P.G.A. Spells Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Maybe it was a ghost,” Kelsey said.

  “Be as good a guess as any we’ve got right at the moment,” he said.

  “You know we had another incident a few weeks ago,” Van Collins said. “We lost one of our colleagues, Parker Long down in Savannah. During a broadcast.”

  “Yeah,” Delacroix said. “Oswald told us about that. And I’ve had a call from someone down in Savannah. Haven’t had time to call him back yet.”

  “So you won’t think the two deaths are connected?” I said.

  “No indication of any connection at this point,” he said.

  He nodded at all of us and left.

  “They oughta go talk to Jennifer Long,” Kelsey said. “Find out if it was true that IBS was going to let Parker go. It might be important.”

  “Do you know her?” I asked.

  Kelsey nodded. “Yup,” she said. She held up her phone. “In fact, I was going to call her while I was here in the city and see if she wanted to get together.”

  “She lives in New York?” I said.

  “Parker was born in Manhattan,” Van Collins said. “The wife had a good job in the insurance business. Lifelong city people.”

  I looked at Kelsey. “Why don’t you call her?” I said. “See if she’s up for some company. We’ll go ask her ourselves.”

  “Isn’t that messing with police business?” Kelsey said.

  “You heard Delacroix,” I said. “They don’t think there’s a connection between the two deaths. So, no. It would just be a couple of Parker’s old colleagues dropping by to pay our respects.”

  “You’re a sneaky one, Hacker,” she said, but she dialed her phone and walked out into the hallway to talk.

  “Well, I’m out of here,” Van said. “I guess we’ll see you fellas in Memphis next weekend.”

  The others got up and began to leave. I looked at the Boz.

  “You heading home?” I said.

  “Yeah, the missus wants me back tonight,” he said. “I got a seven o-clock flight back to Abilene.”

  As they all cleared out, Kelsey came back in.

  “Bingo,” she said, smiling. “I got Jennifer. She’s invited us to tea in an hour.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  20

  Jennifer Long lived in a lovely pre-War apartment house in the Gramercy Park neighborhood, not too far from Madison Square Park, which does not contain the sports arena, but is a lovely green oasis in the middle of the city and sits in the shadow of the Flatiron Building.

  Kelsey and I taxied over to the East 20’s and Park Avenue, found the building and passed muster with the liveried doorman, who called upstairs, and got the okay from the tenant to load us onto an elevator for the quick ride up to twelve. You could tell we were in the high-rent district by the fact that there were just three apartments on each floor: one to the left, one to the right and one in the center.

  A pleasant looking gray haired lady waved to us from the left wing of the building when we exited the elevator. Jennifer Long looked to be in her sixties. She was dressed in a gray wool suit, black slip-ons, a soft white silk sweater draped over her shoulders. There were two yappy little corgis tumbling around at her ankles.

  “Kelsey, dear,” she said, waving us inside. “How good to see you again.”

  Kelsey gave her a hug and introduced me. There was a long entrance hall which opened into a broad rectangular space illuminated by four arched floor-to-ceiling windows facing south. We were high enough that the afternoon sun flooded in.

  In the center of the big rectangle was a large U-shaped seating group in white leather with colorful fringed pillows tossed here and there. Two other upholstered chairs flanked the fireplace on the wall opposite the arched windows. To the right, a large dining table with a beautiful floral arrangement in its center stood, and I sensed the kitchen was located back to the right. To the left, the end of the rectangle was covered in dark stained built-in bookshelves, filled with colorful volumes. A small French desk sat diagonally in the corner and a couple of Louis XIV chairs flanked a side table and reading light.

  “Wow,” Kelsey said, looking around, “This is amazing.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear,” the older woman said, smiling. “Parker and I found this place more than forty years ago. We’ve always felt very lucky to have lived here. Our two girls adored the place. It’s very convenient.”

  She motioned to us to sit down, and we played with the yappy dogs while she went into the kitchen, returning with a tray filled with things for tea. She put the tray down on the large coffee table and began pouring out cups for each of us.

