Death in a Green Jacket

by James Y. Bartlett

  I led Mary Jane to the shady hillside that overlooked the eighth and ninth greens, and we managed to find an opening in the gathering crowd on the grassy slope where we could sit and watch the fun. The cheers, jeers and groans from the other holes came rolling through the piney woods, and soon, the play reached us. Arnie was in one of the first threesomes, and he was applauded every step of the way. Even though Jack Nicklaus won six green jackets to Arnie’s four, it is Palmer who has always owned the fan’s hearts. Jack is respected and admired, Arnie is beloved.

  A few minutes later, Villegas’ group played through. He made a routine par onthe eighth hole, and after a short wait, teed his ball on the ninth. The tee is cut into the side of the hill we were sitting on, and the green is surrounded by water and slightly downhill, about 130 yards away.Villegas picked his club, waggled and swung.

  “Woooo, great tush!” Mary Jane hollered after he made contact. The fans around us laughed and cheered. Camilo broke from watching the flight of his shot and glanced our way with a big smile. I tried to sink into the ground.

  “Are you trying to get thrown out of here?” I asked.

  “This would be the best place of its kind you’ve ever been tossed from,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I called Travis Kitchen when I got back to the media center after the fun and games of the par-3 tournament. I told him about the limo and the plane and gave him the tail number of the jet. Then I finished up my pieces, sent them off, found Mary Jane and we went back to Conn’s house.

  Later that night, as Mary Jane was assembling a huge dish of lasagna for dinner and throwing together a big green salad. Conn and I were working our way deep into a bottle of red wine and talking about the tournament when my phone rang. It was Kitchen.

  “You’ll never guess whose plane that was you saw,” he said.

  “Well, with the body guard and the limo, I’m thinking it must be someone important,” I said. “And the old man was wearing a guayabera, so I’m thinking Miami. I don’t know, some Cuban exile?”

  “You’re on the right track,” he said. “The plane is registered to a company called Importeza Americas, based in Coral Gables. That company is run by someone named Juan Carlos Obrador.”

  “Obrador,” I said. “Same name as the cartel.”

  “Yeah, isn’t that a coincidence?” Kitchen said. “Juan Carlos is the brother of Jose Felix, the bad guy. Juan of course is originally from Colombia, but he’s apparently a legitimate businessman and became a naturalized American citizen about ten years ago.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Import export,” he said.

  “Same business as Grosvenor,” I said. “Isn’t that a coincidence? What does this guy sell?”

  “All kinds of things from South America from produce to cut flowers to indigenous Indian artwork. Donated a ton of money to the Miami art museum and has a wing named after him.”

  “Do you think he dropped in on Charlie to discuss a couple of tsotchkes for the office? If so, it didn’t go so well. He was in and out of there in five minutes.”

  “I don’t know,” Kitchen said. “Could have been a meeting of old friends and competitors. Could have been a social call. Or it could have been Charlie’s final warning.”

  “Is there anything that indicates Obrador is connected to the family business?” I asked.

  “Nothing that I can find in the official records,” he said.

  “But it does make one wonder.”

  “Anything new on the Rico front?”

  “Naw, he’s apparently gone to ground,” Kitchen said. “If he’s still in town.”

  “Well, keep me posted,” I said.

  “Oh, absolutely,” he said sarcastically. “I have nothing better to do than make sure you’re kept up to date and fully informed.”

  The tournament began on schedule the next morning with the ceremonial drive off the first tee. Those duties used to be handled by old-timers like Jock Hutchison, Gene Sarazen, Sam Snead and Byron Nelson, but the Grim Reaper had taken care of all of those greats from bygone days, so the Masters had to find some past champions who are still upright and breathing. They had thankfully managed to convince aging former champions like Doug Ford and Billy Casper to forego their lifetime privilege of playing in the Masters, and talked Arnie into doing the honors of the opening shot. Those of us who found it painful to watch the old geezers trying to break 100 were thankful.

  Tiger didn’t have his “A” game on Thursday, but still managed to scrape it around in 69. The first day leader was the usual unknown who somehow managed to shake off the nerves and make everything he looked at. The young Irishman Casey O’Shea, one of the up-and-coming stars of the European Tour, posted a nifty 65 to take the first-day lead. In the media center, we began placing bets on how high he would go the next day. I put five bucks down on 79. I’d seen plenty of first-day wonders flame out fast.

  But I was wrong. O’Shea came back on Friday with a nice 68 and was the leader by three, with Tiger right on his heels. Vijay, Jim Furyk and a couple of the Australians were not far back. Ernie Els was six behind, and Phil Mickelson, after splashing one in the creek on 12, and making a weak par on 13, had to birdie two of the last five to make the cut.

  Friday night, we collected Conn and made the rounds of some of the parties that were held throughout town every night. We started with one up on the Hill for some of the locals who ran in Conn’s circles, and then hit the famous Aussie party later in the evening. The first one was elegant, with luminarias in someone’s backyard, mint juleps and some good snacks. The guests mostly stood around and talked golf.

