The Feathery

by Bill Flynn

  Matt was curious. He put his cards down on the table. "Hey, let me read that."

  "You should…McNair’s caddie, James McEwan, was a red head like you and just as out of control. He handed the journal to Matt. "Be careful with it. I’ve got to return it to the gallery. You heard Gamby tell us how valuable it was."

  Matt put the white-latex gloves on. "Okay," he said, "no beer stains."

  In the early morning Scott, Matt and Claudio left for a nearby golf course and played 36 holes there. When they finished they went to the practice green and stroked putts for quarters. Scott won most of the money before they left to have lunch at the clubhouse restaurant. Scott told Claudio about the Covington Gallery appraisal for the golf antiques.

  "Wow! I’m sorry I introduced you guys to that bastard Carrabba through my uncle. Glad you know the real value of the antiques now." He raised his glass of beer in a toast and took a sip. "It might be best, Scott, if you call Mario Carrabba to let him know his offer is rejected instead of leaving him hanging."

  "Even though he tried to screw me?"

  "Yeah, it’s more of a sign of respect and a courtesy to my uncle and Carrabba. Kinda important in their circle."

  "Okay, I’ll do it." Scott reached in his wallet for Carrabba’s card and made the call.

  The voice that answered sounded like Rocco. "Who’s this?"

  Scott told him.

  "It’s you, the golfer? Mr. Carrabba was very disappointed when you didn’t take his offer last night. And when Mr. Carrabba is disappointed, I get disturbed. You know what I’m sayin, golfer?"

  The next voice on the phone was Carrabba’s. "Hello, Mr. Beckman. I hope you’ve changed your mind."

  "No, I haven’t. I got a second opinion, and the golf antiques are worth much more than what you offered."

  There was a ten-second pause before Carrabba responded. "Who?"

  "Covington Gallery."

  "That prick, Jason Gamby?"

  "Right."

  "I’ll beat whatever that fag’s gonna give you. I want that feathery."

  "Too late, I’ve signed a contract with Covington to auction the collection."

  There was some heavy breathing, and Scott heard what he guessed was a swear word in Italian. The phone connection was abruptly terminated.

  Scott looked across the table at Matt and Claudio. "Mr. Carrabba was not pleased."

  Matt placed his beer on the table. "If Carrabba wants the feathery so bad," he said, "he can bid on it at the auction."

  "Make an honest man out of him, Matt. I’m ready to put Carrabba and the antique golf issues aside and head for Maryland tomorrow to take on the modern game.

  "But before then, I’ve got a date tonight in New York City with a lovely lady named Lizbeth."

  "That the same brown-eyed gal with the curly black hair you met in Monterey?" Matt asked.

  "You got it."

  Scott drove from Claudio’s apartment in Hempstead, Long Island, along route 495. He entered the city and arrived at the Covington Gallery just before five in the evening. The guard, Lem Shattuck, was at his desk in the lobby. In a hurry to meet Lizbeth, Scott gave the McNair journal to Lem to pass on to Gamby for shipment to London with the other antiques.

  Lem reached for Scott’s hand. "I’ll catch you on the tour in Florida. I just gave my notice to quit. I retire at the end of the month and I’ve made a down payment on a condo in Ft. Meyers."

  "Great, I’ll look forward to seeing you there, Lem."

  Scott left the Gallery on Madison Avenue and found a place to park near the theater district not too far from Sardis. He entered the restaurant and was led to a table where he waited for the arrival of Lizbeth Sweeney. She’d made the dinner reservation and had two tickets for a play. Scott was admiring the many caricature drawings of celebrities hung on the walls of Sardis when Lizbeth entered the restaurant and walked toward the table.

  She was wearing a gray suit and carried a matching gray leather briefcase. Her hairstyle had changed since they had first met. The full, black, naturally-curly mass was now a shorter version than he’d rubbed dry in Monterey. Scott thought the hair style change gave her a professional lawyer look.

  Scott stood up from the table and was deciding whether to hug her or not when Lizbeth made the decision for him. When she reached the table, her arms went around him. They stood looking at each other for a long time without speaking. The tiny freckles sprinkled beside her nose were still there and were perhaps made more vivid by some time in the sun. Her gaze continued to lock him in. He’d never seen eyes as expressive as hers, and the look in them turned to an inquisitive one when she sat down at the table.

  "I’ve been following your tournament results in the paper every Monday morning. Is Matt Kemp still toting your bag?" She asked.

  "Yeah, Matt’s still puts up with me. I’m disappointed in my play, but I think it’s going to turn around for the better soon."

  "Why?"

  "Got me a new putter."

  "Really…sounds too simple."

  "I know, but it seems to be working in practice. I’m going to test it this week in Maryland." Scott reached for her hand and looked deep into those incredible eyes. "How about you? How’s the law business, Lizbeth?"

  "Do me a favor." She smiled. "From now on call me Beth. No one could ever handle Lizbeth. They always want to turn Lizbeth into Elizabeth. Anyway, I’m out of law school…working for a firm in Manhattan and waiting to take the bar exam. I’ll specialize in international law."