  “It’s so good of you to come for a visit,” Jennifer said, passing us a cup and motioning toward a plate of sugar cookies on the tray. “I miss talking to all of Parker’s colleagues from the network. Such an interesting group!”

  “I understand you were in the insurance business,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, I was,” she said, smiling at me. “Retired now. But I was in senior management at Robinson and Crump. They used to call us the American Lloyd’s. We wrote huge policies on airliners and container ships, things like that.”

  “Guess that’s more lucrative than an auto policy with State Farm,” I said.

  She tittered. “Oh, yes, indeed it is,” she said. “Your typical commercial airplane, like you ride on to go to another city, is insured for tens of millions. We would typically insure a company’s entire fleet. You can imagine the sums involved.”

  “And luckily, they hardly ever crash,” I said. “So you must have come out smelling like a rose.”

  “Robinson and Crump did quite well,” she said, nodding. “And one reason those airplanes don’t crash is because of companies like ours, which make sure they obey the rules and take the steps necessary to keep from crashing. More tea?”

  I shook my head, while Kelsey stuck her cup out for a refill.

  “What brings you to the city, dear?” she asked Kelsey.

  “We had another death in the IBS family,” Kelsey said. “Arnie Wasserman was shot and killed last week. We came up for his memorial service.”

  “Oh yes, I did hear about that,” Jennifer said. “What a shame.”

  The way she said it didn’t sound like she was entirely distraught at the news.

  “So some of us were talking after the service for Arnie,” Kelsey said. “And Kenny Craig mentioned that you had said something to him about Parker being told he might get laid off. I wonder if you can tell Hacker and me anything more about that?”

  “Ah, yes,” Jennifer took a sip of tea. “I myself don’t know how accurate any of this information is…or was,” she said. “But Parker came home, I think it was toward the end of last summer, and told me he had heard that the network wanted to make changes.”

  “Changes regarding Parker himself, or the entire division?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, it was about Parker’s situation,” she smiled at me. “I don’t remember him saying anything about anyone else.”

  “He had a contract, didn’t he?” Kelsey asked.

  “Yes, of course, dear,” she said. “It was due to expire at the end of this year. We had agreed, Parker and I, to talk about his retirement at the end of this contract period. Our girls live elsewhere…Sally is in southern California and Betty is up in Seattle. Parker and I wanted to have more time to visit them, spend time with our grandkids.”

  “Well, if that was your plan, why was Parker upset about his retirement being discussed at the network?” I asked.

  “Because he heard they wanted him dismissed at once,” Jennifer said.

  “Heard from who?”

  She sighed, sipped some more tea, delaying. “It was that man, Arnold Wasserman,” she said finally. “He ran into Parker late one night at the hotel bar where they were staying for the broadcast. He was, Parker told me, quite inebriated. Parker said Wasserman told him not to make any plans, that his contract was goin
g to be canceled. He, Wasserman, was going to make sure of that. It was quite direct and quite insulting.”

  “What did Parker do?” I asked.

  “He immediately went to see Ben Oswald, the very next morning,” she told us. “Complained bitterly, about being spoken to in that manner, and that he was being told he was going to be fired. Oswald calmed him down, said it was all a misunderstanding.”

  “And he heard nothing else since then?” I asked.

  “No, he didn’t,” Jennifer Long said, with a slight smile. “But I didn’t let it rest. I called Parker’s agent, who is supposed to be fighting for his client. I asked him what he knew.”

  “And?” Kelsey asked.

  “He told me that it was true that the network had contacted him about ending Parker’s contract early. He told the network there was no possibility that Parker would agree to such a thing. He threatened legal action. Since then…and this was last September I believe….we hadn’t heard another word.”

  “And then he died suddenly,” I said.

  “Yes,” his wife said, sadly. “Quite good fortune for the network, isn’t it? Now they can move in whomever they wish to replace my Parker.”

