Amen Corner

by Rick Shefchik

  He called Caroline again.

  “Now what?” she said. “I’m trying to pick out something racy to wear under my jumpsuit.”

  “This will only take a second,” Sam said. “I want you to dial a number for me and ask for Shareese. When they put her on the phone, tell her you need to know Lois’ last name so you can look her up in the phone book. Tell her you were going over your receipt when you got back from the store, and you realized she undercharged you by $15. You want to let Lois know her drawer is short, so she won’t get in trouble.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” Caroline asked.

  “Because I already talked to the manager. He wouldn’t give me her name or number. But I think Shareese would give it to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Sam gave her the number and asked her to call him back as soon as she could. Less than five minutes later, his phone rang.

  “Another satisfied Food Lion shopper,” Caroline said. “Got something to write with? Shareese gave me Lois’ home number. Says she calls her all the time to swap shifts.”

  Sam wrote down the number, thanked Caroline, and dialed Lois’ number.

  “Hi, Lois, this is Sam Skarda,” he said when she answered. “We met earlier today at the grocery store.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “Say, y’all don’t want to miss your tee time.”

  “I’ve got a few hours yet,” Sam said. “Lois, remember what we were talking about? The town Lee Doggett’s wife moved to? Could it have been Southwest Ranches, Florida?”

  “That’s it!” she said. “Southwest Ranches. I knew I’d think of it.”

  “You still don’t remember her name?”

  “Let me think, let me think…It might have started with a B…or was it an R…I’m trying to get a picture of it in my mind.”

  Sam waited a few moments, until it seemed likely that the picture wasn’t going to form.

  “But you’re sure it was Southwest Ranches?”

  “Positive,” she said. “No doubt in my mind.”

  “You’re a peach, Lois,” Sam said.

  “That’s what they say to all the gals around here,” she giggled. “Now, concentrate on your game, hon, and forget about Lee Doggett for a while.”

  “I’d like to,” Sam said. “Thanks again.”

  Sam sat in the plaid easy chair in the common area of the Crow’s Nest, feeling a shot of the old adrenaline rush he always got when a case took a sudden lurch forward. If they could find Doggett’s wife, maybe she could lead them to him.

  He called Boyce and gave him the name of the town she had moved to. Then he went to the bag room to meet Caroline.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Ty Chapman was in trouble.

  The Senior Vice President of Franchise Operations for the RoadFood convenience-store chain, Chapman was supposed to be inside the gates at Augusta National, enjoying the second round of the Masters. Instead, he was on the sidewalk along Washington Road, looking furtively for someone who might want to buy his Masters badge.

  Ty Chapman liked to gamble. Lately, his luck had turned sour. He’d somehow managed to run up a $10,000 debt to several bookmakers back home in Kansas City. He’d put them off as long as he could, but they were threatening to hurt him—and, worse, to tell his wife. Roxanne was going to find out any day. He owed $5,000 to Max, his usual guy, and a couple thousand to two others who took his action when Max cut him off. He’d promised Max he would come back from Augusta with all of it. The other guys could be stalled a little longer with $500 each. Max had called Ty at his Augusta hotel Thursday night and said his deadline was Sunday. The full $5,000, or a couple of Max’s associates would be coming over to Ty’s house.

  Ty’s credit cards were tapped out; he’d already borrowed against their house. Things were shaky between him and Roxanne. She had been on him constantly since he was passed over for President of Franchise Operations. Their car was three years old, their house was in the wrong neighborhood, and their kids were going to a public school that Roxanne was embarrassed to mention around the other RoadFood wives. Maybe that’s why Ty had found himself spending more and more time at the riverboat casino—time that he told Roxanne he was spending at the office, catching up on work.

  Each year since he was named Senior Vice President, Coca-Cola had given Ty a badge to the Masters by Coca Cola—a reward for RoadFood choosing Coke over Pepsi. That was Ty’s call—and unless Pepsi came up with tickets to the Super Bowl, the World Series, and the Indy 500, RoadFood was going to continue to pour Coke.

