The Feathery

by Bill Flynn

  "Mary, we have solid evidence implicating you in the robbery of an antique feathery golf ball and a bronze statuette. It’s over Mary. Scotland Yard has both items in their possession as evidence."

  "Oh, my God…Jennifer! She’s not involved in this."

  "I know that, Mary." He made eye contact with her before he continued. "I don’t think you wanted this heist to go down with getting a man killed and another wounded. Am I right?"

  She nodded rapidly. "I had no idea they’d do that."

  Riley took advantage of the moment. "If you cooperate with us in apprehending the shooters, I’ll do everything I can to make sure it’s considered at your trial. This is very personal to me because the guard killed here in New York was a friend of mine."

  Harding looked over at Riley. "Those hopped up fools. Now they’ve threatened me and want payment of the other half of the agreement. I’m supposed to meet with them at four this afternoon."

  Riley’s question was sudden and sharp. "Will you wear a wire at that meeting, Mary?"

  Harding waited only a few seconds before she said, "yes, I’ll do that."

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Riley was sitting in a surveillance van with two FBI agents. They watched Harding enter a brownstone apartment building in Lower

  Manhattan. She tapped the microphone on her chest to test the wire. The lines on a display jumped simultaneously, and a couple of thuds came from two audio

  speakers in the van. The FBI technician gave Riley a thumbs-up signal indicating the wire was in place and working fine.

  When Mary entered the apartment the technicians heard background noise and the shuffling of chairs on the electronic surveillance equipment. Following that, harsh preliminary greetings were punctuated with swear words. Their hospitality consisted of offering Mary a line of cocaine, which she denied.

  One voice said, "the fucking guys we hired in England to do the thing at Heathrow want more dough from your Swede friend. They’ve gotta hide out in Spain because Scotland Yard is closing in on their ass."

  "The Swede, Johncke, is dead," Mary said.

  The same voice as before asked, "somebody fucking whack him?" "No, heart attack," Mary answered.

  "Shit! Anyway, you got the fifty grand in that briefcase?" "Yes."

  "Let’s have it."

  "I have a question first," Mary said.

  "No fucking questions," came the reply by the same raspy voice.

  Anyway, Mary asked the question Detective Riley wanted her to. "Why did you shoot the guard at the Covington Gallery here in New York?"

  "I shot the asshole because he pulled his fucking gun on me."

  They’d heard enough. Detective Riley followed behind an NYPD officer whose battering ram dislodged the apartment door from its hinges. Riley’s gun was drawn as he rushed into the room with four uniformed cops. They caught the three men by surprise, and they all dropped down on the floor as ordered, which shook the glass top on the table lined with cocaine.

  "Mary, which one of these coke heads killed Lem Shattuck?" Riley asked.

  She pointed at the raspy voiced one who’d admitted to it.

  Riley held off one of the cops heading toward Shattuck’s killer. "I’ll put the cuffs on this guy."

  The FBI technician manning the electronic surveillance gear in the van heard a shrill scream come over the speakers. It made the video lines on his monitor display jump around like pulsating spaghetti.

  TURNBERRY

  Scott’s tee time for the first day of the Open was 9:18 in the morning. He ate a large breakfast to hold off any sugar-low that might occur while playing through his normal lunchtime. He washed down three eggs over easy, fried potatoes, sausages and fried green tomatoes along with a rack of toast with a large glass of orange juice.

  He left the hotel at seven and walked down the long stairway leading from the hotel toward the locker room. Lines were already forming at the main gate, and masses of spectators had started funneling in. It was their yearly pilgrimage to the British Open…a Mecca-like journey for golf fans from all over the world. A large gallery was expected today, Thursday, the first day. The crowds would increase until peaking on Sunday, the final day.

  Scott entered the locker room, and the attendant there greeted him with encouraging words. "It’s a fresh morning, sir, and the weather should stay fine for play."

  Matt was sitting on a bench with Scott’s golf bag standing next to him. All clubs had been cleaned and he’d dotted a dozen new balls in a pattern that would distinguish them as Scott’s if the ownership of a ball in play should be questioned. He placed the balls in the proper pockets of the bag along with four golf gloves, two bananas and an energy bar.

  Scott sat on the bench and started to put on his golf shoes. He said, "are we ready for this, Matt?"

  "Piece of cake, master. We own a betting slip on you at two hundred to one."

  They left for the practice range where some of the players were talking about the odds placed on them. The favorite was at six to one, while the other betting odds ranged upward to the long shot, Scott Beckman. A few players were tempted by the high odds beside their names, and sent their caddies to the betting shops in town to lay down a wager on themselves.

  Scott started practice by hitting a gap-wedge aimed at a target flag 65 yards away. He then worked his way through the irons and woods until it was time for the driver.

  Bob Bray arrived at the range just as Scott was about to leave for the putting green. They wished each other the best. Bray gave Scott a tip about the pace of play. "In a major tournament where the stakes are highest, some playing partners will try to slow you down or speed you up," Bray advised. "Play at your own pace to maintain good tempo."

