I wandered back on foot. I had another itch to scratch. I walked down the only populated street. The third of the gardeners was still lying on the grass in the shade of the palm, towel over face. I wondered if he had fallen asleep. One of the other guys had taken charge of the mower. Clearly there wasn’t yet enough work to keep three guys busy. I edged past the prone figure and slipped into the garage. It was a two-car job, and was filled with a combination of real estate stuff and gardening gear. There was a high pile of mini bottles of water from a big box store, and flats of cola and lemonade. Realtors offered cool drinks at open houses as a point of necessity. There were boxes of snacks—chips and little cookies and pretzels. On the other side there were weed whackers and jerry cans of two-stroke gasoline. A set of golf clubs stood in the corner. There was a steel locker that had a hefty padlock on it. The garage smelled of wet grass and Oreos. I care for neither, so I slipped back out. The guy on the grass didn’t stir. I walked back to my car and was getting in when my phone rang. It was Danielle.
“Where are you?”
“Palm Beach Gardens. Why?”
“It’s Heath McAllen.”
“What about him?”
“He just received a death threat.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Heath McAllen looked like he’d just opened his birthday presents. I know sportsmen are supposed to be cool under pressure, but I had been a professional sportsman, of a fashion, and I knew that it was all a lie. I could take some breaths and hold my cool on the mound as well as the next guy, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it when the moron in front of me on the freeway cut in front without bothering himself with a turn signal.
But Heath McAllen might have been different. He was smiling and relaxed, sipping a can of something mixed with green tea. His hand was covering what the something was, and my mind could not come up with any ideas that made sense. He gave me a nod as I walked into the conference room cum briefing room cum boardroom. The concertina walls were all open. Heath was kicked back with Danielle and Nixon. Keith was there, but he didn’t do kicked back. There was another man I didn’t know. He was big guy, like he’d been one of those professional wrestlers back in his heyday.
“You all right, kid?” I asked.
Heath nodded to me. “Cannae complain.”
Danielle handed me a piece of paper. “Heath found this in his locker after his practice this morning.”
I took it and looked at it. It was a standard letter-size piece of paper with a message printed on an inkjet printer. There was a smudged line down the length of the page about a third of the way from the left edge. The message was to the point.
McAllen - You play, you die.
I looked up. “Hardly the work of a master wordsmith, is it?”
“Is this guy for real?” It was the wrestler.
“He’s for real,” said Danielle. “MJ, this is Brad Shift, Heath’s American agent.”
“Soon to be global agent, am I right, Heath?” The guy gave Heath a grin that showed off his too-white-to-be-true teeth.
Heath shrugged. “What do you think, Miami?”
“What do you think?” I asked him back.
“What does he think?” Brad Shift shook his head like it was joined to his vast neck by a Slinky. He made eye contact with everyone in the room, and then ended with me. “What does he think? What are we paying you for?”
“You’re not paying me, so shut the hell up. If I want a peanut, I’ll go to the concession stand.”
The guy stood up. “You want something from me?”
“Silence.”
Danielle stood. “Mr. Shift, relax, please.” She glanced at me and gave me a frown.
“Heath?” I asked again.
“I don’t know what I think.”
“Who has access to the locker room?”
Danielle said, “All the players, the caddies. Some of the staff, some members. It’s quite a list.”
“Any way of tracking down the printer?”
“Only if we have a suspect. We’d need to know where to look. We’re checking here obviously, but otherwise it’s a needle in a haystack.”
Nixon said, “The real question is, how seriously do you want to take it?”
“What’s your professional opinion?” I asked Nixon.
“Doesn’t feel credible. But I’d say discretion is the better part of valor.”
“If he pulls out, he could fall down the money list,” said Shift. “That’s a million bucks just for topping the list. He can’t pull out.”
“What does he get if he dies during a round?” I asked.
Shift thought about it. “There’s insurance.”
I shook my head. I wanted to ask him if he knew what a rhetorical question was, but I didn’t feel like having to then explain what rhetorical meant. Heath shrugged and offered me his infectious smile.
“It’s your call,” I said to him. “Danielle and the other sheriffs can keep an eye out, and there’s lots of course-side security. But ultimately, it’s your call.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What do you think? What would you do?”
“I’d play. But I don’t take well to being told what to do.”
“Me either. I want to play.”
“All right! Yeah!” yelled Shift. He sounded like that one idiot in every golf gallery who feels the need to yell It’s in the hole! after every tee shot. He probably was that idiot.
“Can I make a suggestion?” said Keith. “We can add some extra roving security to Heath’s playing group, of course. But I’d feel better if we had someone closer.”
“How do you mean, closer?” asked Danielle.
“I was thinking carrying his bag.”
“His caddy?” I said. “Good luck convincing the big guy to step down.”
“He doesn’t need to step down,” said Keith. “He isn’t given the option. Heath, what do you think?”
“Miami’s right. Alfie’s not going to like it. But I got to admit, I wouldn’t mind having an eye on me.”
“But who’s going to do it? A cop?” asked Nixon.
“I was thinking Miami,” said Keith.
