P.G.A. Spells Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Gee, Mister Hacker,” Conner said, “I think she would have remembered and mentioned it if he was dead as a mackerel.”

  I was silent. Not what I was expecting to hear.

  “Anything else I can do for you on this fine morning?” Conner said. “I mean, I got nothing else to do, no crimes what need solving, while I just sit here and listen to the sound of you breathing.”

  “So you think Sheila was the last person to see Parker alive?” I said.

  “We have no record of anyone else going up to his booth until you did,” he said. There was a slight pause. “But that doesn’t mean that somebody didn’t.”

  “I take it you checked out Sheila pretty good,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” Conner said with a soft chuckle. “Would you like a list of all her boyfriends since high school?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I take it you’ve found nothing that connects her to either Parker or Arnie Wasserman.”

  “Nothing that makes me think she’s the one,” he said.

  “How come every time I talk to you I feel deeper in the dark?” I said.

  “It’s one of my many fine qualities,” he said. “That, and my years of experience as a dedicated public servant.”

  “I knew it was something,” I said, and rang off.

  I set off in search of Sheila Dunleavy. I had seen her around, of course, had nodded at her pleasantly, but we had never spoken. I went down to Television City and entered the dark recesses of the Tech department’s semi trailer. I made my way to the back, where the workbench stretched across the trailer’s width. Benny Young, the third member of the Tech crew, was working on some piece of equipment with a screwdriver and pair of needle-nose pliers.

  “I’m looking for Sheila,” I said. “You seen her around?”

  Benny nodded, not looking up from his project.

  “She’s up on eight tee,” he said. “FlitePath camera was jostled by someone. Damn things are delicate as fuck. She went up to do a reset.”

  I nodded. I had learned from Shooter that the cameras they now use on almost every tee, the ones that track and show the path through the air of a tee shot, were fussy and delicate machines. Once you get them in place, aimed to show a lot of sky above the player’s head so the path of the ball’s flight will stand out, they have to be calibrated so the internal sensor can focus on the ball and the connected computer will calculate and display the ball’s flight path once it is struck and sent down the fairway. And if a fan or an official or a caddie happens to brush up against the camera unit, the sensor and the high-speed computers that do all the millions of calculations won’t work anymore. And then someone like like Sheila has to go manually recalibrate. The network tries to install the machines on poles or tripods that are protected and kept away from people, but at a golf tournament, anything can happen and often does.

  “She coming back here when she’s done?” I asked Benny.

  He shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “Depends on what manner of shit happens next. She might come back here, or she might get a call to go over to twelve or down to fifteen. You want me to call her?”

  “How does she get called?” I asked.

  Benny reached up and pulled a small black pod out of his left ear. He showed it to me.

  “Digital walkie-talkie,” he said. “We got our own frequency. One of the directors in the control room calls…we go.”

  I looked at it. “You all got these?” I said. “You and Sheila?”

  “And Digby,” Benny said. He finished screwing in the last machine screw he was working on and flipped the black electronic box over, right side up. He plugged in a black cord to the back and flipped a switch on the side to the up position. Three green lights on the front of whatever the box was came on and began to blink. Benny made a satisfied sound.

  “So anytime you get a call to go fix something, you all three hear the message?” I said.

  Benny nodded. “Yup,” he said. “Whichever one of us is free responds and off we go. Sometimes, we can go hours between trouble calls. Other times, it’s like every ten minutes.”

  “Do you remember when Parker Long called in about his headphone problem down in Savannah?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Sure,” he said. “We all heard that. I was here in the truck. I think Digby was coming back from something he had been fixing out on ten. Sheila was closest and she took the call.”

  “They said she replaced a fuse or something,” I said.

  Benny shrugged. “I don’t know what she did,” he said. “I was in here, packing up for the day. It was late in the broadcast when Parker called in. Sheila came back about fifteen minutes later. Digby rolled in about ten minutes after that.”