  After ten minutes on the putting green, Scott looked up to see Sarah Covington quietly watching him from the other side of the ropes. He handed Matt his putter and walked over to her. She was dressed in a well-fitted white linen suit with a light blue blouse with a matching scarf hung loosely around its collar.

  "Hello, Sarah. Thanks for reducing the penalty for my taking the feathery out of the auction."

  "Oh, Beth was more charming than you." She smiled. "Beth reached my soft spot. I’m scheduled to attend several antique golf meetings today. The first one is at nine…so I must run. Just wanted to say hello and wish you good play."

  "Are you staying in Portpatrick?" Scott asked.

  "Yes, I’m leaving early this evening to escape the Open traffic. Are you and Beth planning to stay at my cottage after the Open?"

  "I’m looking forward to it. And thanks for that."

  "Good, I’m off now. Good luck today." She started walking away, then stopped abruptly, turning back toward Scott. "By the way, I heard a rumor that your feathery has been recovered." Her eyes narrowed. "I’d still like to buy it."

  That vision of the four-golf ball display he’d seen in her gallery with the empty slot waiting for the McNair feathery came to Scott again. "Sorry, it’s still not for sale, Sarah."

  She glared at him before she spun around and hurried away.

  Scott watched her until she merged into the crowded midway, and he walked slowly back to the heart of the practice green where Matt gathered several Titleists for Scott to putt toward a hole 21 feet away.

  As Matt handed him his putter he said, "that was Sarah Covington, right? Watch your back, Scott."

  Scott looked up at Matt from the putt he was about to strike and said, "get over it, Matt."

  Before Matt could respond, they were called to the first tee.

  It was handshakes all around between playing partners and officials. The others in Scott’s threesome were an Australian and a Swede. They waited a few minutes for the group in front to clear the first fairway and reach the green. The gallery at the first tee was larger than Scott expected, and he thought the fame of his playingpartners was responsible for that. He recognized the young ferreter, Douglas McEwan, standing beside a tall man resembling his son, only with fewer freckles and a l
ighter shade of red hair. Scott walked over to the McEwans and shook their hands. Douglas introduced Scott to his father.

  Douglas’ grin was wide. "I told my da you’re a better player than the betting shop odds show you to be. You can win against them all, sir."

  The last part of Douglas’ statement was said in a louder voice than he realized. Those on the tee and in the crowd laughed as the freckles on Douglas’ face disappeared in a sea of red. Scott tousled his curly head of hair and walked back to the tee.

  Before they hit their first drives to start their quest for the Claret Jug trophy, the announcer introduced the players to the gallery. A resumé of their past successes came with that announcement. The first two players hit drives over a group of bunkers, landing on the left edge of the fairway about 275 yards away. They were safe drives and positioned well.

  The announcer introduced Scott next. The loudspeaker reverberated with a Scottish lilt. "Next on the tee, Scott Beckman from San Diego, California, in the United States of America." There was a ripple of applause from the gallery. Douglas McEwan extended his clapping long after the others ceased. He received a severe look from a marshal holding up a QUIET PLEASE sign.

  Matt whispered to Scott, "at least you have one enthusiastic fan in the gallery." He handed Scott his two iron.

  The first hole was not difficult. Scott expected a birdie there to duplicate the many he had there during his practice on this Ailsa Course. His drive flew over the farthest bunker on the right side, 260 yards out. A slight draw after the ball passed the last bunker made it roll to a stop 280 yards from the tee, in perfect position for an eight iron to the green.

  Scott walked by the McEwans on his way off the tee and heard Douglas say, "I told you he could hit it, da."

  Scott got the birdie he wanted on the first hole. On the way to the second tee he looked out at the Ailsa Craig, and the black granite rock was clearly dominant across the dark blue waters of the Firth of Clyde. A large flock of gannets were diving for fish out on Turnberry Bay. Scott remembered the local tenet, "If ye can’t see the Ailsa Craig it’s rainin’ and if ye can, it’s aboot to rain." He could see it clearly today, and would make the best of that, but local knowledge assured that this San Diego type weather was aboot to change.

  Scott Beckman completed the first day of the British Open at 66, five under par, and in first place. This unexpected revelation brought a buzz of wondrous excitement throughout Turnberry, and it was passed on to the millions watching on television. Scott’s score brought him under scrutiny by the world’s golf writers, and he spent an hour in the media tent answering their questions. They wanted background on the player who led the Open even though he was ranked 182nd on the PGA earned money list. Their writings and commentary would speculate whether or not this first day rabbit’s outstanding play would continue.

  Scott and Matt spent an hour on the practice range. After they finished, Matt left for the Kilt and Jeans and Scott for the hotel…neither of them knowing the consternation a betting shop mogul, Ian Barkley, had over the chance Scott’s good play would continue throughout the tournament.

