Death from the Ladies Tee

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Right,” Burkey said, nodding at me approvingly. “And like any small town, everybody knows everyone else’s business, and then some. I get a wart on my butt, everybody knows all about it inside a day. Then they all come over with butt-wart remedies!”

  I had to laugh. “So what you’re telling me is that Carol slept with Big Wyn and everyone knew it? So why did she freak out?”

  “No, that’s not it at all,” Burkey corrected me, “Nobody knew nothing. Look, I told you how tightly wound Carol is. She’s got this one-track mind: golf, golf, and golf. I don’t know what that girl does for fun, but I can just about guarantee that sex isn’t on the agenda.”

  She paused again, her lips pursed.

  “You see, we all pretty much know who does what and with whom,” she said. “When a girl first comes on tour, it’s part of the list. She plays Taylor Made woods, Titleist ProV1 balls, and sleeps with girls or doesn’t. And that last part is about as important as the first two: It’s just a part of who you are. I don’t know anyone who’s terribly judgmental. We all just try to get along and play some golf and make some money.”

  She turned to look at me.

  “What I’m saying is that even though we all know what’s going on, we don’t much care. But the word on Carol was that she was one of the nonsex girls.”

  “Nonsex?” I asked.

  “Someone who doesn’t really care about sex,” she said. “Someone so into their golf game that they just don’t do it. Period. Too busy practicing and playing and all. Carol Acorn is one of them.”

  She looked off at the lights twinkling in the distance and we listened to the breeze rustling the palm fronds above us.

  “When I’m working with a girl, I always try to get to know her personally a bit,” she continued. “You know, go out and have a few beers. Do some girl talk. I like to find out what makes ‘em tick. Hell, people think professional golfers are magic somehow. We’re just folks like anyone else. Anyway, this girl never opened up with me. Hell, I had to practically tie her up and drag her out the door to get her to out with me sometimes. Always had her guard up, never let anyone inside. The original and still champeen Ice Maiden.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Just no fun in that girl, It’s so sad. But I see it all the time. These girls coming up are just so determined to win, no matter the cost. It gets their life outta whack, if you know what I mean. If you spend your entire life chasing the rainbow and never get it, leaves you kinda empty inside.”

  “And Big Wyn?” I asked.

  Mary Beth pursed her lips before answering.

  “Wynona Stilwell is one of the best golfers who ever played the game,” she said carefully. “But she is not a nice person. She has never let anything or anybody stand in the way of getting whatever it is she wants. And she wants it all.”

  “Such as…” I prompted.

  “Well, hell it’s no secret that Wyn runs this show,” Mary Beth said. “You know, all that woman has ever done in her life is play golf. She made it to the top and stayed there a long time.”

  “And now?”

  “And now her ability as a player has lessened. Hell, age does that to everybody. And we don’t have a Woman’s Senior Tour…yet!”

  We both laughed.

  “I think she got into the administrative side of the game as a way to keep control, keep her hand in,” Burkey said. “She decided if she could no long play her way to the top, she’d just take over and run the joint. She likes being the top dog.”

  “But the general impression is that she’s done a pretty good job,” I said.

  “Oh, hell, she’s done a great job,” Burke said. “Purses are up, sponsors are happy, we’re getting a bit more television coverage every year. But …” She trailed off.

  “I remember there was some locker-room talk a few years ago when she was elected president of the players’ council about some people she stepped on hard. And there are still whispers about how she manages to pull off some of her deals. Heck, we’re all self-employed and independent minded, so when an issue comes up, everyone has an opinion. Somebody who disagrees with Big Wyn gets called into a meeting to discuss it, and comes out saying ‘I was wrong, this’ll be great!’ But you look at them casting their eyes sideways at Big Wyn and you wonder what was said in that room. Now, I’m beginning to understand a little.” She blew out a frustrated and angry breath.

  “Carol told me what happened, finally. It was about a year ago. Carol was new on Tour and struggling. Wyn came up to her one day and offered to work with her on her game. ‘Wow,’ she thought, ‘Big Wyn Stillwell wants to help me!’

