P.G.A. Spells Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Great,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to be in New York when it collapses into anarchy. Guaranteed to be a good time.”

  “Shut up,” Ben growled. “No excuses. Be there.”

  So I caught an early morning Acela at South Station and arrived in Manhattan just before lunchtime. And I was starving, because the dining car had run out of breakfast food. Actually, it had never had any, since the amazing incompetents at Amtrak failed to deliver any, so they had none to sell. I did manage to score a cup of probably the worst coffee I had ever attempted to drink, so I was not only hungry enough to dare to buy a hot dog from the first street vendor I saw on Sixth Avenue, but I almost went into the nearest Starbuck’s in a desperate search for caffeine. Luckily, I had second thoughts on both counts.

  I had time to kill before Wasserman’s memorial service was scheduled, so I walked over to Tenth Avenue and caught an uptown bus, riding past huge swaths of a city that didn’t give a crap that I was hungry. Eventually, Tenth turned into Amsterdam and I got off at 86th street and made my way to the Barney Greengrass deli. Inside, I found a spot at the counter, ordered coffee and a hot pastrami sandwich and was soon feeling almost myself again. They brought me a slice of cheesecake and another cup of coffee and let me sit there unmolested while I scanned a copy of the New York Post. That tabloid paper is easier to read at a counter than the broadsheet Times, and I always liked the Post’s golf writer better than the stuck-up asshole who worked for the Times. Nobody challenged my choice of newspapers.

  Finally, it was time to make my way over to the B’nai Jeshurun synagogue, which occupied most of a block between Broadway and West End Avenue in an eye-catching and somewhat ironic Moorish-influenced facade with an impressive central arch over the front door. Inside, the main sanctuary was even more elaborate, with a magnificent decorated wall, a bank of stained glass windows on one side sending in some purplish light, and a dark ceiling overhead twinkling with faux stars.

  Some of the other IBS people had arrived and taken chairs in the sanctuary. Because of the Jewish tradition, they had already had the official funeral for Arnie Wasserman, so for today’s memorial service there was just a large framed photograph of him on a gold easel. In the picture he was smiling and, as usual, impeccably dressed. Alas, poor Arnie, I didn’t know thee at all.

  Standing at the back of the sanctuary, taking this all in, I saw Van Collins and Jimmy Williams lead a procession of my colleagues from the broadcast booth down the central aisle. An usher handed me a program for the service and a yarmulke, and I fell in with them. Then the Boz slipped in next to me. He gave me a wink and a smile.

  “Yom Kippur,” he said, in a whispered voice.

  “I think you mean ‘Shalom,’” I said. “Or maybe ‘Gut Shabbes.’”

  He just shrugged. I guess Yom Kippur is the only Jewish word they learn out there in San Angelo, Texas.

  We took our seats. Kelsey Jenkins sat on my other side. There were about sixty people in attendance. A side door behind the altar opened and the rabbi came out, leading a procession of about six people, led by what looked like Arnie’s parents. His Mom was weeping softly, dabbling at her eyes with a tissue.

  “Those are the mourners,” Kelsey leaned over and whispered to me. “Immediate family.”

  The family took up chairs in the front row and the service began. The rabbi began reading prayers, speaking in Yiddish, which the program told me were taken from the Psalms. Of course, not knowing the language, whatever comforting message they contained went right over my head, but I consoled myself by thinking that these words, or ones like them, had been spoken in such sorrowful situations for literally thousands of years.

  After the prayers had been read, the rabbi began a eulogy, speaking this time in English. He told us Arnie had been a member of the congregation at this synagogue since he was a boy, and while the adult Arnie wasn’t a regular at services, the rabbi knew that he was a faithful son of Israel. Arnie’s Mom and dad put their heads together and wept silently.

  When he finished his remarks, the rabbi paused, and said “It is a bit unusual, but one of Arnie’s closest colleagues has asked if he might speak a word or two.” He nodded in our direction, and Ben Oswald stood, his kippah pinned against his frizzy afro hair.

