I paid five dollars for two luke-cold plastic cups of beer and we found a nearby table with an umbrella that afforded a little bit of shade but not much relief from the humid afternoon sun. We sipped our beers in silence for a while, watching other people doing the same. From time to time, echoes of cheers and applause drifted in from various corners of the golf course. I felt that peculiarly charged atmosphere that accompanies a professional golf tournament. It’s created, I think, by the unnatural silence that the fans adopt before a player makes a shot. There must be something about that collective inholding of breath that makes the air crystalline and brilliant, and the subsequent bursts of cheers and applause sound so loud and ringing. It’s an atmospheric condition that seems unique to golf.
I looked over at Harold. “You follow Big Wyn out on the course much?” I asked.
He started, sitting a bit more upright, as if my words startled him out of some kind of reverie.
“Wha—? Oh, well, sometimes yes, sometimes no,” he said. “I don’t usually bother going out to watch the first round anymore. If she’s in the thing on Sunday, I’ll be there.”
“Does she know if you’re in the gallery or not?”
He grunted, once. “Wynnona Stilwell knows everything about everything that’s going on around her,” he said with a small, sad smile. “She’s concentrating on her golf for sure, but I’ve seen her come off the course and tell the maintenance people to go rehang the gallery ropes that are down on the left of the sixth hole, and to move the portajohnnies on sixteen back a bit, and about a little puddle on twelve that should be marked ‘ground under repair.’” He took a long sip of beer, leaving a foamy mustache on his upper lip. “I don’t know how she does it, but she does. So to answer your question, yes, she does know when I’m there.”
He looked out at the passing crowd. “She seemed to be in a peculiar mood today,” he said thoughtfully. “I dunno, kind of preoccupied. I don’t expect that she’ll play very well. I’ve never seen her like this.”
“Maybe it’s Benton’s death that’s got her down,” I suggested.
“Could be, could be,” Harold nodded. “Too bad about ole Bergy. Kind of a dandy, and he drank too damn much, but I liked the man. Too bad.”
“Did you know him well?” I wondered.
“Nah, not really,” Harold shook his head. “Bergy didn’t come to a whole lot of tournaments himself. Mostly just the majors and a handful of others. And when he did show up, he usually kept to the background. Especially after –”
Harold stopped abruptly, catching himself.
“After what?” I pressed. “What happened to him?”
He took another long swallow of beer. He put his cup carefully back on the table, slowly, then turned and looked at me. He shook his head back and forth, slowly. I got the message. He wasn’t talking.
“Did he ever say anything to you about resigning? About being upset with…the way things were being run?” I knew better than to personalize the question. Harold Stilwell was a loyal husband and wouldn’t take kindly to insinuations about his wife.
“Nah,” he said. “Like I said, he didn’t talk to me much over the years. Mostly hello, goodbye, nice to see ya. Well, once, it was quite a few years ago, he came to me and started to complain about something Wynnona had decided. I sat that boy down and told him I was a retired man and did not work for the LPGA in any capacity whatsoever and that if he had a problem with Wynnona, he should bring that problem up directly with Wynnona.” Stilwell smiled at the memory. “He got the message, I do believe, because he never troubled me with anything but small talk again.”
It was my turn to pause and sip a little beer. Stilwell knew what hold Big Wyn had on Benton, but he wasn’t telling. And I wasn’t sure how to get him to do so. I could try throwing him to the ground and twisting his ear until he cried ‘uncle,’ but I might get arrested for elderly abuse.
“Tell me, Hacker,” he interrupted my train of thought, and not a moment too soon. “You ever wished you could be somebody else?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know, just kind of melt into the crowd, disappear, and come out as somebody new? Start over…new life…do something completely different? You ever feel that way?”
“Well—”I started to answer.
“’Cause I sure do, sometimes,” he said.
This was new ground and I wanted to step carefully. There might be mines buried here. Or treasure.