  The Aussie party, when we arrived, was close to being out of control, as it is every year. When we got there, Stuart Appleby, Robert Allenby and Geoff Ogilvy were singing karaoke in hideous off-key form in the family room, while out back a band was providing thumping inspiration for dancers crowded onto a temporary parquet floor that reminded me of the old Boston Garden. The beer was flowing in prodigious amounts, the sheilas were out in force, and someone who was pointed out to me as the director of the Australian Golf Union was staggering around with his necktie tied around his head like a Japanese shogun warrior. In other words, it was your typical Aussie gathering.

  We didn’t stay late, as we had in years past. Conn and I looked at each other and sighed. “I’m getting old,” Conn said. “The idea of going home and getting some sleep is somehow more appealing to me than this.”He motioned at the madness going on around us. I had to agree. But Mary Jane made me take her onto the dance floor before we left.

  We dawdled on Saturday morning. The weather had turned ugly, as a cold front was passing through, accompanied by gusty wind and intermittent rain. It looked like it was going to be a tough day to be playing golf.

  Mary Jane had been invited by Beatrice Samper to make the two-hour drive back to Atlanta for some serious department-store shopping at one of the upscale malls in Buckhead. Since she had already seen as much of the Masters as she could handle, she was looking forward to it. Beatrice picked her up at around 10. Mary Jane gave me a kiss and said she’d be home by early evening.

  Conn and I waited another couple of hours, doing nothing much, and I drove him over to the course just after noon. Saturday is moving day, when the players try to claw their way up the leaderboard to be in position for that Sunday final round. Anyone who could get to within four or five shots of the lead had to be considered a contender, as almost anything could—and often did—happen on Sunday when nerves are stretched taut and the tournament hangs on the outcome of virtually every shot.

  The rain had mostly let up by the time we got there, but a quick glance at the morning scores told me that no one would be going low today. With the wind and wet conditions, making pars was a notable achievement for most of the field. The fans were unperturbed, however, and many had purchased one of those throwaway clear-plastic hooded ponchos to keep the rain off. One of the wags in the media center, watch
ing a TV shot that panned across the plastic-wrapped fans gathered in the bleachers behind the 12th tee down at Amen Corner said “It looks like a bunch of condoms out there.”

  “Geez,” I said, “Don’t let that delicate flower Tom Watson hear you. He’ll get you booted.” It was Watson who wrote to the club to complain when CBS color man Gary McCord referred to the greens as being so slick it seemed they had applied bikini wax to them. McCord has not been heard at Augusta since.

  The last group, Tiger and the O’Shea kid, went off at about two-thirty. The young Irishman, his flaming red hair peeking out the top of his visor, was still playing good golf, controlled and steady. He smiled a lot and seemed to be enjoying his time in the cauldron. Tiger made a nice birdie on the long second, and another on the eighth and was within one of the lead. Ernie Els made a nice run of birdies and inched up to within three.It was beginning to feel like the Masters again, exciting, tense and dramatic. Even if you don’t drink the Kool-Aid, this tournament has a way of demanding your attention like a slap to the face. It was good stuff.

  The leaders were beginning their back nine and I was sitting at my cubicle in the warm and dry media center watching it all on television when my phone rang.

  “H-Hacker?” It was Mary Jane. She sounded a little funny.

  “What’s up, babe?” I asked.

  There was silence on the line for a long moment. Then I heard a man’s voice. “Senor Hacker?” someone said in accented tones. “I have your pretty little friend. Her life is now in your hands. You will, please, do exactly as I say.”

  My heart sank and simultaneously began to race in my chest.

  “Who is this?” I asked. “Rico?”

  “Si,” he said.

  I muttered a curse or three. “What do you want?”

  “You and I must have a conversation,” he said. “But we must be alone or the woman dies.”

  “If you touch one hair on her head, I will hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. Quigs Quigley, sitting next to me, watching the tournament in rapt attention, turned and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I ignored him.

  “This is not the time to be a hero,” the voice said softly. “These are my instructions. You and I will meet tonight at 7 p.m. After our conversation, I will release your friend.”

  “OK,” I said. “Where?”

  “I am in Atlanta. I will meet you at the Oaklawn Cemetery. It is just to the east of downtown and right off the Interstate Numero Twenty.” He gave me the exit number and told me to take a left at the first light and I would see the entrance to the cemetery. Once inside the gates, I was to follow his instructions to make my way through the park. I wrote down the instructions, my mind racing.

  “And Senor Hacker,” he continued. “A word of warning. If I see the slightest sign of the authorities, and I will be looking, the girl is dead. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You had better leave at once. You have three hours. Until seven.” He rang off.

  I sat there thinking, trying to quell the feelings of fear for Mary Jane that suddenly rose up and took over my entire body. I could feel the blood running through my veins, pulsing with the beats of my heart.

  I called my office back in Boston. Luckily, I had already filed my Sunday column and a couple of pages of notes. When I got the desk editor on the line, I told him a sudden emergency had come up and I had to leave the tournament. He must have heard the stress in my voice, because he didn’t ask any questions, but told me he’d pick up the AP wire story. “What do you want me to tell Frank?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’ll check in later tonight.” I hope, I thought.

