As they pulled away, I started my sedan and followed them past the clubhouse. We proceeded out the entrance drive of the resort and headed down the long, shady road back towards town. It wasn’t hard to keep a few cars behind, but in sight. There was a good bit of traffic leaving the golf tournament, which slowed things down, and the smoky Chevy probably only had a top speed of 50 mph. Going downhill.
We retraced the drive I had made a few days ago. But once we had gone up and over the Cooper River bridge, the wagon made a sharp series of lefts, down and under the highway onto a narrow, cobblestoned street that ran parallel to the river off to the left. I had to fall back quickly because we were the only two cars on the street which ran past blocks of deserted-looking warehouses, boarded-up houses and rotting wharfs extending out into the black water. Huge, cargo-loading cranes loomed overhead like the Martians in H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds.
The Charleston the tourists see is an elegant and well-aged lady, with her lovely antebellum homes along The Battery, with their widow’s walks and leaded windows and spit-and-polish trimwork; the painstakingly restored gift shops and antiquaries on King Street; the flickering gas street lights; the many fine old churches whose steeples pierce the skyline; and the clip-clop of the horse-and-buggy rides down the ancient streets.
But Charleston is also a working port and an industrial complex, and much of it is dirty and grime-streaked and about as charming and romantic as a three-day-old hamburger. The blue-collar part of town, down by the docks, is where tourists and smart people feared to tread.
I kept as far back as I dared while trying to keep the Chevy in sight. It made a sharp right and disappeared around the corner. I came up slowly and peered after it, and saw the caddies and punkette abandoning the car. I pulled down the street and found a place to leave my sedan, hoping no one would relieve it of its tires while I was gone. Walking back, I found the Chevy haphazardly parked outside what appeared to be a lovely little establishment called The Drowned Rat. The joint seemed to be jumpin’.
The sun had officially set, and the view out across the harbor, with the reflected lights of the crane towers, ships and spotlights reflected in the river, was quite pretty. But it’s hard to pay attention to the view when you’re worried about a mugger sneaking up on you from behind.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the door of the Drowned Rat. Loud atonal music pulsed around me as I entered. The place smelled of spilled beer and cigarettes. It was dark inside and jammed with young people, most of whom were costumed like the punkette: I noticed lots of leather, chain accessories, black lipstick, oddly shaped and colored hair and boots. But there were some more traditional jeans-and-T- shirted kids who I figured were college kids slumming, and even a few sailors and longshoremen, dressed in hard hats, stained and grimy workshirts, old jeans and fading tattoos. There was a long bar down one side of the large, bricked room, and a row of booths toward the back. Most of the kids had gathered in the large open interior, jostling together in some strange kind of tribal-like dance.
I quickly spotted the two other caddies who had gotten into the Chevy with Jocko. They were at the bar, trying to get the attention of the overworked bartender. I recognized them once I saw them up close. One was known as Franco, and the other was a large black man known only as Spaceman. He was as strong as he looked, but I had overheard the players joking about his dim-wittedness, hence his moniker. “Played football without his helmet,” I remembered one player joking.
Jocko and his punkette were nowhere to be seen. I sidled over to the bar and eventually managed to get a long-neck beer in my hands. Franco and Spaceman saw me and waved in recognition, then turned back to their beers and surveyed the crowd. What the hell did they care if I was slumming at the Drowned Rat? There might be a few players in here too.
I kept close to the wall as I began to edge around the room, looking for Jocko. The music was giving me a headache, with its relentless thump-thump beat and lyrics that were indecipherable. I’d bet they weren’t singing about a foggy day in Londontown, or how the rock of Gibralter may only be made of clay. The crowd of dancers didn’t seem to care: They just continued to move in strange ways in the center of the room.
I finally spied my prey sitting in one of the high-backed plywood booths at the back of the joint. Jocko was engaged in earnest conversation across the table from a slimy-looking little guy with heavily slicked-back hair. Jocko’s punkette was hanging all over him, twitching the hair behind his ears and cooing at him. The slimy guy Jocko was talking to had on a shiny yellow blazer over a black silk shirt buttoned up to his neck, and despite the dark and murky depths of the Drowned Rat, wore wraparound shades.
