Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  ‘May I offer you some tea?’ came the offer.

  ‘Oh yes, very kind. English breakfast if you please.’ Unfailingly courteous to the last. Actually, thought Hemmings, isn’t he supposed to be my guest?

  Seizing the initiative Derek began. ‘So Mr Golich, I understand that you wish to do a little business with Great Britain?’

  ‘Well only if Great Britain wants me. And of course the little business of my money.’

  He laboured the word, clumsily attempting to draw every last grain of irony from his point. They locked eyes. And then the oligarch began to laugh. Loudly. Heartily. After a short period his mirth spread to the muscle in the unforgiveable suit who joined him with an obsequious snigger. He stopped laughing and straightened the knot in his tie. He cleared his throat.

  ‘This little business, as you call it, is billions of pounds invested by MY Rublex Corporation into gas exploration in the international waters off YOUR British Falkland Islands, and the infrastructure for YOUR British workers living on them.’ The emphasis of his words was used to make the crude point. Derek reciprocated.

  ‘Yes indeed. OUR Falkland Islands. YOUR money in exchange for Britain’s co-operation in transporting this gas for sale across the world under our protection and licence in the good name of British Petroleum. Joint enterprise, sharing in the proceeds, potentially one hundred billion pounds over the next ten years.’ A stiff retort.

  ‘Correct. I’m pleased you have an understanding of the arrangements, Mr Hemmings.’ He tapped his fingernail crisply against the edge of the teacup. ‘It seems your Prime Minister wishes to move ahead as soon as possible. He told me so himself when we played golf at Queenwood, other day. I love you British because of your famous justice, the sense of honour. Not like the bitch traitors in US. You say you make the deal. You make the deal.’

  Golich spat out the word ‘bitch’ with genuine venom causing Derek to glance around him to see if they had been overheard. Well, the old stager thought, the rumours are true, they are golfing buddies after all. Followed quickly by a second thought: I wouldn’t mind an invitation to play Queenwood with the Prime Minister myself.

  ‘British Prime Minister gives me his word. He tells me this is stronger than the mighty British oak tree. Deal happens, okay.’ Again the hard stare. Unblinking eyes. No invitation to respond.

  ‘With all due respect Mr Golich, whilst I am indeed here to discuss and ratify the deal with yourself and Rublex Corporation, we do have due process and procedures to follow. And I intend to satisfy myself with the full probity of this deal before we make a commitment to you or anyone else. Now, I have some questions regarding the origins of your investment stake for the gas development station. We need to be satisfied with regard to international money laundering rules and regulations.’

  Boris Golich stood up from his seat raising a hand to silence the civil servant in mid flow.

  ‘The talking is over now Mr Hemmings. The offer stands for one week only and then is off the table forever.’ He waved his hand dismissively, curling his upper lip. ‘We know plenty of governments who will make such a deal with Rublex during this period of, how do you say, “global economic uncertainty”? So you have no business asking questions of my wealth. It will simply do no good for you.’

  The word you was definitely emphasised. These not so subtle messages were certainly being telegraphed. He stalked from the room followed closely by the gigantic minder, a disproportionate shadow. Derek was left feeling distinctly uneasy. He peered from the huge bay window out onto the square, partially hidden behind a long, elegantly embroidered drape. Watched as the Russian climbed into the back seat of a waiting Silver Fox Rolls-Royce which purred away in the direction of Park Lane. Well that went better than expected Derek old boy, he chided himself ruefully. Scuffed his foot deliberately against the leg of an antique table in self-disgust.

  Chapter 9

  SPAIN. EUROPEAN TOUR. DAY TWO.

  Daniel awoke fully clothed on top of his still made bed. The morning sun streamed through the window, stinging his eyes. He rubbed his face and coughed. The rancid taste in his mouth made him gag and, looking down gingerly, saw he had been sick over his once pristine black shirt. He clambered off the bed and into the bathroom and splashed cold water over his grimy face. He looked sheepishly in the mirror, then away just as quickly, unable to face the pathetic image reflected back at him. He pulled off his shirt and winced. Two deep parallel scratch marks ran the length of his torso diagonally across his chest, alarmingly sore to the touch. In the shower his scratches throbbed and burned under the water.

