Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  A shirtless fat man was picking lazily at the dried mud on the bottom of a pair of expensive-looking golf shoes. The mud was flaking all over the marble floor and scattering disregarded under lockers and benches alike. One of the attendants looked on nervously. The man chewed absently on the end of a wooden golf tee humming jauntily to himself. A massive hairy belly flopped over the brim of his shorts, completely obscuring any belt. He was in his late forties with closely cropped black hair speckled with patches of salt and pepper. His fat, creased face sported a rasp of greying stubble.

  ‘What the fuck are you looking at, sunbeam?’ he said out of nowhere in an unexpectedly high pitched Liverpudlian accent, now looking up at Daniel with beady eyes.

  ‘Sorry, excuse me. I’m, er, looking for a couple of players actually,’ said Daniel.

  ‘And you are, mate?’ came the response, scathing and immediate.

  ‘Oh, I’m Daniel Ratchet, an agent with Crown Sports. Have you seen Aaron Crower or François Steine by any chance?’

  ‘No Danny, I haven’t, okay? I’m Jeppe Ossgren’s bagman here and he’s the only bloody player I need to worry about.’

  ‘All right then. Thanks. Nice meeting you,’ Daniel murmured as he turned on his heel, somewhat chastened by the whole experience.

  ‘No problem, sunbeam,’ was the singsong call behind him.

  Daniel stopped and checked himself. Fuck it, he thought. ‘So, er, Jeppe’s swinging beautifully today isn’t he? He’s in the groove for sure. I think he could be tough to beat this week.’

  Silence. Then after a few moments. ‘Yeah you’re dead right actually there mate. You’ve seen something there you know. He’s got the bit between his teeth. We’re due for a big cheque this week.’

  ‘Well, good luck,’ said Daniel pleased for having successfully positioned himself as an expert.

  ‘Hey sunbeam,’ came the voice behind him. ’You know what? You’ll probably find Aaron in the physio truck getting stretched into shape before his early round tomorrow. And François just came off the course from a practice round so he will probably be grabbing a shower before he heads out to eat with the other Saffas.’

  ‘Great. Thanks very much,’ Daniel replied but the burly caddy was back to scraping golf shoes again, humming away to himself and paying no attention.

  Feeling a bit more in control of things, Daniel strolled back out towards the sunshine. He drained his bottle of water, depositing the empty packaging in a bin before threading his way along the paved walkway up to the massive free standing trailer truck that served as the Tour’s mobile physiotherapy service. The door was open and he hauled himself up the little metal steps, poking his head around the gap. The internal space was much bigger than expected. To the right, a self-contained office with soft seating, a coffee table, white board and drinks dispenser. The main central space contained a weights machine with all manner of levers and pulleys dangling above plastic seats. To his left, two massage tables were bolted to a hard plastic floor. Beyond the tables were compact medical cabinets containing a stainless steel wash basin and flanked by wall-to-ceiling cupboards. Matilda was leaning over the half-naked torso of a man lying face down on a towel and pulling his arm out ahead of him as if simulating a swimming stroke.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Daniel said in a low voice, conscious of startling anyone.

  ‘Oh hello, hotshot.’ Matilda smiled back at him, looking up from her exertions of kneading the tired knotted muscles of the golfer below her.

  ‘I was hoping to find Aaron Crower here.’

  ‘You found him mate,’ came a voice emanating from the hole at the head of the massage table.

  ‘Hey Aaron. It’s Daniel Ratchet, from Crown Sports. We met briefly in London a few weeks back after you had secured your Tour card.’

  ‘Ah yes, my fellow new boy out here,’ Aaron replied thoughtfully now sitting up and rubbing the suntanned shoulder which Matilda had been stretching out. ‘How are you finding life on Tour then?’ he continued. ‘Not a bad way to make a living is it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Daniel replied truthfully. ‘Just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed before play tomorrow?’