“I suppose,” I said, “If I was living a life that wasn’t what I really wanted. If I was forced to do things I didn’t want to do. Or if my life was pretty strictly run by someone else. Then I might feel like running away, yes.”
“Damn right,” Harold said.
“But I’ve always tried to make sure no one else was pulling my strings,” I told him. “It’s hard to do, and even I can’t make it work all the time. But as long as they tell me it’s still a free country, I intend on taking them at their word, and try to live my own life. As long as I don’t harm anyone else, I try to make my own decisions.”
Harold was silent, watching the people walk by.
“And I’d like to think that if I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t make my own decisions, live my own life, answer mostly only to myself, that I’d be able to do something about it, short of just disappearing. Which is just one way of running away, you ask me. There are lots of ways to skin a cat, as they say.”
He mumbled something.
“What?”
“Mumbo jumbo,” he said. “Bunch a damn mumbo jumbo.”
We lapsed into silence again. We were sitting in an area between the last green and the clubhouse. A group of players, coming off the eighteenth and heading for the clubhouse, pushed their way through the mingling gallery. At the front was Julie Warren, visibly sweaty and trailed by her caddie. When she was about thirty feet away, she caught sight of Harold and me sitting there drinking our beer and she deviated her path and headed straight for us.
A little girl clutching a white visor and a pen stepped in front of Julie and held the items up, asking for an autograph. Julie growled something at the girl under her breath and shook her head sternly. The little girl turned away with a look of shocked surprise.
“Hal, I don’t think you should be talking with this guy,” she said to Harold, jerking her thumb at me. “I don’t think Big Wyn would like it.”
Harold leaned back and looked up at Julie, cocking his head to one side. “I happen to be enjoying a cold brew with my friend here,” he said slowly. “If it’s any business of yours, which it ain’t.”
“He’s out to get us, you old fart!” Julie shouted at him. “I’m telling you, don’t talk to him!”
Harold Stilwell leaped to his feet, spilling his chair over backwards, and put his red and angry face right next to Julie’s. “And I’m telling you to mind your own goddam business,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
They stared at each other, eyeball to eyeball, for several long moments.
“I’m telling Big Wyn,” she said finally.
“I’m supposed to pee my pants?” Harold retorted. “Go on, get outta here.”
Julie Warren turned on her heel and stomped away. She didn’t look at me, which is too bad, because I had on my best innocent angel look.
“Lovely woman,” I said when she’d gone.
“Class A bitch,” Harold muttered, righting his chair and sinking back into it.
I couldn’t disagree, so I bought him, and me, another beer.
Thirty minutes later I was heading back to the press room to see if anyone had managed to catch either Sheehan or Daniels for the lead. Halfway there, I ran into Sybil Montgomery. She was just heading for the tenth tee, caddie in tow, to begin her first round. She slowed when she saw me and allowed her caddie to walk on by. I caught up to her. She rested her hand lightly on my shoulder, her eyes fastened on mine. Quietly, with a pleasant little smile playing about her lips, she leaned over to
whisper something to me. I bent down to hear.
“Cindy D’Angelo,” she said and winked.
“Dinner tonight?” I answered. She laughed, her eyes dancing.
“Sounds lovely,” she said. “I’ll have to let you know. Tah-tah, dahling, off to war.”
She gave my shoulder a little squeeze and headed off to the tee, her afternoon of work ahead. I watched her go and felt a nice tingle on the place where her hand had rested. It was a nice feeling, that tingle. I wanted more.
Sighing, I headed back to the blessed relief of the air conditioned press room, grabbed a beer from the cooler and plopped down in an empty chair to scan the scores. Daniel was now one stroke ahead of Sheehan, with a half-dozen others within four shots. Big Wyn had just bogeyed the eighth, I saw, and was now three-over for the day. Good.
When Honie Carlton walked in, I motioned her over with a wave, then led her to a quiet, out-of-the-way corner. I didn’t want to be overheard.
