Death at the Member Guest

by James Y. Bartlett

  We finally pulled into the parking lot in front of a small, cinder-block shack tucked underneath two large maple trees on a mostly deserted state highway. Which state and which highway, I had no idea: Jackie had taken a shortcut through some neighborhoods, behind a strip center and around a sparkling lake. A small sign in a darkened front window announced that we had arrived at Bob’s Eats. There were four other cars parked outside and a dusty yellow retriever lying across the threshold. He wagged his tail feebly a couple times as we stepped over him to go inside.

  Bob was inside, manning the grill behind a long plywood counter. There were two plastic-covered tables crammed beneath a small, dirty window down at the far end, but the five other customers were draped on stools at the counter. Bob was a large man, with an even larger beer belly that protruded dangerously towards the hot grill. He wore a tiny little paper hat that was scrunched down into his greasy silver wisps of hair, had a cigar stuck behind one ear, unlit as far as I could tell, wielded a shiny stainless spatula in each hand and wore a white tee shirt, blue jeans and a mottled apron cinched tightly beneath his breasts. I believe the fashionistas call it the Empire line. He turned to give us a cursory glance, nodded at Jackie and turned back to his grill with a flourish of spatulas. He had an order of scrambled, two fried eggs, three blueberry pancakes, a rasher of bacon, a line of sausage links and half a grill of homefries going all at once.

  I pulled up a stool to watch Bob’s ballet. Jackie walked down to the end of the counter and poured two mugs of hot coffee. Bob deftly plated some eggs, scooped out a healthy order of potatoes, flipped the bacon up and on, and dusted the lot with a cloud of salt and red pepper. Turning, he put the plate on the shiny countertop, pointed at a fellow three stools down and slid the breakfast down. The fellow caught the plate, picked up his fork and looked happy.

  Bob nodded in approval. He turned to look at Jackie. “The usual?” he grunted. “And who’s your pal?”

  “The usual,” Jackie nodded. “And a couple Sunday specials, too. Hacker? Bob. Makes the best goddam breakfast in America. Tell him what you want.”

  I was ready. In fact, I was beginning to drool. “I’ll have the pancakes, bacon and homefries,” I said. Bob nodded his approval again. I’ll bet he didn’t nod if someone came in and asked for wheat toast without the crusts. Or an egg white omelet, no cheese, peppers on the side. Not at Bob’s.

  I saw a copy of my newspaper on the table under the window and went to get it. Back at the counter, while Bob went into his dervish dance at the grill, I sipped the hot, rich coffee and scanned Angela Murphy’s take on Vitus’ murder. The Journal had made the story the page 3 lead, and Angie had ended up with only about fifteen graphs. Someone had found a file photo of Vitus and Leta, dressed to the nines, at some Boston charitable ball. He looked grumpy, she looked divine. Angie mentioned Vitus’ brush with the federal banking regulators, his close political friends, and his reputation for hard-nosed business practices. Good girl! I thought. I also silently thanked her for keeping my name out of the story. The piece ended with the usual police statements of promising leads, autopsy report to follow by Monday, nothing further to say at this time. In other words, Lt. Tierney had no earthly idea who had strangled Vitus Papageorge.

  Bob served up someone else’s order and slipped out into the back room. He came back a minute later with two tall paper cups filled with a mysterious red liquid, in which was jammed a talk celery stalk. He put them down in front of us.

  Jack exhaled a long sigh of anticipation and relief. “Bob, my man,” he said, “If you weren’t so goddam ugly I think I’d kiss you on the lips.”

  Bob raised one eyebrow. “Mazeltov,” he grunted.

  My cellphone buzzed at me from my pocket. I flipped it open.

  “Yo, Hacker,” I said.

  “Yo yourself!” said a nice female voice. “Hacker! I’m just sitting here reading the morning paper and read about this guy getting murdered right where you are! My God! Were you there? Are you OK?”

  I smiled. “Hi Mary Jane,” I said. “I’m fine. Yes, I was there. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home tonight.”

  “Are you still playing golf?” she trilled, still excited. “I mean, this guy was killed! Dead! Ewwww, how icky it must be!”

