Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty

by James Y. Bartlett

  “I need the names of some of the guys who were at the Bible meeting last Wednesday night,” I said.

  He fidgeted, sighed, scratched his chin, shrug ged his shoulders, rolled his eyes heavenward and popped his knuckles. A perpetual motion machine, was Billy Corcoran.

  “Well, let’s see,” he said, thinking hard. I watched the beads of sweat break out in the man’s brain. “I remember that Billy Chapman was there. And T.L. Peters. Eddie Roland. Alex, I think...yeah, Alex Klauser... Ummm...John Turnbull, of course. Ahhh...gee, there were a couple of others. I think –”

  “That’s OK, Billy, thanks,” I said quickly, not wanting him to have a stroke right in front of me. He nodded and rushed off. Suzy and I watched him go and then looked at each other and broke out in laughter.

  “Okay,” I said. “Which of those guys is still here?”

  We studied the board together. “Chapman is playing pretty good,” Suzy said. “He’s out there today. So is Alex Klauser. Peters is long gone. He left town last night. Eddie Roland...I think he missed the cut, but I saw him hanging around this morning, out on the range. You might check the locker room.”

  “Thanks, Suze,” I said and limped out the door.

  As I made my slow and painful way up the walkway toward the locker room, I tried to remember what I knew about Eddie Roland. Little guy. On tour for about five years. No wins, but was able to earn a pretty good living. His trademark: always wore baggy trousers. No doubt, he collected big bucks from the manufacturer as well as frequent catcalls from the fans. I recalled the story: a few years ago the airline had lost his luggage and, having nothing to wear, Eddie had borrowed some pants from a buddy at the last minute. The pants had been at least two sizes too big, and Eddie was lucky they hadn’t fallen completely off in the middle of a backswing.

  But he’d played pretty well that week—near the lead. So he’d kept wearing the oversized pants all weekend long and eventually finished in the top ten. The TV boys, of course, were ecstatic. They loved any sign of eccentricity, originality or verve. So they kept showing baggy Eddie all weekend long. In short order, a manufacturer jumped in with an offer to make Eddie some better-fitting but still baggy trousers, and a star was born. Eddie’s baggy pants became his signature, and he no doubt laughed all the way to the bank with his endorsement contract. The trend caught on, at least for a while, and they sold truckloads of baggy pants. Is this a great country, or what?

  I suddenly remembered something else. The evening of John Turnbull’s memorial service, one of the Golfers for Christ had left the ceremony abruptly. He had been wearing baggy trousers. It had been Eddie Roland.

  I limped into the locker room, looked around and finally found Roland, who had just come out of the shower and was wrapped in a white towel, and was briskly rubbing his curly reddish hair with another.

  I introduced myself. “Thought you missed the cut this weekend,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, somewhat wistfully. “Played pretty awful. Decided to stick around a day or two and work out the kinks on the range. Easier than heading down to Memphis right away.”

  “The police ask you to stay nearby?” I asked innocently. It was a shot in the dark, but I’d bet even Bulldog takes one of those once in a while.

  He did a double-take, his eyes widening in surprise.

  “How’d you kn—” he started to say, then stopped, flustered.

  “It’s OK, Eddie,” I reassured him. “Ravenel and I are playing a Ft. Lauderdale on this one. All on the same team. Wanna tell me what happened Wednesday night?”

  He sighed and slumped down on the bench in front of his locker. He slung the towel over his shoulders and grabbed on the ends.

  “The meeting that night started off pretty regular,” he said. “We spent about an hour discussing Acts ... you know, the Book of Acts?” He looked at me, and I nodded. I guess I’d read Acts before, but I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me if I knew if it was Old or New Testament, because I didn’t know.

  “After that, we broke for our business meeting,” Eddie continued. “That’s where Ed Durkee reports on finances and pledges and stuff like that.” He sighed and looked at me. “The night turned a little ugly there,” he said. “Johnny Turnbull and Ed got into it a little bit over this new investment idea that Ed’s been setting up for us. Johnny said he wasn’t satisfied with the material that Ed had put together on the thing, and that he wasn’t going to put a dime into it until he was comfortable, and maybe not even then. His wife is a financial whiz, y’know, so the rest of us figured that if she had doubts, there must be some good reason. Well, Ed Durkee got a little mad about that, and they did some yelling back and forth. I tell you, it was uncomfortable, and we all felt uneasy about it.”