  He looked at me.

  “How come you’re asking all this stuff?” he said. “The cops down in Savannah went over it all with us the next day. Told ‘em the same thing I just told you.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out how Parker could have gotten electrocuted that afternoon,” I said. “Nobody’s been able to explain it.”

  “Explain what?”

  The voice came from behind me. I turned around and saw Digby Allen standing there. He had a big black toolcase over one shoulder and was carrying a rolled length of black cable in one hand. He was staring at me with a kind of smirky look on his face.

  “Oh, hi Digby,” I said. “I was just asking Benny here about the afternoon when Parker Long was killed. Trying to put some of the pieces together.”

  “Why?” Digby asked. “You’re not a cop. What do you care?”

  “Geez, Digs,” Benny Young spoke up. “Parker was one of us. We all want to know what the hell happened.”

  Digby shrugged, dumped his tool kit on the bench and turned away to stow the rolled up cable in a drawer behind him.

  “I say let the cops try and figure it out,” he said. “Not Hacker’s job to solve the crime.”

  “You’re not curious?” I said.

  He shrugged again.

  “I guess not,” he said. “I mean, I’m sorry the guy’s dead and all. But they’ll figure it out sooner or later. I got work to do.”

  He turned on his heel and left. I heard his footfalls as he walked down the dark central aisle of the trailer and heard the door slam as he went out.

  Benny looked at me and shrugged.

  “That was the full Digby,” he said. “It’s why some people think he’s cracked in the head.”

  “Do you?”

  He laughed. “Naw,” he said. “He can be a large dick, no question about it. But that’s just Digby. Kinda weird, much of the time. You get used to it.”

  I looked at my watch. It was time to go. I had a golf tournament to broadcast.

  28

  “Tell me, Boz, what do you know about Tommy Scannell?

  The player in question had reached our tee on sixteen. It was late in the afternoon on Friday. Scannell, the first-round leader, was still leading as the second round was coming to a close. He was two under today, nine under for the tournament. He’d played the front nine in even par and dropped a couple of nice putts on the back nine to keep what was currently a two-shot lead over the rest of the field.

  “Southern California kid,” Boz said. “Played his college golf at Oklahoma State. I think he made it to the quarter-finals of the U.S. Amateur when he was a junior.”

  “So the kid’s got game?” I said.

  “Hacker, my man,” Boz said reprovingly. “The kid is leading the PGA Championship. On Friday afternoon. Yeah, I think he’s got game.”

  We watched as Scannell selected a fairway wood from his bag and prepared to hit his tee shot.

  “Three wood,” I said. “Smart play.”

  “He just has to find the fairway between the river on the left and the bunkers on the right,” Boz said. “Straighter is better than longer. But the way these kids today hit the ball, there’s not much difference on the longer part.”

  S
cannell made a nice pass at the ball and the FlitePath camera behind him showed us the parabolic flight of the ball. It was right down the middle with a tiny draw on the end.

  “That will play all day long,” Bosworth said.

  The camera followed the ball as it bounced on the fairway and rolled out another twenty yards or so.

  “He’ll have an easy nine-iron into this green,” Boz said. “He looks relaxed and in control.”

  “It’s good to be a twenty-something kid,” I said. “They don’t know what nerves are at that age.”

  “So true, pard,” Boz said. “At that age, every shot is a green light.”

  Ben Oswald’s voice buzzed in my ear and I and threw the live feed over to Van and Jimmy at eighteen, where Dustin Johnson and Patrick Reed were putting out. Both were within five shots of Scannell’s lead.

  Boz pulled his headphones off his ears and sighed.

  “Man, what time is this thing over?” he said. “I need a drink.”

  “After last night?” I said. “You probably still have most of the alcohol you pounded floating around inside you.”

  “That’s why I need a drink,” he said. “It’s starting to wear off.”