  "Good for you, Liz."

  They were laughing when the waiter came to take their order. They ordered the special Sardis steak with pomme frites and shared a bottle of red wine from the Monterey as a nostalgic tribute to their meeting on that California peninsula. Conversation came easily…the meal was just right.

  Scott’s intention was to return to Long Island after the play because he would leave for Maryland early in the morning and wanted to be rested for the week ahead at the Booz Allen Tournament. But a lovely lady with large brown eyes tampered with those good intentions.

  He arrived at Claudio’s apartment a little after three in the morning. And they left for Maryland at eight, where he’d find out in the real world of tournament play if his new putter was the answer to his past putting woes.

  CHICAGO

  Scott finished, tied for fifth place at the Booz Allen Classic in Potomac, Maryland, and a check for $59,200 was deposited in his account. Then he received another check at the John Deere in Illinois for $36,600. His confidence soared the next week at the BMW Open outside of Chicago where he collected his fourth-place winnings of $181,800. The BMW finish qualified him to play at the British Open in July at Turnberry, Scotland.

  "Over a quarter of a million, Scott, and a big-time golf club endorsement contract ready to sign with Linksking." Matt said. "Not too shabby. And just three weeks ago you were broke and missing putts and cuts. Money comes fast when you play well out here."

  They were winding down from the excitement of being only five strokes away from winning it all at the BMW when the phone rang in their hotel room. It was Jason Gamby.

  "First off, Scott, congratulations on a fine tournament. I watched all of it on television," Jason said.

  "Thanks, Jason. What’s going on with the auction?"

  "Well, I have two pieces of good news. The announcements have been sent and the auction date is set for Wednesday-week. The response has been exceptional, based on excitement over the feathery."

  "Sounds good. What else have you got?"

  "I completed my research on the bronze female-golfer- statuette."

  "And?"

  "I found out a quite famous Parisian artist, Jacques Ramon, sculpted it in 1865. He studied under Rodin."

  "Was golf popular in France then, Jason?" Scott asked.

  "Not really…until 1907 when a Frenchman won the Open. Anyway, during a trip to Scotland, Ramon became intrigued with the game and met Hugh McNair at Saint Andrews. When he returned to the st
udio, Ramon sculpted the work with one of Rodin’s ballerina models posing nude as the golfer."

  Scott recalled the graceful pose of the statuette, and it was like a ballerina’s. "How many others were made, Jason.?"

  "That’s the best part. My research shows that Master Rodin was not pleased with the work. He thought the sculptor’s effort was frivolous and of no commercial value, so he ordered the mold destroyed. It’s one of a kind and the first known bronze of a woman golfer."

  "How did it get to Sandy?" Scott asked.

  "Ramon made another journey to Saint Andrews and presented his work to McNair at a ceremony presided over and recorded by what was then called The Society of Saint Andrews Golfers…now, The Royal and Ancient Golf Society of Saint Andrews. Hugh must have passed it onto someone in his family, and the statuette ended up with your friend Sandy."

  "What’s it worth, Jason?"

  "It should fetch over $500,000 at auction."

  A new plan started to race around in Scott’s head. He had about $150,000 in his bank account after paying off what he owed Matt. The statuette would bring $500,000 more. The books and clubs were worth another $150,000. He was playing well and was looking forward to more winnings. There was also a lucrative golf product endorsement contract for him in final negotiation with Linksking Golf.

  "I say, Scott, are you still there?"

  Gamby’s voice brought him out of his reverie. "Yeah…uh…Jason, I’ve just decided to keep the feathery."

  It was Gamby’s turn to pause. He let Scott’s revelation sink in… "You can’t…you have a contract with Covington. The announcements are out, and the feathery is the principal attraction of the auction."

  "I want it back, Mr. Gamby."

  "Scott, there’ll be a large penalty invoked if you remove the feathery from our auction."

  "How much?"

  "The contract states that an item consigned to us for auction, and then pulled out by the consignor before the auction, is subject to a penalty of twenty percent of the item’s appraised value. It could cost you at least $200,000 or more to get your feathery back, Scott."

  "That seems like a lot to pay for something I own, Jason."

  "Yes, I know, but Covington Gallery has incurred expenses getting ready for the auction. Look, I have to report this to Sarah Covington in London. She’ll make the final decision as to the breach of contract issue. I’ll call her and get back."

  "Have you shipped the feathery to London?" Scott asked.

  "No, but it’s being prepared for shipment, along with the bronze statuette of the lady golfer. It will leave on a British Airways flight escorted by a courier. Covington Gallery’s policy is to have any item valued as high as the feathery and the bronze hand-carried by a bonded courier. Do you want me to stop the shipment.?

  " No, let it go. I’ll pick it up in London when I stop there on my way to Scotland. How about the rest of the antiques?"

  "They’ll ship later by air freight."