  “So they go spend an afternoon on the practice tee. Then Big Wyn invites her back to the room to watch some swing videos. Wine gets poured. Girls just havin’ fun. Two or three wines. Probably something in them. Carol wakes up in Wyn’s bedroom. Wyn is doing some things to her she just doesn’t understand.”

  Mary Beth’s voice began to shake.

  “Carol is horrified. She jumps up and starts to leave. Big Wyn laughs and pushes her down and starts in on the hard sell. Tells her that to win on the LPGA, a girl’s gotta pay her dues. Gotta concentrate on golf, not men. Men are messes and trouble and there’s no room for them. Tells her the good players have always known this, and that’s why they stick to the girls-only in the sex department. Uncomplicates things, she says. Simplify the sex life and let the golf roll.”

  “What a crock,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, like I said, it was the hard sell,” Burkey said. “And when Carol still balked, Big Wyn dropped the other shoe. Told her their little party had all been captured on videotape. And Carol’s got two choices. She can come back for more and welcome to it. Or she can just bide her time until Big Wyn needs a favor and then decide what’s more important to her: Doin’ Big Wyn’s favor or having her sex life exposed in all the tabloids. First one to get the tape would be Carol’s daddy.”

  “Christ,” I said, awed by the evil of it all.

  “Yeah,” Burkey agreed. “And poor ole Carol, the champeen Ice Maiden, locks all this up inside. All the memories and the guilt and the bad feelings and the humiliation, and keeps it there for about a year.”

  “Until Hacker the scribe asks her a simple and innocent question,” I finished.

  Burke nodded sadly. “Whereupon it all came out like a gusher.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I sent Carol home,” Mary Beth said. “Withdrew her from the tournament. Contacted her family, packed her on the next plane. Called her brother and said the girl probably could use some counseling and some time away from golf.”

  We sat in silence for a long time, each locked into our own thoughts. It’s always sobering to encounter the evil that lurks in the human soul. It hides in there within all of us, and most of us spend our waking hours trying hard to keep that particular demon locked safely away.

  But then there are those who revel in it. Who let their personal evils come out and play every day. Who enjoy the power and the rush and obliterating laugh of the daily fix. Who go through life happily destroying and tearing down and burning bridges.

  It’s no fair fight between Good and Evil. None of us have the purity of heart and soul to effectively battle those who let their evil impulses rule their lives. We’re all just trying to hang on, do the best we can, and carve a little happiness out of this large mess of a world. And then come the Evil Ones, catching us unaware from behind. Scything and slaying blindly, cutting down all in their path for the nasty joy of it. As we fall, with our last conscious thoughts, we can hear their victorious cackles echo in our minds.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was Wednesday morning when the telephone woke me. Early Wednesday morning. Too damn early. I had planned to sleep in. It was, after all, supposed to be my vacation and
I needed to catch up on my sleep. Especially since I had returned to the hotel bar after hearing Mary Beth’s sordid tale and gotten myself rip-roaring drunk. But it was a little after eight when the telephone woke me. I checked the time on my bedside clock radio, groaned, closed my eyes and fumbled the phone to my ear.

  “Morning, Hacker!” chirruped Honie Carlton’s obscenely cheerful voice. “Up and at ‘em, big guy. A new day dawns.”

  “Ah, for cryin’ out loud,” I moaned. “Can’t you just leave me alone until lunch? I promise I’ll write nothing but superlatives about the goddam Tour…just let me sleep!” My head was pounding. My tongue felt thick and fuzzy. In general, I felt like crap.

  “I got a better idea,” Honie said. “How about an entire whole day at the beach? Doing nothing but catching some rays, drinking pina coladas and watching the parade of beach bunnies. South Beach, Hacker. I hear they don’t wear bathing suit tops over there.”

  I opened one eye. “You are, as they say, playing my song,” I told Honie. “What’s the catch?”

  “Hacker, you are so cynical,” Honie pouted. “What makes you think there’s a catch?”

