by Mark Gimenez
"We're all victims of society, Scott. You have children?"
"Two daughters. Eleven."
"Twins?"
"In every way except biological."
"They might become victims of society, too."
"Not on my watch."
Dr. Tim smiled. He reminded Scott of the girls' pediatrician.
"Tell me about Trey," Scott said.
"Scott, I'd like to help, but what I know about my patients is confidential."
"There's no doctor-patient privilege in Texas, and your patient is dead. I'm defending the person charged with his murder. I can subpoena your records and you to testify at trial. I'm sure you'd like to avoid that. I just need some information, to help me find his killer."
Dr. Tim pondered the implications of being subpoenaed, then shrugged.
"He is dead. Okay. What do you want to know?"
"Did he ever tell you he was going to marry Rebecca?"
"He never even mentioned her."
"Did he tell you he was afraid of anyone?"
"No. Why?"
"He started carrying a gun."
Dr. Tim nodded. "All my football and basketball players carry guns. Part of the culture."
"Why was he seeing you?"
"Same as most of my patients. Addiction."
"I've never understood addiction."
Dr. Tim smiled. "Representing your ex-wife who's accused of murdering the man she left you for—that strikes me as a bit addictive. You want to talk about it?"
"Well, she … No. I want to talk about Trey. What addictions did he suffer from?"
"The correct question is, What addictions didn't he suffer from? See, Trey had an addictive personality. He didn't just enjoy golf, he was addicted to it. Same with alcohol, cocaine, sex—"
"Sex? He was addicted to sex?"
"It's not a joke, Scott, or just a Hollywood diagnosis. It's a real addiction. Sex addiction is often connected to a narcissistic personality disorder. I've treated many athletes suffering from both. They obsess about sex, view pornography compulsively, engage in risky sex, public sex, short-term sex with numerous partners whom they view only as objects—some have claimed over a hundred sexual conquests."
"A hundred women in one man's life?"
"In one season." Dr. Tim shrugged. "For them, Scott, sex is fulfilling a need other than the human sex drive. See, teenage boys view pornography to watch the female, but the narcissistic personality wants to watch himself."
"Trey was a grown man."
"Not really. He suffered deferred adolescence, a lot of pro athletes do. They have people who take care of their every need every day, from their first day of college to the last day of their pro careers, just like their parents did when they were children. So they don't have to grow up until after their careers are over, and for many, it's too late." He sighed. "I'm afraid Trey was the perfect storm: a handsome, rich, talented, narcissistic, sex-addicted pro athlete suffering from deferred adolescence manifested by multiple partners, obsession with pornography, sex tapes—"
Scott snapped forward in his chair.
"Sex tapes? What sex tapes?"
THIRTY
"You find the leak?"
"Nope."
The next morning, Scott dropped the baggies containing the tape strips with Billie Jean Puckett's fingerprints and the whiskey bottle with Pete Puckett's fingerprints on the district attorney's desk. The D.A. studied the whiskey bottle.
"Good stuff. I'll get Hank to run 'em." He held out a document. "Trey's phone bills came in, we ran the numbers. One name caught my eye—Gabe Petrocelli."
"Who's he?"
"Local bookie. Straight line to Vegas."
"The mob? In Galveston?"
"Mob's been here since Galveston was Sin City. How do you think the Maceo brothers got Sinatra to play the Balinese Room?"
"Trey was gambling?"
"He had Gabe's cell phone number, and Gabe had his. I don't figure them for double-dating."
"You see Obama's finally gonna pardon Jack Johnson?"
Gabe Petrocelli tapped a thick finger on the sports section of the local newspaper spread across the table.
"Who's Jack Johnson and what did he do?" Scott said.
"Heavyweight champion of the world, nineteen-oh-eight through nineteen-fifteen. Born and raised right here on the Island."
"That's not a crime."
"He married a white woman."
"I was married to a white woman."
