Wednesday: Chapter One
How many guys would give their eye teeth to walk up the 18th fairway at one of the premier events in American golf, tied for the lead? Thousands of raucous fans cheering you on to make one final, triumphant birdie. Men shaking their heads at what a lucky dog you are, kids straining to memorize your face and your every mannerism, beautiful women with who knows what on their minds.
My only problem, when I finally got to take that fateful walk, one Sunday afternoon at the Los Angeles Open, was that I wasn’t there just to play golf. I’d spent the previous four days– and nights– trying to solve a sensational Hollywood murder in which I’d been an unwitting, and very unwilling, suspect. By the time I trudged up the 72nd fairway, I was wounded, worn out, half-starved, mad at myself, andfeeling less than impressed withthe rest of mankind.
Okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic. I wasn’t exactly “wounded,” and”half-starved” might be a stretch, but I was definitely not happy with all the crap I’d been through since the claxon had sounded at high noon on Wednesday. I don’t know whose bright idea it was to use a shotgun format for the start of the celebrity pro-am at the L.A. Open, but you can bet your last pair of socks nobody’s gonna admit to it now.
CHAPTER ONE
I found myself at the 17th tee on a beautiful February day: mid-70′s, the sky clear andblue after a recent rain, just the hint of a breeze. With me was Bill Burt, the Tour’s leading money-winner the past two seasons, and about as good-looking andcharming a guy as you could find. Tall, tan, blond, well-dressed, and ruggedly handsome, he set the bar for aspiring young golfers. On his pro-am team were Christy Mathewson McKenny, the Dodgers’ lanky young fastballer; Daniel Breck, the totally testosterone daytime soap-opera star; anda way-too-cool stand-up comic who went simply by the name of Mikey. I didn’t know what their handicaps were, but their show-biz reputations alone were sure to draw a stadium-sized gallery. Also part of the team was Boxcar, Bill’s legendary long-time caddie.
Then there was my team: a fat, bald “personal and professional services representative” named Howard Harris; a once-upon-a-time French film director by the name of Simon D’Alembert; and Grantham Llewelles, a well-preserved matinee idol from way before my time. I’d only met these three prophets the night before, andI still didn’t understand why they’d requested me. This event only had twenty-two teams, and I was a second-year pro who’d finished 99th on the money list the year before. You’d think there’dbe somebody else they’d rather be playing with. (Also along for the ride was my own faithful caddie, Shipwreck.)
I caught myself looking around and sort of daydreaming. Scaramouche Country Club on a pretty day can do that to you: 250 acres of lush fairway hacked out of huge stands of eucalyptus, sycamore, oak, pine, and cactus, all presided over by an imposing Spanish-style clubhouse at the top of the hill. The most expensive golf course in the world at the time it was built, its signature finishing hole became known as “Hogan’s Alley.” Home to generations of Hollywood’s cultured elite, the place practically radiates history.
Bill Burt, looking like he’d just stepped out of a clothes ad, was telling a story in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard in Orange County.
“So we’re at the 16th tee at Cypress, right? During the National Pro-Am. And I don’t want to throw you guys before we even get started, but I swear this really happened.”
The crowd sort of rustled.
“Well here’s 16, par three, two hundred and thirty-three yards, and all water tee-to-green. You’ve seen pictures of it. I mean, it’s the most photographed par-three ever built. You stand on the side of a cliff, a hundred feet above the water, and the waves are crashing against the rocks down below you, and way off there in the distance is the green.
“Anyway, this is the pro-am. My guys weren’t doing so well, and then we came to 16. You should’ve seen the looks on their faces. All hell’s breaking loose down on the water, and there’s the green about a mile off, and whatever club they needed, they’re not carryin’ it.
“Well, I managed to put a little one-iron on. I got the next two guys to play safe: There’s a bail-out area short and left, where you can play it like a par-four. But the last guy… He was a little round guy, and he’d been muttering under his breath the last few holes. He must’ve known this was coming.
“I tried to convince him to lay up like the other two, but no, out comes the driver. He tees one up, and bang into the water it goes.”