  Ben walked up to the dais, took a sheet of paper out of his suitcoat pocket and turned to look at us.

  “Arnie Wasserman worked for me,” he began. “I hired him eleven years ago, right out of NYU. I hired him because he was smart as hell, sharp as a tack and took no crap from anyone, including me. Looking back now, I think I hired him because he reminded me of me.”

  We all tittered.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Ben continued, voice wavering a little. “Things like this—” he waved a hand at the memorial photo, the grieving family and the people gathered around—”…tend to argue against the existence of a loving and caring God. But this is probably not the time or the place to have that argument.” He turned and nodded at the rabbi.

  “I just wanted to say that I loved the guy,” he said. “We’ve been through a lot over these years. We had some fun. We had some fights. If I did something stupid, and I do that a lot, Arnie would tell me so. And I would listen. Because he knew right from wrong. He understood people better than I ever will. He was a good man. And I’ll miss him.”

  The last sentence was spoken in a husky whisper, and he could say no more. He went back to his chair and sat down.

  The service ended soon after. A few more people told us stories about Arnie. There were some more prayers and then the rabbi announced we were dismissed with a final blessing.

  I followed my colleagues out of the synagogue and we stood on the sidewalk outside. There were two men waiting for us, dressed in suits. They looked a lot like cops. Because that’s what they were.

  One of them, forties, slightly overweight, thinning hair, went up to speak to Ben Oswald, who seemed to recognize the guy and shook his hand. The cop whispered something in Ben’s ear and he nodded.

  “OK people,” Ben said, speaking to all of us from IBS, “This is Lieutenant Jefferies from the NYPD homicide squad. He wants to talk to some of you about Arnie. I’ve invited him back to the office where we can find a place to sit down. Lt. Jefferies and his assistant—” he paused and looked at the other cop who announced his name, Bob Delacroix— “…will be doing some routine interviews. Please cooperate with them the best you can. We all want to help them find the guy who did this. OK?”

  We all murmured agreement. Ben hailed a passing cab and jumped in.

  An hour or so later, I was sitting in a conference room with the other members of the announcers crew. I listened as they reminisced about Arnie Wasserman.

  “Took me a while to warm up to Arnie, if you wanna know the truth,” said Jimmy Williams. “I could never figure out who he represented. I mean, I knew he worked for Ben. But it always seemed like he was also tight with the suits on the 44th floor, y’know? I was never sure if he was asking me to do something because Ben wanted it done, or because the head of IBS did. Or if anything I told him would go no further than Ben, or shoot right to the top. Made me a little uncomfortable.”

  “The man is always the man,” said Van Collins in his stentorian baritone. “People like Ben Oswald and Arnie Wasserman always pretend to be your best friend. But they get paid by IBS. That means they’re always IBS’ best friend, not yours. Good to remember that.”

  “Sounds like the voice of long experience,” I said. Van looked at me and nodded.

  Kenny Craig, the Swing Doctor, was drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Did any of you guys hear any talk about Parker Long getting axed?” he said. “I mean, before he died.”

  There were muted gasps of disbelief around the room.

  “Where did you hear that?” asked Kelsey Jenkins.

  “I had a call the week before Savannah from Parker’s wife,” he said. “She told me Parker had heard from his agent, and
it upset him no end. He wouldn’t tell her what he said, but he had told his wife about a conversation he had overheard a year earlier, when he heard Ben talking to someone at IBS about possible personnel changes.”

  “There’s a lot of assumptions in that scenario,” Kelsey said. “Could have been something completely different. Van, you hear of anything like that?”

  Van Collins sat quietly for a moment, hands folded calmly in his lap.

  “You all know that there are things happening in the industry, right?” he started. He looked around at everyone, and most of them were nodding. “The TV contracts between the PGA Tour and all the networks are up for renewal. Nobody knows whats going to happen. Disney is supposed to be making a big play—that means ESPN and all its sub-networks. CBS, NBC and Golf Channel …Fox and its USGA contract … all of this is under consideration and the big money boys are slugging it out right now.”