  “What’ll you have?” came a voice behind us, We both jumped a little and spun around in our chairs. Digby Allen was standing there, smiling at us. “I can get you something from the hospitality tent down there,” he said.

  “Geez, Digby, don’t sneak up on us like that,” Boz said. “I almost crapped my pants.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Guess you didn’t hear me with your headphones on.”

  “What do you need, Digs?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Bill Weaver’s camera had an indicator light fail.” He motioned upwards toward the camera platform on the top of our tower. “Had to replace the bulb. Just thought I’d stop in here for a sec and see how you guys were getting along.”

  “We’re fine,” Boz said. “Now that my heart rate has subsided to just under coronary level.”

  “Okey doke,” Digby said. “Well, carry on.”

  He stepped back and ducked through the flap to climb down the scaffolding ladder. A second or two later, he poked his head back in.

  “This belong to either of you guys?” he said. He held up a manila envelope. It was letter size, plain brown. There was nothing written on the outside. “It was taped to the scaffolding.”

  “Not that I know of,” I said. I was keeping an eye on the live feed monitor. Johnson and Reed were still putting out on the last hole, but Tommy Scannell was getting ready to hit his approach to our green.

  “OK,” he said. He tossed the envelope down on the floor of the booth and ducked away again.

  Ben Oswald’s voice buzzed again and we were back on live.

  “Scannell is looking at a nine iron for his approach,” I said. “Trying not to look at the water behind and to the left of the green.”

  “But he knows it’s there, Hack,” Boz said. “He can focus on his target on the green all he wants, but he knows that any kind of a tug left means he’s not in the lead any more.”

  Scannell made his swing. The timing at impact looked a little late to me.

  “Fore right,” I said.

  The ball flew high into the air and hung there a long time before dropping down into the greenside bunker on the right. The crowd around the green groaned in unison.

  “Rookie mistake,” Boz said.

  “Rookie guarding against a bigger mistake,” I said. “But we’ve seen a dozen guys in that bunker today and I think only one hasn’t managed to get up and down. It’s a pretty routine shot for these guys. So he should be okay.”

  “Still, he missed the green with a nine iron,” Boz said. “Back home, the guys would be all over me if I hit a shot like that.”

  “And deservedly so,” I said. “Pro like you should hit the green with a nine iron from the fairway every time. Especially playing on the podunk muni where you spend all your time. But this is the PGA Championship, and Scannell knew that going left meant bogey or worse.”

  “Podunk muni?” Boz said, his voice sounding insulted. “I’ll have you know that Goat Acres is a fine, fine golf course. Except for the occasional bad lies we get on the greens. Those armadillos can be pesky little bastards.”

  Ben Oswald buzzed at us again and I tossed the feed over to seventeen.

  “Goat Acres?” I said.

  “That’s actually what we call it sometimes,” he said with a smile. “But it’s home.”

  I laughed. Looking around, I noticed the envelop Digby had dropped and bent over to pick it up. The flap was open, so I reached inside and pulled out a single piece of paper inside.

  It was a white sheet of bond. Somebody had scribbled something on one side using a pencil.

  NO MORE QUESTIONS ON SAVANNAH OR U DIE!!

  I showed the paper to Bosworth. He read it and his eyebrows arched.

  “Two exclamation points, Hack,” he said. “I think they mean business.”

  “They?”

  “Hell, it’s obvious this is from the Mob,” he said. “Didn’t you watch Goodfellas? They were always sending out letters with multiple exclamation points. Just before they’d blow someone away and go bury them in some nearby forest.”

  “I must have missed that part,” I said. I re-read the sentence, thinking about it. On the live feed monitor, one of the South Koreans was lining up a birdie putt. Twelve footer.

  “Whaddya think, Hack,” Boz whispered. “Fifty bucks ole Wan Hung Lo sinks it. You in?”

  I smiled at his unpolitically correct reference. “Nah,” I said, “I think he’ll drain it too.”

