by Mark Gimenez
"Will you take a polygraph?"
Gabe smiled. "I don't do polygraphs either."
"But how can you lose twenty million on a golf tournament?"
"Easy. Three Brits bet eighty grand each, won nineteen million on a long shot named John Daly to win the British Open in ninety-five. Scott, today, you can win or lose millions betting on anything, not just the stock market."
"But if Trey were making so much money, why didn't he just pay off his debt?"
"Fifteen million at twenty-five percent interest, that's a tough debt to repay."
"The mob charges twenty-five percent interest?"
Gabe shrugged. "Credit card companies charge thirty percent. Shit, twenty-five years ago, there were laws against that sort of thing. Banks couldn't charge more than ten percent interest. That's where we came in. Now, the sky's the limit. They took our loan-sharking business and made it legal. Same thing with gambling. Hell, ten years from now, there'll be a casino in every town in America—all the businessmen in Galveston want one here, make this place Sin City again. What's next? Drugs? Prostitution? Before long, you won't be able to make a dishonest living 'cause every vice is gonna be legal. We're expanding into Medicare fraud and your other white-collar criminal activities, but it's damn hard to compete with Wall Street."
"So what was the repayment deal?"
"Trey would throw five tournaments. He'd win some, too, and the boys would up their ante slowly, so as not to attract any attention. First two tournaments went like clockwork, the boys made a killing and Trey reduced his debt by six million. But then he made that putt. A twenty-million-dollar putt." Gabe shook his head. "The boys got greedy, bet real big. Too big."
"Trey would get to keep the money when he won?"
"Nope. Everything was divvied up. Trey got one-third."
"One-third of everything? Including the mob's winnings?"
"Yep. More money than he would've made winning those tournaments, and tax-free, the best kind of money."
"How do you know?"
"Because I made the payoff myself. At his house. Three million cash. Hundred-dollar bills."
"Why would the mob pay him when he owed them?"
"They figured on this being a long-term investment." He shrugged. "Once you're in the mob, you're in it for life."
"I wonder where that three million is now?"
Gabe shrugged again.
"Trey won the California Challenge a week before he was murdered. Didn't that make some money for the mob?"
"Not twenty million."
"I take it you wouldn't care to testify at the trial?"
"No, I don't testify either."
"I could subpoena you."
"That would be a mistake. Look, Scott, I'm a nice guy, I run a clean business, I try to be helpful. But right here, this is where I talk. Not in a courtroom. Okay?"
"I could subpoena your bosses."
"You could get yourself killed. Scott, defend your wife and get her off, I don't care. But don't go chasing after the boys in Vegas. Nothing good will come of that."
"What do you know about the Muertos?"
"Animals. See, the mob never kills for the sake of killing. It's always a business decision. And we never kill women or children or innocent bystanders. We're civilized. They're not. They give crime a bad name." Gabe nodded thoughtfully. "So gambling wasn't Trey's only vice?"
"No."
"You looking at Benito for his murder?"
Scott nodded. "And you."
Gabe smiled.
"You know Benito?"
"It's a small island. We keep tabs on our competitors for your discretionary entertainment dollars. Benito likes the horses."
"He bets with you?"
"He utilizes my services. But I don't utilize his."
"Smart."
"Benito's not a killer."
"The Muertos are."
Gabe nodded, and Scott stood to leave. "You said a lot of pro athletes gamble?"
"Yeah. From every sport. So?"
"So does the mob have other pros on the payroll, throwing football and baseball and basketball games?"
Gabe smiled. "Trade secrets, Scott."
Scott walked away. He was to the bar when Gabe called to him.
"Scott!"
Scott turned back. Gabe was pointing at the TV above the bar. Scott looked up and saw Renée Ramirez's face on the screen.
"Watch out for her, Scott. She's like a rattlesnake—pretty but deadly."
"Who killed Trey Rawlins?" Bobby said. "Pete Puckett, the Muertos, or the mob? Three prime suspects for one murder, each with a good motive."
"You're forgetting Rebecca," Scott said.
