Death from the Ladies Tee

by James Y. Bartlett

  Like most courses in Florida, those at the Doral had a certain sameness: the terrain of monotonous flatness. Golf course architects have labored mightily over the years to break up that monotony by bulldozing the land into mounds and hills, digging out lots of black, murky ponds, framing greens with royal or coconut palms and planting accents of flowering hibiscus or crape myrtle. But whether the holes run straight or dogleg this way or that, there is nothing the architects can do to disguise the basic billiard-table flatness of the land. Nor can they do anything about the hot sun or the fierce mosquitoes. That’s golf in Florida.

  Still, as I watched the garishly dressed tourists happily flailing away, I realized that this was probably better than, say, Chicago dressed in its late spring coat of cold slushy snow, or Detroit, Buffalo or even my own Boston on a nonwarm April day. Yes, for a day or two of golf, this would do just fine.

  I put such philosophical thoughts out of my head by thinking about that vision of loveliness named Casey Carlyle. Returning to my suite, I took a shower, turned on the sports channel and promptly fell asleep.

  I put a lot of thought into what to wear for my interview that evening with Casey…er, Big Wyn. I thought about going with the Palm Beach look: pink linen sports coat over some starched white ducks, glistening Gucci loafers. Sockless, of course. It gives the ensemble that extra touch of casual yet studied nonchalance. But it was all fantasy, of course. I am, after all, one of the mastodons of the press box and we have certain standards of our own to maintain. Besides which, I don’t own either a pink linen sports coat or a pair of Gucci loafers.

  So I dressed in my uniform. Wrinkled khaki trousers. Mostly clean white golf shirt with only one button missing, but what the hell, who buttons golf shirts anyway? My six-year-old navy blue blazer, which is only a little frayed at the cuffs and getting a tad thin at the elbow. Comes from leaning on lots of bars. And, of course, Bass loafers. I left the socks off…when in Rome etc. Looking in the mirror, I saw that I was the veritable picture of studied nonchalance.

  Honie came and got me promptly at seven. I was trying to brush my hair back into an insouciant flip when she knocked. She came in and perched on the end of the bed while I fussed in the mirror, watching me with a bemused grin.

  “So,” I said, studiously nonchalant, trying to keep my voice level and deep. “Tell me something about her.” She knew who I meant, of course, and her grin widened. I wasn’t paying attention, as I had that last lock of hair just where I wanted it. Kind of the young Marlon Brando meets Tom Cruise. Devastating.

  “Okay,” Honie finally said with a giggle. “For starters, she sleeps with girls.”

  I dropped my hairbrush. I stared at Honie to see if she was just pulling my chain. She wasn’t. She was laughing her fool head off. I muttered some imprecations. Then I began to swear.

  “Tell me, Honie, that there is a God and what you say is not true,” I pleaded.

  “Sorry, Hacker,” she said, wiping her eyes and going off into a fresh bout of laughter. “There are lots of poorly kept secrets in this organization, and that’s one of the worst.”

  “But who? Why?” I was speechless. The waste, the utter waste of it all.

  “I’ll give you all the soap-opera stuff later,” she said, glancing at her watch. “We’ve got to get over to Big Wyn’s suite. She has been known to get pissed if you’re late.”

  She stood up, came over and gave me a peck on the cheek, sisterly like. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I couldn’t let you go make a complete ass of yourself. At least, not on your first night here.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I grumbled, and we left.

  I had thought my junior suite was pretty nice until I saw the penthouse palace occupied by Big Wyn and her party. Honie used a special key in the elevator to whisk us up to the top floor of the hotel. The doors whispered open onto an antechamber done in smoked mirrors and brass-and-crystal chandeliers. We walked down a curved hallway toward the sounds of low conversation and tinkling glasses.

  We came out on the balcony level of Wyn’s immense suite. The room that lay before us was semicircular, with two-story floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the golf courses. Beyond were the lights of the downtown Miami skyscrapers, twinkling through the twilight. The room was furnished in Florida elegance: white leather furniture, bright pastel accents, modern art on the walls. It was all just a shade toward the garish. There was a white grand piano, lid propped open. Next to the piano stood a six-foot-tall flower arrangement featuring lots of bright-red corkscrew-like things.

  As we stood on the balcony looking over all this opulence, the conversations of the people standing down below gradually stopped. I felt like breaking into the balcony scene from “Romeo and Juliet,” but restrained myself for once. Below us, of course, was Big Wyn Stilwell, who was wearing black evening pants and a loose white top. Benton Bergmeister, the LPGA commish, was still wearing his snappy gray suit. He was holding a tall highball glass. Standing over by the window, bedecked in a shimmering red-sequined floor-length dress, all luscious curves and secret shadows, was the lovely and apparently unapproachable Casey Carlyle. I shot her a look of moral disapproval, but I don’t think she noticed.

  There were two other people in the room I didn’t know. One was a short, stocky older gentleman wearing a crisp white overall getup, sort of dress work clothes, with a zipper down the front that was unzipped just enough so that wisps of gray chest hair peeped out. His face was full and deeply tanned, his hair receding and almost totally white. He had powerful-looking arms and thick, beefy hands.