  “Honie, there is always a catch,” I said. “Always.”

  “Well, today is just a practice round. Tomorrow’s the pro-am. But there is a little Chamber of Commerce thingy over at the Fountainbleu at noon,” she told me. I moaned and reclosed my eye. My head began throbbing in a higher key.

  “But,” she quickly finished. “You don’t have to do anything. I just promised I’d have you there. As far as I’m concerned, you can park it on a chaise and wave and that’ll count as an appearance. After all, I can’t make you work, can I?”

  I laughed appreciatively. “Okay, you win,” I surrendered. “When and where?”

  “I’ll come get you in an hour,” she giggled. “Bring your sun block.”

  I ordered lots of coffee and breakfast from room service, had a quick shower, downed a few aspirin and perused the morning newspaper that had been laid outside my door. The local sportswriters were waxing ecstatic about the world’s best women players about to play in their town. Someone had done an interview piece with Big Wyn. A sidebar listing all her tour victories covered almost an entire column. The front of the sports section had a big four-color photo of Stilwell. They had taken two pictures: one in golf clothing, holding her driver; one in business attire, clasping a briefcase. The two photos had been PhotoShopped into one, to illustrate the two roles of Big Wyn.

  The story was effusive in its praise of Big Wyn and the job she had been doing for the Tour. It mentioned the sponsors she had personally corralled, the tournaments she had helped arrange and the many, many personal appearances she made. It made her sound like a selfless giver, instead of a vicious, power-hungry, manipulative bitch.

  By the time Honie appeared to collect me, I had downed most of the pot of coffee and was feeling semi-human again. Honie was wearing khaki shorts with a white top that covered her bathing suit. She also carried a big straw hat and sunglasses.

  “Planning on working hard today, huh?” I jested.

  “Well, hell, I deserve it, the hours I’ve been putting in,” she said. “Besides, my only assignment for the day is to entertain you. So prepare to be entertained, as long as it’s on the beach.”

  Carl packed us into a taxi and we set off across the various causeways to Miami Beach. Sun-and-fun capital of the world. Jackie Gleason and the June Taylor Dancers. Yachts bobbing in marina after marina, and high-rises glistening above the azure sea, home to a new generation of glitterati. Of course, one had to speak Spanish in order to communicate with anyone, except in South Beach, where all you needed was hard abs, roller-blades and the ability to grunt in single syllables.

  The reality? Block after block of numbingly depressing motel units, all housing elderly people engaged in a race against time. Which would run out first…the money or life? Days spent waking up, sipping prune juice, popping the colorful array of pills, wandering down to the corner to sit outside, try to make the newspaper last the morning, studying the obits for the names of friends. When the money got tight, cutting back from beer to Coke, then from Coke to water. Meat to soup to kibbles and bits. Trying to cheer dying spouses and friends, and convince themselves, with words like “better than New York!”

  Florida is, after all, the land where people go to die. By the millions, they seem to believe that a few extra degrees of warmth, a palm tree or two, and the occasional glimpse of the ocean will inspire them to live long and prosper. It doesn’t work, folks. It just gives the Grim Reaper more to choose from.

  But that part of Miami Beach is hidden by the glitz and glamour of the beachfront. On the shore, all is wealth and riches and paparazzi and happiness bought and paid for. With interest. It’s a life of doormen and security guards, delivered groceries and glam dinners out, club-hopping and watching the Beautiful People drift in and out. On the shore, life still has hope and a future. The black despair of the past is kept inland a few blocks, in those hot and humid cellblocks of death.

  The Hotel Fountainbleu is a frumpy outpost of the old Miami Beach swimming in a neon, Deco sea of modernism. I already dislike New York City and the Fountainbleu is simply a chunk of Manhattanism moved south. It is loud and brassy and brusque and over-expensive. It is guys with lots of gold chains around their necks, white glossy loafers and broads with black bouffant do’s, ostentatious dangly bracelets dripping with diamonds, loud voices, and enormous bosoms crammed into hideous bathing attire. There is lots of rude finger-snapping and competitive oneupsmanship going on at the Fountainbleu. No thanks.