"No, I'm not."
"She's the only one without a motive."
"Why would Trey call Pete Puckett thirteen times the last week and three times on the day he died?" Karen said.
They were at the table on the back deck. Karen was reading down Trey's cell phone bills. The D.A.'s office had run the calls and identified each caller.
"He didn't call Pete," Scott said. "He called Billie Jean."
"The list says Pete Puckett."
"Phone's registered in his name, but it's Billie Jean's phone. Family plan, like the girls want."
"First call to her was on May fourteenth."
"Three weeks before his death. That's when their affair started."
"Last call was at twelve-ten P.M. that Thursday, same day he was killed." Karen tapped on her laptop keyboard. "My notes say Billie Jean was in Austin that day, and Pete was in Florida playing at the Atlantic Open tournament."
"They both lied. They were here. Billie Jean drove down from Austin in her black Mustang. She was calling Trey to tell him she was here because he left the club just after noon. Trey lied to Rebecca about practicing at the country club all day while she was shopping in Houston. He was here with Billie Jean. Pete flew in from Florida, confronted them at the house."
"If Pete was in Florida," Bobby said, "how'd he know Billie Jean was here?"
"I don't know. Karen, find out what flight Pete took that day."
She nodded then said, "Is Rebecca still willing to take a polygraph?"
"Yeah. I've asked everyone else involved to take one—Pete, Benito, Gabe—no one else wants to."
"No one else is charged with murder," Bobby said.
"I'll set it up," Karen said.
"Anything else?"
"The endorsement contracts. I reviewed the big one with Golf-a-zon.com … golf company. He endorsed their products, they paid him millions. Ten million guaranteed over two years, another ten million in performance incentives. He stood to make twenty million under that contract."
"But once they found out about his drugs and gambling, they would've terminated the contract."
Karen shook her head. "They couldn't. The contract is iron-clad."
"There's always a way out of a contract."
"Only one way out: 'Article Twelve: Termination upon death of Athlete.' "
"Trey's sponsor wanted out of his contract," Nick said.
Scott had called him from the back deck. "Why?"
"Trey showed up at their big ad party flying higher than a kite. Stumbling, couldn't speak a complete sentence, mauling their wives. Fucking fiasco. I had to drag him out of the place. They were pissed."
"But they couldn't fire him?"
"Nope. They were stuck with him."
"Unless he died."
"And he did."
"Did they terminate the contract?"
"I got an email five minutes after his death hit the news. They saved about ten million, twice that if he met his performance incentives."
"That's a pretty good motive."
"To kill Trey? Shit, Scott, take a number. The motive line is long with Trey Rawlins."
"Why didn't you tell me this?"
"You didn't ask."
"Damnit, Nick, this is a murder investigation. And we've got three weeks till Rebecca goes on trial. You need to tell me every
thing you know."
"I have … now."
"Where's the tour this week?"
"Austin. We're doing the Texas Waltz: Houston, San Antonio, Austin, and Dallas. I'll be there tomorrow."
"I'll find you. I want to talk to his sponsor."
THIRTY-TWO
The next morning, Scott flew to Austin and took a cab to the tournament site at the Barton Creek Resort. He found Nick Madden by the first tee on his cell phone.
"Two hundred thousand? I'll take it. Monday, nine A.M., at the Highland Park Country Club. Pete'll be there."
Nick disconnected.
"Another deal for Pete?" Scott said.
Nick nodded. "Corporate outing. Tour goes from city to city, so local corporations set up outings for their special clients then get a tour player to join in—for a fee. Hundred, two hundred, three hundred grand for the big boys. Guy spends four hours playing golf and acting like he gives a shit, walks away with a nice paycheck."
"That's a lot of money for a round of golf."
Nick shrugged. "Tax-deductible."
"And you get twenty percent?"
"Before taxes."
They went over to the merchandise tent and found Golf-a-zon's booth stocked with golf clubs, balls, gloves, shoes, apparel, and two sexy young women. A man who looked young enough to be pledging a fraternity stood and greeted Nick.