While I watched from across the room, partially hidden behind the bodies of the shuffling dancers, I saw Jocko reach into his jeans and pull out a wad of bills. He passed them across the table. Slimy popped the wad into his jacket pocket without counting it, and pulled out a manila envelope which he slid across the booth to Jocko. The punkette threw her arms around Jocko and began rubbing her chest against his arm in excitement. Jocko peered inside the envelope, folded it over a few times and stuffed it inside his pants pocket.
Deal done, the two talked for a few minutes more while the punkette continued to perform her solitary sex acts, then the Slimy guy got up and left. I strolled over to the booth and sat down.
“Very smooth,” I said. “I’m extremely impressed.”
“Hacker!” Jocko snarled and looked around quickly to see if I had brought any cavalry with me. “The fuck are you doing here?”
“Oh, well, you see, I was hoping your girlfriend here might have a sorority sister or something she could fix me up with,” I said. “But only if she’s as classy a broad as this one.” I beamed across the booth at the punkette, who stared back at me through cloudy and heavily mascaraed eyes.
“Up yours, Jack,” she said tonelessly.
Jocko was studying me with quick and jumpy eyes. “Goddam it, Hacker,” he said. “You better not be messin’ around here or somebody is going to get a serious hurtin’. What the hell do you want?”
“Like I told you, Jocko,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to John Turnbull the other night. I figured you might know more than you allowed this morning. Now I know you do.”
“Shit, man,” he said, “I told you—I don’t know nothing about that. I was glad when that self-righteous son-of-a-bitch fired me. Didn’t have to listen to his line of bull any more. I got more important things to do than that.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” I said. “Tell me, you got some ’ludes in that envelope? Replace the stock a little?”
Jocko laughed. “Yeah, right. Get serious, dickhead. I’m gonna tell you something like that? Have it show up in the goddam newspaper? You’re a beaut, Hacker, a real beaut.”
I lurched suddenly across the table and grabbed Jocko by his shirt. “Okay, asshole,” I hissed. “We’ll do this interview off the record.”
My interrogation was interrupted by a pair of strong hands that grabbed my shoulders and slammed them back against the hard wooden back of the booth. A meaty forearm slipped into place around my neck and pinned me there. The owner of the forearm, a rather large gentleman wearing a fringed leather vest with no shirt, dirty jeans and thick heavy boots slipped onto the bench seat next to me.
The Slimy Guy pushed in opposite me, sliding the punky chick and Jocko out of the way. “Well, well,” Slimy said in his best bad-guy voice. “What have we got here, Jocko? A little trouble?”
“Ah, this piece of shit’s just a twerp reporter,” Jocko said, pulling his shirt straight. “He’s got a bug up his ass about that golfer prick who got himself killed the other day...I told you about that.”
“Reporter, eh?” Slimy mused. “That’s not someone you really want hanging around, is it Jocko?” He turned to look at Jocko. I imagine he gave him a patented bad-guy hard look, but with his shades on, no one could see. I don’t suppose punks and hoods think about tha
t.
“Hey, what can I say?” Jocko pleaded nervously. “Like I said, the guy’s running around asking questions about this Turnbull guy. What the hell do I know about that? I was with Lucille here that night, right Luce?”
Lucille purred her agreement. She, too, looked nervous and had apparently lost much of her interest in onanism.
Slimy looked across the table at me. “So,” he said finally. “If all our questions have been answered, then I expect you’re ready to leave. Is that right?”
He waited for me to answer. I motioned with my eyes at the big lug next to me, and Slimy nodded. Big Meat loosed the pressure on my throat enough for me to talk.
“I’ll leave,” I croaked. “Holding high the torch of truth. By the way, what did you say your name was?”
The forearm snapped back tightly against my throat, slamming my head backward into the hard plywood with a loud thump. Slimy guy looked at me with amusement.
“Questions,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “Always questions. Get him outta here.”