"He was black. First black champion, the Ali of his times, the most famous athlete in the world back then. Wore custom suits, drove fast cars, and married three white women, which didn't sit so well with white men back then. They convicted him under the Mann Act for transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes. You know that law is still on the books?"
"I do know that."
"Stupid … the law, not you."
"Thanks."
"After he won the title, race riots broke out all across the country. That 'Great White Hope' business started because of Johnson, boxing folks trying to find a white fighter who could beat him. Boy, must've been big betting on those fights." Gabe sighed. "Not much betting on boxing these days, everyone's gone to cage fighting and football. Like Trey."
Gabe Petrocelli had curly black hair, a barrel chest, and the hairiest arms Scott had ever seen on a man. He appeared to be in his late forties. He had grown up in the bookmaking business and had taken over the family franchise. His bar—"Gabe's"—was located in a renovated Victorian-style building on Strand Avenue in the entertainment district near the harbor. The bar was not yet open for business that day, but Scott's business card had gained him an audience with Gabe. His two goons had required Louis to remain outside then had patted Scott down for guns and wires. Scott and Gabe now sat in a booth in the back while his goons watched The Sopranos on the TV over the bar.
"They love that show," Gabe said.
He chuckled and sipped his espresso.
"Lawyer with a bodyguard. I like that. Shows some style."
"I try." Scott gestured around at the bar. "Classy place."
"Used to be a high-class whorehouse. All these old buildings on the Strand, they got history. And that's all Galveston's got now … history. Everyone wishing this piece of sand was still important, like it was before the Great Storm. Those were the glory days."
"So you're a bookie?"
"Italians, we been running the bookmaking business on the Island since Prohibition. It ain't what it was back in the day, but it's a living."
"Gabe, you ever been arrested?"
He nodded. "Charges were dropped."
His prints were in the system, so the prints at the house didn't belong to him.
"How long had you known Trey?"
"Since he was a boy. Not personally back then, I'm twenty years older than him, but everyone on the Island knew of him. Then I'd see him out at the club. Nice boy."
"He liked to gamble?"
"Trey was addicted to the thrill. High stakes. We get a lot of athletes."
"What'd he bet on?"
"Football, mostly. At least with me. But only a few hundred grand. The big debts, he ran those up at the casinos."
"In Vegas?"
"Everywhere. Trey knew the exact driving distance from every tour event to the nearest Indian reservation."
"Indian reservation?"
"Casinos. Congress gave the Indians free rein to operate casinos on their reservations—which are like sovereign nations—but they don't know shit about craps or blackjack, so the big casinos made deals with the tribes to operate them, split the profits. Hundreds of Indian casinos now, they take in twenty-six billion a year. Shit, every Indian in America's a goddamned millionaire now." Gabe smiled. "White man took their land, now they're taking the white man's money."
"How much did Trey owe the casinos?"
"Fifteen million."
"Fifteen million? How?"
"How not? Five-thousand-dollar slots, c
raps, blackjack—you name it, he lost at it."
"Did the mob kill him?"
Gabe didn't blink. "I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"First, I would've heard about it. His death, that came as a big shock to me. And he was a good customer, he had the ability to repay, so the boys would've given him time to make good on what he owed. Plus interest, of course."
"And the second reason?"
"If the mob had killed him, they wouldn't have stabbed him with a kitchen knife in his own bedroom where they might leave DNA or a print behind. They would've snatched him, taken him out on a shrimp boat, and cut him up for shark bait. That didn't happen. Ergo, I don't figure we did it."
"Ergo?"
Gabe shrugged. "I watch Law and Order on TV."
"Noncustodial mothers are more common now," Boo said.
Karen and the girls were sitting under the umbrella at the table on the back deck. She'd been telling them—because Bobby had been telling her—about the Karankawas, Indians who had lived out on the West End before it was the West End. But they didn't want to talk about the past; they wanted to talk about the future.
"Meredith did a segment this morning about mothers who leave their children," Boo said. "I bet she's a really good mother. Meredith. You could tell she'd never leave her children. But two million mothers have. Mother's not the only one."
