Deep Rough

by A. J. Stewart

  His shoulders slouched like he was tired. “I just worry about you, kid.”

  “I know.”

  “People need to know they count. Don’t assume they know.”

  “Okay.”

  We stood in silence for moment.

  “So, Donaldson.”

  “Yeah, right. Him and Coligio? Well, they’re the same but opposite, you know? Donaldson’s all big talk and self-promotion. He likes the limelight. With him it ain’t how much he has, but how much you know he has. Coligio’s different. Quiet money. Ruthless as a shark, don’t get me wrong. But he’s confident he could own you—he don’t need to prove it.”

  “And payback?”

  “Yeah, I remember something. Back in the day, when Donaldson was starting out. He got a good chunk of change from his daddy, so he didn’t start from nothing, right? But I recall a deal. Was a big thing up in Rhode Island, I think. Big development. Word was that Donaldson did all the ground work. Might have done a few things outside the rulebook as such. Payola, threats, assaults, that sort of thing. Par for the course. But then he doesn’t have enough cash for the deal. And his daddy’s kind of saying I gave you ten million, now go make your way in the world, so someone hooks Donaldson up with Coligio. Coligio’s got the cash. Long story short, Coligio screws Donaldson over. When contracts are exchanged Donaldson’s name is nowhere. And he can’t do a damned thing, because Coligio did nothing unlawful. He didn’t take Donaldson’s money—he just left him out of the deal.”

  “And Donaldson never forgot?”

  “Those guys never forget stuff like that. It’s keeping score, right? So I heard Donaldson went into a couple of deals over the years where he swept in at the last moment to steal the deal from under Coligio, only for the deal to go bad and for Donaldson to lose money.”

  “Salt in the wounds.”

  “You got it. So Donaldson’s got plenty of beef with Coligio. But I gotta think the way it goes down is in a deal. It’s not Donaldson’s style, this wedding thing. Like I say, he wouldn’t just want to get Coligio, he’d want everyone to know he got him. And he can’t claim credit for giving folks the runs. There ain’t no cred in that.”

  “What do you think about the inside sabotage thing? The land must be worth plenty.”

  “Sure. There’s a goldmine there. And if you wanted to develop it, the key isn’t just getting the members to want to sell, you’d want them to sell at any cost. You’d want to get as low a price as you could.”

  “But who?”

  “How many holes at this place?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Right, so how do you really make property sell in Florida?”

  I shrugged.

  “Think, kid. You can’t see the ocean out there. So what do you want to see?”

  “There’s already lakes.”

  “And?”

  “A golf course.”

  “There you go.”

  “Golf resort property?”

  “You got twenty-seven holes. Room for an eighteen-hole course and plenty left over for building luxury homes for the discerning buyer.”

  “Discerning meaning rich.”

  “Poor folks don’t know art—they just know what they like.”

  “I don’t know art,” I said.

  “Me neither.”

  “But that theory doesn’t help tell me who. There’s got to be something.”

  “Think. If you got a plan to buy up a golf course to put houses around it, what do you do to make sure you maximize your investment?”

  “Don’t let anyone else in?”

  “Box them out, right. How?”

  “You buy the properties around the course. But Sal, none of those properties are actually on the course. They’re just near a golf club, and not a club that people who live in that area can afford to join.”

  “So they’re cheap.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t progress as such, but it was the building blocks of a working theory.

  “Thanks, Sal. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d buy a whiteboard and some markers.”

  Sal liked to make me believe that he was just a sounding board, but the reality was he was a fount of knowledge.

  We chatted about sports for a while and then I made to leave.

  “Sal, you want to see some golf? I’m sure I can get you a VIP ticket. Free beer.”

  “If I want to fall asleep with a beer in my hand, I’ll take some Xanax.”

  “Fair enough. You take care, Sal.”

  “You too, kid. And Miami—remember what I said. Don’t let the ground shift under your feet.”

