Death at the Member Guest

by James Y. Bartlett

  Having just been accused of cheating, I said nothing, but merely leveled a cold gaze on this most unpleasant little man.

  He picked up one of my irons and hefted it, swinging it back and forth.

  “I wanted to ask you. Where exactly in the swing do you release your hands? You’ve got such a nice swing, I thought you might …”

  He paused, fully expecting me to jump in with the answer. His head was cocked to the side in anticipation, his small body drawn up, his legs spread authoritatively. I recognized the posture as that of a chronic over-achiever, one used to asking questions and getting immediate answers. Never mind that he had just insulted both my friend and me.

  I laughed. “To tell you the truth,” I said, “I really don’t know. If I tried to think about what my hands were doing while I was swinging a golf club, I’d probably fall over on my head. All I do is start the swing slowly and throw ‘er in automatic, if you know what I mean.”

  I saw Fred nodding in understanding. Vitus, however, peered at me for a long moment, his beetled eyebrows knit, his lips pursed unpleasantly, his darks eyes staring out at me.

  “C’mon Fred,” he said finally. “Let’s go get some lunch. The problem with most guys who think they’re good is they never want to share with others. Selfish.”

  He turned on his heel and strode off towards the golf house. I stared at his retreating back in stunned disbelief.

  “What did I say?” I wondered aloud. Fred picked up his clubs, looked at me sadly and shrugged as if to say “who knows?” and turned to follow his partner.

  I shook my head and turned back to my practice. First impression confirmed, I thought. Major-league prick. I tried to regain my tempo, but it had gone. I stubbed one, hit a quacker of a duck hook with the next, and blocked the third shot dead right. I sighed, stopped a minute to look out at the quiet river flowing silently past the island, and then picked up my clubs and headed back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My partner was still deep into his card game up-stairs in the locker room, and his pile of chips had grown quite a bit larger. Somebody had ordered a tray of sandwiches and some chips, so I grabbed a ham and cheese and asked Roland to bring me an iced tea. Jack looked at me with an expression that hovered between amused and aghast. I ignored him and sank into a nearby leather chair. Jack did a double-take.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked as he sorted his hand.

  “Just met a wonderful fellow,” I said. “Somebody named Vitus . . .”

  ‘POPPYCOCK!” said about six voices in unison. They all began to laugh uproariously.

  Jack threw some chips into the center of the table as his ante. “So you met old Vitus, eh?” he said. “Legend in his own mind.”

  “Asshole,” grunted one of the other card players.

  “Dickhead,” chimed in another.

  “Aww, he’s not so bad for a total fuckwit,” said a third.

  “Popular guy, huh?” I asked.

  “What do you expect,” Jackie said, “He’s the club president.”

  “Really?” I said. “That guy won an election?”

  The card players laughed.

  “We decided that since Papageorge knows everything about everything already – just ask him and he’ll tell you so – we might as well let him have all the fun of running the club,” Jack said. “Frankly, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. So he gets to preside over committee meetings four nights a week, and deal with all the petty little problems involved in running a place like this. In return, he gets a parking space right outside the door that helps feed his ego. Dr. French here,” – he nodded across the table – “is of the opinion that in about another six months, that ego will get so large that it will explode, scattering Poppycock’s brains all over the 18th green.”

  Jack picked up his second batch of cards, looked at them sadly and folded, swearing softly under his breath. He pushed his chair back, stood up, yawned, stretched and left the room.

  “What does the guy do when he’s not running the Shuttlecock Club?” I asked.

  A short, stocky man with a bristling crew cut, took the nasty stub of a cigar out of the corner of his mouth and, waving it in small circles, answered.

  “Guy’s a zillionaire,” he said. “He’s a bank president up in Nashua. Married the former bank owner’s daughter, guy put him to work as a favor and about five years later, Vitus engineers a takeover and forces his wife’s father into retirement. Poor bastard never saw it coming, and died six months later of a massive coronary. Few years later, Vitus dumps the daughter, marries this hot young chickie.”

  The guy stuck the cigar back in his mouth, threw a few chips into the pot and asked for two cards. Then he continued his story.