The crowd rustled some more.
“Sure enough, he reaches into his bag and pulls out another one. Tees it up, and into the drink it goes. I tried to tell him he could just pick up, but he puts a hand up– not a word out of him– and reaches for another ball. Of course it goes into the water, followed by another… and another.”
The crowd was laughing pretty good now.
“He was real cool about it. Said not a word the whole time. Then, after he’d wasted at least six balls, he reaches back into his bag, pulls out another ball, holds it up and says, real calm, ‘This is my last ball.’
“Well, I begged, I pleaded, but it was no use. We just stood there, transfixed, as he teed it up, made another monster swing at the ball… and topped it.”
Huge laughter from the crowd.
“The ball dribbled forward real slow. I wasn’t sure it was even going to make it to the edge of the cliff. But wouldn’t you know, it rolled just far enough to drop over the edge and down… and down onto the rocks. And the guy– no sign of emotion at all– the guy walks back to his bag, puts the headcover on his driver, slides it back into his bag. All very deliberate, not a peep out of him. And then he grabs his bag– this big staff bag– he grabs it by the handle with both hands and starts spinning around, faster and faster, like a hammer-thrower in the Olympics, til finally he lets out this huge scream and launches that bag as far as he could out over the goddamn cliff.”
The crowd was going crazy. Burt had trouble restraining his own laughter.
“We watched that bag just arcing out over the water, down and down, end over end. In a way it was a beautiful sight. And while we were watching, the guy had taken his shoes off, and pretty soon they’re on their way down, too. And then he just marched off. In his stocking feet. Never said goodbye. He just hung a left and headed for the clubhouse.”
More side-splitting laughter.
“But the best part,” Bill continued, holding up his hand for quiet, “the best part of all didn’t come til later…”
*
I found my mind wondering again. This was one of the oldest stories in golf, even if Bill Burt was doing a good job of telling it, and even if the crowd loved it. Even if it had ever really happened, at Cypress Point or anywhere else.
I should be paying more attention to the event I was in, I said to myself. This was the first Tour pro-am I’d ever worked, and I could probably pick up some pointers from Bill Burt, the seasoned veteran. I might not be able to schmooze folks like he could, but at least I could watch how he got his nervous amateurs off the first tee.
And they were indeed nervous. Not that it would’ve been all that obvious to someone in the crowd, but standing up close to them, you could see that they moved a little too quickly, a little too self-consciously. They were superstars at what they did for a living, but out here they were playing my game. I’d never hit a fastball off of Christy Mathewson McKenny, or trade punch-lines on-stage with this guy Mikey, but you wouldn’t see them knocking down fifty-foot double-breakers on a regular basis, either.
Bill Burt’s story came to its crowd-pleasing conclusion, and, as if on cue, the air-raid siren from the clubhouse went off, signaling the start of play. So much for the jokes.
Bill took a leisurely practice swing and settled over his ball. You could almost hear his measured breathing. This big hitter, as much as the entertainment types, was the reason all these spectators had turned out. He swung, and the ball just exploded off the tee. (One of the things that takes some getting used to, on the Tour, is how loud a tee shot sounds when a player is surrounded by hundreds of people. You’d almost swear it was a gunshot.)
The ball took off low, down the right side, then arced up to the left and landed dead center, bouncing and rolling down the fairway damn near forever. Burt usually played a high fade off the tee, but hey! This wasn’t Sunday at Augusta, or the U.S. Open. This was Wednesday in L.A. This was Show Biz. The crowd went nuts.
Bill’s shot didn’t surprise me. All of us on the Tour can punch it out there, and at a pro-am your job as the pro is to entertain as well as to score. That was the reason for Bill’s big booming draw. No doubt there’d be more of the same during the day, and more than likely a few screwy trick shots and a lot more stories and jokes to spice up the show. No, his shot didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was the other guys’ shots.
The 17th hole at Scaramoucheis a long, narrow par-five: 578 yards, all uphill. A really big hitter can sometimes reach the green in two, especially on days when the prevailing sou’wester is dead at your back. Other days, even Superman would have to lay up. There are tall eucalyptus trees lining both sides of the fairway, and sand bunkers short-left and front-right to snag anything you might try to sleek up there.
