Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty

by James Y. Bartlett

  I paid no attention to the golfers, just stood there and enjoyed their skills. This was just the second round, and the winner would not be crowned today. The pros call Friday position day: Make some birdies, make the cut, get in position for the weekend. Saturday is “moving day,” when you concentrate on moving up the leaderboard into the top ten, or higher if you’re on a roll. Sunday, of course, is it: That’s the day when you close the deal, leave nothing in the bag, go hell-bent for leather.

  My reverie was broken only when I noticed Bert Lewis come trudging up the last fairway with his group. He played his wedge approach to the green, leaving the ball hole-high and about twelve feet for birdie. He stood aside then and waited for his playing partners to make their shots. He was playing today with Jamison Cox, the dashing young English pro, and Mark Sudderth, a brash Texan from El Paso.

  After those two had played and the group approached the green, I caught sight of the scoreboard carried on a pole by a young volunteer with the scores for these three players.

  Lewis was ten under-par—seven-under for the day. He was shooting lights out, and his birdie here at the last would give him a 64 for the round. I studied Lewis as he marked his ball and handed it to his caddie to be cleaned off. His face was steely, serious and somehow sad. The caddie handed the ball back and walked over to the edge of the green, just in front of the bleachers where I sat. I caught his eye as he put the heavy staff bag on the ground and raised my eyebrows in question. He smiled, shrugged and whispered “On automatic. Everything’s going in today.”

  Cox lagged his approach putt within a foot of the hole and popped it in for his par. He acknowledged the scattered applause with a wave of his hand. Sudderth’s fifteen footer for birdie lipped out. More applause.

  Bert Lewis stalked his putt briefly, which surprised me. He had a reputation as a plodder, and one would think that a putt for a 64 would demand some careful study. But he simply put his ball down behind his mark, took a quick look from behind, and then stepped up. He took two practice swings, moved forward a bit and then quickly struck the putt. It looked almost nonchalant. But there was never any doubt: The ball ran swiftly across the green and dropped with a loud rattle into the cup. The score of 64 was probably his best round of the year.

  The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles, but Bert Lewis didn’t acknowledge it at all. Leaving the ball in the cup for his caddie to retrieve, he turned on his heel and headed off the green in the direction of the scorer’s tent, where he would check and sign his card. His eyes were glazed looking and his gait somehow stiff.

  Jamison Cox intercepted him at the side of the green. Sticking out his hand, he gushed “Oh, lovely round, that. Your agent ought to buy you lunch. Nice job.”

  Lewis never reacted. He walked past Cox, past the outstretched hand, and trudged silently towards the scorer’s tent.

  “Funny chap,” Cox mused aloud to no one in particular. “Shoots the best round of the year and looks like he just lost his best friend.”

  Chapter 16

  JAMISON COX’S REMARK clicked on that little light bulb in my head. Not the one about Bert Lewis looking like he’d just lost his best friend—in a sense I suppose he had –but the one about his agent. I realized there was a gap in my knowledge about John Turnbull. He had been making his agent very happy for the last six months and his death had suddenly changed all that.

  I went back to the press room, which was buzzing with the posting of Bert’s sterling round. The 64 had catapulted him into the lead, two ahead of Lanny Wadkins and Paul Azinger. Kite was three behind after a so-so second round. Suzy Williams was jotting down some notes as she studied the scoreboard. She would be writing up some tour tidbits to go out on the wire later that afternoon.

  “Hey, Suze,” I greeted her. “Lewis had himself a day, huh?” She looked up.

  “Hi Hacker,” she said. “Sure did. Wish I could get him to come out and talk to you guys, but he’s clammed up on us. Billy’s in there trying to talk some sense into him right now.”

  “Well, his caddie told me that the hole kept getting in the way today,” I said. “You can use that if you want.”

  “Hey, thanks, I will,” she beamed at me.

  “Listen, Suze,” I said. “Do you know who John Turnbull’s rep was?”

  “Sure,” she said. “It was Ricky Hamilton out in Austin. He handles almost all of the born-agains.”

  “Really?” I said. “Do you have his number handy?”