"Nick, you find me a replacement player yet?"
"How about Brett?"
The man rolled his eyes. "Please. He looks like the guy in Sling Blade."
"Vic?"
"He's an accountant with a five-iron."
"Donnie Parker? He just won the Houston Classic."
"Yeah, and he's married to a porn star. After Trey, I want a goddamn altar boy."
Nick laughed. "On the pro golf tour? Got a better chance of finding a virgin."
"Not in this booth," one of the girls said then she and the other girl giggled.
Nick turned to Scott. "Scott, meet Brad Dickey, VP-Player Development, Golf-a-zon-dot-com."
Scott shook hands with Brad. "Scott Fenney."
Brad pulled his hand back as if Scott had poison ivy. "Rebecca's husband?"
"Lawyer. I need to ask you some questions, Brad."
"You'd better talk to the company lawyer."
"Brad, you can talk to me now or you can talk to me on the witness stand at trial."
Brad turned to Nick with pleading eyes. Nick shrugged.
"Better talk now, Brad, so he can cross you off the list."
"What list?"
"The suspect list."
Brad considered his options then said, "Come on back."
They sat in the booth and listened to Brad's story. He traveled with the tour, keeping his players happy—"Like the two-pieces"—and recruiting players to endorse his company's products. They weren't Nike, but they had taken the same marketing approach: they bet everything on one up-and-coming player.
"You can have the greatest golf product ever invented, but if the country club guys don't see a star player hitting it, swinging it, or wearing it, they won't buy it. We thought Trey could be our Tiger. Didn't work out."
"You wanted to cancel his contract?"
"Would you want a cokehead endorsing your products?"
"But your contract was guaranteed?"
"Yeah, Nick's a hard-ass agent."
Nick's chest swelled up as if he'd just been nominated for a Nobel. To Scott, he said, "I shopped Trey right after he won the first pro tournament he played in." Back to Brad: "But I didn't force you to give him guaranteed payments, incentives bonuses, stock options …"
"You didn't tell me he was a fucking doper either."
"I didn't know."
"Sure you didn't."
"Why didn't you have a morals clause?" Scott asked.
Brad pointed at Nick. "Because of him. But every contract we sign from now on damn sure will."
Nick was shaking his head. "I fight those damn clauses every day now. One pro athlete … okay, a hundred pro athletes get arrested for drugs, rape, possession of firearms, and other assorted felonies, all of a sudden every sponsor wants a morals clause. Shit, you start canceling endorsement contracts for every criminal conviction, you won't be in the pro football or basketball market for long."
"We're in the pro golf market," Brad said. "We expect better behavior from our players." He turned to Scott. "We bet the company on Trey Rawlins."
"His death saved your company?"
"And my job." Brad shrugged. "Sounds bad, but it's the truth. We dumped our entire marketing budget into that bastard, only to have him shit on us. Drinking, snorting cocaine, screwing everything that walked …"
"Gambling."
"Gambling?" Brad turned to Nick. "Another dirty secret, Nick?"
Nick shrugged innocently.
"Look," Brad said, "I'm not crying because Trey's dead, but we didn't have anything to do with it."
"Will you take a polygraph?"
"Why should I?"
"So I don't subpoena you to testify at trial."
"Hell, I'd rather testify."
"I can arrange that. So you owed him ten million more under the contract, plus incentives … unless he died?"
"Yeah. So?"
"So maybe you terminated Trey in order to terminate his contract."
"This is the pro golf tour, Scott, not the NFL. We don't carry guns."
"He was stabbed to death."
"Or knives. Sure, we wanted away from him, but so did the tour."
"Why?"
"Like I said, this is pro golf. It's all about image. Tour knew that when he fell—not if, but when—he was gonna fall hard. And he could make the tour look bad. These are tough times in the golf business—sales are down, country clubs are closing, Democrats are blaming rich white guys for everything that's wrong in the world … After Tiger's sex scandal, all we needed was Trey Rawlins exposed as a doper."
Or as a gambler throwing tournaments for the mob.