Big Meat changed his hold from a choke to a headlock and pulled me out of the booth. Slimy Guy stood up too. At the corner of my vision, I saw Franco and Spaceman staring at us from the edge of the dancing mass, a few steps away. Spaceman was gripping his long-neck Bud like it was a Taylor-Made metal wood.
Big Meat straightened me up. I gasped in a breath of air as I came face to face with the Slimy Guy, who had a smirky little smile on his lips.
“Ta-ta,” I muttered, and kicked him square in the balls. So much for chivalry, truth and honor. Every philosophy has its limits.
Slimy said “oof ” painfully and crumpled in a heap. I ducked and twisted to try and escape from Big Meat’s grip and almost made it. But he managed to grab a fistful of hair and pulled me head forward to meet the upward swing of his knee, scoring a direct and painful hit on my nose.
I stumbled forward, stars and lights exploding in my eyes. I landed on my knees, knocking some dancers out of the way. I sensed, rather than saw, Spaceman jump forward and with a slow and gentle swing that had all the balance and tempo of a golfer who doesn’t read golf magazines, broke his bottle over Big Meat’s head. It made a “plonk” sound, not unlike the sound of a metal wood meeting ball. Big Meat went down hard.
All hell thereupon broke loose in the Drowned Rat. Our brief scuffle was the clarion call to all the self-fancied punks and rebels in the bar. There began a great to-and-fro, shoving and punching, shouts, screams and curses, and a massive piling- on.
I managed to regain my feet, evade the heart of the action, stagger to the sidelines, check my nose for blood (there was a good bit) and head for the door. Outside, the fresh if fetid air quickly cleared my head of its persistent buzzing. I stepped into the shadows near the door and waited.
A few minutes later, as the sounds of the rumble inside were beginning to ebb, Jocko Moore came through the door, holding the hand of his beloved Lucille. I slipped up behind him and caught him in a nice choke hold that a police buddy in Boston had once shown me. Hey, if it worked for Big Meat, it should work for me.
“Okay, slimeball,” I said. “I want the names of your customers. Especially the ones who recently bought a bunch of Quaaludes.”
Punkette began pushing at my arms, kicking and fighting. “Let him go, you fucker,” she yelled. Not letting go of my chokehold, I put a shoe in her stomach and pushed. She bounced hard against a parked car and sat down on the sidewalk. She began to weep silently.
Jocko struggled and I tightened my grip. Then he began to run out of air.
“Who?” I demanded.
“Couple of guys,” he gasped. “Freddy...he’s a caddie. And Quint somebody, one of the TV guys.”
I tightened the screw a little tighter. I heard the first faint whoop-whoop of sirens in the night air. “Who else?” I demanded.
“Nobody,” he gasped. “Wait...Lewis...Bert Lewis. I sell him ’ludes about once a month. Takes the edge off, he says. Come to think of it, he bought a supply last weekend. C’mon man, the cops are coming. That’s all, I swear.”
I released him and pushed him away. He rubbed his throat, glanced at me, then bent to pick up the punkette who was still weeping silently. Together, they hurried off into the dark toward her car.
I made my way back to my rental car, and was glad to see that the tires were still affixed to the wheels, and all the window glass was intact. I turned it around and headed back down the cobblestone street. As I passed the Drowned Rat, I saw three police cars, lights flashing, outside, and people beginning to stream out the door.
I felt like Sam Spade. If I’d had a cigarette butt, I would have flicked it insolently out the window at the nearby river. But I didn’t have a cigarette And my nose was beginning to throb. I settled for just getting the hell out of there.
Chapter 15
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I perused the first day’s scores over hot coffee and doughnuts in the pressroom. Tom Kite had fired a nifty 66 and was leading by one over three others.
Bert Lewis, I noticed, had shot 69. A good score for him, and if previous form held true, probably his low round for the week. It was also an excellent score if Bert Lewis was popping ’ludes. That’s a way to slow down your backswing that very likely won’t make it into the recommended list of any of the golf magazines.
But was he playing under the influence? Why had he purchased an extra supply from Jocko Moore this week? Had he ever paid off the shoot-out bet he had lost with John Turnbull? Had he, perhaps used that supply of Quaaludes to drug John Turnbull and murder him? Did he really deserve to be on my hot-list of suspects? All questions...no answers.