  Standing next to Big Wyn was a thickset younger woman in a rather plain blue dress, which she kept nervously tugging at as if she were uncomfortable. Not quite chunky, she was square in her build. Her legs stuck out from the bottom of her dress like two strong fence posts and I immediately guessed she was a golfer on the tour. They have that kind of power source. Her hair was close-cropped and her face was square and deeply tanned. She was looking up at us with what seemed to be a scowl, her eyebrows thick and heavy and knitted in an unpleasant manner.

  Honie and I tripped lightly down a rounded staircase to get to the lower level where everyone else was standing. Honie handled the introductions with professional aplomb. I shook hands with Big Wyn and Bergmeister, whose hand was cold from his drink.

  The man in the coveralls was Harold Stilwell, Big Wyn’s husband. The golfer was Julie Warren, who, it was explained to me, served on the players’ council with Big Wyn. Casey smiled at me briefly from across the room, then turned and looked out the window. She seemed bored. I think I heard a soft snort from Honie, but chose to ignore it.

  “Welcome, Mister Hacker,” Big Wyn boomed in her deep subcontralto voice. “What can we get you to drink?”

  “Scotch rocks, thanks,” I said.

  “Harold, get the man’s drink,” she ordered. “And I’ll have another gin.”

  “Yes, dear,” Harold said and made for the bar on the far side of the room.

  “I’m still waiting for my white wine,” Julie piped up. There was an unpleasant edge to her voice that matched her countenance. Harold stopped and looked at her. He was about to say something but caught himself and turned back toward the bar.

  “Why, I believe I am about due for a refill,” Bergmeister said to no one in particular and followed Harold to the bar. He lurched slightly as he rounded the glass cocktail table, and I could tell he was a drink or three ahead of the rest of us.

  I noticed no one had asked Honie what she wanted, and was about to ask her myself when Big Wyn interjected.

  “Thank you, Honie,” she said dismissively. “If we need anything else, we’ll call your room.”

  I saw a quick shadow of disappointment fall across Honie’s face as she realized she had been asked to leave. She, too, had put some thought into her evening dress and makeup, and she looked lovely.
But she quickly recovered, gave me one of her 100-watt smiles and left. I felt irritation rise. I’m not big on authority figures anyway, but I especially hate it when they step so casually on the little people of the world. But what was I going to do, throw my drink in Big Wyn’s face?

  Harold came over with two drinks, mine and Big Wyn’s. Julie sighed audibly. Big Wyn frowned at him. “Harold, will you please get Julie her wine?” she said imperiously. “She’s waiting, you know.”

  “Goddamnit, Wynnona,” Harold exploded. “I only got two hands, for Christ sakes. You’d think a goddam professional athlete would be able to fetch her own goddam drink. I’m not a slave, y’know.”

  “That’ll be enough, Harold,” Big Wyn thundered back. “Get her drink and get it now!”

  I watched Harold’s face turn a deep and dangerous shade of red. It stood in sharp contrast to his stiff white coveralls. But the man swallowed hard, turned on his heel, and headed back to the bar. I saw Julie glance after him with a haughty look of victory.

  I took a stiff belt from my glass of Scotch, and wished it was my third.

  “So, Mr. Hacker,” Big Wyn turned back to me, purring sweetly. “We are so glad to have you here with us this week.”

  “Absholutely,” Benton Bergmeister agreed as he lurched back from the bar. His shin struck the edge of the same cocktail table he had earlier avoided and he stumbled slightly, spilling some of his drink onto his hand. “Damn,” he muttered. He recovered, stood up straight and caught sight of a disapproving look from Big Wyn. He turned red and cast his eyes downward, then took a sip and sat down hard on the leather couch.

  “I trust your room is satisfactory,” Big Wyn continued pleasantly. “If you need anything special, just give Casey a call. She is in charge of making the travel and hospitality arrangements for our VIP guests, and she knows how to make these hotel people jump.”

  “Well,” I said sweetly back, “I know I’d bust a gut doing whatever she wanted.”

  Casey turned back from staring out the window at nothing and fixed me with a totally flat, emotionless stare. Her pale blue eyes just rested on me, unseeing. Dead. Humorless. I got a bit of the willies just looking at those eyes and resisted the temptation to put a hand down between my legs to make sure everything was still there.

  “And of course,” Wyn continued, “Benton and I would be happy to make ourselves available for an interview at your convenience.”

  “Well, thanks,” I replied graciously. “It’s been quite a while since I last covered a women’s event, and I’m looking forward to seeing some of the newer faces. Like Julie here, for instance.” I nodded at the woman, who turned a little red. “How is your season going? I haven’t heard much about you.”

  Turning redder still, Julie was about to say something when Big Wyn cut her off.

  “Julie has been working closely with me on tour business this season,” she said. “As a result, her golf game has suffered some. But she’s been working hard in the last few weeks and we expect her game to improve shortly.”

  “I see,” I said, and that little radar blip of irritation flared anew. I hate it when someone answers another’s question like that. “So what kinds of issues have you been dealing with?” I asked Julie, looking directly at her. “Have you found some new sponsors to fill up your spring break?”