  Honie led me through the cacophony of the lobby, through the back doors and out to the huge swimming pool. One side of the pool is a fake-stone grotto, with a swim-up bar inside the cave and a water slide for the kids. Whoopee.

  We strolled out to the beach. Honie arranged for a cabana, paying an obscene amount of cash to a handsome hunk, ordered two extra-large pina coladas, stripped down to her bathing suit and lathered up with sunblock. I enjoyed watching. I parked my chair in the shade of the cabana – no sense overdoing the sun—stretched out on the padded chaise and prepared to get acquainted with the inside of my eyelids. The warm morning sun beat down on the beach and a gentle breeze ruffled the flags around us. The warmth, the sun and the sound of the gentle surf, as well as the overdose of Scotch the night before, made me feel deeply lethargic and listless.

  “Okay, Hacker,” Honie said when she finished laying on the goop and had settled herself in the sun. “Give.”

  “Eh?” I murmured. I was watching a particularly interesting number in a purple string bikini strolling down the surf line and thinking that even if I wanted to give chase, my body would probably refuse to get up.

  “What have you learned about our big happy family?” she asked. “Knowing you, you’ve probably tripped over some of the skeletons in our closet.”

  “Is this an official enquiry?” I asked.

  “No, you shit.” She frowned at me. “It’s a question from a friend who wants to compare notes. Remember, I’m in marketing, or will be one day. I want to know if our public image matches up with the reality of our product.”

  “Well,” I mused. “I have discovered that Big Wyn has developed some rather interesting management techniques over the years.”

  “Delicately put,” Honie agreed.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Does she sleep with every golfer on the tour?”

  “I can’t answer that,” Honie said. “My impression is, only with those she wants.”

  “Like Julie Warren?” I asked.

  “Yes, well, Julie is part of Wyn’s inner circle,” Honie answered. “Some of the girls call them Wyn’s Mafia. There are about six of them. Some are appointed to the players’ council, some aren’t. I don’t know if they all take turns in Wyn’s bed, and I don’t really care. But all of them are pretty loyal to her and will do pretty much anything she asks them to.”

&n
bsp; “Such as?”

  “Oh, mostly stuff like making promotional appearances, taking a sponsor out for a round of golf, doing interviews. Favors, errands, special tasks.”

  “And how does the beautiful Casey Carlyle fit into this chummy little picture?” I asked.

  “Her official title is travel secretary,” Honie told me. “Makes all the arrangements to help everyone get to the next stop. She finds rooms and cars and airplane seats for those who need them. Unofficially, she’s considered to be Wyn’s eyes and ears, and those who aren’t part of Wyn’s Mafia don’t trust her.”

  “A cold heart in that warm body?” I said. “What a pity.” Honie just shook her head at me.

  “I’m not sure the golfing public is aware of the degree of, er, control that Big Wyn exercises over the affairs of the LPGA,” I said.

  “But it’s also true that she has not received the proper credit for all the things she’s been able to accomplish,” Honie said loyally. “Since she’s been president, purses have gone way up, the number of tournaments has increased and we’ve attracted the best players from all over the world. She has uncanny business instincts and she’s been able to pull off some deals no one else – man or woman—has. I’ve got to give her a lot of credit for that. Benton Bergmeister, in case you haven’t noticed, is a zero from the word go. But we need a man, apparently, to schmooze with the inner circle of sponsors and advertisers. That seems to still be a man’s world. But Big Wyn …OK, she can be a royal bitch and she’s had to step on some toes. But that’s what a lot of women in business have to do in order to succeed.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” I protested. “That’s bullshit.”

  We were interrupted by a gaggle of photographers. They were calling out posing directions to a group of LPGA golfers who had suddenly appeared on the scene, posing on the beach with the ocean as backdrop. About half were dressed in golf outfits, the others were in swimwear. Honie and I watched in silence as the publicity juggernaut rolled on.