  “Yeah, so what?” Jimmy said impatiently. “What does that have to do with us, or with Parker Long?”

  “So,” Van continued, “IBS is the weakest sister of the bunch. There’s talk that we may get shut out of golf entirely. There’s also talk that we may be in line to take over someone else’s share. So IBS has to demonstrate that our golf programs are popular and attract a growing audience. And that means that every aspect of our operation is under a microscope. From the talent in the booth right down to the lowest technician … If someone or something is not performing at peak efficiency, out it goes.”

  “So they were thinking of canning Parker,” Kelsey said, aghast. “My God. How long had he been with the network?”

  “Twenty-two years,” Van said. “He started with me doing college football and migrated over to golf shortly after. Been a mainstay. But mainstays can get old and stale, and I suspect the upstairs suits thought it might be pasture time.”

  “Pasture time?” I said.

  “As in, put out to,” Van smiled at me. “Look, they want a younger, more diverse audience, like they had when Tiger was in his prime. I loved Parker Long like everyone else in this room, but he did not attract the younger and more diverse audience the suits are looking for. It’s hard to hear, but none of us is immune. We all gotta get the axe sometime.”

  “You know what they say,” I said, “The only things that are certain in life are death and axes.”

  That made Boz laugh out loud, and the mood in the room brightened a bit.

  19

  The New York cops came into our conference room, and we all sat up straighter. Cops have that affect on most of us civilians.

  The one we knew as Lt. Jefferies took the lead. His partner stood behind him and eyed us all. He was a tall black man with stooped shoulders and a large belly. He was losing his bristly black hair to male pattern baldness. He was dressed in a coat and tie, tie pulled down from his neck, collar open. But despite his shabby appearance, the black cop had those bright, ever-alert cop eyes, which darted around the room, taking us in one at a time, sizing us up, making educated guesses about who or what we were. I smiled at him.

  “OK,” said Jefferies, “Detective Delacroix here is going to conduct interviews with each of you. Nobody in this room is considered to be a suspect in the death of Mr. Wasserman. But we need a little more background about him and how he interacted with his co-workers here at IBS. Even the most insignificant detail might be important, so I urge you to speak freely with the detective. Questions?”

  “You think he was killed by someone at IBS?” I asked.

  Jefferies turned to look at me.

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “You said you wanted to know about how he interacted with co-workers at IBS,” I said. “Does that mean you think one of us killed him? Jealousy, rage or spite?”

  “What is your name?” Jefferies said.

  “Hacker,” I said. “Correspondent and host of Hacker’s History segment.”

  “Ah,” Jefferies said. “I believe Mr. Oswald mentioned your name. Warned me about you. Along with someone named Bosworth?”

  “Yo,” said the Boz, raising his hand. “Guilty as charged.”

  “To answer your question, Mr. Hacker,” Jefferies said. “We don’t know who shot Mr. Wasserman. “That’s why we want to speak with all of you. From these conversations, we hope some leads will develop.”

  “Got it,” I said. “So I probably don’t need to hire my good pal Al Dershowitz for this interview.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Jefferies said, “But that is entirely up to you.”

  “I’ll wing it,” I said.

  “Brave man,” he said, “Detective Delacroix is one of the department’s best interviewers. If you’ve got a deep dark secret, he’ll find out what it is.”

  “Oh, crap,” I said. “It’s the jaywalking, isn’t it? I knew when I cut across Amsterdam that someone was watching.”

  Jefferies decided that our little repartee had gone quite far enough. He turned at nodded at Delacroix and left the room. The other cop pulled out a chair, sat down, and took a black notebook out of his suit coat pocket and a ballpoint pen from his shirt.

  “Who worked with Wasserman the longest?” he asked.

  “Probably me,” Van said. “Going on eleven years now.”

  They started talking. I got up and went over to the credenza standing on the far wall and grabbed a bottle of water. The Boz came over and did the same.