  I grabbed my cell phone and the directions and got up and left. I tried to act as normal as possible, even though I wanted to run like hell. As I came out of the media center, I saw Pee Wee arguing with Conn, whose face was red. He saw me and threw up his hands.

  “Would you tell this Nazi that if he lays his fat paw on me again, I’ll file a suit as big as his ass,” he said.

  Pee Wee looked ready to put a whomping on Conn. I grabbed Conn by the arm and almost dragged him away. “C’mon, Hack,” he said. “I was just getting warmed up on that lardbutt. I mean…” He suddenly looked at me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

  I filled in the basics as we quick stepped it out to the press lot. When we got to the car, Conn started to get in.

  “You can’t go,” I said. “He said he’d kill her if he saw anyone else.”

  “He won’t see me,” Conn said. “You can drop me off before you go inside the cemetery. I’m not letting you go by yourself. C’mon, let’s get moving.”

  Reluctantly, I agreed. I was actually glad to have him along for the two-hour drive over to Atlanta. We pulled out onto Washington Road and entered the thick traffic. People were just driving past the golf club to try and catch a glimpse of the excitement. The cars were moving at an interminably slow pace in both directions. I sat on my horn, but it still took a good ten minutes to inch our way the mile or two to the interstate. When we finally got onto the highway, I took the car up to 80 and kept it there.

  I fished in my pocket and found the card that the fed had given me. With shaking hands, I managed to dial the number. It rang three times, and then someone answered.

  “Speak,” a voice said. I told him I needed to speak with someone I only knew as Wilcox who had given me this number.

  “Your name?” I told him.

  “Hold.” He went away for about five minutes. There was no elevator music nor a recorded voice repeating the message “Your call is important to us, please hold the line …” I guess the federal government is too cheap to pay for that kind of system.

  Finally, I heard a soft click, and Wilcox’ voice.

  “Mister Hacker,” he said. “How nice of you to call. How are things at the golf tournament?”

  “Shut up and listen,” I barked. I told him what had happened and where I was going.

  “Hmmm,” he said when I had finished. “That’s right in character. Rico likes to make his hits in graveyards. I think he has a thing for it. No matter, we’ll organize a reception.”

  “No!” I almost shouted. “He said he’d kill Mary Jane if he saw any cops lounging around.”

  “No, really?” Wilcox said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll tell the boys to turn off their blue lights, then.” He chuckled. He was the only one who found it funny. “You go do the meet,” he said. “We’ll be there. You won’t see us. Trust me.”

  “If you mess this up and Mary Jane is hurt, I will kill you with my bare hands,” I said, for the second time in one afternoon.

  “I believe that would constitute assault on a federal officer,” he said. “But don’t worry. We are actually pretty good at these things.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’m not exactly sure how, but I kept the speedometer between 80 and 90 most of the way to Atlanta and didn’t see a solitary statey the entire way. Conn tried to keep me relaxed by keeping up a steady conversation, but I could not tell you a word of what he said during that ride. I answered in monosyllables, nodded in the right places and maybe even laughed once or twice at his jokes, but my mind was elsewhere. I saw Mary Jane, bound and gagged. Saw a menacing figure lift a gun to her head.

  I must have started and groaned a little. Conn put his arm on my shoulder. “You OK?” he asked gently.

  “Not really,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been less OK.”

  He nodded. “Well, you’re doing fine so far. Try to keep it together.”

  “What do you know about this Oaklawn place?” I asked.

  “It’s a pretty historic cemetery,” he told me. “I think they started planting people there before the Civil War. I know they’ve got a section where they buried a lot of the Confederate Army. But it’s got all this ornate Victorian ston
ework, and the rich families built huge mausoleums, trying to outdo each other. Lotta famous Atlantans are buried there. Margaret Mitchell for one.”

  “Gone with the Wind?” I asked.

  “That’s the one,” he said.

  “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” I said.

  “Good one.”

  He set off on a long and rambling discussion of why some people like to spend their hard-earned money on gaudy memorials after they die and how the Victorians liked to take the entire family to the cemetery on Sunday afternoon for outings with the dead people. I tuned him out and kept driving. I was making pretty good time until we reached Lithonia, a town about fifteen miles due east of Atlanta and the unofficial beginning of the sprawling metropolis of Atlanta. The traffic began to get heavier and slower, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. Atlanta is world-famous for its traffic jams, and I prayed silently that we wouldn’t get caught behind a pileup.

  I kept one eye on the exit numbers and soon we were approaching downtown Atlanta. “Okay,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

  “When we get near, we’ll find a place where you can drop me off,” Conn said. “I’ll keep an eye on the entrance to the place, and if any cops show up for a normal patrol, I’ll try and keep them away.”

  “Good,” I said. “And if you see Wilcox and his Keystone Kops, tell them to keep the hell away.”

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll just step in the way of the SWAT team and tell them to please keep their voices down.”

  A sign told me that our exit was two miles away. I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. It was 6:40. Thanks to Daylight Savings Time which had kicked in a few weeks ago, it was still light.