Hit on the House

by Jon A. Jackson

  Germaine Kouras, however, was the genuine bad news. Not only had she gone, but she had told everybody, including her agent and the manager of the club where she worked, that she was leaving the country, possibly for good. She had given up her apartment. A friend said that Germaine had told her she was getting married and she and her husband were going to live in South America, but she'd left no forwarding address nor even the name of the country she was supposedly going to.

  All this was determined by early afternoon. Mulheisen was dead tired, almost depressed (not genuinely depressed; he wasn't giving in to that), and it was still raining. At about three o'clock he received a call from Geiger of Narcotics. One of his people had run off a check of the numbers in Frosty Tupman's phone book, using the phone company's listings by number. Geiger wanted to know if any of the names would be useful. Among them, not surprisingly, were numbers for Sid Sedlacek and other well-known mob figures, including Ray Echeverria. There were also dozens of unfamiliar names, which Geiger and other investigators were now checking out. One was of especial interest to Mulheisen: Eugene Lande—two numbers, home and office. Also listed, in the same location, was a number for the Briar Ridge Golf and Country Club.

  Mulheisen hung up and dialed the number for Briar Ridge. He was told by a male voice that Mr. Lande was on the course. The man said he expected Lande in the clubhouse in about an hour or so.

  It was decided that Jimmy should go to Iowa. He immediately set about getting the authorizations and lining up a liaison with the Iowa police. Since he'd been working with the airlines already, and since he'd soon be out at the airport, he would make inquiries about when Germaine Kouras had departed and for where.

  Mulheisen found the golf course after some difficulty. It was on what he remembered from his childhood as a dirt road that led to farms in the low hills. He'd been taken to the area as early as the first grade, on a field trip to see cows and chickens and, he recalled, a number of enormous and frightening turkeys. Now it was a well-established residential suburb, with paved streets bearing near-farcical names: Bryyerwoode Lane, Calico Circle, Chalkcreek Way. Such names were a silly conceit, borrowed from the presumed glamour of Grosse Pointe and similar older suburbs, where streets were often named Fairbairns or Collie Fields. The developers had turned their backs on the French origins of Detroit (to say nothing of Grosse Pointe itself), on names like Piquette and Saint Aubin and Joseph Campau, which, after all, were simply the family names of the farmers who had settled there in the early eighteenth century.

  The golf course had been sculpted out of pasture that bordered a small muddy creek below a bluff that ran along the roadside. Mulheisen thought the stream used to be called Petty Creek (or Petit, perhaps), but signs indicated it was now called Clabber Creek. He wasn't a golfer, but it looked like an interesting bit of real estate. The clubhouse, however, was a simple, low clapboard building painted white, with a couple of pointless cupolas surmounted by cast-iron weather cocks. Not especially prepossessing, which was unusual, he thought. Developers tended to spend on the clubhouse. He had expected something with a lot of glass and timber, perhaps fieldstone, and an enormous fireplace chimney and perhaps a red tile roof. The developer must have run short on cash.

  Lande's Cadillac, with its DOCBYTE vanity plate, was the only car in the lot, except for a small Toyota pickup with BRIAR RIDGE GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB painted around an amusing coat of arms that featured a golf club and a tennis racket crossed on a shield, along with a setter and a spaniel rampant.

  The rain had declined to a mist, and it was growing dark. Mulheisen strolled out onto a sodden cedar-plank deck overlooking the first tee. To his left an empty, leaf-filled swimming pool separated the fenced-in tennis courts from the parking lot. The course fell away into the mist. Mulheisen could make out some barren willows and alder that evidently lined Clabber Creek, and a few evergreens that dotted the fairway. Lande was due in shortly. Soon it would be too dark to play, if one could imagine anyone playing in this dreadful weather at all. The temperature was hardly above forty-five, and the ground underfoot was not just damp but positively swampy.

  From a distance Mulheisen heard the muffled whump, whump, whump of a shotgun, barely audible in the heavy, soaking atmosphere. A pair of ducks in tight jet formation whizzed up out of the gloom and, seeing the dimly lighted windows of the clubhouse, flared out like F-15 fighters and climbed up into the overcast. Mulheisen was amused.