Bulldog O’Shaunessy would have gone out to the first tee, held Lewis off the ground by the neck, made him pee into a cup in full view of five thousand aghast fans and gotten some answers. I don’t think the PGA Tour would understand if I tried the same investigation technique.
I worked desultorily through the morning, making notes for my column for Sunday’s sports section. It was an easy-to- assemble amalgam of odd musings, tidbits of information from the weekly stats list, and gleanings from pieces some of my fellow writers had written in their papers. Not much in the way of original, hard-hitting journalism, but the readers seemed to like this kind of gossipy roundup every now and then. And today, my mind was busy elsewhere.
I realized that if either Becky Turnbull or my editor called and asked for a summation of any facts I had gathered concerning Turnbull’s death, my answer would be a sullen “I dunno.” My best candidate for some kind of foul play, Jocko Moore, was confirmed as a drug-dealing slimeball, but appeared to have an alibi for the night Turnbull died. It was likely that his punky girlfriend, a handful of the other caddies and probably the clientele of the Drowned Rat would all vouch for his presence someplace other than the bridge across the tidal creek on the 15th hole. Then again, that assortment of witnesses would never be confused with the Vienna Boys Choir, so his alibi might be questionable.
Jean MacGarrity just didn’t seem to fit into a picture that included murder or mayhem against John Turnbull. She was mixed up and confused, yes, and the relationship between the two was still not very clear. I didn’t know, for instance, if Becky knew about Jean, or even if I should bring the subject up.
That brought me back to Bert Lewis. He seemed to have a healthy dislike for Turnbull, which was not uncommon between players on the Tour, and he had lost a big chunk of change to Turnbull in that shootout. Was that enough of a motive for him to kill Turnbull? That didn’t seem likely. But what about that order of ’ludes? Was it for personal use? Or for something else, a bit more sinister?
Still more questions than answers, and that was beginning to grind my butt.
I finished my column and quickly sent it up to Boston without rereading it one last time. It was probably rife with typos– I’m a reporter, not a typist – but I didn’t really care. There must be days in Detroit when the guys on the line don’t bother to check if they’ve turned th
e bolts tight enough so that two months later the brakes fall off and a happy family of four goes flying into a concrete abutment. I have bad days too, but at least no one gets killed. I couldn’t even work up much enthusiasm for the seafood buffet that they set up for us. I wandered outside to watch some golf, something that takes little mental effort.
The day was typically sunny, bright and hot. Spectators cowered in the shade of the liveoak trees, fanned themselves with their programs and formed long lines at the refreshment kiosks in search of relief from the Carolina summer humidity.
The players, however, reveled in the heat which loosened their muscles and swings and which baked the fairways into rock, giving extra roll to their tee shots. At midday, the wind was but a whisper, so the players were firing their approach shots at the pins with impunity. Cheers from the gallery punctuating the air, signifying birdie after birdie from all corners of the golf course. It was a day to go low.
Yet Bohicket, with its unusually rolling fairways and small, hard greens, was not giving in easily. I stood at the tenth, a short par four, climbed sharply up a steep, manmade hill that fell off sharply on both sides so that all but the straightest drives careened down into deep rough. Offering reward for the risk, a long straight drive would bound up the hill almost all the way to the green, leaving just a short chip or pitch to get close for birdie. But from the rough, it was hard to control the ball, especially going uphill to a green protected by bunkers all around. I heard enough dark mutterings to know this rather penal hole was not one of the players’ favorites.
After a time on the tenth, I wandered back over to the eighteenth to watch some groups finish their rounds. Though I have been a golfer all my life and have been covering golf for many years, the abilities of these professionals to produce exact results under trying conditions never fails to amaze me. I watched golfer after golfer attack the last green with high, soft pitch shots that landed just beyond the hole, bounce once, bite into the turf and spin backward. It is a graceful, almost balletic thing to watch and it’s fantastic to watch it over and over again in the course of an hour or so.
Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty Page 11