"From the hottest WAG on tour to a prison inmate, that's a long fall. I voted for her, by the way."
Royce Ballard dressed like a golfer but sported the arrogance of a lawyer, and for good reason.
"I went to UT law school, worked in a Houston firm for ten years, got passed over for partnership, those bastards, so I hired on with the tour. VP, player relations."
Nick had gotten Scott into the tour trailer to see Royce, who agreed to talk only after Scott had threatened him with a trial subpoena.
"What exactly does a VP of player relations do?"
"I keep them in line. Corporate sponsors don't want to read about our golfers in the legal section of the newspaper, only in the sports section. Hell, we got enough problems with our sponsors—GM and Chrysler in bankruptcy, that fucking Sir Allen … Forbes said he was worth two billion. Shit, who can you trust anymore?" He chuckled. "You see he's bitching because his cell isn't air-conditioned? And his lawyer bailed because he can't pay, then he got the shit beat of him in jail? I love it, the bastard. But our sponsors are bailing because of this recession. If it weren't for TARP—"
"The government bailout fund?"
Royce nodded. "Tour sponsors got a hundred billion, thank God. GM got fifty billion, so Buick can still sponsor two tournaments. But they're history after this year."
"Taxpayers are funding the pro golf tour?" Scott said. "So players can buy yachts and Bentleys?"
"Some guys like Lamborghinis."
"Official car of the PGA ain't Ford or Chevy," Nick said. "It's Mercedes-Benz."
Royce was giving Nick a skeptical eye. "Sounding a little Obama-ish there, Nick." Back to Scott: "Anyway, we can't afford to lose sponsors because of our players screwing up. Sponsors take their money to another sport, we fold up the tour tent."
"And Trey Rawlins was getting out of line?"
"Porn, Viagra, screwing other players' wives … that's all consenting adult shit. But cocaine and gambling, that's NBA shit and no way we're gonna let that happen."
"You knew all that? That Trey was throwing tournaments?"
"Throwing tournaments? What the hell are you talking about? Nick?"
Nick feigned innocence. "I don't know anything about that."
Royce stared Nick down a long moment then said, "We keep close tabs on our players." Another glance at Nick. "Maybe not close enough."
"But you wanted Trey off the tour?"
"Hell, yes. We can't afford to have another train wreck like Daly on tour, passing out in a fucking Hooters parking lot. Jesus, the guy looks like a goddamn bouncer with a three-iron. He actually hit a tee shot in a pro-am off a beer can."
"I thought that was funny," Nick said.
"The pro golf tour isn't a goddamn sitcom, Nick! It's a business! We don't want our fans having fun, we want them spending money!" Royce calmed and shook his head. "Problem was, Trey was real popular, and not just with the WAGs. When he played, gate receipts and TV ratings shot up. Great White Hope, I guess. We figured the drug testing would take care of him, but he passed every screen."
Scott gave Nick a quick glance.
"I'm responsible for that, too," Royce said. "Our doping program."
"Is there a drug problem on tour?"
"Nah. Golf is still a Jim Beam and Jack Daniels sport—"
"WM squared," Nick said with pride. Royce rolled his eyes.
—"but we've had a few guys smoking dope in the Porta-Potties during a round. Of course, they find out it's damn hard to make a five-foot putt for par if you're flying higher than a fucking kite—as Trey found out at the Bay Classic and over in Miami."
Scott gave Nick another glance.
"Program's mostly a PR tool. Sponsors are sick of reading about steroids in sports so we're the squeaky-clean alternative."
"WM squared don't like dopers, Scott," Nick said.
Royce shook his head. "Jesus, Nick, give that WM squared shit a rest, will you? You're like a fucking dog with a bone."
"I'm gonna trademark it, make some real money."
Royce looked at Scott but nodded his head at Nick. "An entrepreneur. Anyway, we instituted the widest range of testing in sports. Steroids, HgH—all the PEDs—Performance Enhancing Drugs—as well as narcotics, stimulants, beta-blockers …"
Nick laughed. "Except you allow TUEs."
"What's that?" Scott said.
