“He’s the official historian of the Pebble Beach Company,” Harwood said. “Or at least he will be if you make us take a vote on it. He is here to memorialize the discussion we are having here today.”
“I object!” Meyer said, slamming his hand on the table.
“Objection duly noted,” Cohen said in his calm lawyerly voice, writing along on his tablet.
“Who the fuck are you?” Meyer said, looking at Cohen.
“The first order of business is to appoint a guardian administrator for the Pebble Beach Company,” Cohen said. “Under the by-laws, such appointment is called for when a majority of the board believes such an action is required to prevent adverse fiscal or legal exposure for the company.”
“What the hell is he talking about, Jake?” Meyer turned to Strauss, holding his hands out wide.
“I nominate Maurice J. Cohen to be the guardian administrator,” Jack Harwood said.
“Second,” Will Becker said.
“All in favor?”
“Aye,” Harwood and Becker said in unison.
“Opposed?”
“I will sue the both of you for every last goddam cent,” Meyer fumed. “I will take your ownership stake, I will take your houses, I will take your bank accounts. I will sue your children, your wives, your fucking dogs. I will …”
“The vote being two in favor and one opposed, the motion carries,” Cohen said calmly. “As the legally appointed guardian, Mr. Meyer, it is my duty, and may I say my pleasure, to inform you that your services as a director of the board of the Pebble Beach Company are no longer required. This action is being taken because of information that the board has received concerning an apparently fraudulent business transaction or transactions that have been going on for some time, in the matter of the proposed development known as Huckleberry Hills condominiums.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Meyer blustered. “You can’t fire me. I’ll have your law license. I know the fucking governor of this state, you little kike bastard, and …”
“I might add that your behavior and statements here today are also a prima facie violations of company policies regarding personal comportment and tolerance which alone would justify your immediate removal from your position,” Cohen said.
“Wait until I get my own attorneys,” Meyer said. “They’ll grind you into dust, you little piece of shit.”
“The next order of business is the replacement of Baruch Brothers as official financial adviser to the Pebble Beach Company,” Cohen said. “I will entertain a motion.”
As before, Jack Harwood made the motion, Will Becker seconded and the two voted to fire Jake Strauss’ former company. Meyer sat there silently and said nothing.
“Moving on, “Cohen said, “Jack, I believe you have another item to address?”
“Right,” Harwood said. He picked up his phone, dialed and said “Send him in.”
In less than a minute, there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” Cohen said.
The door opened and Lt. Johnnie Levin strolled in. He was wearing a full dress policeman’s uniform, not his usual detective’s civilian garb. He had on the dark olive pants, tan uniform short-sleeved shirt with epaulets and patches on the side of his shoulders, the six-pointed gold badge over the heart, and an off-white Stetson hat that made him seem even taller than he was. He wore his gun on his left hip.
“I believe you have an updated report for the board of directors regarding the Huckleberry Hills matter, detective,” Cohen said. “The floor is yours.”
“Thank you,” Levin said. He removed his Stetson, tucked it under his arm and stood next to Cohen at the head of the table.
“Thanks to Mr. Hacker and Mr. Harwood here, the Monterey County Sheriff’s Department was made aware of certain business activities taking place by principals of the Pebble Beach Company,” he said. “To wit, this information alleged long-term fraudulent sales activities regarding the condominium property known as Huckleberry Hills, and the illegal selling of EB-5 visas to foreign nationals in return for their investments in this fraudulent project. Mr. Harwood has provided us with a signed statement from a Mr. Chin Wan Ho.”
I was watching Jake Strauss while Levin was talking. His face had gone white and his eyes began darting around the room, as if he were looking for a place to run and hide.
“When the Sheriff’s Department was made aware of this activity,” Levin continued, “We did what any investigative organization should do. We contacted our colleagues in law enforcement. To wit, we have spoken with the San Francisco office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation as well as officials from the Securities and Exchange Commission, the State Department and the Customs and Border Protection office to report the facts and allegations.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Meyer said.
“The FBI informed us that they had already been pursuing an investigation into this matter,” Levin said, “And they anticipate bringing enforcement action upon the two individuals named in short order. That would be Mister Meyer and Mister Strauss.”
Jake Strauss’ shoulders slumped. He looked like he was about to cry.
“It was all Harold’s idea,” Strauss burst out. “He cooked this whole thing up. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing!”
“Oh, shut up you little queer,” Meyer growled. “Just shut the hell up!”
“In addition,” Levin continued, “We have been pursuing an open homicide investigation into the death of one Charles Sykes, Junior, since last December. There have been suspicions that Mr. Sykes’ unfortunate death was not accidental, but was in fact, an act of deliberate murder.
“Yesterday, our officers were investigating an apparent accident here at the golf tournament,” Levin said. “Two of the persons injured in that accident were known felons. When our officers began talking to these two subjects, certain facts came to light that appears to link them to the murder of Charlie Sykes.”
“What facts were these?” Cohen asked.
“Both suspects indicated that they had been ordered by Mr. Harold Meyer of San Francisco to, and I quote, ‘put an end to Sykes once and for all.’ Endquote.”