  His first couple of years at the Masters, Ty had found it amusing that people would actually sell their badges. Who would pass up a chance to witness the greatest golf tournament in the world? What kind of sad, desperate idiot would trade an experience like that for a few thousand bucks?

  Now Ty knew. A sad, desperate idiot like him.

  He’d heard that scalpers were getting as much as $5,000 for their badges this year. That wouldn’t wipe out his gambling debts, but it would take the heat off. Roxanne wouldn’t have to know. He could stay above water. He could keep his life together.

  Only one problem: The badge had to be returned to the Coca-Cola hospitality rep when the tournament was over. Coke received a few dozen badges every year, which they offered to favored clients. The badges were renewable, but handed out at Coke’s discretion. They wanted them back, so they could hand them out to whoever they chose next year.

  Ty had a plan. After selling the badge, he would call his Coke rep in a panic, telling him it had been in his luggage, and the airline had lost his suitcase. He would say he was just sick about losing the badge, but there was nothing he could do. He was going home, without seeing the tournament this year. Would the Coke rep believe him? Doubtful. There would be no badge next year, of course, but at least no one could prove he’d sold it. He’d be out of the woods.

  He knew that badges were bought and sold on Washington Road every day of the Masters Scalping was legal in Georgia. He just had to be careful not to do it in the street—they’d arrest you for blocking traffic. And there were undercover cops on the street looking for counterfeit badges.

  Maybe he’d been too cautious on Thursday, or maybe his asking price had been too high. When he hadn’t sold the badge by 2 p.m., he decided to use it himself for the rest of the day and to hit the streets again Friday morning. Maybe, by then, the supply of badges would drop and the prices would rise. But after Max called his hotel, Ty knew he had to sell the badge today.

  After a couple of hours with no bites, Ty was beginning to feel desperate. He was about to approach a pair of prospects—a couple wearing matching green golf sweaters, each with a hand on a “Need 2” sign, and a short guy in shin-length cargo pants and a red, short-sleeved collared shirt holding a sign that said “$ for MB”—when he felt a hand touch him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Got a badge to sell?” said a tall, balding man with a Southern accent.

  Ty looked him up and down. He was bare-headed, with deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks. He looked as though he didn’t eat very well. Probably not a cop; probably not a golf fan, either, judging by the man’s attire. He wore black sneakers, black pants, and a gray T-shirt.

  “Are you a cop?” Ty said, staring him in the eyes.

  “Do I look like a cop?” Lee Doggett asked, with no humor in his voice. “What’re you asking for the badge?”

  “First, you gotta tell me you’re not a cop.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Five thousand,” Ty said, expecting the guy to walk away. It was a huge amount, and this guy didn’t look like he had it. But Ty had to get his price; he knew, eventually, somebody would want the badge badly enough.

  “Sounds fair,” Doggett said. “A guy down the street was asking six.”

  Six thousand, Ty thought. If I could g
et six…

  “But he’s been there for a couple hours,” Doggett added. “He’s not going to get six if he stands there all day. I’ll give you five, cash, straight up.”

  Ty was momentarily tempted to tell the guy he wanted to see what other offers he might get. But this was a bird in hand. He couldn’t afford to let this guy get away.

  “Deal,” Ty said. “Where…uh, how do you want to do this?”

  “I don’t have the cash here,” Doggett said with a harsh laugh. “The National has private dicks on the street, looking for badge sellers. We’ll need to go to my place. I’ll take you there in my truck, and get you back here in 20 minutes—or anyplace else you want to go.”

  Doggett said his truck was parked on a side street several blocks north of the course. The noise from the traffic and the hospitality houses on Washington Road began to recede as they walked downhill toward the river on the curbless street with no sidewalks, past small brick homes with neat lawns and occasional boulevard trees. There was no conversation between the two men, and the silence of the quiet neighborhood was making Ty feel anxious. He began to sweat, perhaps more from nervousness than from the heat. He’d never done anything like this—but facing Max’s friends and Roxanne’s wrath scared him more than selling a hot Masters badge to a stranger.