  "Sorry about this, Jason, but I feel like it’s the right thing for me to do."

  "Yes, Scott, but I only wish you’d decided to take back the feathery before we promoted it. The collectors are now clamoring to possess this long-lost relic, and it will be difficult to tone down their fervor." Gamby sounded disturbed on a personal note about Covington’s loss of the feathery. "If we’re finished here I’ll ring up Sarah and inform her."

  Matt got the gist of Scott’s phone conversation with Gamby. "So, the feathery comes off the auction block?"

  "Yeah, I think it’s what Sandy would want instead of the feathery getting into the greedy hands of a Mario Carrabba or someone like him. I feel real good about being able to keep it, Matt. Scott expelled a deep breath and looked upward sayin; "Now the Feathery is mine and it’s going to stay that way, Sandy."

  "Done deal. Are you ready to talk about some tournament plans now?" Matt asked.

  "Shoot."

  "Suggest we leave for Scotland tomorrow and get a look at Turnberry before the British Open. It will give us ten days to practice, get used to the weather and get over jet- lag before the start."

  "Sounds like a plan…book it, Matt."

  The phone rang. Scott picked it up.

  "Scott Beckman…Sarah Covington here. Straight away, I don’t suppose I can talk you out of taking the feathery from the auction. I’m quite disappointed since I planned to bid on it myself."

  Scott answered a voice that seemed disgruntled. "Sorry, I’ve made up my mind to keep it."

  The phone was silent for ten seconds…"Gamby tells me you’re a professional golfer on the tour. Are you playing in our Open at Turnberry?"

  "Yes I am."

  "Could you stop over in London so we may sort out the contract issue?"

  After a brief check with Matt, who’d just finished making their travel reservations to confirm their stop-over in London, Scott answered her. "We have an overnight flight scheduled to arrive London on Tuesday morning, before we fly on to Prestwick, Scotland on Wednesday. Could I meet with you some time on Tuesday in London?"

  "That will be fine. You may come to the gallery around one in the afternoon, if that’s all right." She gave Scott directions to the Covington Gallery in London.

  AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  His deep telephone voice came at her with a command. "I’ve sent my plane to pick you up. It will be there in one hour. I want you on board and on your way here."

  She was used to his demands. They usually came sans explanation and she would respond in kind without question. After all, he paid her well. She packed a few things in a small leather carry-on and called the taxi that took her to the private plane terminal. The plane was there with engines running. After she boarded the sleek jet it was soon speeding down the runway and airborne.

  When the Gulfstream V landed a limo was waiting on the ramp to whisk her to the meeting. It took place in his large Tudor style mansion. A butler escorted her to his viewing room where he sat in a swivel chair at a huge desk among other leather furniture. Persian carpeting covered the floor and display cabinets depicting antique golf memorabilia filled the room.

  Without an offer of tea or indulging in small talk he gruffly explained the reason for his urgent beckon call. "My sources tell me that the McNair feathery ball has been removed from the auction in London."

  "Oh, I’d not heard that," she said

  "I pay you quite well to keep your ears and eyes open relative to my collecting thrust," he snarled. "As you know, I was going to out-bid all to possess that McNair feathery." He glared at her. ‘Now, it’s been pulled from the auction and we can’t execute that plan."

  "What now?" And she was sorry she asked, knowing anything she might say would trigger more of the ire stemming from his disappointment.

  His answer came in a near scream. "I called you here to execute a recovery plan. He slammed his fist down on the mahogany desk. "You will obtain that feathery ball for me any cost."

  She took a deep breath before asking the obvious question in support of his order.

  "Where’s the feathery at present?"

  "My sources tell me that the feathery was being prepared for shipment from the Covington Gallery in New York City to London when the owner decided against auctioning it. It’s either still in New York or it’s or it’s on the way to London. I want you to contact the New York and London people you’ve used previously and execute a plan.

  She was shaking when she asked. "Are the funds for this task available at the usual place?"

  "Yes, I wired $500,000 to the Barkley Bank in your name." He stood up behind the desk and his eyes narrowed to stare at her. "I want that feathery ball in my collection! Get it for me!"

  NEW YORK CITY

  Detective Francis X. Riley was ordered to investigate a murder and attempted robbery at the Covington Gallery on Madison Avenue in New York City. He started to question one of the NYPD officers who’d first arrived at the crime scene. Riley squinted to read the officer’s name tag. Straining to s
ee small print signaled his need for glasses again. During a yearly physical the doc recommended bifocals. But the rugged forty-year-old detective thought glasses would detract from the image he wanted to present to bad guys. When the letters on the cop’s name tag cleared he asked, "What’ve ya got, Grabowski?"

  "The manager, Gamby, and some workers were preparing a shipment to England of some antique golf stuff." Officer Grabowski said. "A guy with a handgun burst into the room where they were packing the things."

  "He came in through the Lobby?" Riley interrupted.

  "Yeah, the guard on duty there must have tried to stop him and got shot."