  After, he stepped out into the room in just a towel and worriedly scoured the room for his wallet and watch. They hadn’t been in his trousers and weren’t lying anywhere he could see them. He checked the wardrobe and under the bed. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he groaned. ‘Mum’s going to kill me if I’ve gone and lost Granddad’s gold watch.’

  After five minutes he gave up, the exertions making his head thump in raw, uneven pulses. There was little doubt about it, he was in bad shape, probably still drunk. Doubts and questions flooded over him. If he was this bad now how had he got back to the room last night? If he didn’t have his wallet how could he even get back in the room without his key card? How was he going to pay his hotel bill this week without any credit cards? He couldn’t face the idea of explaining this mess to Silvio. Closing his eyes, Daniel tried to redact the intense throbbing in his head.

  An eternity later, the digital clock wobbled back into vision. A red 09.28 blinked back at him, boring into his skull. It was the first day of the tournament and Aaron and Andy would be half way through their round by now. Fuck. Hadn’t Andy been with him up till the end last night? He struggled to remember as he dragged himself back over the preceding evening, fighting to recall any real detail from incoherent snatches of memory and a whirling carousel of blurred images and faces. There’s just no way that Andy could have been with him in this state if he had to be up before the birds to prepare the gear the way Aaron wanted it for tee off at 06.45am. The man wouldn’t have been to bed at all and he seemed to be drinking as hard as everyone else. As the fragmented pattern of thoughts coursing through Daniel’s head smoothed into a cohesive stream of consciousness he was hit by a deep sense of foreboding once again as the realisation landed that he would be late out onto the golf course having promised that he would be there to walk the ropes and show support on the first day of the tournament. The very least he could do. And this was the very first professional tournament of his new career as a golf agent. A cold sweat beaded across his face and neck. Fuck.

  He dressed hurriedly, pulling on a powder blue polo shirt and neatly creased grey trousers from the hanger. What had Silvio said about looking the part? The imperative now was to move as quickly as he could without throwing up. The fresh air would clear his head and if Daniel still couldn’t find his belongings when he got back to the room then he’d simply have to front up to the mess he’d got himself into, cancel the credit cards and file a report with the local police for insurance purposes. Frustration and anger bubbled up within him. He cursed himself: What a bloody fool for getting into a drunken mess on the first night. For jeopardising the one big chance he had at a new career. At that moment Daniel wasn’t exactly repaying the faith that Silvio had shown in him.

  Out through the hotel and still in one piece, Daniel stalked his way past the practice range. His sole objective was to avoid eye contact that might draw him into an unwanted conversation about this game that he really knew so bloody little about. Daniel skirted the line of enormous black television trailers connected by an umbilical cord of endless thick black cable. He strode over to the imperious white scoreboard standing in splendid isolation. Squinting into the morning sun Daniel scoured down the names on it alphabetically until he came to CROWER, A. With not half the players out on the course yet he could see that Aaron had begun the day well. In fact four under par after nine holes was a blistering start and the stylish Australi
an was tied in second place at the turn. Daniel calculated that they must already be playing the tenth hole. He quickly consulted his crumpled score card for its crude map of the golf course and headed directly to the eleventh hole to intercept the group.