  “Think so,” she said. She riffled through her Rolodex, found the number and read it off to me.

  “Thanks, kiddo,” I said. “Do you know how long it would have taken your boss to find that number?”

  “Billy,” she said sweetly, “has trouble finding his nose when it needs blowing.”

  The sports agent is the silent partner in most tour players’ careers. For the young, up-and-coming pro, the agent helps round up financial backers that pay the bills. When the player begins to cash checks and win tournaments, the agent lines up the corporate outings and clinics that bring in extra cash and often lead to endorsement deals. And when the player becomes a star, the agent upgrades the endorsements and smoothes the way for TV commercials and the rest. All for a cool fifteen percent of gross.

  Of course, the agent needs some skill in being able to determine which young horse may turn into a thoroughbred. That, or dumb luck. Witness Mark McCormack, who rode the success of a brash young golfer named Arnold Palmer into a worldwide sports marketing conglomerate.

  Ricky Hamilton was no Mark McCormack. If his clientele was made up of members of the tour’s God Squad, his income stream had more ups and downs than the Colorado River.

  Hamilton answered his own telephone when I called. Dead giveaway. Mark McCormack probably has fifteen layers of assistants between him and the switchboard.

  “Yo, Hamilton heah,” he drawled.

  “Hello Mr. Hamilton,” I said. “Pete Hacker, Boston Journal.”

  “Howdy, Mistah Hackah,” he said cheerfully. “How in the hell are ya this fine day?”

  “W’all, ah’m jest happier than a longhorn that’s seen a shorthorn,” I said cheerfully back. Sometimes my smart mouth just takes over and runs without me.

  “Beg pardon?” the Texan said.

  “Never mind,” I continued. “I’m calling about a piece I’m putting together on John Turnbull, who I understand was one of your clients.”

  “Thass right, he was,” Hamilton said. “An’ I’m damn sure sorry the man has passed.”

  “Yes, a terrible tragedy,” I murmured. “Would it be fair to say that Turnbull was your most successful client?”

  “Well now, I don’t rightly know if you can say that,” he hedged. “A lot of my boys are doin’ purty good right now, and any one of ’em might get hot and just bust out.”

  “But John Turnbull had earned something over three hundred and fifty thousand this year,” I said. “Who else you got making that?”

  “Whether I do or don’t, I reckon is my business,” he said.

  “I want to know what kind of deals you had working for Turnbull,” I pressed. “Product endorsements, commercials, anything like that? I’m trying to figure out how much he might have earned. If he hadn’t died.”

  “Well, we was starting to do right well with Johnny,” Hamilton said. “I had pretty much sewn up a good club deal for next year for him.”

  “You mean, he was going to play somebody’s line of clubs?”

  “Thass right,” Hamilton agreed. “Worth about two million over five years.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Just the usual,” he said. “He was starting to get some outing bookings. If he’d a been able to win once or twice more, the floodgates woulda opened. Magazines, TV commercials...the works. He was a nice young man with a good image. Advertisers like that. They like that a lot.”

  “So Turnbull was starting to make some big bucks,” I said.

  “Well, yes and no,” Hamilton said, hedg
ing a bit. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, Johnny was insistent that we pay off his original sponsors. You know, the guys back home that had fronted his first coupla years on tour. That was about two hunnerd thou. Then he had some taxes, set-asides for expenses. Management fees. Basically, he had just about broken even for the year,” Hamilton concluded.

  “Your fees come off the top, right?” I said. “’Course,” he said. “Man’s gotta make a livin’.”

  “So his death has put a bit of a crimp in your earnings for the year?”

  “W’all, I guess you could say that,” the agent said slowly. “But it sounds kinda hard.”

  “How about insurance?”

  “Well, we got ever’one set up with a million bucks policy,” he said. “In fact, I think the policy pays double for accidental death. That’s in case a plane goes down or sumthin’.”

  “So Turnbull’s wife will come out OK then?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Hamilton said. “’Course, the church gets its percentage.”

  “How’s that?” My ears perked up.

