An Open Case of Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  A couple days later, I got a call from Dottie van Dyke, the public relations person for the Lodge at Pebble Beach.

  “Hacker?” she said. “I hear you’re coming out to see us. How wonderful.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I hope you’ve reserved the Point Lobos Suite for me. It’s always been my fave.”

  I had once done a freelance piece for one of the golf magazines on the costliest hotel rooms at America’s top golf resorts. The Point Lobos Suite, in a free-standing cottage tucked away behind the 18th green at Pebble Beach, goes for around four grand a night. The views themselves—back down the 18th, with the blue ocean to the right, the beach at Carmel in the distance—are worth the tab, but so is the private balcony, the wood-burning fireplace, plush furniture and the beck-and-call service. I was, of course, just pulling Dottie’s leg, which she understood.

  “Ha, ha,” she said. “You’re always such a kidder. Jake Strauss said to take care of you. Do you want to stay at the Lodge, or in one of the Casa Palmero suites? The Casa units are spectacular and you can walk to the spa.”

  “Ooo, the spa,” I said. “Do they still have the massage with the two naked Swedes and the soap suds? Put me down for that one.”

  “Must have been some other place,” she said. “We don’t do soap suds. But I can make sure Ingmar and Hans are free when you visit. Of course, what arrangement you make with those guys is completely up to you.”

  That made me laugh.

  “Touché,” I said. “I don’t care where you put me, as long as it has a bed and a bathroom. I’m coming out to work.”

  “Jake told me,” Dottie said. “I’ll have some material ready when you get here, and I have a list of some people around here who would probably be willing to talk with you about the history of the place. What an interesting idea!”

  I could tell from the tone of her voice she thought it was anything but. But I knew she would come through with lots of reading material. She might be hard to take sometimes, but Dottie van Dyke was a good PR flack.

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Say, you didn’t happen to mention to Andre Citrone that I was coming out, did you?”

  “Drey?” She sounded surprised. “No, I don’t think I’ve spoken to him in a couple of months. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I lied. “Thanks for calling. Look forward to seeing you next week.”

  I rang off. I wondered for a moment if she was surprised I had mentioned Andre Citrone, or if she was surprised that I knew someone had spilled the beans on me. But I decided to just file that away for now.

  Soon, the plane dropped down onto the runway at San Francisco. I collected my bags, picked up the keys to my rental car and set off south towards the Monterey Peninsula. California, here I come!

  Dottie had fixed me up with one of the suites in the Sloat Cottage at The Lodge: not as large as the Point Lobos suite, but just as luxurious. There was a king-sized canopy bed framed with heavy mahogany timbers, a nice sitting area in front of the huge windows looking down on the 18th green at Pebble and the crashing ocean beyond the seawall occasionally throwing up sprays of water, and a bathroom filled with enough smelly unguents to keep a hairdressers’ convention busy for a couple of weeks.

  I tossed my bag down on the bed, looked around and decided to go wander around. Partly because I had been sitting on my keister for six hours encapsulated in that shiny tube of steel; partly because I am a contrarian and that room was practically begging me to kick my shoes off, lie down and sleep for half a day. So I just said no and went out.

  I wandered through the lobby, which, as always, seemed to be abuzz with activity, even more so now it was decorated for the Christmas season, and passed through the front entrance and across the drive, where the huge central putting green anchored The Lodge with the golf clubhouse and the row of fancy high-priced shops extending down the way. The huge, wrought-iron Rolex clock told me it was three in the afternoon. That explained the dearth of golfers: there was only a few hours of daylight left, and certainly not enough for anyone to even get in a quick nine. Not at Pebble Beach, home of the six-hour round of golf.

  I decided to skip a drop-in at the pro shop: the one at Pebble Beach has all the warmth and welcoming spirit of the city morgue. Oh, it’s not that they’re totally cold there…flash your American Express card and they’ll at least smile in your direction. But you can tell that the golf staff at Pebble is interested only in separating you from as much of your money as possible: how you feel, how excited you are to be crossing something off your bucket list, how much you want to create a lasting experience—none of that is important to them. What is important is which card you wish to use and will it pass the authorization procedure. And nothing else.