  The eleventh was a beautiful par four hole. It snaked around a rugged head of sublime Andalucían coastline. The tee consisted of a postage stamp of well-watered grass positioned on the edge of an exposed headland, surrounded on three sides by sheer rocky cliffs and the shimmering blue and green Mediterranean Sea. The coastline cut in dramatically to the cliff top leaving the tee precariously positioned and set apart from the rest of the course. Whilst lush fairway stretched up to the green on the right hand side, the greatest reward and a seductive temptation for a glorious birdie or eagle chance was to aim your sights directly across the natural rocky cove carved over centuries of attrition from the lapping of the unrelenting waves. To attempt to ‘drive the green’, those players who needed to score aggressively would fire their ball across the aqua swell aiming at the flag beyond. Watching intently, praying it wouldn’t get caught in a capricious swirling wind and drop down into a watery grave. The green itself was surrounded by deeply hollowed, perfectly raked bunkers of pure white sand. It was an epic hole, designed for risk and reward golf. Like a siren’s beauty calling a ship’s captain towards the rocks, the hole’s allure was set to tempt even those players whose ‘course management’ mindset was of the most puritanical.

  A small crowd had gathered behind the ropes surrounding the green and were facing back up to the players on the tee. Daniel headed there directly, noting Aaron’s group trooping up from the recently completed tenth hole. The group ahead were putting out on the green and a caddy moodily raked one of the bunkers which had just proved so costly to his boss. He claimed a place between an elderly couple and two women, ripe to the point of plumpness, in their late teens, both wearing rather short shorts and jostling each other whenever the handsome players walked near. Sweat dripped from his brow. It was starting to get hot and Daniel was still feeling decidedly ill.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ came a voice behind him. Daniel turned to face a tall, good looking man dressed in black slacks and an immaculately embroidered white collarless shirt, buttoned up to the neck. His ashen blonde hair was perfectly parted to the side, not a strand out of place. He enquired again, ‘May I join you Daniel?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Daniel, wondering anxiously how this man happened to know his name and if they had already met. ‘I’m Aaron’s manager,’ he said as if in some justification for him being there and pointing to the silhouetted figure now crouching to insert a tee peg into the turf some distance away.

  ‘Yes Daniel, this much I already know. Good morning to you, I’m Sergei Krostanov, Head of Golf Sponsorship for the Rublex Oil and Gas Corporation.’ He extended his hand in greeting and Daniel caught sight of a small crudely drawn star in blue ink tattooed on the flesh between thumb and forefinger. It reminded him of something a bored student might have doodled during an oppressive maths lesson. It seemed incongruous given the way the man was dressed. ‘We support the Tour very much you know?’ he said and continued without waiting for an answer, ‘I also do much business with Randy Hughes who owns the Crown Sports.’ Daniel thought of the huge sponsorship billboards he had seen around the course promoting Rublex Corporation, the Russian Oil & Gas conglomerate, in addition to the title sponsorship they held for the race of champion golfer of the year.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Daniel replied quietly, offering his hand and half turning to look Sergei in the eye just in time to miss Aaron’s tee shot from across the cove.

  ‘We all like to help each other out on the circuit, as they say, Daniel. We look after our own out here so any problems, anything at all, you must please let me help. Do you understand?’ Sergei purred. He moved to stand next to Daniel behind the roped off green, not once lifting his lifeless pale blue eyes from his face. Daniel shifted one foot to the other. Although his English was excellent there was still a noticeable undercutting Russian bite to Sergei’s speech, an unmistakeable hard edge to the consonants in his diction. Not sure why he was feeling under interrogation, he decided that the omnipresent beads of sweat bubbling up on his forehead were determined to visibly betray the hidden throbbing inside his skull. He wanted to crawl away and vomit. But there it was, once extended, incapable of being ignored. Just left hanging out there. A platitude. A kind but empty promise of future help. That was all surely. The last thing he wanted to do was further humiliate himself by admitting to this important cog in the machinery of the Tour that he had lost his watch and wallet, or had them stolen, after getting drunk on his first night on the job. But this was a big deal to Daniel. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Sergei seemed friendly and might know whom to speak with about it. And so inevitably the awkward silence did its work and Daniel found himself drifting inexorably towards the point of confessing his predicament. After a long uncomfortable period of time had elapsed between them Daniel practically blurted out loud:

  ‘Sergei, my wallet and watch were lost or stolen last night. It was my grandad’s watch and the wallet had my company credit cards in it and I thought you might know the best way to register this with the local police or with the Tour, if there was a lost property department or something?’ He inhaled sharply.