So what happens? Christy Mathewson McKenny, pride of the Dodgers’ starting rotation and holder of a supposed 17-handicap, ripped a drive smack down the center of the fairway, and long. A 17-handicap who can launch a ball dead-center long in front of three or four hundred people? I looked at this tall, gangly country boy and thought to myself: sure.
Then Daniel Breck, the TV heart-throb in his late thirties, medium height and receding blond hairline, stepped up andabsolutely drilled a shot down the right side, setting up a possible approach to the green for his second shot. I checked his handicap: 12. Right. His grandmother probably played to a 12.
And last came Mikey. I assumed he had a last name, but really hot items nowadays seem to prefer a one-word moniker. Anyway, this guy Mikey, all five-nine (if you counted the high-heeled Foot-Joys) and maybe 150 pounds of him, took a pretty good hack and floated a ball safely down the fairway. Not too long, but he looked like he might be fairly steady.
The shots received a large round of applause from the gallery, and most of the crowd drifted down the fairway to follow the further exploits of that star-studded foursome. (This was L.A., after all. Folks came out to watch the celebrities– especially if they could play– not to see the nobodies I was teamed with.) Bill Burt, ever the showman, held back a moment to shake my hand and wish me well.
“Good luck, uh…”
“Walsh,” I supplied. “Jonathan Walsh.”
“Right,” he nodded, smiling. “Walsh.” Then, in a bigger voice, obviously as much for the crowd’s benefit as for mine, “Well, good luck, Walsh.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled self-consciously. “I’ll probably need it.” (And more, against sandbaggers like the ones you’re trotting around with, I might have added.)
“Doesn’t look like he’s gonna do you much good,” Big Bill smirked, pointing at– who was it? Oh yeah, Harris. The talent agent. fat, bald guy. Dressed like a slob. Howard Harris. I’d have to get better at remembering names, I told myself.)
*
There’d been some pretty serious carousing at the reception/dinner dance the night before, but even so, what saw before me was unnerving. Slumped down in the driver’s seat of his golf cart, chin firmly ensconced on his chest, was Howard Harris, reputedly the most powerful agent in all of Hollywood, a man whose favor was to be courted and whose enmity was proverbial, and a man who was, at the moment… sound asleep.
“But I have to play a three!” I heard someone shout. It was Simon D’Alembert, the film director. Tall, skinny, almost emaciated by Hollywood standards, a head of dyed-black hair that looked like a wet mop and wearing a too-short long-sleeved dress shirt, he looked like a Gallic, golfing version of the Scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz.” From what I’d heard, D’Alembert had been real popular for a while, making cold-war spy thrillers, and then something happened. Maybe he just lost it, or maybe the heavily plotted psychological dramas couldn’t compete for audience with today’s effects-driven blockbusters, but he hadn’t worked for at least ten years. Now in his fifties, a lapse of that duration could be fatal: out of sight, out of mind. He was yelling at our fourth partner, Grantham Llewelles. “I always play a three!”
“You know perfectly well you can’t play a three,” countered the movie idol from the 1950′s, holding a golf ball defiantly in the other’s face. Llewelles was maybe seventy-five, eighty years old, but he looked like he kept himself in pretty good shape. His chiseled features almost cried out for a camera, and he seemed to know it. He glared at the taller man with unconcealed, though probably feigned, contempt. “I never carry anything but threes.”
“But you know I can’t play another number!” wailed D’Alembert. “I fall apart whenever I have to play another number!”
“If I may observe,” replied the old actor, playing this up for the crowd, “You fall apart anyway. From what I’ve seen, you might as well tee up a Brussels sprout.” Sweeping the assembled multitude with an inquiring eye, he asked loudly, “I say, would anyone happen to have a Brussels sprout to lend the gentleman?”
“Cut the ‘friends, Romans, countrymen’ crap,” growled D’Alembert, slamming the head of his driver into the ground. “This isn’t USC.”