  I thought about making my way over to the Tap Room and start pounding down some of their finest $12 beers, but that idea was more than a little offensive. So I pulled out my phone, looked up a number I hadn’t used in a year or two and pushed the call button. It rang about six times before someone answered.

  “Yowsa,” said a deep, gruff voice. “Speak.”

  “Sharky?” I said. “It’s Hacker. I’m over at the Lodge and feel a need to reconnect with the common man. You free?”

  “Hack-Man!” He sounded glad to hear from me, always a good thing. “What the hell are you doing in town this time of year? And, yes, for God’s sake, get your ass out of that hellhole, stat! I was just thinking of heading over to Steinie’s.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I said and rang off.

  As I drove down 17-Mile Drive heading toward Pacific Grove and Monterey, I recalled the first time I had met Sharky Duvall. I had been covering the National Pro-Am one February many years ago, on one of those dreary, cold, rainy February days when being outside was hellish, and being outside watching amateur golfers rake their shots all over the place was like being chained in one of Dante’s lowest circles of Perdition, with birds pecking at your liver or something. I had followed one of the Tour’s rules guys into one of the food tents set up to provide hot food to volunteers, caddies and other worker bees at the tournament. They had burgers, chicken and hot dogs on the grill, fries, salads and other sides and urns full of hot coffee, which was much in demand.

  So we had gone in, loaded up our trays and taken a seat at one of the long wooden tables covered in cheap paper tablecloths. And across from us, Sharky Duvall was holding court.

  As I learned that day, and later on experienced for myself, Sharky was one of those institutional figures at Pebble Beach. He was then, and still is, of that indeterminate age roughly known as “over 50.” He was a large man, big beer belly, with a bushy head of graying hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His knees and hips were pretty much shot, because he had worked as a caddie at Pebble Beach off and on for more than twenty years, beginning when he was just a teenager. But although he couldn’t loop himself anymore, he had kept a hand in, spending some years as the caddiemaster for the resort, and later as a union boss when the caddies, for a short while, tried to organize themselves against The Man. That effort was quietly crushed by the Four Amigos when they took over the place and Sharky had officially retired. Unofficially, of course, he was still the man to see if you wanted to find work at Pebble, whether out on the golf course, or in an inside job cleaning rooms, vacuuming hallways or bussing in one of the restaurants. Sharky knew everyone who worked at Pebble Beach, and was considered a close personal friend by most of them.

  For me, Sharky quickly became one of my best sources about all things Pebble Beach. Whenever I came to town, I made it a point to touch base, and I was almost always rewarded with a nugget or two of good information that I could use in a story. He knew everybody, from the big shots in the C-suite to the newest Mexican immigrant hired to rake leaves. He knew all their stories, all their secrets, and he knew when it was the right time to pass along some of those things to a nosy reporter like me.

  He lived in a rickety old shack on the outskirts
of Monterey; a rickety old shack that was probably worth something north of a half million bucks, given the insanity of California’s real estate values. He had grown up in the old fishing town, gotten his nickname when, as a youthful hand on a fishing boat, he had wrestled a large mako into submission when it had been hauled by mistake into the boat and began thrashing around. He had played baseball and football for his local high school, becoming something of a legend, and then took up a job at Pebble, joining the caddie corps. He was a pretty steady employee, save for a few interruptions for brief stays in the local penitentiary for some drug deals and a couple of visits to a detox facility. But he was older and wiser now, and saved most of his substance abuse for his favorite bar stool at Steinbeck’s, a semi-scary biker’s bar where the beer was cold and the music was loud. I loved the place, and I especially loved the knowledge that being a friend of Sharky’s meant no one would attempt to bother me inside Steinie’s dark depths.