  “Are you planning to invest in that fund, Eddie?” I asked.

  “Well, frankly, it’s a little pricey for me,” he said. I knew he was telling the truth: Eddie Roland would probably earn about $400,000 this year, which sounds like a lot, but isn’t once you deduct all his travel expenses not to mention his mortgage back home. He would break about even, maybe finish the year a little ahead. Unless Ed Durkee talked him out of his dough.

  “I mean, I’m doing OK this year, but I can’t really afford to cough up twenty large just like that,” he continued. “And if Johnny or his wife had questions about the fund, well, I’d be real reluctant to jump in. I think most of the fellows would agree. Which is probably why Ed Durkee got upset.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “Well, they calmed down eventually,” he said. “Durkee finally laughed and apologized and went out to get some coffee. Johnny was still upset, but he eventually chilled out, too. We all had some coffee and cookies and sat around telling jokes, and then we prayed together and everyone went home.”

  “Is that when you saw Turnbull and Bert Lewis together?” I asked.

  “Nah...that was a bit later,” Eddie said. “Me and Alex Klauser sat around for a while, talking about the golf course and just generally shooting the breeze. Then we split. My villa’s over yonder –” he pointed in the direction of the tenth fairway. “—and I decided to shortcut it across the golf course to get home. I got out there a ways in the dark, and looked back to get my bearings so I wouldn’t fall in the lake or something.” He laughed.

  “Anyway, when I looked back, I saw Bert Lewis driving up toward the clubhouse in a golf cart. And then Johnny came almost running up the sidewalk after him. Except he wasn’t running...he was kind of lurching. And then he fell down...just fell over like a rock. His feet just stopped working. It was the strangest thing you’ve ever seen. I almost went back to check on him, but Bert got out of his cart and went over to him. I thought I heard him laughing, but I couldn’t be sure of that. But I figured if anything was seriously wrong with Johnny Bert would take care of it. So I kept on walking home.

  He looked up at me, an appeal for understanding in his eyes. “I guess thinking back on it, I shoulda gone back to check on Johnny. But at the time, I just thought he had stumbled or something, and Lewis was there and –” His voice trailed off sadly.

  “I understand, Eddie,” I said gently. “You can’t be blamed for anything.”

  When I left him, he was staring into his locker. I don’t know if he believed me.

  On my way back to the pressroom, I ran into Fireman. Leaving his parking lot outpost was unusual enough, but I could tell by the worried look on his face that something was seriously amiss.

  “What’s up, man?” I asked.

  He pulled out a battered old handkerchief and wiped his wizened brow.

  “This is not a good week, Hacker-man,” he said sadly. “Dat crow we saw put the hex on this tournament, dat’s for sure. First that nice Mister Turnbull done and got killed and that Mister Lewis is in trouble and now one of my boys has done up and quit without a howdy do. No sir,” he said, shaking his aged head. “Dis is not a week for luck.”

  “Who split?” I asked.

  “Dat no-good Jocko
Moore,” Fireman told me. “Lef ’ his man high and dry on the first tee wid no bag and no balls and no warnin’. Jest never showed!”

  My antenna began to quiver. Jocko had taken a powder. He must have sensed that Ravenel was closing in. Or perhaps he had been warned. The game, as Holmes would say, was afoot.

  “Where was he staying this week?” I asked Fireman, who would know such things about every caddie on the course.

  “Ah believe he was staying down by the sheds,” Fireman said, pointing off into the distance. I knew vaguely where he meant: The golf course’s maintenance equipment and mowers were kept in a small village of outbuildings hidden in a glade between the fairways. This week, a dozen or so TV trailers, heavy equipment movers and assorted other tournament vehicles had been parked down there.

  Fireman was telling me how he had managed to hustle up a last-minute replacement for Jocko’s golfer, but I was already on my way to the pressroom to find a telephone and call Ravenel.

  Chapter 20

  RAVENEL WAS NEITHER surprised nor happy to hear my news about Jocko Moore.