  He peered through the plate glass windows of the clubhouse. A faint glimmer suggested that the barroom was open. He let himself into the broad dining area, its tables stacked with chairs, and saw a young man in a sweater sitting behind the bar at the back, glumly sipping a darkish drink and fiddling with a pencil. There was a crossword book open on the bar in front of him. He watched as Mulheisen came across the floor, which was covered with a green indoor-outdoor carpet.

  “I'm looking for Gene,” Mulheisen said.

  “Still out there.” The young man nodded toward the gloom.

  “How long has he been out there?”

  “Couple three hours,” the fellow said. He had streaky blond hair and was handsome despite his morose expression.

  “By himself?”

  The man nodded. “Who else is crazy enough to play on a day like this? He'll be in pretty quick . . . I hope.”

  Mulheisen gestured toward the bottles of whiskey on the back bar. “You open?”

  The man shrugged. “Why not?”

  Mulheisen ordered a large Jameson and took it over to the window. He pulled down a chair and set it where he could look out into the murk—perhaps a hundred feet, anyway. He clipped and lighted up a Partagas Lonsdale. It was not, he knew, the kind of atmosphere that most people would find heartening or pleasant, but he found it most agreeable. It was a tremendous relief from the pressures of the day. Rather like being in Ontario. After a while he walked back out onto the sheltered deck and gazed off into the dying light with a pleased sigh.

  The mist occasionally thickened into a drizzle, then thinned again. The trees were bare, except for the few firs, and he saw that they were not monochromatic but actually a variety of colors. Some were glistening black, others gray, yet others a pale yellow or beige, and down near the creek some low brush was a vivid red. The mist swept softly across the rolling fairway, which was already covered with a thick, dark green turf that would soon need mowing. Wild birds, not city sparrows, hurled themselves off the bluff and sailed down onto the course, where they dove headlong into the thicket that lined the creek. He thought they might be jays, or even kingfishers—his mother would know.

  The shotgun bumped a couple more times, and the birds raced about, and then he could hear the rain pattering gently, the trees dripping, and the creek gurgling. There was the sound of a distant city somewhere. He took a great and pleasurable breath and went back inside.

  It was OK with him if Lande didn't come in for an hour. It was a fine thing to do nothing for a while, just to sit and draw on an aromatic brown cigar and sip good whiskey while gazing out onto a dripping vista with lights starting to wink on in distant houses.

  After a while he called for another drink, and the young man brought the bottle to the table. “You gonna wait for Gene?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “Fine.” The fellow set the bottle on the table and said, “Tell him I had to split, OK?”

  Mulheisen was astonished. “You mean you're just going to leave?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, what do I owe you for the whiskey?”

  “Settle with Gene.” And with that he walked out, snatching a windbreaker off a rack on the way. A moment later Mulheisen heard the engine of the pickup start and then a spurt of gravel as it drove away.

  “Amazing,” Mulheisen said out loud. He refilled his glass and sat back, puffing on the cigar. “My own club.” He waved the cigar grandly, taking in all he surveyed.

  Forty minutes later Lande stomped across the deck, lugging a bagful of golf clubs. He set
the clubs on a sheltered rack and entered the barroom. Mulheisen hadn't seen him approach. Evidently he had come off the back nine, which ended at a green on the opposite side of the clubhouse. Under the hood of a parka he wore a tweed golfer's cap, which he took off and slapped against the glistening nylon of his rain suit. He began to unzip and strip off the fancy blue and red rain outfit.

  “Hey! Mul!” he cried out. “What the hell are you doing here?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Where's Eric?”

  “He had a date,” Mulheisen said, rising and lifting his glass in a kind of toast. He gestured at the whiskey bottle. “He said it was on your tab.”

  “Lazy fart,” Lande said. “Ah, screw ‘im. Go ahead. Help yourself.”

  He tossed his dripping rain gear onto a table and clomped over to the bar in his spiked shoes to fetch a glass. He returned, poured some whiskey into the glass, and drank it.”

  “Ah. Jeez, that's great! I needed that.” He wiped his bristling mustache and poured another, fuller dollop and poured more into Mulheisen's glass. He dragged down a chair, turned it back to front, and sat down with his arms draped over the back. His pale green slacks were spotted with damp and wrinkled, and his black cashmere sweater was matted. Mulheisen thought he'd like to be able to wreck a great sweater like that.