  When I walked in, he was sitting in his favorite spot at the far end of the polished cypress-wood bar, where he had quick and easy access to the men’s room and from which he could keep an eye on who came into the place. He saw me, smiled and waved.

  “Hey, Sharks,” I said as I pulled up a stool next to him. “Gettin’ any?”

  “Oh, hell,” he said, shaking my hand and patting my back. “I’m way too old for chasing the ladies. Although a couple of them are still chasing me, for reasons known only to God.”

  The bartender brought me a cold one and a big bowl of peanuts and we spent a happy hour or so catching up with life. The music was loud, as always, and ran heavily into songs by Garth Brooks, Keith Urban and Carrie Underwood. Just before the crush of happy hour, the bar was half empty, but the large, bearded and heavily tattooed clientele present were no less serious about drinking. There were three pool tables off on the side, but only one was in use. I had been in Steinbeck’s on a weekend night and recalled the place being wall-to-wall bikers, a scene that had come complete with cue-swinging fights that carried from the pool room all the way out to the parking lot. I counted it one of the miracles of all time that I had never shed a drop of blood in the place. Many others had.

  “What’s this I hear about you writing a book about Pebble?” Sharkie said after we had discussed almost everyone else both of us know. “You trying to go legit or something?”

  I laughed. “I’m as legit as I’m gonna get,” I said. “And how did you hear about that?” It seemed everyone in northern California knew more about my business than I did.

  He chuckled, his big beer belly jiggling with the pleasure. “Oh, hell, Hacker,” he said, “There’s not much that goes on over there that I don’t hear about, sooner or later. So what is this book about?”

  “It’s about the history of the place,” I said. “And the history of the Opens they’ve had here. The book is sponsored by the U.S. Golf Association. I’m going to write about some of the other courses that have hosted Opens…you know, the Shinnecocks, Winged Foots, Olympic Club, maybe Pinehurst, few others. It’s gonna be a coffee table type book, with lots of big pictures so I don’t have to write too many words.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Words suck.”

  “So, Mister Inside Man, what have you heard about the ownership situation? I guess with Udall gone, they’re gonna do some rejiggering?”

  He tipped his glass up and drained the last of about two inches of beer, slammed it down on the bar and nodded at the barkeep for another.

  “There’s nothing like a death in the family to concentrate the mind,” he said, nodding at the bartender when a fresh glass was placed in front of him. “Little factions start forming, everywhere from the pro shop to the laundry. People start placing bets on who they think is going to survive the coming shakeout, hoping that their job or department is safe.”

  “Safe from what?” I asked. “It’s not like the death of J.J. Udall means they’re going to start selling off chunks of the company.”

  “That may be so,” he said, “But nobody believes it until they see it in writing. Everybody thinks that big changes at the top mean big changes where they are. And that makes everybody nervous. And I can tell you, everybody is especially nervous about the guy who sent you out here.”

  “Jacob Strauss?” I said, amazed. “What are they afraid of him for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a chuckle. “Big New York banker feller, rich as hell, has his hands on every lever of power there is. Yeah, he makes people nervous. I’d be wary myself.”

  “But he’s the head of the U.S. Golf Association, not Baruch Brothers,” I said.

  Sharky looked at me, eyebrows raised, head cocked.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “He’s involved. He put together the deal when the Four Amigos took over. He thinks he’s going to have to land the plane again now.”

  “Exactly,” Sharky said, nodding. “That’s why most of the employees are nervous. And why more than a couple of them have asked me about you.”

  “Me? What have I done?”

  “Nothing, yet,” he said, laughing. “But the timing of your arrival is, umm, interesting.”

  “I’ve got an assignment to write a book,” I said. “Actually, to finish up a manuscript that someone else started.”

  He looked at me. “Right,” he said.

  “Strauss wants the book to launch at the Open next June.”

  “Okay,” Sharky said.

  “It’s legit.”

  “If you say so,” he said.