“Me?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” said Heath.
“I can’t caddy a PGA tournament.”
“Why?” asked Heath.
“I don’t know how.”
“You play golf?”
“Occasionally.”
“You know your numbers one through nine?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re certainly capable of lifting the bag.”
“Think about this, Heath.”
“Relax, Miami. Just think, if I win, you’re in for ten percent.”
“I don’t want the money, Heath.”
I looked at Danielle for help. I didn’t get it.
“It’s settled then,” she said. “Miami will substitute as Heath’s caddy.”
“Who’s going to tell your caddy?” I pleaded.
“I’ll do it,” Heath said.
He was a stand-up guy. I didn’t envy him, but I sure as hell didn’t want to take his place. He stood up and wandered out with his big agent.
“Get a good sleep,” he said as he went. “We’ve got an early morning tee time.”
I stayed where I was. I gave Danielle the eye, and not the eye that invites one to cross a room. She beamed like the cat that got the cream. She was having way too much fun.
Then a deputy I didn’t know rapped her knuckle on the door frame. She was young and blond and had her hair tied back like Danielle.
“Ma’am, the threat letter,” she said to Danielle.
“Yes?”
“We found the printer.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, ma’am. It’s from one of the offices just here.”
“Which office?” asked Keith.
The young deputy looked at a small notepad in her hand. “The office belongs to the vice president. No name.”
“Martin?” he said.
“Thank you, Deputy,” Danielle said.
“Yes, ma’am.” The young deputy stepped away and we focused back on Keith.
“Martin?” Keith repeated, to himself this time.
“Does anyone else have access to that office?” I asked.
“I don’t. I guess someone does. We had the keys redone last year, as part of a security audit. Barry thought the locks had been around for fifty years, and he might have been right. But now? Just Martin, as far as I know.”
“What do you think?” Danielle asked Nixon.
“It’s pretty dumb if he used his printer here,” he said.
“And he’s not dumb.”
“But how do we solve most crimes?”
“Someone does something dumb.”
I wasn’t sure I needed to be there for the conversation, so I made to leave.
“Where are you going?” Danielle asked.
“Apparently I need to get my beauty sleep.”
“You going to say anything to Martin?”
“No, that’s your job.”
She nodded. “I say we keep it quiet for now. We don’t want to tip Martin or anyone else off.”
“Right on.”
“I’ll catch up with you later?”
“I most certainly hope so.”
I wandered out to the reception area, where I saw Natalie Morris. She shot me the Florida smile and I shot it right back at her. It never ceases to amaze me how a great smile can readjust your mood. It was only midafternoon, so I wasn’t really ready for sleep, but I figured I’d head home and mentally prepare myself for my first PGA Tour performance.
My Porsche was sitting in the sunshine, so I dropped the roof first thing. That cooled things off, but I knew that it would only be a matter of weeks before I would be keeping the lid up and turning the air-conditioning on. When that happened the little car would feel like a sardine can with bucket seats. But today I flicked on my shades and revved the engine.
The impact hit the driver’s side window hard. The entire car wobbled, and I don’t know how it didn’t shatter. I almost left my own body from shock, but I collected myself quickly. I tend to do that. And when I did I looked through the window and saw the massive frame of Heath McAllen’s caddy, Alfie.
He looked like a bear in coveralls. His arms were raised like King Kong and he bellowed an unholy sound that came from another dimension and hit me in the chest like a shock wave. Clearly Heath had told him about the caddying arrangements, and clearly he wasn’t happy about it. He came in for a second impact, his hands joining together in one huge fist, more an anvil than a human appendage, and drove it into the window again. The window flexed in a way that I never thought a window should, but again it resisted the impact. Score one, whatever company supplied Porsche with their windows. I punched the car into gear. I was done.
But Alfie wasn’t done. The failure of the windows to cooperate enraged him further. He moved forward and then drove his fists down onto the hood. For reasons I cannot even begin to fathom, the hood crumpled into a large dent under the same impact withstood by the window. It made me wonder why they don’t make cars out of autoglass.
“Hey, easy,” I yelled. I dropped the transmission back into neutral and got out. I wasn’t going to fight this beast. He was scarier than the gator. But I slammed the door and he turned to me. We really had to talk. And I really needed to be ready to run.
“Just cool it,” I said in my soft voice. It isn’t like Danielle’s soft preschool teacher voice. Hers would soothe a raging tiger. Mine just sort of comes out condescending, like I think the listener is an idiot. Which to be fair, is often the case. I don’t know how Alfie took it, but I do know it didn’t improve his mood.
“Aaaargh!” was all he had to say. He grabbed me, one paw on the shirt and one at the belt line, and he lifted me up. I was like a bag of flour to him. But I don’t weigh what a bag of flour weighs. I’m six foot one, and a touch over two hundred pounds on a good day. That’s a lot of dead weight. Alfie lifted me like he was flipping pizza dough. He must surely sometimes forget that he is even carrying a bag full of golf clubs.
I yelled, “Alfliiie!”
“You steal my job, you scumbag. I’m gonna tear you a new one!”