  I left Sal and the check cashing girl and got in the Porsche. I had a lot on my mind. I didn’t like that. I liked clarity. Back when I pitched in the minors, and even in my brief stint throwing batting practice in the majors, I always threw best when I had a clear mind. I took a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth. It worked back then, and it sort of worked now. I resolved that I needed to work down my list and check things off. I resolved I needed to visit the island. I resolved that if I was going to the island, I might as well stop into the office on the way to check a few more things off my list.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The office for LCI, or Lenny Cox Investigations, was in a new building in the court precinct in West Palm. The court building itself stood tall over everything in the area, a testament to architectural design and the dark side of humanity. Our place was across the lot from the court, so we were surrounded by lawyers and bail bondsmen. Our building had a bank branch on the retail floor, one attorney, and a bunch of companies with names that seemed to change like the wind.

  I strode up the stairs. I always take the stairs. I knew a lot of guys who stopped playing pro sports and went to seed. You go from intense physical activity every day—and the appetite to support it—to sitting behind a desk for hours on end, you tend to put on a few pounds. There was more than one guy had a heart attack in his forties. For me the key was movement. I didn’t like gyms, and I hated working out. Weight rooms were my enemy when I played. Then I met a genius of a fitness instructor who showed me that all I really needed was my own bodyweight as resistance, and to keep moving. Walk when you can, he said. Every time you can. It worked, so I kept doing it. And if the muffin top ever showed its ugly head, Danielle was there to drag my sorry carcass onto the beach for a run.

  Our office manager, Lizzy, was sitting at her desk when I came in. She glanced up from her monitor, registered it was me, and kept on typing. She looked pale, but she wasn’t ill. That was just Lizzy. Jet black hair, lips painted like a fire engine and the complexion of a ghost.

  “You get your hair done?” I said.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Looks good.”

  I stood there waiting for a response but didn’t get one.

  “So, when you’re done there, you want to come in? I’ve got something needs doing.” I nodded to myself and walked into the office I shared with Ron. There was only one desk, but Ron favored the sofa so it all worked out. I sat behind the desk and drummed my fingers on the top, waiting. Lizzy must have been writing a rebuttal to the Magna Carta because she took forever. I was sure there was something I could be doing, but I couldn’t think what that was. So I waited.

  Eventually Lizzy came in. She had a notepad and pen. She sat in the visitor’s chair.

  I said, “So you know South Lakes Country Club, where Ron’s a member?”

  “I do.”

  “We’re doing a job for them.”

  “A paid job?”

  “Yes, a paid job.”

  She nodded.

  “So I need to find out about the properties around the club. Houses, offices, whatever. Who owns them, and have any changed hands lately.”

  “Okay.”

  I nodded. And waited. Then I said, “Well, that’s all, I guess.”

  “Okay.” Lizzy stood and stepped to the door.

  �
�Lizzy?” I said. She turned and looked at me.

  “Do you know the Bonita Mar Club?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know all the members are going to hell.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The pursuit of money is the root of evil.”

  “Okay. I need to get in there. Any ideas?”

  “Getting into places you don’t belong is your specialty, not mine.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “What would Lenny have done?” I asked.

  “He would have put on his tux.”

  It was true. Lenny always said there wasn’t a place in Palm Beach you couldn’t get into if you were wearing a tuxedo.

  “During the day,” I said.

  Lizzy thought for a moment. “It’s Nathaniel Donaldson’s club, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then Lenny would have offered him something too good to resist.”

  I nodded again.

  Lizzy left me and returned to her desk in the outer office. I sat for a moment. She was right. I needed an in. And with a guy like Donaldson, it needed to be something that money couldn’t buy.

  I jumped up and walked out and told Lizzy I’d see her later. As I reached the door she spoke.

  “It’s nice to see you in adult clothing.”

  “You don’t like palm trees?”

  “Shorts are for school boys.”

