control. But he was in no shape to operate a motor vehicle. Especially in Massachusetts, where the jack-booted government thugs who patrol the state’s highways love to throw people in jail for registering even the smallest number on the breath-o-meter.

  “Head downtown,” Jack said. “I know a place.”

  I drove off the island and followed the river downstream towards the city of Lowell. As we neared the city, the river broadened out. We passed a flag bedecked marina on the bank and saw a flotilla of small sailboats tied up on the docks. A mile or so downstream, I could see a crude-looking wooden dam arching across the river in front of an old brick bridge. Water splashed over the boards in several places, crashing down on the dark rocks below.

  “Pawtucket Falls,” Jack said, looking out the window. “From this point, the river drops something like 250 feet in elevation in less than a mile. By building that dam and then a series of canals running off it, they were able to harness all the power of that falling water to run the turbines that powered the textile machinery. Pretty remarkable piece of engineering for the early 19th century.”

  I smiled at the slight note of pride I heard in Jackie’s voice. A bit of hometown boosterism was showing through, even in my worldly and sophisticated friend.

  He navigated while I wended my way into the heart of the city, an old, decaying warren of brick factories, warehouses and cobblestone streets. We passed four-story tenements, dilapidated storefronts and huge, Gothic granite churches covered with dark soot and decades of grime. We passed through bustling Hispanic neighborhoods filled with colorful bodegas and the smells of hot frying food, and through quieter areas where the signs were in Asian scrawl. As we finally reached the downtown, the brick buildings looked cleaner and newer, and some of the main streets glowed in the light of old-fashioned gas lamps.

  “City of Lowell was one of the armpits of the nation twenty, thirty years ago,” Jack said. “The textile mills all went South two generations ago and the place just began rotting away. Then Ted Kennedy brought the Feds in with a barrel full of urban renewal dollars and someone had the bright idea of turning downtown into a living museum of the Industrial Age. Whole blocks down here are part of a national urban park, showing off the birthplace of the American industrial revolution. You can tour the mills, ride a boat through the canals, do the museum of textiles. They kinda skip over the parts about the mill girls losing hands and fingers in the machinery, but what the hell. I can’t complain. It brings business to town and keeps my presses humming.”

  We zigged and zagged on one-way streets until we finally found a parking space on a narrow lane. We locked up and strolled back down the block to the restaurant. The place was called A.G. Pollard and Sons, and inside it was a classic loft space, all weathered wood and exposed brick. Candles on the tables threw pleasing patterns on the rough brick walls, and the thick pine floorboards creaked nicely as we walked towards the bar, where a pianist was playing soft chords.

  “This used to be a warehouse for a local department store,” Jackie told me as we ordered drinks. “Steaks are good here and the bartender is a buddy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I said. “You probably are single-handedly putting his daughter through college.”

  He laughed. We sat at the bar and asked for menus. Our drinks arrived and we ordered rib eyes. Rare. With the works. Jack took a sip, sat back and sighed.

  “I really hated losing to ole Shit-for-Brains this afternoon,” he said. “How come you didn’t play better?”

  “Up yours,” I retorted wittily. “But let me tell you something interesting that happened earlier tonight.”

  I told him about my encounter with Leta Papageorge. And my feeling that she had been hitting on me. Jackie laughed, took another sip from his bourbon and reached into the basket of roasted peanuts the bartender had placed in front of us. The tradition was to throw the empty shells on the floor, adding to the atmosphere of the place. I wondered if the janitors appreciated the tradition as much as everyone else.

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Leta,” he smiled. “Woman is something else.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had, er, some experience in these matters.”

  “Please, Hacker,” he protested, laughing. “I do have some standards.”

  “If you do, I’ve never been able to figure them out,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “I wish I could say that she singled me out on account of my boyish good looks, sparkling personality and the rumors concerning my length and girth, but the truth is that I think Leta Papageorge has hit on just about every person who’s male and breathing at the Shuttlecock Club at one time or another. Come to think about it, I’m not so sure we can rule out all the women, either. Some of our best girl golfers are, shall we say, a bit on the lumpy and mannish side, if you catch my drift.”

  “Drift caught, you misogynous bastard.” I said. “Let’s talk about Leta.”

  “Well,” he said, “She’s got this incredibly sexy mole on her left . . .”

  “No, no,” I interrupted. “What’s her story?”

  Leta Papageorge, Jackie told me, while he motioned for two more drinks, was Vitus’ second wife. The first Mrs. P had been a dumpy woman with thick and heavy eyebrows who had introduced him to her banker father, had his babies, kept his house and been unceremoniously dumped for a younger and sexier version after 15 years of marriage. I winced at Jack’s inelegant and mostly sexist descriptions of the unfortunate first Mrs. Papageorge, but knew the story. Successful businessperson struggles when young, makes it big, dumps the faithful helpmate for the young trophy.