  “The bank’s been making millions for years – southern New Hampshire has been growing in leaps and bounds, and Papageorge’s bank has pulled in all kinds of business loans, mortgages, corporate work…you name it. He didn’t stop there,” the guy poked the cigar for emphasis. “He also invested on the side, on his own, or so he says. Whatever…he’s got a golden touch. Guy owns car dealerships, apartment houses, strip centers…you name it. When the goddam politicians come to New Hampshire for the presidential primaries, Vitus Papageorge’s ass is the first one they have to kiss when they drive over the border.”

  Jack walked back into the room, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Got us a game,” he announced. “You and me against Vitus and good ole Fred. We tee off in ten minutes.”

  The card players all groaned. Jackie smiled even wider at the reaction.

  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? I accused him.

  “Oh, hell, yes,” he grinned. “I thought you ought to get the full Monty, as it were. It’s always quite the experience, playing our Pissant Prez. It’s why no one in the club will play with the son-of-a-bitch.”

  There was a good deal of head nodding around the card table.

  “Guy cheats like a bastard,” said one.

  “Will do anything to make a withdrawal from your Hip Pocket National.”

  “Stay with him if he hits it into the woods. His best club is the foot wedge.”

  “Five to one he throws a club by the third hole.”

  “What an asshole.”

  Jackie just laughed. “C’mon Hack-Man,” he said. “Let’s go watch this mother operate up-close-and-personal. It’ll be a gas!”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a sick puppy?” I wondered. But I followed Jackie and his booming laugh down the stairs.

  While we waited under a canopy of oaks on the first tee for the group ahead of us to clear the fairway, Jack and Vitus negotiated the terms of our little match. I went over and finally introduced myself to Fred, whose last name was Adamek.

  “Twenty-five a side OK with you Connolly?” Papageorge barked, swishing his driver back and forth impatiently.

  Jack had his three-wood out, and he thought about it while he took off the head cover, walked onto the tee, took an address position and made a practice swing. He swung as hard as he could, dug a foot-long trench out of the tee, and stumbled from the momentum of his follow through. Vitus watched Jack’s performance through narrowed, disgusted eyes.

  “How ‘bout a hundred?” Jackie slurred, grinning lopsidedly at Vitus.

  Papageorge’s bushy eyebrows rose imperceptibly but he quickly nodded. “Done,” he said. “Ten bucks for birdies, greenies and sandies? Automatic press on two down?”

  Jack was swishing his club back and forth again, pretending to pay attention to his elbow position at the top of his backswing. “Huh?” he said confusedly. He swung his eyes around and focused on Vitus. “Oh, yeah, fine, whatever,” he said.

  Papageorge looked at me. “Is this OK with your partner?” he asked.

  “Fine, fine,” Jackie said, before I could interject. “And yours?”

  We all looked at Fred, who had turned an interesting deep red. “Well, actually, …” Fred star
ted, when Vitus cut him off.

  “Fred agrees,” Vitus said. He turned to me.

  “I assume you’re still claiming to be a 3 handicap?” he said unpleasantly.

  “I’m not claiming anything,” I said. “That’s what my handicap is. You wanna call my club and confirm it?”

  “Well,” Papageorge said. “As a matter of fact, and just so we understand each other, I intend to have the tournament committee check your handicap prior to tomorrow’s start of play. And if I see any indication today that your alleged handicap is bogus, I intend to inform the committee of my observations. You are on notice.”

  I could feel my face getting hot. “Notice of what, you goddam little wea –”

  Jackie grabbed my arm and pulled me away from Vitus Papageorge, who was very close to taking a Callaway to the noggin. “Leave it,” he said to me, sotto voce. “He’s just trying to get your goat. It’s part of his shtick. Just play the game, kick his ass and leave the rest to me.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. I nodded at Jackie, who gave me a smile and a wink. Vitus looked at us both.

  “Fred and I will be walking,” he said archly. “I do not believe in golf carts. Except for the revenue they bring the club, carts are an abomination. Golf is a sport, not something meant to be played from a sitting position. I play the game for its exercise value. I hope you understand.”