  “I told that goddam chief that I ought to have that scumbag picked up right away,” he said. “He gave me this long speech about how much money the city and the county make every year from that goddam golf tournament and how I should do everything in my power not to disrupt their operation. Shit. Now I gotta chase this guy all over hell and back.”

  Ravenel also told me that Rudy Hill, that pleasant gentleman who owned the Drowned Rat, and who sold drugs to Jocko, was also missing. “They said he was out fishing,” Ravenel said with a snort. “Probably he and Jocko are hiding out together. No problem. We’ll find ‘em.”

  “How does Bert Lewis fit into all this?” I wondered.

  “Well, he still ain’t talking, and the Tour has hired a lawyer for him, so I really can’t say,” the police lieutenant told me. “But my theory goes that Jocko told Lewis to take Turnbull out and kill him, or no more drugs. And since Lewis apparently didn’t like Turnbull all that much anyway, that made it easier.”

  “But Eddie Roland only saw them together outside the clubhouse for a short time,” I said. “Nobody saw them together after that. You’re going to have a tough time making that brief meeting into a murder charge.”

  “Goddam it, Hacker,” Ravenel almost shouted at me. “That’s mighty close to tampering with a material witness.”

  “Oh, hell, Ravenel,” I retorted. “I’m just doing my job...filling in the holes. The guy talked to me. I didn’t have to threaten him with death-by-reading-Golf Digest or anything.”

  He grumbled at me for a while longer until I told him to shut the hell up and leave me alone. “Listen,” I said, changing the subject. “Are you aware of another little conflict that Turnbull was in that night?”

  “You mean his argument with the Reverend Whosis?” Ravenel said. “Yeah, we heard about that. I sent one of the boys out to talk to this Durkee fellow. He said he left the meeting that night and went straight home to bed. Of course, there’s no corroboration of that, but the guy is a man of God, right? Just for the record, I checked up on his whereabouts last night, when someone tried to bump your sorry ass off the Wappoo Road. He was pastoring, I think he said, with another player. Checks out—he was.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Sounds like it was all just a family squabble then.”

  “Yeah,” Ravenel said. “I think that when we find Jocko Moore and Rudy Hill, we’ll find one of them was motoring down Wappoo last night.”

  We hung up. Ravenel was off to set up his dragnet. I thought I’d try to backtrack Jocko some and see what I could discover.

  Even after another pain pill, I was still a mass of aches. It took me a while to walk down to the maintenance sheds. Keeping a golf course all neat and trim takes a bunch of mechanical equipment: a whole fleet of small trucks, utility vehicles, trailers, gang mowers, hand trimmers, fertilizers, seed, rakes, piles of sand, fresh rolls of turf. So it takes a sizeable building to house all that stuff. At Bohicket, there were three or four small buildings arranged around a clearing, hidden well away from the golf course.

  I followed a dirt road through some bushes behind the eleventh green, down past some high sand dunes and rounded a corner into the clearing, which was now full of parked eigh- teen-wheelers and other large moving trucks. The sheds, arrayed around the edge of the clearing, were all prefab metal structures, windowless and oven-hot in the midday sun. The long TV trail- ers, connected by thick strands of cables and wires, hummed gently. I saw nobody as I walked up. The grounds crew were posted out around the course to take care of any emergency needs, and the TV boys were occupied in front of their moni- tors and control consoles.

  I entered the largest shed through the gaping garage door that stood open. Inside, I saw nothing but stacks of tools along the wall, a couple of five-gallon gasoline cans, a bulldozer attachment against the back wall. More electrical humming came from the overhead electricity wires. Most of the maintenance vehicles were battery-operated, like golf carts, and needed re- charging every night.

  I wandered down the line of sheds, seeing no one and hearing nothing. I stuck my head in each one, looked around, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I opened the door of the last shed and stepped inside. There was a long tool bench on the left, piled high with wrenches, saws and various pieces of lumber and lengths of plastic piping. There was a smaller room feeding off the back of the shed. Through the door, I could see piles of empty burlap bags that had once been filled with grass seed.