  The light blue Chevy pickup was squeezed into a spot that overhung the entrance to a driveway, a parking ticket stuck on the windshield. Doggett pulled the ticket from under the wiper and tore it up, dropping the pieces in the street. Maybe he’s not from around here, Ty thought.

  They got into the truck, and Doggett started it with a noisy rumble. He let it idle as he turned to Ty and said, “I need to see the badge first.”

  Ty reached into his back pocket and pulled out the green laminated badge with “Masters” written diagonally across the front in green letters on a blue holographic background. The dates of the tournament were written in smaller black letters under the diagonal blue strip, the Augusta National logo was in the upper left corner, and a serial number was printed against a white background in the lower right corner. Each year the badge design changed a little, but they were always instantly identifiable.

  “Good,” Doggett grunted, handing the badge back to Ty. He put the truck in gear and pulled out into the street, heading north.

  “How far is it?” Ty asked.

  “Just a mile or so,” Doggett said. “I’ve got a place by the river.”

  “Nice.”

  They were on Eisenhower Drive, a mostly residential street that passed several cul-de-sacs as it extended northward away from Augusta National. They crossed another neighborhood street and a set of railroad tracks, and came to a complex of deserted baseball fields next to a sign that said “City of Augusta Eisenhower Park.” A divided highway was visible in the distance, buffered by a tightly bunched row of conical fir trees. Beyond the highway was the Savannah River.

  Doggett turned right once he entered the park and drove down a narrow, cracked, asphalt road past an abandoned baseball backstop that stood in the middle of an overgrown field. He continued forward on a dirt road that paralleled the railroad tracks and led under a highway overpass. There were a couple of houses on the other side of the tracks, set back and secluded by trees.

  Doggett stopped the truck under the highway overpass and put the engine in neutral, setting the parking brake.

  “I don’t see anything here,” Ty said loudly, over the rumble of the truck’s engine and the traffic noise above them. He looked around for a house or an apartment building, then looked back at Doggett, who had taken a gym bag out from under his seat and was unzipping it.

  “What’s going on?” Ty said, his heart suddenly pounding.

  Doggett pulled a hunting knife out of the gym bag and slid over next to Ty, holding his collar with his right hand and putting the knife to his throat.

  “Get out,” he said evenly.

  “Oh, no,” Ty said, whimpering. “Don’t do this. Please…”

  “Get out,” Doggett repeated, more forcefully.

  Ty fumbled for the door handle, trying to decide if he should make a run for it. What had he and Roxanne learned in that self-defense class? Run from a gun…? No, that wasn’t right. Run from a knife, attack a gun…that was it. If you stay close to him, he can stab you. But he couldn’t run. He could barely walk—in fact, he felt like he was going to shit his pants. Maybe the tall man wasn’t going to kill him. Maybe he was just going to take his badge and leave him there.

  Ty got out of the truck and pulled the badge from his back pocket.

  “Look, take the badge,” Ty said, his voice quavering. “It’s yours. No questions asked. Just don’t kill me. I have a wife and kids.”

  He started to cry.

  Doggett had gotten out of the truck on his side and had the knife trained on Ty as he walked around the front bumper. He motioned with the knife for Ty to start walking forward beside the railroad tracks.

  “Up that way,” Doggett said. “Now.”

  “Wait, wait,” Ty wailed. “Take the badge. You don’t want to kill me. Christ, that’s murder! To get into a golf tournament? Don’t be insane!”

  “Shut up,” Doggett said. His eyes were cold, businesslike. “I’m not going to kill you. Now get going.”

  Ty wanted to believe the man. He walked forward, around a bend in the railroad tracks toward a trestle that crossed a canal. He held the badge in his right hand, his arms held out at his waist with his hands up. He kept babbling to Doggett as he shuffled along in the red clay beside the tracks.

  “I mean, murder’s crazy. They’ll find you—you’ll get the death penalty. If you just take the badge, you’ll never see me again. I’ll never tell. Never. It’s not mine, anyway. They can’t trace it back to me. It’s not worth killing someone.”