  ‘Good on yer. Well I’m out freaking early unfortunately but it should give me a fair crack before the wind picks up in the afternoon.’ He slowly rotated his wrist one way and then the other studying the movement carefully. ‘I‘ve been having a tinker and could do with a new thicker grip on the wand and a wedge adjustment to fifty-two degrees. That’s one and a half wraps of grip tape by the way, not two, in case you were thinking about getting carried away.’ He looked directly at Daniel, unsmiling. ‘Go and see the boys in the Callaway van to get it fixed up for me, will yer mate? Andy, my caddy, has got the sticks. Oh and a new box of Pro V1s will work a treat too.’

  ‘No problem Aaron— I’m on it— I’ll pick that up with Andy for tomorrow,’ said Daniel, frantically repeating over in his head what he had just been told.

  ‘On yer mate,’ came a relaxed and muffled response as Aaron pushed his face back into the massage table and Matilda again began working the knots in his back.

  Daniel backed his way out of the truck slowly, hoping to catch Matilda’s eye as he left. He was rewarded. She glanced up from her charge, smiled coyly at him and made a little wave.

  Kicking his way along the neatly paved walkway behind the hotel complex Daniel felt a surge of energy well up inside him. He thought about Matilda. This was coming together nicely. Was it possible a girl like that could actually be into him? Wasn’t she engaged? He’d always done all right with girls. A diffident charm and boyish good looks made him sought-after boyfriend material at a comprehensive school filed with boorish, testosterone pumped football and PlayStation obsessives who saw girls as a necessary inconvenience. Still considering this point, grinning inanely to himself, he was sharply awoken from his daydreams by a massive German hand slapping him on the back.

  ‘Can’t keep away from Matilda I see,’ boomed Michael, shaking his head. ‘Just like all the rest.’

  Daniel smiled uncomfortably. This is pretty awkward, he thought. It may be claustrophobic them working together but it’s not cool to get caught paying too much attention to another man’s fiancée. Still she seems to know what she wants and the ball is very much in her court. I guess I’ll go along for the ride and let her make the running.

  He playfully punched Michael on the arm in response before quickly sloping away to find Aaron’s caddy.

  Andy Sharples was clearly a stylish man. He’d come into caddying fairly late by conventional standards but by all accounts was highly regarded amongst his peers. He was meticulous in his preparation and thorough in his care of whichever golfer, on whichever Tour, he was working.

  Randy Hughes, the renowned larger than life founder and Chief Executive Officer of Crown Sports could be considered, amongst several more unpleasant things, a man of guile. His dealings were deliberately centred on North America for financial reasons alone. He dabbled in big-time boxing, UFC, NASCAR, and in managing US PGA Tour golfers. Crown Sports did very well out of it too. They put together some of the very highest value and most creative sponsorship deals for those individuals, assets and events which they had come to represent. Randy’s contact book was legendary. It included Hollywood celebrities, leading sportspeople, and leaders from their fields in the worlds of finance, business, and crime. His prodigious energies were focused where the big money was and, where golf was concerned, he viewed the European Tour as merely a stopgap for young players to learn their trade before they progressed up to the ‘major leagues’ in America to play for the big bucks. Aaron Crower and François Steine fell into this bracket. The opportunity for Silvio and Daniel was one of mutual convenience. It meant Randy could keep control of his young international rising stars and earn out of them without the hassle and expense of having to set up a European satellite office. Experience told him that talent needed a measure of nurturing and a good deal of control. He had wanted to match
the precociously talented Aaron Crower with a steady experienced hand who could filter the right kind of messages as he plotted his first full season in the sport. Andy Sharples knew the nuances of the game at the professional level. He was the perfect choice to help a new boy on Tour to make good game management decisions and keep his head in pressure situations. With very little persuasion except of the dollar bill variety, he had ditched his last employer’s mid– tournament preparation to make himself available for the rising star.

  Daniel approached the cluster of caddies sitting together on cheap plastic chairs and nestled behind the enclave of massive golf equipment trucks which were parked at the back of the main hotel complex. Something struck him instantly. Andy was dressed, and seemed to hold himself, differently to the rest of them. More like a player than a bagman he noted. He was lean, with a neat black quiff and perfectly crafted goatee. His clothing was comparatively expensive and impeccably turned out. The others in the group played a hand of cards, Andy smoked a long, thin cigarette and pondered a small black pocket book. As he approached, Daniel noted pages filled with endless lists of unintelligible numbers and letters. But by this stage, weary and already bewildered enough, he had given up expecting things to make natural sense. Recognising Andy from the description he’d been given he addressed him directly.