  “Yet they make them in my size.”

  “I just like this look. It’s grown-up.”

  I shrugged and walked out. Down the stairs and out onto the street and into the lot next door. Spring was in the air and there was a breeze coming in off the Intracoastal. Gulls flew overhead. Palm trees nodded like lazy bartenders. This was the Florida everyone was looking for. Clear skies and cooling breezes. Problem was half the people who came for it ended up trapped between the turnpike and I-95, where the sun baked hot and the breeze never blew. I got in my car and headed into the wind.

  * * *

  It took longer than anticipated. The Flagler Memorial Bridge was open, and a fleet of yachts was passing through, headed for the ocean. I watched them bobble by. I didn’t sail. That was Ron’s thing. I’d been out a few times, and it was fun all right. But for reasons I couldn’t explain I hadn’t gone back. I watched a nice-looking cruiser motor below, its tall mast more like a cross to bear without a sail on it. I noted the woman at the helm, and I thought I recognized her. She was short and fit and looked well at ease at the wheel. Then the yacht and woman disappeared under the bridge.

  I drove over to Palm Beach and cut down South County Road. The island got thin before I got where I wanted to be. The Bonita Mar Club was an unassuming place, in the way that a lot of massive Palm Beach estates are unassuming because you can’t see them from the road. It was a bland terracotta wall, with a coat of arms on it that told me the name of the club. I stopped at the large wrought iron gates. The good news was, I looked the part. As Lizzy had pointed out, I was wearing trousers, which probably helped. I was also in a Porsche. Both the car and I were faking it.

  The guy at the gate gave me a good look. I wasn’t sure if he had memorized the faces of all the members, but I doubted it. He stepped over to me.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Nathaniel.”

  I was trying to make it sound like we were old college roommates or something, despite the twenty-year age gap. But the guy wasn’t buying.

  “Sir?”

  “Mr. Donaldson,” I repeated.

  “Yes, sir. I’m not sure Mr. Donaldson is in residence at this time.”

  “You’re not sure? So your story is that the security people at his club have no idea whether or not he is here. Is that what you’re going with?”

  “Sir?”

  “Get on the phone and tell him Miami Jones is here.”

  “Miami Jones?”

  “Yeah. And tell him I can give him a blow-by-blow of the Coligio wedding fiasco.” I waited for the guy to move. He didn’t. He just looked at me like I was a trigonometry problem.

  “Go on,” I said. I hadn’t realized before, but it’s so much easier to act like an ass if you are sitting in a Porsche.

  The security guy moved back and picked a radio handset off his hip and talked into it. He turned around so I couldn’t see or hear. It took longer than was necessary. Then he turned back to me.

  “Just pull in, sir. The valet will take your car.”

  He offered me a smile and I nodded and pulled into the estate. It wasn’t as big as the Coligio residence, but the place had some history behind it. It had been built by a New York industrialist—which was a title that seemed to cover a lot of territory—who happened to be a buddy of Henry Flagler. Flagler was the brains and the money behind the railroad coming to South Florida. He basically paid for it to extend from St. Augustine down to Miami. As a complete coincidence, every chunk of land that got a train station along the route happened to be owned by Flagler and his industrialist chums. They all built palatial winter homes down the coast, no more so than in Palm Beach. It was true that without Flagler there would be no Palm Beach today. Or maybe it would just be that the beach would be accessible to regular people and not just billionaires. I couldn’t say for sure.

  The old house had fallen into disrepair when the children of the children of the guy who built it decided they preferred Cannes to Palm Beach, and eventually it was sold for a pretty penny to Nathaniel Donaldson. Never one to miss a trick, he took half the house as his own private residence and opened the other half as an exclusive clubhouse. The initiation fee was reputed to be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars—and members still had to pay if they wanted to stay the night.