He screamed as he spun me around like we were a new and exciting event at the Olympics. They could call it pitcher pitching. Grab a professional baseball pitcher, pick him up and toss him as far as you can. Extra points if he played in the major league, and double extra points for CC Sabathia. That dude is massive.
Alfie rotated at the hips the way you should when you are holding another human above your head, and he drove from the knees and thrust me away. I flew. Not with grace. I’m not a swan. But I was definitely airborne. The Wright brothers would have called it a successful test. For me, not so much. I flew out into the plantings around the clubhouse, and then descended fast and certain, into the outer reaches of an agave plant.
I hit hard on my back. It knocked the wind out of me. But like I say, I recover pretty quick. When I played quarterback at high school, I got hit a lot. But the other teams got more frustrated about it than I did, because I always bounced up and gave them a cheeky grin, in the way only a sixteen-year-old boy can mock a two hundred fifty-pound defensive lineman. I felt indestructible. I didn’t feel that now. I felt sore. But I sucked in a couple of deep breaths and sat up. I was facing the agave plant, and I was thankful I hadn’t landed in the middle of it. They might still be collecting barbs from inside me.
The sound of my car pulling out of the space attracted my attention. I wanted to yell, to tell the crazy English giant to stop, but I couldn’t form the appropriate sentence, so I got up instead. The Porsche looked like a toy with Alfie at the wheel. In his white coveralls he looked like an overbred mechanic taking a car to the shop. But he punched the gears and sped away across the parking lot.
I ran. I’m not a great runner. Used to be that we’d say that big guys like me weren’t built to go fast. But then Usain Bolt is six-five, so that theory went out the window. But I ran often, with Danielle along the beach at Singer Island. So I hold my own. I put the big ones in. I don’t really know what I was doing. I wasn’t going to catch a Porsche Boxster. That only happens in the movies.
The strange thing was, I didn’t feel angry. The red mist hadn’t descended on me. More than anything, I wanted to talk to the guy. I’m not always so forgiving, but I think a little version of Heath McAllen was sitting on my shoulder, pleading to my better angels. Heath was a kid by many standards. Most guys in their midtwenties think they know it all, but the truth is they don’t even know what they don’t know yet. But Heath saw the good in this giant moron. And part of me wanted to be as good a man as him.
Alfie didn’t head for the exit. He sped down the lane toward the hospitality tent village set up on the executive course. I had visions of him racing through there, collecting wasted businessmen as he went. But at the last second he yanked on the wheel and the Porsche responded the way fast cars do, and he launched off the pavement and onto the grass. I wondered where the hell he was going, but I suspected he hadn’t thought it through. Then I reassessed that thought. I was only halfway across the lot but I could see what lay ahead. He was screaming across the deep rough between the first tees of each course layout, headed for one place and one place only.
South Lakes wasn’t a misnomer. It was so far south in the United States that it was actually further south than the part of the country referred to as the Deep South. And it had lakes. Lots of them. Not all as big as the one called the Pacific, but they were there, ready to collect balls from wayward golfers. The lake Alfie was headed for was bigger than the so-called lake at the Capricorn Lakes development, although it was by no means large. But it was certainly large enough.
Alfie hit the water at speed. The Porsche skimmed across the surface of the lake like a skipping stone, and for a brief second
I thought the thing might actually race across the water and drive up the other side. But it didn’t. The laws of gravity and viscosity and moron-ness took hold and the Porsche came to a stop about ten feet in, and then sunk. It wasn’t a deep lake. Golf course lakes aren’t designed for bass fishing. They’re designed so the club can easily fish out the balls and then sell them back to the errant golfers who put them in the drink in the first place. So the Porsche settled with the water line just above the door frame, and the reclaimed water gently filled the interior until all that was visible was the top half of the windshield.
The big Englishman slipped out over the top of the door and waded his way to the bank. I made it to the water’s edge at the same time. I was breathing heavily and I really didn’t want to have another fight, if you could call it that. That word implied some kind of an even match, and we had established that our weight classes were at opposite ends of the spectrum. I put my hands on my knees and sucked in some big warm gulps. A good crowd spilled out of the corporate hospitality tents to see my car sink. There was a quiet murmur across the watching faces, like a final hole gallery waiting to see if the player chokes on his putt or wins the day.
Alfie stepped up to the long grass and looked at me. He didn’t approach me. He just stood there with a satisfied look on his face. I shook my head.
I said, “I don’t want your damned job.”
“Didn’t stop you from taking it, innit.”
“I don’t want the money, I mean.”
“Sure. Tell me another one.”
“I was going to give any prize money to you. I don’t want it.”
His face contorted in confusion. He wanted what I said to be true, but he wasn’t buying it. Because if he bought it, if he believed that I didn’t want the cash, then he had just done a very stupid thing.
I stood up. I was sweating and I wiped my brow with my arm, which didn’t do much. “I wanted your help.”
“No, you didn’t.” He said the words without conviction. “Did you?”
I nodded. “I’m not a caddy. I’m just trying to keep the kid safe. And for reasons that totally escape me, he seems to care about you.”
Deep Rough Page 22