  “Whew!” Lande looked weary and drawn, but his cheeks were ruddy. “It ain't a great day for gawf, Mul, but I had a few good shots. I hit a three wood you wouldn't believe.”

  Mulheisen cocked his head with interest. “Can you actually play in these conditions?”

  “This ain't nothin’,” Lande declared. “You ever play in Scotland? I have. I played the Old Course, at Saint Andrews. Hell, I remember once at Carnoustie it was like playing in a hurricane! Those guys, those Scotsmen, they don't give a rat's ass—they play in any kinda weather. You don't gawf? No? I kinda figgered you belonged to Grosse Pointe, or one a them clubs. No? Not that much of a course, actually. This is better.”

  “I heard shots,” Mulheisen said.

  “Kids,” Lande said. “They poke around down the crick and jump-shoot the ducks. Say,” he pointed at Mulheisen's cigar, “you got another one a them?”

  “No,” Mulheisen lied.

  “That's all right,” Lande said. He fished out a pack of cigarettes and lighted up. “So. What're ya doin’ here?” He suddenly looked alarmed. “It ain't Bonny? Nothin's wrong is there?”

  “Bonny? No. Why?”

  Lande looked relieved. “Nothin’. Oh, she ain't been feelin’ too good lately. It's nothin’. So what brings you out here?”

  “I went by your office yesterday,” Mulheisen said. “Miss Bommarito said you spent a lot of time out here.”

  “Yanh, she thinks I'm nuts,” Lande said. “Well, yer here. How come?”

  “I was just checking out some information on the Sedlacek case,” Mulheisen said, “and the Tupman shooting.” He watched Lande closely.

  Lande sipped his whiskey calmly and gazed back. “Tupman,” he said with a snort of contempt. “That piece a shit. Good riddance.” He drew on his cigarette. “Kind of a long way to come to ask about nothin’, ain't it?”

  “It's on my way home, as a matter of fact,” Mulheisen said.

  “Oh, yeah.” Lande nodded. “I guess I knew that . . . You ‘n’ Bonny, you went to St. Clair Flats High, or something so that figgers. So whataya wanta know?”

  Mulheisen looked around at the empty room and said, “What I want to know is what kind of club is this? How come the kid went home and left me here with the bar open?”

  “Whatayou, thinkin’ of robbin’ the joint? There ain't nothin’ to rob but a few bottles a booze.”

  “It's unusual, wouldn't you say? Rather an exclusive club. Just you.”

  “Oh, I got a few other members,” Lande said. “Me ‘n’ a couple other guys bought it, ya know. This developer built it, about twenny years ago now. He had a cash-flow problem and wanted to unload. I was already a member, so I bought it. It's all legit. You could look it up.”

  “I never knew anybody who actually owned his own golf course,” Mulheisen said. “Do you run it as a business?”

  “Sure, but it ain't actually a going concern at the moment. No problem for me, though. These other assholes,” Lande said savagely, “they didn't give a rat fuck for the joint. I hada cut them out fin'ly. I haveta do just about everythin’ out here. If it wasn't for me, this place'd be a dump. A gawf course is a kinda black hole for money, you know. But it happens I know quite a little bit about gawf courses. I made a study of it, see? I know a lot when you come down to it. And I gotta couple a good kids in here. They do what I tell ‘em, and they know their shit. One of ‘em even graduated from a gawf-management school down in Arizona. Well, this kid Eric—you met ‘im—he can't find his ass with both hands when it comes to business, but you oughta see his swing.” He shook his head, gazing off at the course, now nearly lost in darkness. “Yanh, the little shit can swing that club. You realize that kid qualified for the Open? He never made the cut, but jeez—just to play in the Open! I damn near qualified once.” He looked wistful.

  “Was one of your partners Ray Echeverria?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Yeah. Why?” Lande seemed wary.

  “How did you meet Echeverria?”

  “He was a member here. We both was. When the developer got into a mess, me ‘n’ Ray and a coupla others, we bought him out. No crime in that, is it?”

  “What are you so huffy about?” Mulheisen asked. “Do you have other dealings with Echeverria?”

