Double Eagle

by Keith Miles

  She made it easy for me. Valmai was pleased to hear my voice and her tone, though subdued, was friendly. It was only when I asked to see her that the reserve crept in. Excuses tumbled out of her and I had to cut through them to make the arrangement.

  ‘I’ll be there this afternoon, Valmai.’

  Her silence lasted so long that I thought she’d never answer. When it finally came, her murmur was barely audible.

  ‘I’d like that, Alan.’

  ‘How do I find you?’

  I took down the directions she gave me, then hung up.

  It was now mid-morning and there was much to do. I emptied my suitcase and saw that there was nothing worth salvaging. My clothing had been slashed to ribbons. The only consolation was that I’d not been wearing it at the time.

  I stuffed what I could into the plastic bag that lined the waste bin and piled the rest beside it. The cleaning staff would no doubt enjoy speculating how the guest in room seven came to have such a tattered wardrobe.

  I went to reception and ordered a taxi to take me to the airport in half an hour’s time, then I breakfasted in a nearby café and discovered just how hungry I was. Crossing to the small department store on the other side of the road, I bought shirts, socks, underwear, a sweater, a pair of trousers and a jerkin with a zip front. I also fell for a tie with blue chevrons on it.

  Back at the motel, I changed into some of my new purchases, then settled down to wait. I reflected on what I needed to ask Valmai Everett. In my opinion, Zuke’s second marriage was the crux of it all. It had a destructive effect on his golf and led directly to his murder. Drug abuse was a new factor and the police believed it might be a decisive one, but I wondered if it was a symptom rather than a cause.

  One thing was certain. In order to understand the second marriage, I had to know exactly what went wrong with the first one. That meant winning Valmai’s confidence. It could be problematical.

  When the taxi arrived, I was whisked off to the airport and had no difficulty securing an early flight to San Francisco. Since there were a mere twenty minutes to wait, I bought a copy of the Los Angeles Times and adjourned to the departure lounge.

  News of the murder had made the final edition the previous day but the complete story was now on the front page. Under a banner headline was a photograph that made my heart constrict. Zuke was lying on his back in the garden, just as I’d found him. Caught in the glare of a flashbulb, the corpse took on an extra dimension of gruesome horror. When I saw my baseball cap, I had to turn away for a moment.

  The report told me nothing I didn’t already know. The mention of Alan Saxon was mercifully brief, though I was called upon to utter words that I’d never in fact spoken. Mardie Cutler was quoted as well and described as ‘resting on medical advice’. Howie Danzig’s heart attack was given prominence and I was glad to know the name of the hospital where he’d been taken.

  Rutherford Kallgren had not missed the opportunity for self-promotion. Heaping praise upon the dead golfer, he argued that his tournament had shown Zuke at the height of his powers. The double eagle, he maintained, was a magnificent response to a magnificent course. When Tom Bellinghaus took over to develop the same theme, I could read no more of the report.

  I pulled out the Metro section, which contained the editorial pages. Two obituaries were featured. Pride of place went to a denizen of the Los Angeles Supreme Court (‘Former Judge B.V. Strutton Dies at 81’), but Zuke Everett almost matched him for column inches. The inimitable grin was captured in a photograph that belonged to happier days and the obituary itself was satisfyingly fulsome. The only blemish was the reference to Kallgren and Bellinghaus.

  Two vultures perched on the man’s headstone.

  Leafing through the other supplements, I found the sports section and saw that its front page was monopolised by basketball and ice hockey. Golf roundup was tucked away on an inside page between fishing report (‘Bass, Catfish Abound in Southland Lakes’) and the sailing news (‘Joss Wins Battle for Line Honours in Yacht Race to Puerto Vallarta’).

  The final day’s play of the tournament was described in some detail and I was pleased with my one-line mention. Phil Reiner’s win over Gamil Amir was portrayed as yet another American triumph in the Middle East and Kallgren was on hand with the predictable quote.

  What was far more interesting than the report, however, was the news item that was appended to it. In one crisp and astounding sentence, I learned that Phil Reiner had signed an exclusive sponsorship contract with the Kallgren organisation, which would henceforth be handling all his managerial affairs.

  Reiner had sold his soul in the heat of victory.

  I tried to work out why I was so shocked.

  ***

  The flight to San Francisco took just under an hour but I was not aware of any of it. My eyes closed as soon as I settled into my seat and fastened my safety belt. I woke up when we touched down on the runway. After thanking the cabin staff for letting me sleep on undisturbed, I went off into the airport building to rent a car. A whole row of companies tried to solicit my business. I chose the counter that was presided over by a short, vivacious young woman in a smart grey uniform with matching hat. A lapel badge introduced her as Lori Whyte.

  She had a good dentist and a cheerleader brightness.

  ‘Welcome to San Francisco, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘First trip?’

  ‘No, I’ve been several times.’

  ‘Good. How can we help you, sir?’

  ‘I need a car for one day, Lori. A reliable one.’

  ‘All our automobiles are totally reliable,’ she said with beaming assurance. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A small one.’