“That’s a fucking lie!” Meyer yelled. “You’re gonna believe a couple of lowlifes like Quinn and Abruzzo?”
“Nobody from our department has identified the names of these two suspects,” Levin continued with a slight smile. “So the fact that you apparently know them is additional proof of what they are telling us.”
Meyer sank back in his chair.
“You murdered Charlie Sykes?” Strauss was looking at Meyer. “How could you do that? How?”
“Shut up, you fool,” Meyer said.
Levin held up his hand. The room fell quiet again.
“There is one more matter which is still under investigation,” he said. “And that is the matter of the death of your former colleague, J.J. Udall. At Mister Hacker’s suggestion, we asked the University of California San Francisco Hospital to produce security tapes for the days Mr. Udall was in residence in the hospital before his sudden and tragic death. We now have those tapes.”
I looked at Jake Strauss.
“They indicate that Mr. Jacob Strauss was the last visitor to Mr. Udall’s room,” Levin said. “He is shown entering the ICU at approximately 1:25 p.m. on the afternoon of November 15th. He was in Mr. Udall’s room for twenty minutes. Mr. Udall died approximately two hours later.”
Everyone was now looking at Jake Strauss.
“Mr. Strauss once served as a medical corpsman on the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan,” Levin said. “He was trained in basic medical knowledge: how to give injections, how to perform an intravenous intubation, how to monitor and control breathing and medicinal applications.”
Levin paused.
“We do not, at this time, have enough solid evidence to arrest Mr. Strauss and charge him with the premeditated homicide of Mr. Udall. However, he remains a person of interest, and our inve
stigation will continue. I will be asking a judge on Monday morning to order the exhumation of Mr. Udall’s remains so that our medical examiner can conduct further testing. Until then, the case will remain open.”
“An open case of death,” I said. “Perfect.”
Jack Harwood was right about one thing: the skybox at the back of the 18th green was a great place to watch a golf tournament. Out front, there were three rows of padded folding stadium seats, shaded by a dark-blue awning, providing a great view of the last green and the approach shots coming in from the narrow green ribbon of fairway.
Inside the skybox was a comfortable air-conditioned space filled on one side with several groupings of sofas, love seats and upholstered chairs, all facing one of several 50-inch television screens showing all the action from around the golf course. The other side of the box held two long dining tables. At the back, there was a long steam-table buffet set up, manned by tall, white-toqued chefs who kept moving the stainless trays of food in and out. At the end of the table was a carving station where a round of beef the size of a basketball sat under the hot warming lights, glistening with juices as the chef wielded his carving knife to slice delicate little pieces off and slide them onto the plate of the diner passing through. There was a large round table groaning with desserts: slices of cakes and pies, round little tartes decorated with whipped cream, bowls of fresh fruit and plates of all kinds of cookies.
There was another station next to that which functioned as the bar. Bottles of spirits and fine wines were lined up like soldiers, and two huge coolers held an endless selection of cold beer and soft drinks.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Sharky sighed when he first walked in.
“Too bad you’ve already had lunch,” Aggie said, laughing as she held his arm.
“Not to worry,” Sharky said, “The boys still have the back nine to fight over. I’ll be hungry again soon.”
He was right. Freddie Hollister was holding on to a one-stroke lead as he played the eighth hole. Dustin Johnson was one back and a couple holes ahead. Rahm and Franklin were three back, but lurking.
Victoria had made best friends with the lady in charge of the dessert table, and was now happily downing a large sundae with whipped cream and cherries. She looked at me with chocolate sauce dribbles on her chin.
“Golf rocks, Hacker,” she said.
As for Mary Jane, she was out in the stadium seats next to Jack Harwood, who had lost his hat-and-glasses disguise and turned himself back into the well-known and instantly recognizable star of the screen. They were chatting away happily. Mary Jane glanced once inside, found me and waved her hand in my direction. I believe that wave meant I am in hog heaven, I am talking to a big movie star I’ve loved all my life. Stay away from me and let me have this moment.
Sharky and Agatha came over, he bearing two ice-cold bottles of beer, and we settled into one of the comfy seating groups to watch some of the golf.
I told them what had happened at the board meeting.
“So nobody got arrested?” Sharky said when I finished. “I was kinda hoping they’d drag ole Harold off to the hoosegow. God knows he deserves that.”
“Oh,” I said, “I think his troubles are just getting started. Jake’s too.”
I felt a little bad about Strauss. True, he was a little hard to take sometimes. And, he had participated in a screamingly illegal scheme to defraud both the people who gave him their money and the government which set up a program designed to help the inner cities. And there was a very good chance that he had killed J.J. Udall to protect himself and Harold Meyer from discovery. And that he had hired me to find the mysterious Michael Newell letter writer knowing full well what might happen once I found him.
After reviewing that list, I decided I didn’t feel so badly that Strauss’ ass was probably in six kinds of slings.
I went out to the seating area, while still keeping plenty of distance between me and the happy conversationalists, who were still talking up a storm over in the front row. Even if you hated golf, the views from the skybox were killer: you could see all the way back to the white sandy beach at Carmel, and all the way across to the rocks at Point Lobos, with all the ocean and waves and rocks in between. And if you loved golf, as I do, all the action on the 18th green was unfolding virtually at our feet.