  “You really know Dershowitz?” he asked. “I see him on the news all the time.”

  “Naw,” I shook my head. “Just dickin’ with the guy.”

  We went back and sat down.

  “How about you, Mr. Hacker?” the cop said, turning to look at me. “When did you first meet Mr. Wasserman?”

  “Couple of months ago,” I said. “In a meeting room not unlike this one.”

  “Impressions?”

  “He was a nice dresser,” I said. “Expensive clothes. Looked like good labels. Nothing cheap.”

  “That’s true,” Kelsey Jenkins was nodding. “He was always well turned out.”

  “OK,” Delacroix said, jotting down notes in his book. “Snappy dresser. What else?”

  “He was Ben’s right-hand-man,” I said. “Ben wanted something done, he turned to Arnie to do it.”

  “Such as?”

  “When I was here that day, he and Oswald were talking about some problem, and Arnie was making notes in his expensive leather notebook. I assumed he was going to do what Oswald wanted.”

  “And that was?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” I said. “They were talking about a technical issue, a problem that wasn’t getting solved. Oswald said something about replacing the person who seemed at fault, and Arnie wrote that down in his notebook.”

  “Who was that?”

  “A kid named Digby Allen,” I said. “He’s on the technical crew.”

  “I know him,” Jimmy Williams piped in. “Strange little dude, but he knows everything about our equipment.”

  “Strange, how?” the cop asked.

  “Oh, you know…he’s a little socially awkward, I guess,” Jimmy said. “Kinda nerdy.” He paused. “No, very nerdy. But Jeez, you got something that ain’t working, Digby’ll get it fixed in a hurry.”

  “So why did Oswald want to replace him?” Delacroix said.

  “Good question,” Jimmy said.

  “There had been a problem with a piece of equipment,” I said. “It broke down or didn’t work right about five times. It was Digby’s job to make sure it worked, but the company which provided that equipment hadn’t done anything to fix the problem, and Digby kept getting blamed.”

  “I see,” the cop said. “Does this Digby person still work for IBS?”

  “Gee, I think so,” Jimmy said. “I saw him in Savannah.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I helped him, umm, deal with the problem and I think it got cleared up.”

  “How’d you do that, Hack?” Jimmy was confused.

&nb
sp; I smiled. “We called the supplier and told them to fix the problem, or else.”

  “Why would they do what you told them?” Jimmy pressed.

  “Well, they might have thought they were talking to Ben Oswald,” I said. “There was some talk of things being shoved into someone’s colon.”

  Everyone sitting around the table chuckled, except Det. Delacroix.

  “You’re a piece of work, Hack, that’s for sure,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.

  Delacroix stayed for another thirty minutes or so, asking more questions. He got most of the same kinds of answers: everyone knew Arnie a little, but mostly professionally. And nobody was close to him. He was management. The Man, as Van Collins called him.

  The detective finally snapped his notebook shut and stood up.

  “Can you tell us anything about the crime?” I asked. “How it happened?”

  He shrugged. “It was about five-thirty in the afternoon,” he said. “Mr. Wasserman had just picked up a few things at the grocery store on Broadway and was walking south, in the direction of his apartment. He lived on West 71st, down past West End Avenue. Somebody came up behind him and put a bullet in his head.”

  “No witnesses?” I said. “On Broadway in broad daylight?”

  “Oh, crap no …we’ve got plenty of people who saw it,” he said. “But nobody could come up with a definitive description. Which is more than a little strange. All we got is that it was a white man, about five-ten, wearing a blue parka or jacket.”

  “No security cameras?” I asked.

  Delacroix smiled. “That only happens on TV,” he said.

  “The grocery store has sidewalk cameras covering the entrance and pointing in both directions, and we saw the victim leaving the store, but he was just out of reach of the video coverage area when the incident occurred. We got nothing on film.”

  “Hmm,” I said, “That’s interesting. Where did the shooter go?”

  “He walked south about twenty yards, turned the corner on 73rd Street and disappeared,” Delacroix said.