  “Well, Johnny and the others in Golfers for Christ all pledge ten percent of their earnings to the church, and all have a rider in their insurance policies that provides a bequest equal to twenty- five percent in the event of their death.”

  “So John Turnbull’s life insurance policy is worth $250,000 to his church?”

  “Well, actually, in this case, seein’ as how his death was an accident an all, it would be more like half a million,” Hamilton did the math for me.

  “And which church stands to benefit from this windfall?” I wondered.

  “Ah, hell, Hacker, thought you’d know that,” he said. “Church of the Holiness. Y’know...Ed Durkee’s church. He pastors to all them boys. Fine man. Father figure. Helps ’em out with their problems, their finances, their golf games, their wimmen. Fine, fine man,” Hamilton said reverently.

  “And a rich man, now,” I mused. “I heard something about a Christian investment fund that Durkee is trying to start. Know anything about that?”

  “Not a dang thing,” Hamilton said. “Not my area. You’ll have to talk to Brother Ed ‘bout that. Listen...I got another call. Have a nice day.” And he rang off.

  I was reasonably certain that Ricky Hamilton didn’t have another call. I was very certain he did not want to talk to me about Ed Durkee’s investment fund.

  Chapter 17

  WHEN I GOT OFF THE phone, Billy Corcoran came into the press room and announced that Ber t Lewis not only had refused to appear in the interview room to go over his magnificent round, but had left the golf course for the day. This news was greeted with groans, imprecations and muttered oaths. It meant we golf writers would have to use our own creativity to summarize the day’s events, rather than depend on the quoted remarks of the leader. It was a most unusual situation.

  I sat at my desk for a while, tapping my front teeth with the eraser end of a pencil and thinking. The tapping thing was a habit I have that once drove a lady friend of mine to move out of my apartment. I always figured that if that was my worst habit, I was in pretty good shape. Besides which, I can never remember her name unless I concentrate, so I figure it was not that great a loss.

  I was thinking about what I had learned from Ricky Hamilton, the agent. It seemed to put Brother Ed Durkee squarely in the middle of the picture that was beginning to form. A half million was a lot of money in anybody’s league. Many of those who had been in the God Squad tended to be the lesser-known pros who were still struggling to make good checks. Ed Durkee was only mentioned briefly for his role as leader and unofficial chaplain to the PGA Tour and facilitator of the Bible study programs. He was identified as the pastor of the Church of the Holiness in Dallas. Woody’s piece had nothing about the tithing or life insurance riders or the Christian Investment Fund.

  I did some more tapping and thinking. Then I picked up the phone and placed a call to Sherman McCoy, a reporter at the Dallas Morning News. Shermie and I went way back, to those early days on the Boston city desk, before he had enough of those never-ending Massachusetts winters and opted out for the Sunbelt.

  It took a bit of negotiation and some old-fashioned bribery before I could get Shermie to do a little legwork for me on the Church of the Holiness and Ed Durkee, both names that were unfamiliar to him. I promised him tickets to the Byron Nelson Classic and agreed to take him and his Texas bride, the lovely Cora Mae, out to an expensive dinner. It would go on my expense account, so who’s counting? Cackling with glee, he promised to make a few calls and call me back.

  When I hung up, I started out of the press room. Suzy saw me and gave me a furtive wave to come over. Glancing around, she pulled me into the corner of the room, well out of anyone’s earshot.

  “You scratch mine, I’ll do yours,” she whispered, reaching around and touching my back. “Lewis is holed up in the players’ lounge. Good luck.” She ducked away.

  Armed with that hot tip, I made a beeline for the locker room. As in most other professional sports, the players’ locker room has about as much privacy as a bus station. In addition to all the players coming in and out, members of the press, players’ agents, teachers, family members, hangers-on and even caddies can be found in the place where the players change shoes, shower and dress. Recognizing the need for occasional privacy, the Tour maintains a separate room where a player can, without worrying about offending anyone, give full vent to frustrations or just sit and enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet. The lounge is private, off-limits to anyone except a player.

  The press respects this small measure of sanctuary. We can enter the lounge only if invited, and only if any other player in there assents. Otherwise, we keep away. There are plenty of other places to catch up with someone.