  “Whatever turns you on,” I said to him. I looked over at Fred, who did not seem pleased with his partner’s announcement. Fred Adamek looked like a cart kind of guy.

  “Furthermore, we will be playing strictly according to the USGA Rules of Golf,” Papageorge said. “We play the ball down here at Shuttlecock. None of this rolling it over, mulligans or giving yourself putts. I firmly believe the game should be played according to the rules. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  I heard Jackie snort quietly behind me. Vitus pulled a scorecard from his back pocket.

  “Okay, Mr. Hacker here is a three. Or so he says,” he said, making some marks on the card with his pencil. “We will therefore stroke off him. Connolly is a 10, I’m a 12 and Fred here plays off 15. So, I’ll get nine strokes and Fred will get twelve. Correct?”

  He looked at us, eyebrows arched.

  “And Jackie gets seven,” I reminded him. “Do we get a scorecard too?”

  Papageorge peered at me. “It’s a free country, Mr. Hacker,” he said. “But I will keep the official card of the match.” He looked down the fairway, where the foursome in front was approaching the green.

  “Right,” he said. “We can hit. Go ahead, Fred. Play away.”

  Jack and I exchanged a glance. Papageorge had simply appropriated the honor for his team. Not exactly cheating, but also not exactly the way the Rules specify for the beginning of a match, which usually begins with a coin toss or some other means of determining the first team up. Obviously, Vitus’ version of the Rules were somewhat different than those published by the U.S. Golf Association.

  The first hole at Shuttlecock is prime Donald Ross. Just 290 yards long, it appears to be a simple and easy start to the round. The fairway is wide open, the entrance road cutting across some 200 yards off the tee, and only a tall oak off to the right, a small nest of bunkers across the road down the right, and an out-of-bounds fence way off to the left, alongside the narrow branch of the river that creates the island provided any danger from the tee box. So unless one completely choked, it was pretty hard to find anything but fairway. But there, the fun began. The green was small, raised about four feet, and crowned, calling for a delicate and precise approach shot. Anything short would roll back down the upsweep, or catch a deep bunker on the right. Anything too hard would roll off the back, or one of the sides, into deep rough. That was the genius of Donald Ross. One could hit almost anything off the tee, from driver to five-iron, but even from 70 yards away, the hole could exact a six as easily as a three.

  Fred hit a weak tee shot that didn’t make it across the road. Vitus stepped into his drive, releasing his hands at just the right moment and his head found the pillow, and his ball carried straight and long. Jack and I looked at each other again. We had to give away nine strokes to him?

  Jackie motioned at me to hit first. I had my three-wood, figuring a straight drive was more important than a long one here. I made solid contact and the ball ended up just 30 yards from the green.

  “Attaboy,” Jackie cheered.

  “Nice shot, Hacker,” Fred said, smiling at me.

  Vitus stared off down the fairway.

  Jackie teed his ball and made a lurching swing at it. The ball skidded down the left side and caught up in the thick rough under the trees. “Damn,” he muttered.

  Vitus and Fred set off down the fairway together, trailed by their caddie, a young kid wearing floppy socks, old sneakers, shorts and a T-shirt. He carried both bags, and seemed to be struggling with the weight, especially Papageorge’s large staff bag. Jackie and I got into our motorized abomination.

  “Do you always play for this much money?” I asked, a bit concerned.

  “Money, s’money,” he waved his hand in dismissal. “It’s not how much, it’s how the game is set up. He thinks I’m blasted, so he’s concentrating only on you.”

  “But Jack,” I said as we drove down the rough, “You are blasted.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot. Good point.”

  We found his ball, which was sitting down in the thick rough. He pulled out his wedge and hacked it about fifty yards down the fairway. “Damn it,” he said, getting back into the cart. “You gotta pick us up for a few holes until I get my swing grooved.”

  I shook my head sadly. “Whatever happened to that smooth Connolly swing I used to know?” I asked.