  “It’s OK, “ I said. “They took him away and everything. No muss, no fuss. They’re gonna try and have everyone play today and then kinda flip a coin to decide who wins.”

  “My God,” she said. “Listen, would you like to come over for dinner with Victoria and me? When will you be getting back to the city? I can bake a chicken or something. You can tell me all about it.”

  I laughed. “Great,” I said. “Love to. I should be back around seven. Is that too late for Vic?”

  “Nah,” Mary Jane said. “I’ll feed her early and get her into bed. OK, we’ll look for you around sevenish. Listen, Hacker? Be careful, will you?”

  “It’s OK, really,” said. “I’m more in danger of getting bonked with a golf ball or tripping over a bunker rake. I’ll call you later. Is there anything I can bring?”

  “Just your own sweet self,” she said. “Bye.”

  I flipped my phone shut, still smiling. Jackie was looking at me with a smirk. “Hacker’s got a girl friend,” he sing-songed in his best sixth grade voice.

  I laughed. “Just my downstairs neighbor,” I said. “Nice lady, but not my girlfriend.”

  Jack was nodding sagely. “Son,” he said, “If you could see the look on your face right now …”

  I was saved from having to defend my bachelorhood by the arrival of two sliding plates. Jackie’s platter of eggs, bacon and sausage, toast and homefries went zipping past. I held out my hand to stop my own heaping plate of breakfast. Neither one of us spoke for the next fifteen minutes.

  “Whew,” Jackie said, pushing his empty plate away. “You ready to go golf your lungs out?”

  Bob did a pirouette at the grill, grabbed both our plates, and swiftly deposited them with a clatter in the empty bin on his side of the counter. He was back flipping hot cakes and spatulating potatoes in a wink. The man was an ergonomic genius.

  “I’m ready to go sleep for about four hours, roll over and sleep for three more,” I said.

  “Excellent,” Jack said, pounding me on the back. “I read somewhere that you play your best golf when you’re relaxed.”

  “How about catatonic?” I said.

  Jack laughed and polished off the last of his Bloody Mary, smacking his lips. “Let’s go get ‘em!” he said, throwing down some bills on the counter. I groaned and followed him out to the car.

  As we headed to the Shuttlecock Club, following another maze of bumpy macadam roads through the countryside, my phone buzzed at me again. I sighed and answered.

  “Hacker,” a voice rasped out at me unpleasantly. “Where the hell are you?” It was Frankie Donatello, my boss. I gulped.

  “Ummm, where do you think I am?” I hedged.

  “Well, I’ve got a stack of stories on my desk here that are datelined Endicott, New York,” he said. “But they don’t have your style.”

  “I have a style?” I said. “Aww, Frankie, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Shuddup,” he growled. “What gives?”

  “Frankie,” I said, “Remember that j-school kid you saddled with me? I thought I’d let him see what a PGA tournament is all about. Gave him a chance to do some reporting. That’s probably why some of the pieces read a bit different.”

  “You took the kid with you to New York?” Frankie said, sounding incredulous. “You ain’t turned gay on me, have ya?”

  “Frank, that’s politically incorrect,” I said, managing to pirouette around his question. “I have merely overseen the kid’s work.” Which was, of course, true.

  “Yeah,” Frank grumped. “And while the kid worked, you’ve probably been goofing off, playing golf or drinking yourself into oblivion. Nice scam, Hacker …” H
e was starting to get worked up and ready to launch into one of his standard employers speech about responsibility and dedication to the company.

  “Frank,” I said sharply, “You’re the one who made me do this. Don’t start complaining to me about spending time with the kid. I didn’t want to do it in the first place.”

  He was silent, fuming. “Fine,” he said finally. “I want you back in this office tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. I’ve got a backlog of stories to do for the special high school gridiron special next Saturday. So cancel your dinner plans and be prepared to actually do some work for a change.”

  He slammed down his phone before I could compose a suitably smartass answer. But I was still grinning as I flipped my phone shut.

  “Dodged a bullet there,” I told Jackie, laughing. “Good thing the boss is a dumb as a brick.”