  They’d reached the edge of the canal, where a footbridge led to a water-treatment plant on the other side. Doggett looked around. They couldn’t be seen from the highway. There were no houses in sight, and no one on the other side of the canal. The rushing Savannah River was visible on the other side of the treatment plant. This would do.

  “Come on, just take it,” Ty said, extending the hand that held the badge toward Doggett.

  “Okay,” Doggett said.

  He stepped forward quickly and ran the blade of the hunting knife across Ty’s throat. Ty’s knees buckled and his body collapsed into a sitting position as he grabbed at the blood that spurted out of his neck. He then fell over backward into the weeds at the edge of the canal bank, and in a moment lay still, his shirt soaked with his blood. The badge had dropped from his hand. Doggett picked up the badge, put it in his pocket, and set the knife down. He went through the dead man’s pockets and found his wallet, which contained $73 in cash. He took the money, but left the credit cards. He wiped the knife on Ty’s pants, then grabbed Ty’s legs, dragged the body a few feet closer to the canal and pushed it down the bank. It tumbled easily into the water and began to drift with the current, leaving a muddy blood slick in its wake. Then Doggett picked up the knife and walked back to the truck.

  Lee Doggett now had free access to Augusta National for the rest of the week—or until the tournament ended.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Lee Doggett drove the truck through Gate 4, parked in the large public lot, and entered the course through the main spectator gates. He showed his badge and walked undisturbed through the portable metal-detector columns. Now he needed to know where Skarda was—and where that pretty caddie of his was.

  Recognizing Caroline Rockingham wouldn’t be hard—he’d seen her half a dozen times on television in the past day. The news channels had turned her into the symbol of liberation at Augusta National. Even Rachel Drucker didn’t get as much airtime now. No one would doubt that the membership at the club would love to shut her up.

&n
bsp; Her murder would be an outrage that could stop the tournament in its tracks.

  He picked up a pairing sheet from a green wooden box with a roof like a birdhouse. The schedule said that Sam Skarda had teed off at 1:17. He wouldn’t finish his round for several hours.

  Doggett had never paid much attention to the Masters when he worked at the National. It was just a week of 18-hour days to him—more money, but a real pain in the ass. He did know that amateurs usually stayed in the clubhouse during Masters Week. They were in a room called the Crow’s Nest. Skarda was probably staying there with the other amateurs. Doggett looked down the pairing sheet for the players with the “–a” designation after their names. Tom Wheeling was one; Brady Compton was another. If he could find one of them, they might know where Skarda was. Compton was still on the course, according to the pairings; he’d also gone off late. Wheeling had played in the morning, and should have finished.

  He didn’t see a caddie with wheeling on the back of his jumpsuit in the crowded area around the 9th and 18th greens. He walked over to the rope by the bag room and called to one of the employees standing in the breezeway.

  “Has Tom Wheeling put his clubs away?”

  “Wheeling’s still on the range,” the man said. He looked at Doggett as though he knew him, but Doggett turned and walked away.

  He walked across the driveway to the practice range. The grandstand had begun to empty out, now that all the players were either on the course or through with their rounds. A few players would be working on their game until the range closed down. Some guys never gave up trying to be perfect, and Wheeling was apparently one of them. He’ll know where Skarda will be tonight, Doggett thought. I’ll just have to wait until he’s finished.

  There were three players on the range: Wheeling and two pros Doggett had never heard of. Doggett took a seat in the first row of the grandstand and watched with no interest as the three players hit shot after shot down the range. Golf bored him to shit. He could fall asleep watching these pansies if he didn’t have to keep an eye on Wheeling. And yet Doggett couldn’t help but feel a tingle of anticipation as he waited for Wheeling to finish. The plan he had come up with was working perfectly. He had Stanwick, the National, the cops, the town—hell, the entire country—trying to guess what he’d do next. They’d never figure it out. They couldn’t stop him. They were playing his game, by his rules—and he was on the verge of winning. For that, he could force himself to watch a guy hitting golf balls.