  I had been to the club once before, for a charity function for wounded members of the sheriff’s office. I’d worn a tux that time. So I knew where the valet was, and I pulled up and got out and left the car running, and a young guy dressed like a bull fighter got in and swept the vehicle out of sight. I didn’t get a valet ticket. It wasn’t that kind of place. A man in a stunning pinstriped suit was waiting by the front entrance, and he extended his hand.

  “Mr. Jones,” he said, like I was a regular. I didn’t even get treatment like that at Longboard Kelly’s.

  I shook his hand but said nothing.

  The guy in the suit ushered me inside. The interior was like an Italian museum. There was a lot of marble and gilded gold, and statues of naked and half-naked ladies. It was grand and opulent, and way above my pay grade. Sally was right—clearly I didn’t know art, because half the stuff looked like it had come from a garden supplies store. I looked for a statue of a little boy peeing into a fountain, but I couldn’t see one. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  “Mr. Donaldson is currently engaged with a guest, but he has asked me to show you to his private drawing room.” We walked down a corridor that was two stories high and arched at the top, like a nave. Then he cut to the right and opened a door. Inside was a room that looked like the Library of Congress. Every wall was floor to ceiling bookshelves, and every book was leather-bound. There wasn’t a Tom Clancy to be seen. It was impressive. I liked it a lot. I don’t read much, but if I had a room like this one I think that would change.

  “May I get you a drink while you wait?”

  I fancied a beer, but I went with a Pellegrino. The guy disappeared and left me alone. I sat in a heavy leather reading chair and crossed my legs, and then crossed them the other way, and then uncrossed them. I have big thighs. Crossed legs aren’t my thing. The guy reappeared with the flourish of a magician. He swept in and a woman came in behind him carrying a tray. She placed it beside me. There was a small bottle of Italian mineral water and a glass, and a plate of sandwich rounds. She poured the water into the glass, offered me a smile and then retreated. The guy in the suit told me that Mr. Donaldson would be with me momentarily, and he disappeared, closing the door as he went. I thought a cloud of smoke
would have been a better effect.

  Rich people like to make regular people wait. It’s a thing. I’m sure sometimes it is intentional and sometimes it’s not, but it always happens. Perhaps that was why they brought sandwiches when you asked for a glass of water. You might be there a while. I hadn’t eaten lunch so I nibbled on the sandwiches. I had no idea what I was eating. Bread, of course. But the rest was foreign to me. It might have been turkey, with some kind of chutney. It might have been pig’s hoof for all I knew. But it was tasty. I polished off the plate and could have gone for more.

  I was standing by the books, looking at what I was fairly certain was a first edition of Sense and Sensibility, when the door opened behind me. Nathaniel Donaldson walked in and closed the door behind him. There were some unusual things about him. He had gone gray as a young man, and his hair hadn’t changed in thirty years. Same length, same cut. His skin was an unnatural tan color, somewhere between spray-on and beach bum. He was always a snappy dresser, and even at his beach house he was no different. His suit hung on him better than most people’s skin. He moved toward me with a smile that made his eyes close, and extended his hand. I shook it and noted he wore a cologne that made me think of fig trees in Italy, and I wondered how it did that.

  “Nate Donaldson,” he said.

  “Miami Jones.”

  “Please take a seat.” He pointed me back to where my empty plate lay. He took a seat opposite and straightened his cuffs. Then the door opened again and the guy in the pinstripes appeared.

  “Get Mr. Jones some more sandwiches, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” The guy nodded and retreated, and I looked at Donaldson’s cuff to see if he had a secret little call button in there. I saw no such thing.

  “So, you used to play ball.”

  I had to admit, I was taken aback. When you play a professional sport, people know you. It’s part of the game. But I played my career, except for twenty-nine days, in the minor leagues. It’s a sort of in-between world, where you’re famous, but not. People recognize you, but they’re often not sure where from. And very few people remember your career after it’s done. I wondered if part of the reason I had to wait was that Donaldson was checking up on me. He had a reputation for being that thorough.