  ‘Andy, hi. Daniel Ratchet from Crown Sports. How you doing?’ offered in the soft northern lilt he had worked so hard to dilute.

  The group stopped talking amongst themselves almost as one. Backs straightened. Sets of surly expressions fixed back at him.

  ‘A pleasure…’ replied the caddy slowly, putting on a slim pair of square sunglasses to avoid squinting into sun setting over Daniel’s shoulder. He presented his hand limply with a half-hearted nonchalance.

  ‘I wondered if you could help me out. Aaron’s got some requests for tomorrow regarding his clubs and he told me you were looking after them.’

  ‘Looking after his sticks is my domain. It’s not a problem.’ He was economical with his words. Efficient with the unnecessary use of language. It seemed to suit him.

  ‘Right. So the wand needs a new grip and he wants his wedge tweaked to fifty-two degrees and a new box of Pro V1s.’ Daniel repeated the list verbatim, hurriedly unburdening himself of the detail which sounded more like a foreign language as he spoke it aloud. Somehow the perception washed over him that he was now standing with the cool kids smoking behind the bike sheds in school, desperately wanting to be accepted by the gang. ‘Is that something you can help with Andy?’

  ‘I’ve already taken care of that,’ Andy sighed, flicking his eyes back at the group who seemed to be still staring at Daniel with some measure of passive aggression. ‘We discussed it on the range and the guys in the van have worked their magic.’

  Daniel visibly relaxed, glad the conversation didn’t warrant an interrogation. ‘You’re a star. Thanks so much,’ he smiled.

  ‘You the new Jerry McGuire round here then?’ Andy followed with a staged throaty chuckle causing the whole group to laugh openly.

  ‘Not sure if you’d say that, but I’m managing the Crown Sports stable out here now. I’ve heard you’re a steady influence, Andy, helping Aaron to get some good consistency out of his rounds and scores. Helping him to keep his head in check when under pressure,’ replied Daniel, ignoring the jibe and wondering if and how he should exert himself at the right moment. He’d been apprised of the apparent pecking order on the Tour by Silvio, and managers thought of themselves up near the top of the food chain with the players and the caddies more like the hired help. Caddies, of course, felt the reverse was true.

  ‘Sure, it’s working well. You can back that scoring consistency with your wallet if you fancy, Danny,’ said Andy, waggling the pocket book at him. ‘Billy Boy tells me you think you know a thing or two about who’s got game. Something of an expert are we then? Stick your money where your mouth is and I’ll give you odds against who you reckon is going to place this week.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that mate. I’m running about a bit at the moment right now so can’t stay and chat I’m afraid.’ Don’t get into a discussion on player form, Daniel chided himself. He turned to leave. The moment passed.

  ‘Listen Dan,’ soothed Andy after him in a velvety, accent-less voice. ‘Some of the caddies and Tour staff are heading out tonight for a few drinks and you’re more than welcome to join us,’ he suggested. Paused. ‘Unless you’ve got something better planned that is?’ he cast a quick look over at the card players, who were definitely more hostile audience than contented gamblers, and was rewarded with a smirk or two in response.

  Daniel considered his options quickly. A night alone in his room in front of whatever boring movie repeat or soft porn that might be found on late night Spanish television, following an uncomfortable dinner for one in the posh hotel restaurant? Or the chance to grab a few beers and ingratiate himself with the people who seemed to really know how this place worked, even if they seemed a tough bunch to crack. He needed to begin getting to know people and this was as good a start as any. He was in.

  ‘Sounds good actually. Where and when?’

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Andy in a disinterested drawl, already returning his attention back to the pages of his notebook. ‘Meet us in Muldoon’s Irish bar in the centre of town about eight-ish.’

  He didn’t look up as Daniel hurriedly left.