"She's the only mother who left you," Karen said, then she caught herself. "I'm sorry, Boo. I shouldn't have said that."
"That's okay. You've been like a mother to us. And you've always been honest with us." Boo glanced at Pajamae, who nodded. "Karen, will you be honest now?"
"Yes."
"Do you think Mother murdered Trey?"
"No."
"Do you think she'd be a good mother to me and Pajamae?"
Karen Douglas had first met Rebecca Fenney seventeen days before, so she could be objective about her as an accused murderer. But Karen was carrying a baby inside her; she could not be objective about Rebecca Fenney as a mother.
"No. She's neither a murderer nor a mother."
THIRTY-ONE
At the time of his death, Trey Rawlins was the fifth-ranked professional golfer in the world. In less than two years on tour, he had won four tournaments and $9 million in prize money. He had earned $11 million more in endorsements and $4 million more from corporate outings and appearance fees. After commissions, caddie fees, and taxes, he had $12 million in disposable income—and he had disposed of it. He had a beach house in Galveston, a condo in California, and a ski lodge in Colorado. He had a Bentley, a Hummer, a BMW racing bike, and a yacht. He had an expensive cocaine habit and a $500,000 debt to his dealer. And he had a $15-million debt to the mob.
"We were gonna cut him loose."
Twenty-one days before trial, Nick Madden was ready to confess.
"Why?"
"The bad Trey."
"Explain."
"There was the good Trey—the way he played golf, the commercials, the charity appearances, the chocolate milk … When he was good, he was very good. But when he was the bad Trey … He had a dark side. A lot of athletes do."
"Why?"
Nick rubbed his face. He seemed genuinely upset even though Pete Puckett had won the San Antonio Open, the first back-to-back wins in his long career. Two and a half million dollars in winnings in two weeks. Scott was back in Nick's Houston office the Monday after the tournament.
"I don't know, Scott. I was reading a golf magazine, they had an interview with Trevino, asked him what his prized possession was. He said his Ford Mustang. They asked a young tour player the same thing. He said his hundred-foot yacht, but he was whining because Tiger's yacht is fifty feet longer. It ain't the ball and the big drivers that changed the golf tour, it's the players' attitudes. Same with all athletes now. Like Goose said, they think they're entitled. Course, you tell a kid every day he's special from the time he's ten 'cause he can play ball, time he's twenty he's gonna believe it, figure the rules don't apply to him, that he doesn't have to live like everyone else. One time Trey sat right there and said to me, 'Nick, the only rules I follow are the Rules of Golf.' What makes a guy think like that?"
He shook his head.
"Now you know the bad Trey—cocaine and porn, gals and gambling."
"Hard to believe he could lose fifteen million gambling," Scott said.
"You read Daly's book? He said he lost fifty million gambling, had to send his endorsement checks straight to the casinos."
"So why were you dropping Trey? You were still making money off him."
"There was more to it."
"What?"
Nick picked up the remote and pointed it at the big TV on the wall. The screen flashed on to a menu. Nick scrolled down the menu then clicked.
"This."
Trey Rawlins' image filled the screen. He was young, he was handsome, and he was putting.
"Eighteenth hole, Bay Classic in California, early March. He makes this putt, he wins the tournament and one million bucks. A fucking three-foot putt."
Trey missed the putt.
"He didn't miss three-foot putts," Nick said.
Nick clicked through to another tournament and another putt to win.
"Five weeks later. Miami Open. A two-foot putt to win."
Trey missed the putt.
"Not even close," Nick said.
"The drugs?"
"The mob."
"The mob?"
"He was throwing tournaments."
"You're kidding? People gamble on golf tournaments?"
Nick chuckled. "Hell, yes, people gamble on golf tournaments. Big money. And when the difference between winning and losing comes down to one putt, it's an easy game to rig. How many times have you watched a tournament and seen a pro miss a short putt and think, how could he possibly have missed that? All you need is one player in your debt. A really good player, someone who's going to have one putt to win. Or lose."