  Lee Kyung-Ju rammed the putt home. It put him three shots behind the leader. The crowd went wild. Oswald tossed the feed back to us, where Tommy Scannell was shuffling his feet down into the sand at the bottom of the bunker, getting ready for his explosion shot.

  He made a big, relaxed swing, thumped the sand at the bottom and watched as the ball floated up over the lip, landed ten feet from the hole, bounced once, checked, and rolled out to about a foot. The fans cheered, and Scannell waved his hand in acknowledgment as he smoothed the sand with his feet before jumping out the back of the bunker, slapping the soles of both shoes with his wedge and taking his putter from his caddie. He was smiling, mostly, it looked to me, with relief.

  “Professional golf shot,” I said. “Beautifully judged, perfectly executed. And Tommy Scannell remains in the lead with two tough holes left in today’s second round.”

  “Yup,” the Boz said. “Kid’s got game.”

  Oswald sent the feed off to another hole. I looked at the letter that someone had delivered. It still said the same thing.

  “You worried?” Boz said, watching me.

  “What?” I said, “Worried? No, no. This is actually good news.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He’s come out in the open,” I said. “For the first time.”

  “Who has?” Boz said,

  “The killer,” I said. “He feels the heat. I’ve been asking questions of people here and there. What do they remember about what happened to Parker Long. It’s gotten back to him. Or her. Heat is rising. Hence the warning. Stop or else.”

  “You gonna?”

  “Gonna what?”

  “Stop asking questions?” Boz said.

  “Oh, hell, no,” I said. “I’m finally getting close. I just wish I knew who I was getting close to.”

  “Yeah,” Boz said. “That would help. So’s you’d know when to duck.”

  29

  After the round ended, the IBS crew got together in the trailer at Television City for a brief post-mortem. Ben Oswald was surprisingly calm.

  “OK, people,” he said. “Good work today. Let’s all get some rest tonight. Whatta we got, fifteen golfers within six shots? Should be fun tomorrow. Let’s be ready, OK?”

  We all nodded, and he con
tinued in his non-Ben way of being supportive and encouraging. That made most of us nervous—we were used to pencils being thrown, f-bombs being dropped and the back entrance to our colons being threatened with some kind of invasive force.

  I rode back to the Cumberland Arms in a network van with Boz and some of the others on the crew. Everyone seemed wrung out. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation. Of course, Boz was still hung over, so at least he had a good excuse for silence.

  I waved to everyone in the lobby and went up to my room, thinking I’d have a quick shower, an early dinner and get myself into bed as soon as possible. I unlocked the door and walked in. Mary Jane was sitting on my bed, with DJ lying next to her, grinning madly and kicking his feet in the air.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Must be the wrong room. I thought I had a single.”

  MJ jumped up and gave me a big hug. And a kiss. Which I returned, with gusto. But it was hard to get anything romantic going, since we both kept one eye on DJ, who was watching us and trying to stuff some of his toes into his mouth.

  “Well this is unexpected,” I said. “But nice.”

  “I called in sick today,” Mary Jane told me. “Just couldn’t face the class today. It’s been a long, long week. Victoria was invited to spend the weekend at Sally and Cindy’s house—” She mentioned the O’Neal twins who were in Vickie’s class—“And I finally decided I needed to get away for a while. So I packed up the boy and here we are!”

  “Drive wasn’t too hard?” I asked.

  “Nah,” she shook her head. “He slept the first hour or so, and then I played The Beatles CD, which he loved. And then we were here.”

  “Awesome,” I said. “I’m glad you came. I missed you guys.”

  I laid down on the bed and DJ rolled over and crawled onto my chest. I planted a big raspberry on his stomach and held him up in the air. He squealed in delight.

  “So who’s winning?” Mary Jane asked.

  “Kid named Tommy Scannell,” I said. “But he’s got a dozen or so battle-weary veterans breathing down his neck. Should make for a wild weekend.”