“Need some research, kid,” I said. “Former player named Cindy D’Angelo. Rookie about ten years ago, I’m told, was then pretty young, as in teens. I’d like to know about her and, if possible, where she is today.”
“Okay,” Honie said. “D’Angelo. Got it.”
“And Honie, you have to keep this very quiet,” I said seriously. “I mean top secret. It could be dangerous for both of us if anyone close to Big Wyn finds out what I’m doing.”
She fingered the bandage wrapped around her noggin. “You got it,” she said, turned on her heel and left.
God, I love to delegate. Especially when they obey without question. I felt good enough, having set some wheels in motion, to go get another beer from the press cooler and make it last at least five minutes.
I placed a call to Don Collier at hotel security, who told me that Bergmeister’s autopsy was scheduled for sometime later that afternoon. He said he expected some results around six. But, he said, the police had unofficially put Benton’s death down to natural causes, yet unknown, and had pretty much closed the case.
“How about his family? I asked.
“He has one daughter, is all,” Collier said. “She asked to have his effects packed up and sent out to her in California. Someone from the Tour helped me with that this morning. I’m still trying to recover from the experience.”
“How’s that?”
“Let me put it this way,” Collier said. “Hubba hubba to the nth degree.”
“Oh,” I said, “That must have been Casey. Did she bat her long eyelashes at you?”
“No, dammit,” he growled. “I had to make the inventory list as she packed everything into the box. She was as cold and efficient as a stiletto.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to laugh, “I’ve heard she can be a tough nut to crack.”
“But I can see where some might give their all in the attempt, though,” he said and rang off.
Barley Raney walked over and perched his large buttock on the edge of my desk. “So, Hacker,” he said jovially. “How do you like covering the ladies? You gonna defect from the PGA Tour and make this a full-time gig?”
I laughed. “Hell, Barley,” I said. “Way too much politics and backstabbing going on for my taste. In the men’s game, all they do is play golf.”
He nodded sadly. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “Get on the wrong side of someone out here, you get awful tee times, guaranteed spike-marked greens and crappy rooms. But you know what I hate the most?”
He screwed up his face in a look of intense disgust.
I waited.
“They’re all so goddam nice to each other in public,” he said. “They’re always coming out with crap like ‘Oh, Suzy played so well today, I am so happy for her!’ when you know what they’d really like to do is take a three-iron and wrap it all the way around little Suzy’s coconut!”
He sighed. “I just wish one of ‘em would say something like “If little Suzy had drained one more impossible putt from the other side of the green, I would have taken my putter and crammed it sideways up her …”
I interrupted Barley’s fantasy with my laughter. He joined in.
Honie Carlton came back in, a big grin creasing her face. We headed back to our quiet little corner for another sotto voce discussion.
“Computers are wonderful inventions,” she said. “They know everything.”
“Give.”
“She played on Tour for just three years,” Honie said. “Quit about six years ago. Never won much money, but enough to keep her playing card. Was just seventeen when she turned pro. Probably burned out. It happens with the young ones.”
“Yeah, that fits,” I said. “Where was she from?”
“Florida.” Honie smiled broadly again.
“Damn! That’s great,” I said. “Whereabouts?”
“Naples, originally.”
“That’s what, two hours from here?”
“She’s closer than that,” Honie said.
“How do you know?”
“Well, I had the contact number from her playing days. Got hold of her parents. They told me she’s living someplace else these days.”
“Where?”
“Right here,” Honie said, still grinning. “Miami.”
“Awesome!” I said. “Got her address?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Honie said. She held up a slip of paper.
“Let me guess,” I said. “She’s working as an assistant pro at some country club.”
“Wrong,” Honie giggled. “She’s a stripper in a titty bar in Coconut Grove. Place called La Doll House.” She gave me the paper which had the address. “She, er, ‘dances’ interpretively under the name of Tawny.” She was giggling harder now, probably due to the look of amazement that must have been written on my face.