  ‘The Chevy Chevette is our most popular subcompact.’ She indicated the large colour photograph on display. ‘This is the model right here. Automatic or do you prefer a gear shift?’

  ‘Automatic, please. I need all the help I can get.’

  ‘Right, sir. Let’s just get the details down.’

  Lori Whyte handled the paperwork with maximum charm and minimum delay. Unaware that my Access card was already overdrawn, she accepted it without question and treated me as if I’d just bought a Cadillac with hundred-dollar bills.

  I would have stood there and basked in the service I was getting had it not been for a sudden realisation that I was being watched. As a tournament golfer who has played in front of spectators all his career, I am used to being on exhibition. But this was different. Here was no golf fan admiring my technique. I was under surveillance.

  As casually as I could, I looked all round. There were several people about but none seemed to be showing any interest in me. Whoever was watching knew how to stay concealed.

  The lovely Lori handed me a smile with the paperwork.

  ‘You’re all set, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Have a nice day.’

  She sounded as if she actually meant it. I liked that.

  I was soon climbing behind the driving wheel of a silver Chevy Chevette in a nearby car park. After checking my notes to memorise the directions given by Valmai, I set off.

  It was a strange experience to be driving a car again after so many years in a motor caravan. Carnoustie was my home and I adored her but she was a little ponderous on the open road. Being in a small, zippy American automobile made me feel like a married man embarking on his first affair. I was at once guilty and exhilarated, terrified that I’d be found out yet eager to know how far and fast my new vehicle would go.

  Valmai’s directions were accurate but there was one crucial omission. She forgot to warn me about the traffic.

  As I left the airport and joined the freeway, I found myself hemmed in, hooted at, carved up and whizzed past on both sides. Average speeds were much slower tha
n on British motorways but I was still unsettled by the random lane-changing of the other vehicles. They all knew where they were going. I spent so much time avoiding them that I couldn’t concentrate properly on my own route.

  I missed having Carnoustie’s solidity around me.

  My adultery with the Chevette was a mistake.

  San Francisco will always get my vote as the most beautiful city in America. Sophisticated, resourceful and awash with spectacular views, it’s a constant delight to the eye and an unashamed act of emotional blackmail. It has an atmosphere all its own and—notwithstanding its polyglot nature—a sense of unity that Los Angeles could never attain.

  The best way to see San Francisco is to take your time so that you can savour its idiosyncratic blend of old and new. The worst way—I now discovered—is to leave the freeway by the wrong exit and hare madly through a maze of streets. I knew that the city was built on seven hills but I counted three times that number as I went on an endless rollercoaster ride through a variety of neighbourhoods.

  When I crested yet another hill, I saw what I had been searching for—the wide sweep of the bay far below. It was a breathtaking sight and I slowed the car right down to enjoy the panorama. My pleasure was short-lived. A violent clanging sound made me look in my driving mirror. Hurtling towards me was one of the famous cable cars.

  Though this quaint mode of transport has many attractions, it also has a serious defect. There is no conventional braking system. It only stops at appointed places. The onus is on other vehicles to get out of its way. I swung quickly to the right; it rattled past with its full complement of passengers.

  I was happy to leave my heart in San Francisco but I wanted to take the rest of my anatomy away with me.

  When I reached Fisherman’s Wharf, I felt confident of my bearings. It was not long before I was queueing to cross the Golden Gate Bridge. The tricky bit, I told myself, was over. Seeing the bridge always excites me but driving over it was a special thrill. With a quickening pulse, I went from San Francisco to Marin County. Almost as soon as I joined the mainland, I took an exit that looped under the highway. It would not be too far now.

  Valmai Everett was living at Stinson Beach, a small resort further up the coast. With the massive expanse of the Pacific on its left, the road twisted and turned capriciously for mile after mile, compelling even the most skilful driver to proceed with care. I noted a sign for the Muir Woods National Monument and glimpsed a redwood forest off to my right before I plunged down an incline then slowed to negotiate a hairpin bend.

  It was a rugged coastline and the road ran along the top of the cliffs. I was glad to be driving on the side that was further from the edge. A careless driver coming in the opposite direction could easily end up over the unprotected precipice. Valmai had warned me that the route was quite perilous and I now understood what she meant. It was the perfect place for two classes of people. Those favouring scenic beauty. Those favouring suicide.

  Stinson Beach was a windswept spot. There was a run of houses, a few shops and a car park whose size suggested a lot of visitors in the warmer weather. I didn’t need to look for Valmai’s address. She was coming out of the door of a white bungalow as I drove up. Dressed in an anorak, slacks and woolly hat, she had a young Alsatian dog on a lead. I brought the car to a halt immediately and got out.

  ‘Alan!’ she welcomed. ‘Wonderful to see you again!’

  ‘Hello, Valmai.’

  We embraced and I kissed her on the cheek. She was wearing no make-up and seemed to have put on weight since we’d last met. The dog barked and pawed my legs in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Down, boy!’ she ordered, tugging the lead. ‘I didn’t expect you this early, Alan. I was just taking Louis for his walk.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll tag along.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s pretty cold.’

  ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

  I soon regretted the decision. We cut across the car park, went through a gap in the dunes and came out on the beach. It was like a wind tunnel. The gust was fierce and unremitting. Even when I pulled the zip of my jerkin right up and thrust my hands into its pockets, I was miserably cold.

  Valmai unclipped the lead from the Alsatian’s collar and he went bounding off across the sand with uncontrolled energy. We had to lean forward at an angle as we walked straight into the icy blast.

  ‘Marvellous place for sailing and wind-surfing,’ she said.

  ‘Not to mention freezing to death,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long have you been here, Valmai?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Why choose this place?’

  ‘It chose itself. I always loved Stinson Beach. Used to come here a lot when I was a kid. We lived in Petaluma.’

  ‘Petaluma?’

  ‘Big poultry centre. Nicknamed the World’s Egg Basket. That’s where I was born and brought up. Right here in Marin County. Petaluma’s a comfortable drive away.’

  ‘I see. In a sense, you’ve come home.’

  ‘In every sense, Alan.’

  ‘What happened to the house in Malibu?’

  ‘It had to go.’

  We were diverted for a moment by the sight of the dog’s antics. He tested the temperature of the water, let out a yelp, then raced back on to dry sand before chasing his tail. Valmai smiled indulgently.

  ‘Crazy animal!’

  ‘Why did you call him Louis?’

  ‘I like the name.’

  ‘It suits him.’

  The wind was buffeting us unmercifully now and my trousers were flapping behind my legs. I began to shiver.

  ‘Must have been a shattering blow for you, Valmai.’

  ‘Blow?’

  ‘Zuke’s death.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry.’

  ‘You needn’t be, Alan. It’s all over now.’

  ‘How did you first hear about it?’

  ‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘Zuke belongs to my past. I’d rather not talk about him. Do you mind?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said.

  But I did mind. I hadn’t come all the way from Los Angeles to be met by a stone wall. Valmai had clearly withdrawn into herself. I would have to bide my time.

  We walked for a few hundred yards with Louis charging ahead of us and then doubling back with wild speed. The wind eased slightly and my hair stopped trying to part company with my head. I manufactured small talk and confined it to neutral subjects. Valmai slowly relaxed with me. I was making progress.

  Suddenly, I spun round on my heel.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You gave me a start.’

  ‘I thought there was somebody behind us.’

  ‘Who’d be dumb enough to come on the beach in this weather?’

  I joined her laugh but my eyes continued to search. Instinct told me that I was being watched again and I was determined to see who it was this time. But the beach was completely deserted.

  ‘Time to head back now, anyway,’ she decided.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Come on, Louis!’

  In response to her call, the dog abandoned the hole he was digging in the sand. He raced past us in a flurry of legs and tail, then skidded to a halt as he found something worth sniffing.

  With the wind at our backs, I felt better at once and the return journey was almost bracing. When we reached the car park, Valmai clipped the lead back on to the collar and Louis chose that moment to relieve himself. We crossed the road and went into the bungalow.

  It was a small, attractive, modern building in an excellent state of repair. The living room was bright, cosy and deliciously warm but it was a far cry from the lu
xury of the Malibu home. I noticed several items of furniture that had survived from the earlier dwelling and many of the ornaments were familiar as well.

  There were no photographs of Zuke but he hadn’t been entirely banished. Tucked away on a bookshelf, I saw, was a biography of him that had been written a couple of years earlier.

  Valmai fed the dog and left him to curl up in his basket in the kitchen. She brought in a tray with coffee and biscuits on it. After gulping down a mouthful, I started to thaw out. Valmai settled down in the easy chair opposite me. Now that she’d taken off her hat and anorak, I could see her properly. The quiet loveliness was still there though it looked a trifle neglected.

  ‘I am sorry, Alan,’ she volunteered.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When you called this morning. I gave you a hard time.’

  ‘I didn’t mind.’

  ‘Truth is, I’ve had a lot of hassle the past twenty-four hours. It’s been hell. Phone just hasn’t stopped ringing. What with the cops, the newspapers, the TV people…’ A flash of anger surfaced. ‘Why pick on me? I’m not even married to the guy anymore!’

  I nibbled a biscuit and gave her a minute to calm down.

  ‘Don’t you find it a bit lonely here?’ I asked.

  ‘With Louis around?’

  ‘I was thinking of human company.’

  ‘My mother drives over most weekends,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Besides, I like it on my own. Main reason I moved here, in fact. To get away from human company for a while.’ She gave a sardonic smile. ‘Not that it turned out that way at first.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I guess I was a sitting target.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Married men. They’re a breed apart.’ Bitterness darkened her voice. ‘There must have been a dozen or more. All married to good friends of mine. All with the same patter. They just “happened” to be in San Francisco and thought they’d call in on me. What is it with those guys? They were convinced that I’d be desperate to hop straight in the sack with them. Worse thing was they offered it as a favour!’