Time to intervene. Burt’s team had already hit their second shots (and damn good ones, from what I could see). In another minute we’d be holding things up, without ever having swung a club. I turned to D’Alembert.
“What’s this all about?”
“My ball, ” the director whined. “I always play a Titleist 3. It’s my lucky number.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” offered Llewelles haughtily, staring up at the sky. “All I’m carrying are threes.”
D’Alembert leaned toward me. “He pulls this shit every year. He knows I can’t play another ball.”
“I thought you guys were supposed to be on the same team,” I answered.
“Team?” he spat at me. “Oh sure, we’re on the same team. And every year he pulls this crap with the balls, and throws me off my game. Then the rest of the year he can tell everybody how I blew it for the team.”
Llewelles turned to us. “I suppose I should resolve this, a man of my age? Maybe I could walk back to the clubhouse and buy some new balls. Would you like me to buy lunch, as well?”
“Okay, look,” I half-barked. I tossed my own ball at Llewelles. “Here. You’re now playing a Titleist two. Okay?”
The old man, snagging it nimbly in mid-air, turned it over and over in his hand. What was he expecting, an X-out? “I normally play a 90 compression,” he said, sounding disappointed.
Good Christ. “It’s a warm day,” I said. “You’ll never notice the difference…. Now, can we play?”
Llewelles paused for a moment, then looked up at me and smiled. “Certainly. I’d hate to think we might be holding things up–”
“I wish he didn’t always have to fuck with my head,” muttered D’Alembert. “Just once, just one of these years I’d like to be able to come out here and enjoy myself a little.”
“Perhaps a little side wager would spice things up,” the older man chuckled. “Say, a hundred dollars a side?”
“I’m not betting against someone with one foot in the grave and a 25-handicap,” growled D’Alembert.
“Twenty-four.”
“Gentlemen,” I interrupted. “Could we please get started?”
Llewelles bowed theatrically to me. “Certainly, Mister Walters.” Then, turning to D’Alembert, he whispered, “Twenty a side, and I’ll putt left-handed.”
D’Alembert and Llewelles moved up to the tee blocks while I walked over to Howard Harris’s cart. I gave the fat, bald guy’s shoulder a vigorous shake. No response. I shook him again, harder, but when I let go he simply slumped over onto the passenger’s seat, dead to the world. Great. How much could he have had to drink last night, anyway?
D’Alembert and Llewelles, having hit their tee shots (weakly, but straight), yelled over at me. I hesitated, not wanting to abandon Harris. I wasn’t real sure what official Tour policy was when it came to dealing with unconscious teammates. I glanced over at my caddie, Shipwreck, but he was calmly staring off into the distance, sucking on a popsicle.
“Come on, Wallace!” yelled D’Alembert. “We haven’t got all day!”
“Yeah, but–” I motioned to the slumbering talent agent.
“He can ride the first few,” suggested Llewelles. “He’s no good on the long holes anyway.”
That seemed like decent approach, saving face all around, so I dragged Harris’s heavy body from the driver’s seat over to the passenger’s seat, figuring that I could drive while he slept. Harris promptly toppled over onto the driver’s seat. I sat him back up, pushed his shoulders back to keep him upright, and then noticed that there was blood all over my hands and arms.
“Come on, Walker!” yelled D’Alembert.
“Wait!” I yelled back. “I think this man’s hurt. Pretty badly.” I looked at Harris in horror. “He might even be dying!”
“No such luck,” said Llewelles flatly, peering down the fairway for his ball.
I looked around frantically and yelled for a marshall, but they’d apparently all wandered off with Bill Burt. I took a deep breath, then sent Shipwreck over to the first-aid station by the 7th tee. I called out to the crowd for a doctor or a policeman.
“Can we step on it, Walker?” muttered D’Alembert peevishly. “We’re falling behind.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really think this man’s dying.”
“Well, if he’s dying, he’s certainly no use to us, is he?”
“But I can’t just leave him.” I called out again for a doctor.
“He’s never any help, anyway,” said Llewelles.