  ‘I think I really like him, Michael,’ said Matilda as she cupped her hands around a mug of green tea.

  Michael smiled a toothy grin as he stacked bandages and bottles inside one of the storage units in the truck. ‘Nothing I haven’t heard before my sweet Matilda. We both know you seem to have a thing for the agents out here’.

  ‘Stop it!’ She giggled. ‘He’s different. One of the good guys.’

  ‘He does seem a little more innocent, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I feel like he needs protecting, Michael. I want to give him a chance. I want to help him find his feet out here. What do you think?’ She swivelled in her chair to face him directly.

  ‘Well, if you want my opinion, I agree he seems to be one you could trust and he is certainly interested in you. You must follow your heart if you really like him. But treat him gently, if he is serious about you. He may not get over you quickly.’

  ‘I’m glad you like him too, Michael. That’s important to me. You’re the closest thing to family I have out here.’ She beamed up at the giant German.

  He stepped towards her and gave his response. A simple, gentle kiss placed upon her angled blonde head. Both his blessing and a signal that their conversation was at an end.

  Chapter 6

  MID ATLANTIC. 30,000 FT. / EUROPEAN TOUR: DAY FIVE. EARLY MORNING.

  I refuelled and grabbed a few hours of well-earned sleep on the fourteen-hour flight to Spain from LAX. Ella had been highly efficient in changing my schedule without undue delay. The muscles in my shoulders and arms ached from a few nights of sleeping rough. I’d crashed in the back of the old jalopy as I had staked out the movements of the Target and her captor prior to the take down in the bar. The luxury aeroplane seat slid back and reclined. Ella always booked business class for overnight flights. In the scheme of things it was probably when I managed to rest the most. I slipped the sleeping mask down over my eyes. Not only was I dressed differently to the other passengers in this section of the cabin but after my exertions of the previous few hours I was also aware that I stank. I could already hear the disaffected murmurings around me as I started to drift away. Memories of how far I had come to be sitting here now, travelling the world, amongst these well-to-do folks danced into my dreamlike thoughts.

  I’d enlisted in the mob at sixteen and despite being, to quote my Sergeant Major, ‘an angry, feral, under educated toe-rag’, managed to work my way up quickly inside two years. There, I tasted motivation I hadn’t dreamed existed following an unceremonious expulsion from the school I’d barely attended in the preceding few years.
School was a waste of time for a kid like me. Authority was a line to be crossed. The way I saw it, I wasn’t interested in learning and the teaching staff were simply too jaded or too exhausted to make me. Mine was once described by an army psychologist, intent on ticking a box on a neatly compiled form, as an ‘unsettled childhood’. I got caught up in some bad situations. Some I got away with. Some, much to the chagrin and futile disdain of my caseworker and the police, I did not. Trouble always had a knack of being able to find me and I bowled through my teenage years with a cavalier confidence born of early physical development allied to raw natural strength. It led to a lot of confrontation and more than my fair share of notorious and bloody fights with the older gangs which haunted our neighbourhood. When the time came for me to get out, the army had been recommended as the only viable chance I stood to start afresh. To see a bit of the world. The truth is, back then, I had no idea that the one thing in life I would display any given talent at was also the one thing I would end up battling a compelling and seductive compulsion towards: killing people.

  That was how it began. I was too young and arrogant when I signed up as a private in the Royal Fusiliers infantry regiment. I was treated like shit. Beasted regularly to break my spirit. One cold grey afternoon, spitting with icy rain on Exmoor, it had got too much. I’d flipped out. Broken the jaw of the cruel, supercilious, privately educated, didn’t-know-his-fucking-arse-from-his-elbow senior officer in charge. It had felt good at the time. The two weeks in solitary, not so much. In the aftermath of the enquiry, I was offered a deal. Face a dishonourable discharge or be assigned to a new platoon in the regiment, run as a separate unit under its own auspices. The small group was put together under the supervision of the apparently soon-to-be retiring Major Charles Hand. A man who came to be known by those who served with him simply as ‘The Hand of God’. I was still only a boy.