  Kelsey looked at me. I shrugged.

  “Well for right now, that would be me,” I said. “But I don’t know how permanent a situation that is. Van Collins told us there are a lot of changes looming in the background, throughout the industry.”

  “Oh, Van is a lovely, lovely man,” Jennifer said. “He came up for the funeral, was lovely with the girls. A dear man.”

  I grabbed a cookie from the tray, and half listened while Kelsey and Jennifer talked about her daughters and grandchildren. Finally, Jennifer turned to me.

  “May I ask why you are asking these questions about Parker?” she said.

  “You may,” I said. “I’m trying to determine if there might be any connection between Parker’s death and that of Arnie Wasserman.”

  “But Parker was killed by some faulty electrical equipment,” she said. “It was an accident. At least, that’s what I understand from the police in Georgia. And Mr. Wasserman was shot in the Upper West Side. I don’t see how there can be any connection between the two events.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Neither do I. But the police down in Savannah are still investigating exactly how Parker died. The circumstances strike some of us as odd. Unusual. Out of the ordinary. So I’m just asking some questions, trying to see things that aren’t clear.”

  “And you think that the International Broadcasting System had Parker killed to get him out of his contract and bring in new talent? You, in fact.”

  She gazed at me, eyes steely and determined. This was not some frail old lady pushover. She used to write multi-million dollar insurance contracts for airlines and shipping firms.

  “Well, when you put it that way, no, I don’t think that,” I said. “But I’m still not convinced that the two deaths are entirely coincidental.”

  She kept gazing at me. I gazed back. There wasn’t much left to say, so we had a gazing contest. It’s not hard: you just lock your eyes with the other person’s and don’t say anything.

  Something had to give, and it was Kelsey.

  “We’ve got to run,” she said, standing up. “Thank you so much for the tea and your time, Jennifer. I’m sure that if Hacker learns anything more, he will let you know at once.”

  I nodded, without letting my gaze drop. I wasn’t going to surrender. But we got up, said our goodbyes and Kelsey and I left. At some point, the gaze-athon ended. I don’t know who blinked. But it wasn’t me.

  Outside, we walked half a block up to Park Avenue.

  “Why do you think the two deaths are connected?” Kelsey asked me. “She’s right, you know. One’s an accident and the other seems to be murder.”

  “An accident?” I said. “How many other TV broadcasters have died as a result of a short circuit with their equipment? Like in the entire history of broadcasting? Never happened to Edward R. Murrow, did it? John Cameron Swayze? Walter Cronkite?”

  She thought about that for a minute.

  “Yeah, OK, I get that,” she said. “But who would want to kill Parker Long? He was a nice man. Nobody disliked him. You’re not buying the idea that the network or Arnie Wasserman had him knocked off are you?’

  “Nah,” I said. I say an empty cab coming down Park and hailed it. It pulled in to the curb and we got in.

  “I don’t know why someone might want to knock off Parker,” I said. “But there’s a lot I don’t know.”

  “Where to, buddy?” the cabby asked.

  “Where are you off to next?” I said to Kelsey. “I’m heading back home to Boston. I think there’s a six o’clock train I can catch.”

  “I’m spending the night in the city,” Kelsey said. “Heading back down to Florida in the morning.”

  I gave the cabby directions and we rode in silence through the city, each lost in our own thoughts.

  21

  Van Collins said “Let’s go out to fifteen and check in with the Dynamic Duo, Hacker and the Boz. Gentlemen?”

  “Gentlemen?” the Boz said. “Is he talking about us?”

  “Nah, can’t be,” I said. “I mean, you’re here.”

  “Oof,” Boz said, chuckling. “First shot of the day. Good one.”

  “Speaking of shots, here’s Jason Day getting ready for his approach to fifteen,” I said. “ He’s got one-eight-five. Has a nine-iron.”

  “Nine iron?” the Boz said. “Do they ever make these guys pee in a cup after the round? I’d need two nine irons and a wedge from one eight-five.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose you would,” I said. “Most of the rest of us would just take an eight iron and be done with it.”