  LONDON

  Ian Barkley was a frustrated gambling czar as he stared at the BBC television channel and very loudly said, "Malachy, come." His voice was a clap of thunder crashing among the low hum of cooling fans whirring inside the mass of electronic surveillance devices that monitored his gambling empire. The intercom system sent his command throughout the thirty-room mansion in pursuit of his indentured man-servant.

  Barkley sat at the master control panel in his operations center, stark naked as usual. He was watching a lettered announcement running across the bottom of a big plasma screen television set: OPEN FIRST ROUND LEADER IS AN AMERICAN LONG SHOT, SCOTT BECKMAN. KUNIAKI YAMAZAKI OF JAPAN IS IN SECOND PLACE WITH SCOTLAND’S MacGREGOR TIED WITH THREE OTHERS FOR THIRD.

  Barkley’s two stubby index fingers flew about the keyboard to type an inquiry into his computer. The master monitor soon filled with the information he asked for. His eyes narrowed to slits as he read the British Open wagering summary from his network of 150 betting shops.

  When Malachy Gallagher entered the room, Barkley indicated the information on the computer display. "We may have a problem at the Open. Before it started we placed odds of two hundred to one on a golfer who leads the tournament by a near-record score of sixty-six on the first day." Barkley sent a sour look Malachy’s way. "Our odds-makers were wrong, and I could lose millions."

  To strengthen his point, Barkley clicked on his mouse to gain more data from his gambling kingdom. The computer display listed wagers placed on Scott Beckman before play started. The field on the screen showed the type of bet, the amount and the betting shop where they’d been placed. Many punters had gone for the high odds at the start on a whim. This was evident by the 2460 bets at five pounds each showing up on the summary data summoned by Barkley. The bet made at Barkley’s Trafalgar Shop in London was the largest single bet shown in these data, at 500 pounds.

  "With three days left, thousands will go for him even at our lowered odds," Barkley said, as he continued to view his projected losses. "This computer is telling me I could take a hit of over eight million pounds. If this Beckman chap is still around on Sunday."

  Malachy made a comment, though it was rare he would interrupt his master’s tirades. But he hoped to hold off a mission like the others of fixing jockeys and football players and drugging horses. He said, "It’s only the first day. There are three more to go."

  Barkley turned slowly around in his swivel chair to face Malachy. "I know, but we must be ready in case this Beckman bloke isn’t a flash in the pan." He gave Malachy a hard look and an order after he’d thought out a plan. "If Beckman is still in a winning position when Friday’s play is complete, I want you and your friends to take his caddie for a boat ride. You are to inform the others to meet you in Turnberry tomorrow morning, ready to act on Friday evening, if necessary."

  "Why not kidnap Beckman, sir?" Malachy blurted.

  Barkley sent a stern look Malachy’s way before he hissed his answer between closed lips. "Because, Mr. Pub Bomber, the security for players

  at Turnberry is much tighter than for caddies."

  TURNBERRY

  It was seven in the morning on Friday, the second day of the Open, the day in a golf tournament known as " cut day " by the players, when they were either cut or they went on to the finishing rounds on Saturday and Sunday.

  The atmosphere on the driving range had changed to reflect the tension brought on by that pivotal point. Once again, the weather was more like California than Scotland.

  Scott took advantage of the rare tranquil air to make some birdies and an outstanding eagle on number 17, Lang Whang, finishing with an awesome 65. The virtually unknown American was the second-day leader of the British Open with an impressive total of 131. A stiff wind started to blow in from the Firth of Clyde to plague others who were still out on the course trying to climb up the leader board.

  Media frenzy held Scott in the press tent for a over an hour. He was interviewed live on television They wanted to know where he’d been hiding a golf game that led the British Open after two days of play. One of the anchors was an All American college player and past PGA touring pro from California. When Scott mentioned that Sandy McNair was his mentor, he was all over the story about Scott’s early background. The TV commentator knew Sandy and had taken lessons from him when he was on tour.

  When Scott finally got to the practice range, Matt’s exuberance over Scott’s lead was apparent, and a little distracting to his player’s concentration. Scott released his caddie from the range early, and Matt promptly made a beeline for the Kilt and Jeans. He would be there to watch the other players finish on television as they fought the strong wind. And The Kilt and Jeans would be the right place for him to celebrate if Scott still held on to the lead.

  After practice, Scott visited the Expo tents and bought two cashmere sweaters. The soft wool would retain body w
armth, even when wet, and ward off the chill of the Linksland storm in the forecast. He was drawn to a booth there filled with golf antiques. The owner came over as he was peering into a glass case displaying feathery golf balls.

  "You’re Scott Beckman. I recognized you from the telly. Congratulations on your play. I’m John Hollbrooke."

  Scott shook his outstretched hand and wondered if all men involved with antiques sported goatees and ponytails like Gamby and Hollbrooke. "Thanks, I’m admiring your collection of feathery balls."

  "Quite, Gourlay, Robertson and McNair from Saint Andrews made these in the mid-eighteen hundreds." Hollbrooke took a key from his pocket to unlock and open the case. He put on white silk gloves and handed a pair to Scott saying, "I’ll fetch a McNair ball for you."