  Jack nodded. “My theory is that every newspaper has one or two solid people who make the thing happen,” he said. “And it’s never the guy at the top .”

  “That mean you’re expendable?” I chided.

  “Oh hell yes,” he said, laughing. “Anybody can smooze with advertisers and sell space. That just takes an iron stomach, creative lying, the ability to be constantly insulted without taking it personally and some degree of persistence. Not exactly brain surgery. Good writing and good editing…those are hard to find. Hard to do.”

  “Nah,” I said. “It’s really not that tough. Just gotta ask a lot of questions and then put the important stuff you find out at the top. Piece of cake.”

  “So,” Jack said, glancing over at me. “Have we found any important stuff in the case of the Dead President? Or haven’t we asked the right questions yet?”

  “Well,” I said, “What do we know?”

  “Vitus is one dead s.o.b.,” Jackie said.

  “Correct.”

  “Someone killed his ass.”

  “Correct again. You’re on a roll, pards.”

  “Wasn’t you or me.”

  “Well, I know for certain it wasn’t me,” I said. “But I’ll take your word for it that you didn’t do it.”

  “We have determined that Vitus was involved in some financial shenanigans involving skimming some cash out of the Shuttlecock Club, aided and abetted by the general manager, who just happens to be connected to the Mob.”

  “I would say that those are all facts,” I nodded. “Can we therefore deduce that Vitus was done in by someone from the Mob who perhaps was unhappy with something Vitus did, or didn’t do in that said scam?”

  “We can suspect that,” I said, “But I don’t think we can say with certainty that’s what went down. We do not have confirmation, just a lot of hearsay.”

  “Some of that hearsay came from the guy’s wife, for Chrissakes,” Jackie protested.

  “Who might have been trying to cover her own ass, or throw us a false scent,” I said. “I think there’s a lot we don’t know about Leta. Remember, I saw her smooching with someone in the dark. We don’t know who.”

  “So you think the murderer could have been someone else at the club?”

  “Could have,” I said. “Maybe someone got wind of the skim job Vitus pulled and wanted revenge. Maybe someone just didn’t like the bastard. Maybe someone was nursing a long grudge.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes,” Jack said, frowning. “I thought we were ready to arrest someone.”

  “Here’s another maybe: maybe it was someone totally unrelated to the Shuttlecock Club. An old business partner or someone Vitus had screwed over in some deal. After all, even though it was early in the morning, there were cars driving in and out of the club that morning. Someone could have strung Vitus up and vamoosed before I found the body.”

  “Vamoosed,” Jack echoed. “Great verb.”

  “From the Latin, vamoosa,” I said, straight-faced. “Meaning to scram or otherwise make like a tree and leaf.”

  I think Jack wanted to pull over and beat me severely about the head and shoulders, but we had arrived at the club, so he pulled into the driveway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The clubhouse was buzzing with activity. Play had begun early, but many of the golfers scheduled for later tee times had already arrived, and were sitting around discussing the previous day’s events. A flustered waitress was trying to deliver plates of bacon and eggs to the crowded tables, while two bartenders were passing out Bloody Marys, screwdrivers and beer as fast as they could.

  We found out that our tee time would probably be later than scheduled, as the course had backed up. The last day of play in a tournament is always slower since everyone takes their time over every shot and especially over putts, which could be the difference between victory and defeat. And with the tournament telescoped from three days into two, strokes were even more valuable. We had about 90 minutes to kill.

  Jack and I went upstairs, and he unpacked our Brothers outfits for the day: jet black from head to toe, with black straw cowboy hats and even black golf gloves.

  “Where did you find these?” I asked in wonder, fingering the brand new glove.

  “Special ordered ‘em from Titleist,” he said. “Got a buddy down there. I wanted the full Gary Player look for today. Black power, babee.”

  “Right on,” I said, giving him the upraised fist salute. “Hope the clothes help you keep the ball in the fairway.”

  “It’s all attitude, Hack,” he said. “Besides, I plan on riding your broad back all day anyway! I’m going to shit, shower and start drinking. How about you?”