  The LPGA had suffered the indignity of losing some tournament sponsors which had left a gaping hole in the early weeks of the year’s schedule. So far, the tour had been unsuccessful in filling this unwanted “spring break” in their schedule.

  Julie didn’t even attempt to answer me this time. She just took a long, slow sip from her glass of chardonnay and looked at me over the rim of her glass with those beetled eyebrows.

  Big Wyn sighed once, audibly. “I don’t know why that has become such a major issue with you press people,” she said with some irritation. “Instead of focusing on the thirty-eight excellent tournaments we have scheduled, you always bring up those three damn weeks when we don’t have one. I’ll get those weeks filled next year, so just keep your pants on.”

  I turned to look directly at Wyn. “Well,” I said, “Since Julie apparently can’t talk to me, perhaps you can point me towards a few of the newer players who are allowed to speak. Be good if you could find me a player from New England. Local angle always goes over big with my editor.”

  For a minute, Big Wyn stared at me. An uncomfortable silence built in the room. “Of course,” she said finally, nodding to herself, eyes holding mine thoughtfully. “I’ll be happy to give you a list of some of the girls you should talk to, some of the newer members of the tour. Julie, you can help Mr. Hacker with that, can’t you?”

  “Sure, Wyn, sure,” she said, not looking too happy about the idea.

  “That’s very considerate of you,” I said. “But I’m kinda used to going my own way on things. I like to poke around and get the lay of the place, if you know what I mean. Habits built up over the years and all that.”

  Big Wyn’s eyes still peered into mine. I began to feel a tad uncomfortable. Like a book being read.

  “I understand, Mr. Hacker,” she said. “Still, I’m glad to have this opportunity to meet with you and go over some of our ground rules.”

  “Ground rules?” I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the surprise out of my voice. I put my drink down on the table.

  “Certainly,” Big Wyn said confidentially. “Certain areas are, shall we say, not open for discussion with my girls.”

  I felt a sudden pounding in my ears, and glanced around quickly to see if anyone else could hear it. Harold was over by the bar, cleaning its surface with a wet rag. Bergmeister was still sitting on the couch, looking into his glass of vodka. Julie was watching me with another one of her hateful smirks. And the Delicious Dyke was still standing over by the window. But she was watching us now, and a slight smile played on her lips. She held a martini in one hand and with the other rubbed a sliver of lemon peel around and around the edge of her glass. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear she was trying to do something erotic for my benefit. But I knew better.

  “Such as?” I asked quietly, waiting to hear it all before I did something about the thud-thud in my ears.

  “Well,” Big Wyn began. “First of all, I would like you not to dwell on the off-course earnings by our leading money winners. Everyone knows the girls can make quite a bit extra through endorsements and such, but I feel it detracts from the image of the tour as a whole. I prefer that our girls be known by what they earn on the golf course.

  “Second, all figures on attendance at our tournaments will come from our marketing office. We have very scientific and accurate data that will show the true numbers on our gate receipts. Much better than the odd guesstimate.

  “Third, the personal lives of our girls are off limits. We want you to write about their golf and only their golf. After all,” and she smirked at me nastily, “I don’t recall reading anything recently about the sex lives of the men players.

  “Fourth – “

  I held up my hand. I was beyond irritation now and had entered the realm of officially hot.

  “Now wait just a goddam minute,” I began. “In the fifteen years I’ve been a professional reporter, I have never, until this very minute, ever been told by anyone how I’m to go about reporting and writing my story. For you to stand there and check off your so-called ground rules as if you were reading a goddam shopping list gives you the biggest set of balls I have ever seen, male or female! I mean, have you ever heard of the First Amendment, or don’t they have that in the land of the LPGA? You can take your goddam ground rules and shove them –”

  “Hacker!” Big Wyn bellowed at me, jumping to her feet. “If I’m not mistaken, we have arranged for a complimentary hotel suite for you this weekend.” Her cheekbones were burning red. “And for so
me free meals and other benefits. I think that gives us some right to –”

  “That gives you the right to stick it right up your wazoo,” I retorted. “Do you actually think I can be purchased for the price of a hotel room? Or a steak dinner? Jeez, Wyn, how many years have you been doing this? Where did you pick up the idea that you could just order people around like they were tin soldiers? Have you been reading a biography of Stalin or something? Nobody tells me how to write or what to write. Not even my editor, and he’s an idiot.”

  “Casey!” Big Wyn whirled on the girl in the shimmering red dress. “I want Hacker’s comp cancelled immediately! If he wants to stay here, he can do it on his own nickel.”

  “My pleasure,” Casey purred, and her dead flat eyes came alive with a taunting, sneering gleam. She gracefully put her martini glass down and slunk off.

  Wynnona Stilwell turned back to me.

  “I get what I pay for,” she said.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. I tossed it down on the table. “That should cover the Scotch,” I said. “Plus a little extra for the waiter.” I glanced over at Harold Stilwell, who was now rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, cracking the knuckles on his meaty right hand. He stared back at me.