  “I hardly know the guy. He never even comes around anymore. Well, he was a lousy gawfer. Said he was a fifteen handicap, but I never seen him break ninety. Now that's just stupid. Most guys, if they cheat on their handicap, it's in the other direction. But not Ray, . . . he'd rather lose a few bucks and have you think he just wasn't playing to his handicap. Dope.”

  “Where were you this morning, between four and six?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Me?” Lande recoiled. “This morning? You serious? Where the hell you think? Home in bed.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, whataya think? I played a little cards earlier. At the East-gate. You could check. Then I bullshitted for a while, with the guys, and went home.” He watched Mulheisen truculently. “What is this, anyways?”

  Mulheisen said, “I suppose you have some witnesses?”

  Lande mentioned a couple of names, and Mulheisen got out his notebook to jot them down. “And you left when?”

  “I don't know. I di'nt check my watch. It musta been, oh, three, four A.M. After that, you can ast Bonny, which I guess you prob'ly already did. Am I right?”

  Mulheisen looked at the man—feisty, self-important, and abrasive. After a moment he said, “How is it you know Frosty Tupman?”

  “Who says I know Tupman?” Lande looked belligerent but on his guard.

  Mulheisen considered for a moment, then said, “You don't have to answer my questions. You have the right . . .”

  “What the hell is this?” Lande said, rising. “You readin’ me my rights? I know my rights. You wanta ast me somethin’, just go ahead. I ain't got nothin’ to hide.”

  Mulheisen nodded. “OK. You know your rights. We have evidence that you are acquainted with Tupman.”

  Lande poured out another shot of whiskey for himself and Mulheisen. “I don't know Tupman,” he said.

  “Tupman had three phone numbers listed for you in his personal phone book.”

  “So what? I can't help that. Maybe he wanted to buy a computer, or maybe he wanted to join the club. That's not illegal, is it? Is that all you got? Jeez, fuckin’ cops!”

  Mulheisen said, “You mentioned his name the other night when we were having dinner.”

  “I mentioned his name? I thought you did.”

  Mulheisen couldn't remember if he had mentioned Tupman first or if it had been Lande. He shrugged. “How about Sid Sedlacek? Did you know him? Or his girlfriend, Germaine Kouras?”

  �
��I mighta met Sedlacek sometime,” Lande conceded, then he brightened. “Yeah, that's right! This chick Germaine, she sings at the Blue Moon sometimes, right? I used to go there, once in a while. I thought she was great. I met her, and I think she introduced me to Big Sid. I di'nt think nothin’ of it. Anybody can meet a singer and her boyfriend, can't they?”

  Mulheisen sighed. This wasn't going well. He asked, “Did you ever have a relationship with Miss Kouras?”

  “Are you kidding?” Lande was frankly surprised. “Hey, I gotta wife who's a helluva lot better looking than that broad. I shou'n't haveta tell you that.”

  This last was said in a way that insinuated a great deal. Mulheisen replied, “You must get a charge out of being obnoxious.”

  Lande looked pleased. “Gotchoo, eh? You dig them tits, don'tcha? Hey! Fifty million guys whacked off on that centerfold. Join the crowd.”

  Mulheisen leapt to his feet, his face red. “You are an asshole!”

  “So? Who ain't?” Lande had risen. He looked up at Mulheisen pugnaciously. “You knew her when, din't djou? You prob'ly saw them tits in the flesh! D'jou fuck her?”

  Mulheisen came close to smashing Lande in the face. The man, with his outthrust jaw, seemed to be inviting a blow. Mulheisen forced himself to a casualness he didn't feel. He looked down at the cigar in his hand. He had almost crumpled it. He took a tentative drag and sat down.

  But Lande wouldn't let it go. “I knew it,” he crowed. “You fucked her. And you'd still like to shag her. Well, go ahead.” He abruptly lapsed into a peculiar mood and slumped back onto his chair. “That's prob'ly why you went over there yesterday. She ast you to come over, din't she?”

  Mulheisen shook his head, mystified. “What's wrong with you, Lande? You seem to care for Bonny, but you say things like that!”

  Lande looked up dully. “You wouldn't know. You don't know nothin’. Bonny digs you,” he said.

  Something in his tone unsettled Mulheisen. “Are you nuts?” he said. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘I don't know anything'?”