  “He needed an ornament, something that would look good on his arm when he went to important functions,” Jack said. “Especially when the presidential candidates showed up on the dinner circuits every four years.”

  He paused and sipped his cocktail.

  “In return, Leta got a gold card or two, nice big house, new car every two years, regular vacations in Europe. The usual. Kids not allowed, of course. Vitus had been there and done that. But it turned out that Leta had one or two smarts in addition to her long blond hair and nice ta-tas.”

  Apparently, Jack said, Leta had some good political instincts. People liked her, especially male people. Vitus was the quintessential mover and shaker, a big operator with the big bucks of his bank to give him some importance. But it turns out Leta was a sharper thinker, and someone who could size someone up quickly and know what buttons needed pushing to get that person to do Vitus’ bidding.

  “So Vitus must have liked having his trophy wife turning out to be smart too, huh?” I asked.

  “I think he hated it,” Jack said, swirling the ice around in his glass. “He doesn’t like not being the main man. You could see that on the golf course. There’s only room for one ringleader in his circus. I’ve heard that things are not altogether happy in Vitus City. Especially lately. The word is that some of Leta’s friends are encouraging her to run for office, the state senate up there in New Hampshire. Word is, Vitus hit the ceiling when he heard about it.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. �
��Could be trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said. “Don’t think that marriage is headed for the love-and-kisses hall of fame. He’s still got his trophy, which he drags out when he needs her. She’s got the gold cards, the house and the cars…but she’s also got a lot of internalized anger.”

  “So she runs around sleeping with all the boys she can,” I said.

  “Hey,” Jackie shrugged. “Girls just wanna have fun.”

  “And Vitus?”

  “Probably does the same. I would.”

  “Whatever happened to love, cherish and obey ‘til death us do part?” I sighed.

  “Oh, crap, Hacker, please tell me you don’t still believe in that never-ending romantic bullshit,” Jack snapped.

  I shook my head. “’Mingled things are more pleasing than single things,’” I quoted at him. “’A chord moreso than a single note.’”

  He held up his hand to ward me away. “I don’t even wanna know,” he said.

  I told him anyway. “St. Thomas of Aquinas.”

  The bartender brought our steaks out, so we stopped talking and ate. It was nice, here in this bricky room, glowing in the candlelight, the pianist tickling the ivories in the background. Yeah, I thought to myself, I do still believe in that romantic crap. I think we all do. Mingled things are sweeter. But Leta and Vitus Papageorge? Not exactly a chord that resonated with anyone.

  After our steaks, Jack led me down the street and across a bridge that spanned one of Lowell’s dark and narrow canals. We crossed a busy street and entered a bar called Old Werthan’s. Jack was immediately recognized and greeted warmly by at least half the patrons in the place. We stood at the long, mahogany bar with its traditional brass footrail and Jack ordered us a couple snifters of brandy.

  “This used to be a great dive,” he said. “Draught beer for twenty-five cents. Ten cents for a hot dog boiled in beer. Town’s alcoholics got here at 10 a.m. sharp every day and stayed until closing. Was a rite of passage as a teenager. trying to come in and get served. That and getting laid by one of the hookers out back. Lunch hour, the place would be crawling with politicians.”

  He stopped and surveyed the place, looking a bit wistful. “Then they wrecked it,” he said. “Put in some ferns, knocked out a wall, added tables and chairs. Added a menu, for God’s sake. Too bad. Used to have some character.”

  We sipped our drinks in silent homage to the memories of Old Werthan’s.

  “Tell me, Hack,” Jack said, leaning back against the bar. “You ever miss playing on the Tour?”

  “Honestly? No,” I said. “There were, of course, parts of that life which were, and still are, immensely attractive.”

  “Money. Women. Free golf balls,” Jackie began ticking off his fingers. I laughed.

  “Yeah, well, I was thinking more of a sense that you were one of a select few on the planet who had the game. A sense of some accomplishment that, even if you never won a tournament, was real. And important.”

  “So why’d you quit?”

  “Well, the process of getting to the Tour was automatic,” I said. “Played junior golf with success to get a college scholarship. Played college golf with success to try and see if I really had enough game for the pros.”

  “And you made it,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I said. “Did you really think you could?” He shook his head a bit sadly.

  “Naw,” he said. “I knew I wasn’t good enough. But I had to try.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “You had to try. I had to try. It was the next step in the process. A follows B follows C. We never stopped to ask ourselves if we really wanted to take the next step. It was just automatic. Of course we wanted to play on the Tour. Who wouldn’t?” I stopped and sipped my drink. The brandy burned going down.

  “So I made it on Tour and the next step was trying to win, get exempt, keep my card. That kept me busy for the next three years, so I never had to actually think about what I was doing. Finally, I went off by myself for a few weeks. Funny, I had started to turn the corner, started to play really well. I had finished in the top ten two out of three weeks, started to pile up some bucks. Things were looking good, finally. But instead of being incredibly happy, I was incredibly depressed. Way down in the dumps.”