  “You ever hear of anyone named Michael Newell?” I decided to quit beating around the bush. It was obvious that no one in Pebble Beach was buying the story that I was there to write a book. Least of all, my old friend Sharky.

  He thought for a minute, running that name through his mental data base.

  “Don’t think so,” he said finally. “Who is he?”

  “Somebody I need to find,” I said. “And talk to.”

  “And you can say no more,” Sharky said. I nodded.

  He shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find out anything.”

  “Discretely,” I said.

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  I sipped my beer.

  “Andre Citrone,” I said.

  “Asshole. Bad writer. Friend of Harold Meyer. Who is also an asshole.”

  I had to laugh. Sharky’s summation was succinct and pretty damn accurate.

  “Drey knew about me coming out here before I did,” I said. “I wondered how he knew.”

  “Strauss tell him?”

  “He says not,” I said.

  “Interesting.” He drank some beer and thought for a bit. “Meyer is quite the piece of work,” he said. “Some say he’s connected.”

  “Connected to what?”

  “The bent-nose guys,” Sharky said. “He’s always managed to lay his hands on the capital he needs to do his deals. Always has, from way back. Except no one has ever really been able to determine where that capital comes from. It’s assumed he just made or inherited lots of money somewhere and saved his shekels up nicely. But that explanation has never stretched far enough to explain some deals he’s made. So people think he might have some silent backing along the way.”

  “From the Mob?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what some people say. But as a trained professional journalist, I know you need two independent sources who can verify that on the record.”

  I laughed. “One, I’m no longer a trained professional journalist,” I said. “Two, that two independent verified sources standard went out the window a long time ago. All you need these days is one anonymous source who you can say is familiar with the matter but not authorized to discuss it publicly, and you can go to town with whatever bullshit you want.”

  His eyes twinkled. “But you’re not bitter.”

  “Me?” I held my arms out wide. “Why should I be bitter because jour
nalism standards of objectivity have been tossed over the side? I’m an author now. We have a higher calling.”

  “You know about the condo project, right?” he asked.

  “Condo project?”

  Sharky laughed. “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he said. “They’ve done a great job keeping that thing under wraps.”

  “Tell me,” I ordered.

  He sat back on his stool. Stroked his goatee. Organizing his thoughts.

  “Okay,” he said, “The last time Pebble Beach and the CCC went at it was about ten years ago.”

  “CCC?”

  “California Coastal Commission,” Sharky said. “The environmental Nazis. Any kind of development that takes place anywhere on the California coast has to get approved by the CCC. You want to pick up a rock on the beach and put it over there, you gotta get it OK’d by the CCC, right? And they usually tell you no. The CCC would be happy if all fifty million residents of California would move inland a hundred miles and leave the coastline to the fish and the birds.”

  “Which doesn’t make the Pebble Beach Company happy,” I said.

  “Oh, hell, they’ve gone toe to toe with each other for years,” he said. “Anyway, about ten years ago, they signed an agreement, Pebble Beach and the CCC, on what could be developed in the Monterey Forest and what couldn’t. It was part of the deal that allowed Pebble to build its fake rock walls along the 18th fairway, which was in danger of being washed out to sea by any given winter storm.”

  “I vaguely remember that,” I said. “I remember they dug up the golf course for about a year to install the new footings. Sprayed gunnite into the forms and then painted it all to look natural. Fucking with Mother Nature.”

  “Right,” he nodded. “Well, as part of that deal, the Company agreed to set aside some land up in the hills permanently. No development, ever. Save the Monterey pines. Freedom for the birds and spiders.”

  “All for the seawall?”

  He smiled at me. “You’ve got to be kidding. Pebble agreed to set aside building rights in Saw Mill Gulch and some other tracts, and even agreed to abandon plans for another golf course, but in return got agreements to allow new construction here at the Lodge, permission to sell some house lots around Poppy Hills, and received preliminary approval for a fancy condo complex up in Huckleberry Hills.”