  “Well, Day’s shot came up a bit short,” the Boz said. “He’s putting, but he’ll need to make a full turn on that forty-footer. Say, Hack, my theory is that these guys do things like try to hit a nine-iron one-eighty-five because they think it impresses the chicks. You know, ‘hey, babe, I hit my nine from 185. Wanna feel my muscles?’”

  “Naw,” I said. “It’s the size of their bank accounts that impresses the ladies.”

  “Cynical,” Boz said. “You are so cynical.”

  “Besides,” I said, “You people at home shouldn’t pay any attention to what clubs these guys are using. First, they’re professionals, and you’re not. Second, they all mess with their clubs, bending the lofts up and down over in the equipment trailer. So Jason’s nine-iron might have the same loft as your six iron.”

  “And that, folks, is today’s advice from a Hacker,” Boz said. “Worth exactly what you paid for it, which was zip.”

  “The voice in my ear is telling me to go to seventeen, so take it away Doctor Kenny Craig!” I said.

  “What are you doing, Hacker?,” my daughter Victoria asked me.

  I was sitting in my living room, watched a recorded version of last weekend’s broadcast from Memphis. I wasn’t actually taking notes on my performance, but I was trying to watch myself with a jaundiced eye. The Boz and I seemed to have created something the people liked, and I was trying to figure out what it was. So far, all I could see was two idiots having a good time watching golf and talking nonsense. That people seemed to respond to that? That was their problem, not mine.

  “I guess I’m doing homework,” I told my step-daughter.

  “Watching yourself on the TV is homework?” she said. “Where do I sign up for that? I’m supposed to be doing some math equations.”

  “And I’d be happy to help you with that,” I said. “Except for the fact that I always got straight C’s in math. Total numerical idiot.”

  She smiled at me. “That’s okay,” she said. “They’re pretty easy ones. And if I need help, my Mom is a teacher.”

  “You are wise in the ways of the world, grasshopper,” I said.

  “What are you guys doing?” Mary Jane came into the living room,
DJ on her hip. “We need to leave for Paw Paw’s in twenty minutes.”

  Both Mary Jane and DJ were recently bathed and he was dressed in new, and therefore momentarily clean, clothes. MJ’s wet hair was piled atop her head and she was wearing her robe. She dropped the boy on my lap and went back into the bedroom to finish dressing.

  DJ squirmed around for a minute and then made a raspberry sound. It was one of the new party tricks he had recently learned: sticking out his tongue and blowing. It amused him no end, and when I made the sound back at him, he collapsed in giggles. So we played raspberry for a few minutes.

  “Are all babies this disgusting?” asked Victoria, “Or is it just my brother?” But she was smiling. I suspected she wanted to blow a few raspberries herself. But that would be totally uncool for a hip twelve-year-old.

  “Well, I didn’t know you when you were this age,” I said. “But I’ll bet you were just as disgusting. It’s what babies do best.”

  “Have you guys decided where we’re gonna live next?” she asked, as DJ reached over and grabbed a handful of her hair. He held it in front of his face and blew a raspberry at it.

  I sighed. “Your Mom has been working on that,” I said. “The rest of us are on a need-to-know basis. Are you okay with the idea of moving? Not having teeny angst attacks or anything?”

  “Looking forward to it, actually,” she said. “Thanks to baby brother here, half my room is taken up with stuff that’s not mine, including the litter box for Mister S over there.”

  She pointed at my cat, Mister Shit, who was sleeping peacefully on one of our dining room chairs. ‘Dining room’ being the thing we called the corner of our living room that was closest to the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it’s time for the household to expand. I’m sure your Mom has a plan for that.”

  “Plan for what?” Mary Jane said as she came back in. She was now dressed and her hair combed and ponytailed. She looked like a million bucks. Only with nice curves.

  “Our new location,” I said. “The Vickster is ready to move.”