  “You needed to get laid,” Jack said.

  “Maybe,” I laughed. “But I just went off for a couple weeks by myself and took a little internal inventory. Began to think about things differently for a change. And what I decided was that I really didn’t want to be a professional golfer anymore. Sure, it was fun. I got to travel all over the place, made lots of good friends, met nice people. Made enough money to keep doing it. But it wasn’t enough. Something inside told me it was wrong. So I decided to quit. Everyone thought I was nuts. Maybe I was. “

  “Getting laid woulda been easier,” my friend observed.

  “Maybe so. But I did manage, finally, to figure out a way to live the Tour life vicariously by writing about it in the newspaper. And I haven’t really looked back since.”

  “So now here you are, sitting in a tired old bar in a tired old city with a tired old friend, without a scintilla of fame or fortune.” Jackie shook his head sadly. “What an idiot.”

  “But a generally happy idiot,” I told him.

  He nodded and held up his glass towards me. We clinked. Cheers. No matter what decisions we had made in our lives, right or wrong, we were still friends.

  We drank silently for a while, listening to the music coming from the jukebox at the end of the bar. “Who we got tomorrow?” I asked. “I hope you’re planning to show up, finally. I don’t think we can afford to lose another match.”

  “I dunno,” he shrugged. “You never know with these things. Somebody will always come out of left field on you, knock off the leaders and tighten things up. Of course, Vitus will be there. Son-of-a-bitch is always right there.”

  The door opened and two not-so-young and not-so-beautiful women came in, giggling to each other. One had a bouffant blond do and wore a faux leopard-skin jacket. The other had a black mini, red spandex top, black pantyhose with a dark seam down the back and straight black hair, with puffy bangs in front. They looked over at us and giggled again. I felt Jackie come to attention beside me and my heart began to sink. I was ready for bed. Jackie wasn’t.

  “Know what, Hack-Man?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “I’m sick and damn tired of talking about Vitus Papageorge.”

  And he lurched off down the bar in the direction of the two non-lovelies. I sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We left Jack’s house, a modern stone-and-glass con- struct on a bluff overlooking the Merrimac River just east of the city, early the next morning. I’m not exactly sure what time we had left Old Werthan’s, but I was quite sure that neither one of us had logged in the recommended eight hours of slumber. We had three matches to play, the first beginning on the 10th tee at 7:35. We stopped in at a Dunkin’ Donuts shop for some coffee, since I don’t think Jack knew where the kitchen in his house was located.

  “How do you feel?” I asked, as we drove back up the river, inhaling a few jelly doughnuts and sipping the hot, black brew.

  “Not bad,” Jack said, licking some sugar off his fingers. “But I still can’t understand what went wrong with the young ladies last night.

  “I think you lost ‘em when you invited them back to the house for a game of naked leapfrog,” I told him.

  “But that’s what everyone was thinking,” he protested.

  “Maybe so,” I said, “But the female animal generally responds better to a more subtle, less graphic approach.”

  “Oh,” he said, and thought about it for an instant or two. “Well, screw it. I haven’t got time to play games.”

  I glanced over at my friend. His hair was tousled and unruly, half of the collar of his polo shirt was sticking up in the air, and neith
er his shirt not his trousers had seen an iron in months. He rummaged around in the waxy donut bag and pulled out another piece of breakfast. Glancing up, he gave me one of the famous Connolly incandescent grins. I had to laugh.

  “You never plan on growing up, do you?” I chided.

  “What the hell for?” he asked. “What’s in it for me if I do? Life is for the living, Hack-Man. You gotta grab it by the balls and hang on for dear life.”

  He took a huge bite out of his donut and fiddled with the radio, looking for the morning news.

  When we arrived at the club, I found a parking spot close to the clubhouse. Jack rummaged around in my backseat and pulled out a garment bag he had stowed there as we were leaving his house.

  “What are we wearing today?” I asked.

  “Purple,” he said with a grin. “It’s the color of passion. You need passion on the golf course. It’s one of the seven chakras. Very important.”

  We went upstairs and changed into the day’s uniform. Bright purple slacks, silk shirts streaked with a pattern of green, yellow and more purple lines, and purple visors emblazoned with the words “The Brothers.” Jack followed me into the bathroom to stare at our reflection in the big mirrors over the line of sinks.

  “Awesome,” he said, “We can’t lose in these. We exude passion.”

  “We look like a couple of hungover grapes,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Jack shrugged. “I need a Bloody Mary to get the blood flowing. You?”

  I shook my head and went downstairs. There was a breakfast buffet set up in the main grille, and I grabbed some orange juice and made a plate of fresh fruit. I saw a copy of my newspaper lying on a table and sat down to see what was in the sports section. One of Teddy McDaggert’s assistants came out of the pro shop waving a slip of paper at me.