I pulled out my phone and hit a number. It took a little while, a couple of requests, before Carmine Spoleto came on the line.
“Good evening,” he said. “Are you still in Cali?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Mary Jane is here. She’s talking with one of her favorite movie stars about fifteen feet from me.”
“Mr. Pacino?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Bobby DeNiro?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, well, I suppose there are other stars,” he said. “And how is Victoria?”
“She’s into her second chocolate sundae,” I said. “I think she’s pretty much perfect.”
“She is indeed, Mister Hacker,” Carmine said to me. “She is indeed.”
I told him he could send Mike Nelson home. “The problem that was keeping him away has been settled,” I said. “He’s good to come home. He might have to talk to the cops, but his life is no longer in danger.”
“That is very good news,” Carmine said. “I hope you were able to accomplish this without too much bloodshed. It is always better that way.”
“No,” I said, “No bloodshed. I let law enforcement handle it.”
“I see,” he said. There was silence. “Bene. Va bene. I am glad of that. Too many people have died in this world. It is better when that doesn’t have to happen.”
On the TV, I watched Freddie Hollister make a thirty-foot putt on the ninth green for birdie and a three-shot lead. The fans went crazy. Freddie’s caddie gave him a chest bump. Freddie’s face lit up as he grinned from ear to ear. He was still in that Zone, the place you can’t get to—it comes to you. And when it does, the sky turns rosy, the noise is unheard, the inner voices are quiet, except for one unmistakeable message: go.
“What is next for you, Hacker?” my kinda-sorta father-in-law said, from three thousand miles away.
“Dunno,” I said. “We fly home tomorrow. Get ready for the baby. Figure out what to do next.”
“Bene,’ he said. “I hope you will come and visit this old man when you can. And do not worry. Life will provide a path for you to follow. It always does.”
“Right,” I said and we hung up.
I got up and moved over, sitting down behind Mary Jane and Jack. She looked up at me and smiled. Her eyes were happy.
“This may be the best place you’ve ever taken me, Hacker,” she said.
“Better than Scotland?”
“Warmer than Scotland,” she said. “Fewer Russians running around. Although I do miss those Mi5 commandos. They had nice, uh, uniforms.”
I laughed.
“Listen,” she said, reaching out and touching Jack Harwood, her new best friend forever, on the shoulder. “Jack and I have been talking. He gave me this …”
She reached out and gave me a business card. It was one of Harwood’s. But on the back, she had written down a name and a number.
“Who is Billy Pulte?” I asked.
“Head of sports broadcasting for IBS,” Harwood said. “Good friend of mine. I called him last night and told him he should meet with you. Told him you could add a lot of color to their golf broadcasts. History. Anecdotes. Inside baseball stuff, but for golf, of course. You could be the little voice in the ear of their announcers. Feed ‘em historic color. He liked the idea and wants to meet with you as soon as possible.”
Mary Jane was grinning from ear to ear.
“You responsible for this?” I asked.
“I’m your wife,” she said. “And the mother of your child. Who needs a daddy with a good job, doing something he loves.”
“I’d have to be away from h
ome a lot, on weekends,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “We can work that part out.”
Harwood turned in his seat to look at me.
“Sonny boy,” he said. “Don’t fuck this up. You’ve just been given a chance to change things. Probably for the better. And your wife approves. In my book, that’s called a win.”
I thought about it. Out in front of us, Brandt Snedeker made a monster putt for an eagle three and the people ringed around the green screamed their approval. I took it as a sign.
“A win,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
It was a fine day in early October, cloudless skies, temperature around 70. I was out playing golf, of course, because what sentient human being would not on such a day?
I was at The Country Club in Brookline, that hallowed old course where young Francis Ouimet defeated the grizzled and heavily favored English giants Harry Vardon and Ted Ray to win the U.S. Open of 1913. I had been invited to accompany my new boss, William H. Pulte of IBS Sports, for a round. He had flown up from New York that morning, we signed my new contract over lunch in the clubhouse and we had made it to the 13th green, just below the yellow clubhouse, when one of the assistant pros came out driving a golf cart. Since most people walk and take caddies at TCC, I suspected something was up.
“Mister Hacker!” the kid yelled when he got near. “Your wife called…it’s time!”
“Go!” Pulte said to me, pounding me on the back. “Go! And good luck!”
I left my clubs with the caddie and jumped in the assistant’s cart. He took me to the parking lot, driving past complaining players and cutting across lawns God never intended to be driven on and, still in my golf shoes, I blasted away out of that sylvan oasis on the edge of the city and soon was bombing down Commonwealth Ave., honking and weaving my way through Boston traffic.
I screeched to a halt at the valet parking station at Mass General and flew up to the tenth floor. My heart, when it wasn’t beating at a couple hundred miles an hour, was lodged firmly in my mouth. I couldn’t possibly imagine what my blood pressure was at that moment, but I knew it was reaching the upper stages of lethality. I could hear the Star Trek engineer, Scotty, in my mind: “She’s gonna blow, Captain!”
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