  “I’ll just go hit some balls,” I said. “Might work better than the black duds.”

  “Doubt it,” he said, disappearing into the lavatory. “But help yourself.”

  I decided to stop off and see how Teddy MacDaggert was holding up. One of his shop assistants was holding down the fort in the crowded pro shop, but nodded his head towards Ted’s private back office when I asked where the pro was. I ducked behind the sales counter and walked down a creaky hallway to find him.

  McDaggert was on the telephone when I walked into his tiny warren, so I hovered in the doorway. His office came straight from central casting: country-club golf professional. His desk was covered in papers, brochures for golf equipment, catalogs from John Deere, and stacks of scorecards bound with rubber bands. The walls were completely covered by calendars from golf companies, postcards from traveling members, memoranda from the Shuttlecock business office, and a few framed photographs of Ted posing with various golfing celebrities. Leaning against the wall beside Ted’s desk were three sets of irons, bound with twine and work-ordered for new grips. Three new putters, still in their polystyrene wrapping, lay across the beat-up old director’s chair in front of his desk. It was all chaos, barely controlled.

  As I stood there, I noticed Ted’s face reddening slightly, and he turned away as if to make it harder for me to hear what he had to say, even though I was standing perhaps three feet from him in the doorway. I would have retreated, since he obviously wanted privacy, but he held up his hand for me to stay, and wound up his call.

  “Well, OK,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you were OK and everything. If there’s anything I can do …” His voice trailed off and he listened. “Well, I understand, but this is not a time to try and go it alone,” he said. “Please, call me.” He nodded. “Right. OK. Bye then.”

  He hung up and managed a half grin at me. “C’mon in, Hacker,” he said, waving in the general direction of his guest chair. “That was Leta Papageorge. God, what a horrible thing to happen.” He ran his hands through his fritzy hair and stared off into the distance, which ended abruptly at the wall 10 feet in front of his face.

  “Nice of you to offer a shoulder to cry on,” I said. He snapped back from wherever he had gone momentarily, looked at me, colored again, and blew out his breath.

  “Hell, Hacker,” he said. “Have you ever fallen hard for a woman? Even though you’re not supposed to?” His look was a combinatio
n of hangdog, self-pity and pride to admit to a fellow member of the male tribe that he had, in some way, made a conquest.

  Aha, I thought. The mystery kisser.

  “Get out of here!” I gushed, trying to keep him talking. “You and Leta….?”

  He nodded, smiling a little. “Yeah, she came in at the start of the summer and signed up for golf lessons,” he said. “Vitus said he wanted her to be able to play in the mixed events with him and win. Typical Vitus—never mind having fun or wanting to play for herself. It was all about him, and he ordered her to learn the game and fast. She came in two or three mornings a week. I tried to make it fun, especially since it wasn’t her idea in the first place. I think she liked that—not being serious. Everything about Vitus was always so goddam serious.”

  I kept silent, letting him vent.

  “About a month ago, she gave me a little kiss at the end of the lesson. Just a little thank-you peck. But it was on the lips.” Ted sighed, deeply from his soul. “I couldn’t sleep the next couple of nights, thinking about that kiss, trying to decide what it meant. Hell, Hacker, I played on the Tour for a year, been around women who flirt. I’m not some 15 year-old kid who’s never been kissed, y’know?”

  “You ever been married, Ted?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Divorced about ten years ago. She didn’t like New England much. Or the hours I have to spend here. Or me, if you get right down to it. She lives down in Virginia with the kids. Only get to see them every other Christmas, mostly.”

  He sighed. “Anyway, the next time she came in, I kept it light. She wanted to know how to move her hips in the swing. I showed her. Had to stand close, touch her body. Her perfume was nice. She was nice. One thing led to another, and she was kissing me again. Nothing light this time.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You lucky duck. But didn’t she have something of a reputation around here?”

  “Yeah,” Ted said. “I’d heard all the gossip. But when she’s kissing you, you feel like the only male animal left in the world, y’know?”

  I didn’t know, but I nodded sagely. “So how far has it gone?” I asked as gently as I could.