  I poked my head in the small room. It was dark and hot. And silent. I caught a strangely sweet odor, a mingling of grass seed, burlap and ...something else. I knew, but couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  Then I noticed a foot, peeping out from beneath the stacks of burlap bags. I smiled to myself. Jocko, you stupid, lazy, drunk sonofabitch, sleeping away while the cops search for you. Then I realized that the stack of burlap wasn’t rising and falling. And then I remembered where I knew that sweet, sickly smell. And the silence of that hot, little room crowded in on me in a rush, speaking louder than words ever could.

  I forced myself to walk over and pull back the burlap. It was Jocko, all right. And he was sleeping. Forever. His eyes were closed and his face was relaxed in repose. His mouth hung open in a silent snore and a tiny trickle of crimson ran crookedly down his cheek.

  Sticking out of his neck, in that soft place just at the top of the rib cage, was the grip end of a golf shaft. About eighteen inches long, more or less. It was hard to tell, because the shaft had been plunged down through Jocko Moore’s throat. With, it was obvious, malice aforethought.

  Chapter 21

  I’VE NEVER SEEN A HOMICIDE site investigation proceed so quietly. Ravenel later told me that the chief of police, that die-hard golf fan with his clubhouse pass, had ordered that the tournament was not to be disturbed. So instead of a phalanx of police cars arriving on the scene with sirens blaring and lights flashing, Ravenel stuffed twenty officers into three unmarked vans which drove slowly across the eleventh fairway– after waiting for a threesome to tee off – and disappeared from sight down the dirt road to the maintenance shed. A few minutes later, an ambulance followed, also silently. If anyone noticed, they probably figured a fan had been overcome by the heat.

  The tournament officials knew about Jocko’s murder, of course, but they kept it quiet, too. That afternoon’s national television broadcast went off without a hitch, or a mention of the dead caddie under the burlap sacks. Tom Kite fired a nifty 67 to take a one-shot lead over Lanny Wadkins and Australian Wayne Grady. Seven more players, including the Zinger, were within five shots of the lead. The commentators were beside themselves with feigned excitement over the possibilities for an exciting final round on Sunday. Live coverage beginning at three o’clock Eastern, two Central.

  In the meantime, I suffered through the usual drill. Told my story four or five times, to four or five different cops. Watched as the forensic boys dusted and photograp
hed and catalogued. I was able to get Ravenel to allow me to telephone my editor in Boston. I told him to use the wire service copy for Saturday’s round and to hold open a nice hole for tomorrow for a story that would be forthcoming. A big story.

  “Jesus, Hacker,” he yelled at me. “I need to know more than that. Whaddya got?”

  Ravenel’s clear gray no-nonsense eyes were watching me like a hawk. “I can’t tell you that right now,” I said. “Just get me a front-page spot.”

  “Awww, shit,” he said. “I can hold it until about seven. After that, your ass is grass.” He slammed the phone down. Such a delightful chap. For someone who’s the issue of an incestuous relationship.

  Doak Maxwell helped the paramedics carry Jocko’s blanket-wrapped body out of the back shed. Doak’s standard-issue white shirt was sweat-stained under his arms and across his thick back. They loaded Jocko into the back of the ambulance. Doak pulled off his surgical gloves and tiredly wiped the sweat off his forehead. The afternoon was beastly hot, especially in the close proximity of the metal-clad shed.

  Ravenel motioned to me, and I followed him into his navy blue sedan where the blessed air conditioner was chugging away.

  “So, Inspector,” I chided gently. “Have we developed an- other theory for this case? Your prime suspect lies yonder still and cold.”

  “Up yours, Hacker,” he growled at me. He began to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “But this does seem to put another spin on things.”

  “If this was in Boston, I would begin to suspect the Mob,” I said. “Getting rid of witnesses one by one.”

  Ravenel shook his head. “That was my first thought too,” he said. “They could start to get antsy about lowlifes like Rudy Hill and his friends cutting into the narcotics money machine. But I don’t like it. It doesn’t explain why John Turnbull was killed. He had nothing to do with narcotics. Secondly, neither of these killings are anything like a Mob hit. They tend to favor a pistol shot to the back of the head. Turnbull’s was much too cute for a professional hit...someone was trying to make it look like an accident. This one –” he motioned towards the storage shed where I’d found Jocko – “This one is just plain amateur. If the Mob had wanted Jocko dead, Jocko would have disappeared. No body, no clues, no evidence. They wouldn’t have left him lying around where we could find him.”