  Sergei chuckled. ‘Lost property? This isn’t school anymore, Daniel.’ The young man’s face turned a fierce shade of burning crimson in response. ‘It’s serious if you have lost those things. Okay, I will ask some questions and try to help you. I too know what it is like to treasure a gift handed down through the family. The family is the only thing in life with any true meaning.’ His voice seemed serious, hard edged. But then he continued chirpily, ‘And golf as well of course. Few things have more value than the golf.’

  ‘Thank you so much. I feel like such an idiot.’

  ‘Not as much of an idiot as when my friend Randy Hughes finds out that you lost his company credit card. Your boss, the owner of Crown Sports is not, shall we say, a patient man where money is involved.’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to telling him to be honest. I haven’t had the chance yet.’ Daniel looked crestfallen.

  ‘I tell you what. Let’s not make a drama out of all this.’ Sergei reached inside his trouser pocket and pulled out a neat shiny black leather wallet. ‘Take this credit card. It belongs to Rublex. Use it for expenses while you find your wallet. If you don’t find it then you should cancel the card and you may hold onto this one for the week of the tournament in Spain. Give it back to me at the next event. Okay?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. That’s incredibly generous. Thank you.’

  ‘Please Daniel. Rublex does what it can to support golf in every way. We have a strong working relationship with Crown Sports and I’m sure you will find a way to make it up to me. Besides I can’t let you get on the wrong side of our Mr Hughes just yet, not when you have just started out in your career on the Tour.’

  Then the discussion was over and Sergei pointed with his jaw beyond the ropes. ‘Yes, he’s got the fierce talent indeed, that one,’ as Aaron skilfully skimmed the ball out of the bunker, plopped it onto the green, and watched it roll past the hole to within two feet. ‘I’ve been speaking to Andy Sharples, the caddy, about Aaron’s aptitude and he thought you might like to enrol him in the Rublex Corporation sponsorship programme?’

  Daniel brightened up at once. Sponsorship was one of the key facets of his job and a measureable element of how well agents are looking after their players. Silvio had warned him that it was also a lever that rival player managers used to pry star golfers away from management stables. In golf, money spoke and it spoke loudly.

  ‘That sounds most interesting Mr Krostanov. I really would be delighted to discuss terms,’ answered Daniel, trying to sound as professional as he could under the spectre of his debilitating hangover.

  ‘It’s Sergei, please, if we
are to be working together. Everybody just knows me as Sergei.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, continuing, ‘I’ll have my secretary draw up the papers specifying the terms and send them to your hotel room.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I really appreciate it,’ answered Daniel. This man was turning out to be quite the savour of his disastrous morning.

  Aaron drilled his two foot putt and followed up with the obligatory fist pump. Applause rippled through the gallery. Sergei slapped Daniel once on the back, hard and firm before turning to head back through the trees towards the hotel.

  Stepping under the ropes, eleventh hole now complete, Aaron approached Daniel who stood smiling gently to himself. ‘Good to see you made it out here mate,’ he drawled pointedly as he made his way down a short dirt path that led to the twelfth hole tee box. ‘Andy didn’t seem to think you’d be getting out of bed today for some reason. Sloppy stuff on your first day I reckon, we’ve been up since the crack of dawn.’ Andy smirked in the background.

  Daniel trotted to keep up and immediately wished he hadn’t. His skull rattled. ‘Actually I’ve been busy working on a new sponsorship deal for you with the Rublex Corporation this morning,’ he countered with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster. ‘It’s all looking good.’

  ‘On yer mate,’ came the lazy unenthused response and a fist offered in congratulation for Daniel to bump with his own. ‘The greens are like putting on a glass table this morning, mate. Lightening quick.’ And with that Aaron Crower was back in the zone, standing to the side on the twelfth tee, swishing his driver back and forth like a fly fishing rod. His stocky Italian playing partner stared doggedly down the fairway focusing assiduously on executing his pre-shot routine.