  He laughed. “That was many years ago, Hack,” he said. “Age, work, booze and broads … they all take a little something out of you.”

  “Based on those two swings, either you’re 150 years old, you own your own distillery or you’ve screwed half the women in America.”

  He laughed, but it took him three more swings to reach the green. Fred dumped his approach shot in the front-right bunker. Vitus decided to try a run-up shot, and nipped his ball so it scooted up the fairway, slowed as it swept up the rise in front of the green and stopped about 20 feet from the hole.

  “Nice shot!” I called to him. He ignored me.

  I took my sand wedge, trapped the ball perfectly and watched as my pitch bounced once beside the pin, took a hop forward and then stopped dead. Fifteen feet. Vitus walked past me on his way towards the green. He never looked at me or acknowledged my shot. Major league prick. Fred tried to explode out of the bunker, but caught it fat and it stayed in the sand. He cursed, smiled and hacked the next one out.

  Both Vitus and I missed our birdie putts, and we headed to the next tee all square. We had to wait a minute or two until the fairway ahead cleared.

  “So, Fred, what line of work are you in?” I asked, making conversation.

  “I’m in the construction business,” he said, swishing his driver back and forth.

  “Based on the figures I’ve seen, that’s a questionable statement,” Vitus interjected snidely.

  I laughed, thinking Papageorge was making a joke. But then I noticed that Fred wasn’t laughing. Or even smiling. He glared at his partner.

  “Hey, c’mon,” he said with an edge to his voice. “There’s a recession going on, in case you haven’t noticed. Trouble with you bankers is you think life goes on in a vacuum. Well, it don’t. Some months it’s pretty damn hard just to make payroll.”

  “You borrow the money, you’re supposed to pay it back,” Vitus said curtly.

  “We can hit now,” Jackie said from the cart, where he was sitting with his feet propped up, beer can in hand. Shuttlecock’s second is a longer and more difficult hole than its first. A high ridge extends down the left, with the fairway beginning on the plateau above it. But any tee shot that goes left gets thrown
down the ridge, blocked out of view of the green by a stand of tall trees. A good tee shot up onto the plateau leaves a long-to-midiron approach to a sloping, well-bunkered green.

  Three of us hit pretty good tee shots up onto the plateau. The exception was my partner who hit four trees with his first three swings, picked up his ball, rummaged around noisily in the cooler for another beer and sank heavily back into the cart. “Play hard, pard,” he said and popped the tab which made a loud hissing sound. Vitus had been standing over his approach shot, and backed away, shooting an angry look across at Jack. He ignored Vitus and downed about the half the can in one swallow.

  Vitus was about 170 yards from the green, and had what looked like a seven-wood in his hand. He made a nice pass at the ball and it flew straight at the green, landing just short and bounding up the hill to the back tier, stopping maybe 10 feet short of the hole. Jack and I watched the great shot in silence.

  “By the way,” Jack said calmly, “Did I mention that dickhead over there is the biggest sandbagger in the club?”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t think you actually did pass on that semi-important little factoid.”

  “Doesn’t dickhead get a shot on this hole?” he asked.

  I looked at the card. “Yup,” I said.

  “Aha,” Jackie said, and drank some more beer.

  “Aha?”

  “Well, I don’t want to put any more pressure on you,” Jack said with a soft burp. “But whenever Poophead has a stroke, he damn near always makes either a par or a birdie. Uncanny, isn’t it?”

  “So what you’re saying is that I’d better hole this seven-iron?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” he said.

  I didn’t hole it. I hit a nice shot, but left myself a 25-footer for birdie. Hit a nice putt, too, but hell, even the pros miss half the time from six feet. The odds are even longer from 25 feet.

  Vitus took a long, long time lining up his birdie putt. He studied the damn thing from every angle, even though all he had to do was two-putt from ten feet for his par-net-bird to win the hole. It occurred to me that he was perhaps rubbing it in. Finally, he stood over the ball and stroked it towards the hole. It almost went in, catching just a corner of the hole and rimming around the edge. I was about to tell him “nice putt” and concede the next when Vitus Papageorge went totally and completely ballistic.