“Well,” I said, taking the address and tucking it away in my shirt pocket. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Honie giggled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Coconut Grove is one of Miami’s nightlife gathering places. The nightclub district is filled with watering holes, elegant restaurants, desserteries, comedy clubs and other establishments that strive to attract some of the city’s beautiful people away from the Parade o’Glamor that takes place over at Miami Beach’s Art Deco district. One sees a lot of Don Johnsons and Melanie Griffiths on the make.
On the outer fringes of the Grove, however, the scene drifts decidedly downscale, and over by Miami University, where the subway runs overhead on its concrete stilts, one finds the workingmen’s bars, fast-food joints and little bodegas, with their neon beer signs in the windows, music in the jukebox, and paisanos hanging around outside.
La Doll House was located in this part of the Grove. A huge garish sign dominated the streetscape while it tried to lure in the horny motorists from I-95. The sign featured a mostly naked woman, her hip cocked provocatively, arms thrown out invitingly, long blond hair positioned strategically. THE GROVE’S HOTTEST SHOW, it promised. Sounded good to me. I pulled my rental car into the crowded parking lot and joined a short queue waiting to get inside.
The cover charge was ten bucks, collected by a smiling hostess in a shimmery green dress that featured décolletage down to her navel. There was a neckless hulking bouncer standing nearby, his eyes completely hidden by thick, wraparound sunglasses. I resisted the impulse to go up and wave in front of his face, like the tourists do to the guards at Buckingham Palace. I was reasonable sure I didn’t want to get a reaction from this guy.
“Two drink minimum, fellas,” the hostess beamed at us, and she ushered us into her den of iniquity. The inside of the place was all mirrored walls and chrome-edged furniture, with deafening music and flashing strobe lights. A large central stage, made out of backlighted white Plexiglas, had twin runways branching out into a V-shape, with a chrome post extending upwards to the ceiling at the end of each runway. There were tables and chair
s alongside each of the runways, and they were packed with the “gentlemen” who came to such places. Flanking the main stage, against the wall on each side of the large room, were chrome birdcage areas. There was a naked woman cavorting in each of the birdcages. Away in the back of the room, a silvery curtain led to what looked like a private viewing area. No doubt, the place for “private” dances, where extra cash bought extra services.
The noise was almost painful. The house DJ had the volume cranked up into the red zone. Scantily clad waitresses, dressed in push-up bras and fishnet stockings, bustled around taking and delivering drink orders. Bottle beer seemed to be the beverage of choice, so I ordered one. My waitress brought me two, and she leaned provocatively over to yell into my ear.
“That’ll be ten bucks,” she screamed. “Two drink minimum.” I thought about telling her it was against my religion to pay more than three dollars for a bottle of beer, but figured she was probably too busy to sympathize.
I glanced around La Doll House, spending, of course, the requisite amount of time checking out the babes who were gyrating on the main stage and wrapping themselves provocatively around the chrome poles. With my finely tuned reporter’s sense, I quickly noted that the ladies were quite naked and not unfortunate looking. The one on the stage nearest to me bent over and segued into a full split. It made me wonder if the stage were ever disinfected.
When I was finally able to tear my eyes away from the stage action and check out the rest of the place, I could see it was a good night: the place was busy. As in most strip joints I had ever visited – strictly for scientific if not journalistic reasons, of course – the all-male audience could be stratified into three basic categories.
First was the party crowd. Groups of men in full boys-night-out mode who were celebrating an upcoming wedding or someone’s 50th birthday with much giddiness and aplomb. They were the ones who, within the safety of their group, felt secure (or were drunk) enough to do the whistling and yelling and motioning for the dancers to come over and receive a folded dollar bill in their garters. Or to be captured between the breasts.It was loud, noisy, sweaty and generally idiotic fun. The dancers put up with the party boys with wary good humor. These guys, after all, were throwing dollars around like, well, drunken frat boys, and were slugging down five dollar beers apparently unconcerned with the sacrilege involved. For the dancers, after all, it was a living, and these guys were the cash cows.,/
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