Nick turned up the tape. The announcer was saying that the pressure got to Trey Rawlins.
"The mob got to him."
"To repay his debts?"
"That's what I figure."
"But if he'd made the putt and won, he'd have made a million bucks, paid that to the mob."
"Half that after taxes. But by losing, he probably made the mob five, six million in bets. Tax-free."
"Why wouldn't he have just played badly and missed the cut?"
"Doesn't work that way. For gamblers to make big money, they've got to win against long odds. But that means they've got to bet against the star winning, because in golf odds are the stars are gonna win every time. So the star has to be in the hunt at the end, otherwise no one's putting up any money. I mean, would you ever bet against Tiger? Neither would the mob. But the next best thing would be someone like Trey, a player who could win but who owed a big debt. He misses a short putt, you can't prove anything. Could've been nerves, a ball mark on the green, a bad putt. It happens. But not to Trey. I knew it. And I knew if he was our client—my client—when the shit hit the fan—and shit like this always hits the fan—SSI—and me—we'd always be linked to the golfer who threw tournaments. WM squared don't like that shit, Scott."
"So you were dropping him?"
"Like a bad habit." Nick exhaled. "Drinking and drugs, that's just part of the job description for a pro athlete today. But throwing tournaments—that's prison time, even for Trey Rawlins. That's a criminal trial. That's SSI—and me—dragged into court, on TV, in the newspapers, and for all the wrong reasons."
"Did you tell him?"
"They killed him first."
"You think the mob killed him?"
Nick nodded.
"Why would they kill him if he was throwing tournaments so they could win their bets?"
Nick clicked through to another tournament. "Atlanta Open. Back in May."
On the screen, Trey was stalking the green and studying a putt.
"Sixty-three-foot putt for eagle on the eigh
teenth hole," Nick said. "He's down by one. He makes it, he wins. Misses and he's got a long putt back for birdie to tie."
The ball sat at the back end on the high side of the green; the hole was at the front end on the low side. The announcer explained that the ball sat three feet higher than the hole, so the ball would be rolling fast down the slope. It would either go in or continue twenty feet past the hole. Trey crouched over the ball, placed his putter behind the ball, and made a smooth stroke. The ball rolled across the green, hit the big slope halfway across the green, then took a sharp turn down and picked up speed. It was rolling fast when it hit the back of the cup, popped up, and fell in. The camera cut to Trey. He appeared shocked. Nick hit the remote to freeze the frame on Trey's face.
"That's not the face of a winner. That's the face of a loser."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he was supposed to lose that tournament. When he started the final round leading by four, the betting was heavy on him—I checked. Which means the mob could bet against him and make big money if he lost. So they bet big on him to lose—but he didn't lose. He won. I figure that putt cost the mob maybe ten million, and he knew it. That's why he looks like he does."
"How do you know this?"
"I don't. I think it. If I knew someone in the mob, I'd ask."
"That's exactly what happened," Gabe Petrocelli said after his goons had patted Scott down. "But that putt cost the Vegas boys twenty million, not ten." He shook his head. "I was watching it on TV. Big breaker, no way he makes that putt. When that ball dropped and they showed Trey's face, I said, there's the face of a dead man."
"So the mob did kill him?"
"I think your wife beat them to it."
"My client."
"Can't let her go, huh?" Gabe gave Scott a knowing nod. "They get to you, don't they? It was like that with my first wife, she drove me fucking nuts every fucking day. So we split up and I started drinking 'cause I missed her." He sighed. "Don't be a drunk 'cause of a woman. Be a drunk over something important, like baseball."
"The mob wanted him dead? Trey?"
"Yeah, they were severely pissed, no question about it."
"But you had nothing to do with his death?"
He held up an open hand. "On my mother's grave. Cops here, they know me, we grew up together. A lot of them bet with me. They know what I do and what I don't do. I book … I don't kill."