  I entered the crowded locker room and, making small talk with various players and acquaintances, made my way to the back of the room, towards the lounge door. I waited around for a few minutes until Hank Knowlton, a player I know pretty well, came out, closing the door behind him.

  “Hey Hank,” I said, “Is Bert Lewis in there? I’d like to catch a word with him.”

  Hank looked at me worriedly. “Ah, Hacker, can you hold off on that for a while? I dunno about Bert’s, ah, frame of mind right now.”

  “Shit, Hank, what’s going on?” I asked. “The guy’s leading the tournament. He should be sitting on Cloud Nine.”

  Hank sighed. “God, I know, Hacker. I’d be thinking about icing down some champagne, that’s for sure. But he’s just sitting there, kind of mumbling to himself. It’s scary. I think he’s whacked, y’know? Some of the guys want to call the doctor. This Turnbull thing...it’s got us all kind of on edge, anyway.”

  “Were Bert and Turnbull close?” I wondered. “I always thought they kinda went at it.”

  Hank sat down in front of a locker and began unlacing his shoes. “Well, that’s true,” he said as he carefully removed one shoe, peeling the grass off the cleats and toweled the top off. “They were in college in Texas together. Bert’s a year or two older and he was the cock-of-the-walk until John came along and took the top position on the team. Ever since, Bert’s been trying to beat his ass, and the harder he tries, the more he gets beat.”

  “Sounds like an obsession,” I said.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Hank nodded. “And I think Bert’s father is one of those types who lives vicariously through his son. Put a lot of pressure on Bert to win, be on top, never lose ... all that stuff. Gave him holy hell about losing his number one place to Turnbull.” He turned and looked at me. “But of course, none of us are playing each other like that. You got to beat the golf course, not the other guy. Beat the course, and what happens, happens.”

  We were interrupted suddenly by a commotion at the entrance to the locker room. Turning, I saw Doak Maxwell pushing his way through the crowd, his beefy physique towering above everyone, and his blue police uniform catching attention. In his wake followed a serene-look
ing Lt. Ravenel.

  “’Scuse me, y’all. Thanks,” Doak said, parting people left and right as he headed for the players’ lounge door. Doak pulled the door open and held it for Ravenel. Hank Knowlton and I followed, Hank hobbling with one shoeless foot.

  Ravenel strode into the lounge, and went directly over to the deep, upholstered chair in which Bert Lewis was sitting, head in hands. Lewis looked up, his black hair disheveled, eyes glazed and unseeing.

  “Bert Lewis,” Ravenel began in his deep baritone. Lewis tilted his head and blinked. I wasn’t sure if he was hearing and seeing anything. “I’d like you to come downtown with me for questioning concerning the murder of John Turnbull,” Ravenel said.

  There was a collective gasp from all of us, as if a single fist had landed simultaneously with brute force in each of our solar plexi. But Bert Lewis didn’t move. He continued to stare up from his chair, eyes unseeing, unmoving, while Bart Ravenel recited the Miranda rights in the suddenly quiet, suddenly stunned room.

  Chapter 18

  THE CHARLESTON COUNTY Courthouse is the oldest continually used public building in the United States.

  I know that because there’s a bronze plaque just inside the front door that says so. And I always believe in bronze plaques. After a quick look around, I was ready to recommend to the county government that they go ahead and float a bond issue and build one of those faceless, characterless, concrete-bunker-like modernistic fortresses to replace this one.

  Oh, the place has its architectural charms, I supposed. Lots of brick and whitewashed trim work, nice plasterwork inside, a sweeping marble staircase, and you can just about hear Rhett Butler not giving a damn all over the place. But the poor public servants who have to work there deal with inefficient use of space, cavernous hallways that echo unpleasantly to a modern city’s footfalls, noisy air-conditioning that doesn’t work well, and, of course, a regulation issue puke-green color scheme that’s just depressing as hell. I wondered, as I looked for the detective’s squad room, if the walls had been painted puke-green when the place was built in 1734. If so, I could understand why everybody back then dipped snuff.