I was starting to panic. “Look, Mister Llewelles–”
“Grant. Please, call me Grant.”
Just then a clean-cut-looking guy about thirty years old, brown hair, medium height, watery brown eyes, and a smile on his face strolled up. “Did somebody call for a doctor?”
God, was I relieved. I waved him toward the fat man in the cart. Together we pulled Harris out of the cart andlaid him on the ground. I don’t know why, but the thing I remember noticing was how cheap Harris’s clothes were: faded red knit shirt, rumpled khaki slacks, cracked brown golf shoes, short olive socks that had fallen down around his ankles. I hate floppy, ankle-hugging socks.
D’Alembert glared down at me. “May I remind you: I put good money on this team in the calcutta last night. Five hundred dollars to place–”
“Utter folly,” chuckled Llewelles.
“And if I’d known you were gonna try to weasel out on us–”
“This man’s dying!” I screamed up at him.
“No, he’s not,” the doctor murmured. “He’s already dead.”
“So now can we get going?” demanded D’Alembert.
“He was never any help, anyway,” repeated Llewelles.
“Look,” I said, staring D’Alembert straight in the eye, “go ahead without me. I’ve got to see that this gets taken care of.”
D’Alembert shook a bony finger at me. “I’m not going to forget this, mister. This is mighty unprofessional behavior, abandoning your team like this.”
Llewelles turned D’Alembert aside before I snapped back at him. A moment later the old actor hustled back, straightened his ascot, and whispered, “Could you catch up to us? Maybe at the 1st tee? It’s a good birdie hole for you young chaps.”
I said I’d see what I could do. Turning back to the doctor, I asked him if he was sure Harris was dead.
“Oh, yeah,” he said softly, kneeling on the grass beside the body. “I mean, I’m not a real doctor, but I’ve played enough of ‘em, and this guy’s definitely bought it.”
It took a second to sink in. “Wait a second. You’re not a doctor? You just play doctors?” I shuddered. “Don’t tell me…. Oh Christ…. You’re a—” I could hardly bring myself to say it. “You’re a goddamned actor?”
“Right,” the guy beamed at me. “The name’s Cox, Brent Jay Cox. Great to meet you.” He stuck out his right hand. I shook it. (What was I supposed to do?”
“Hold it,” I said. “This is nuts. You’re not a doctor, you’re an actor. What the hell good’s an actor gonna do here?”
“Well, what the hell good’s a doctor gonna do here?” he countered. “The guy’s dead.”
“But this isn’t acting class. This is a real human being.”
“Was. Was a real human being. Though, if this is who I think it is, you could’ve gotten a lot of disagreement on that.”
He must’ve sensed my feeling of helplessness. He dropped the flip tone, grabbed my wrist, and stared into my eyes. “Look, I know you feel kinda devastated by this, but we can work through it. I’ve played lots of doctors. Mostly daytime TV. Anyway, know the routine.”
“The routine?” I shrieked. I think at that point I was starting to get hysterical. “There’s a bit more to it than ‘the routine’!”
Before I knew it, he’d reached out and slapped me across the face. I fell back on my heels. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Then he flicked back on that southern California actor’s smile.
“Got your attention, didn’t I? See? I know what I’m doing.”
“But–”
“Think about it. Who would you rather have right now: someone who’s used to playing take-charge emergency-room heroes in desperate life-or-death situations, or some proctologist from Tarzana?” I must’ve balked or something. “Figure it out,” he said. “You don’t need a sheepskin to recognize basic symptoms.”
“Basic symptoms?” I repeated. “Like what?”
He shrugged. “Like this bullet hole in the side of his head. I don’t know about you, but that sorta jumps right out at me.”
“Bullet hole? You mean… you mean, this could be a murder?”
Brent Jay Cox (who’d probably played coroners, too, for all I knew) stretched out on the grass. “Unless he shot himself. I’d kinda doubt that, but then I’m not an expert.”
“No, I wouldn’t think you were,” came a voice from the crowd. A small, slim, nervous-looking man in a blocky, dark-blue business suit, slicked-back black hair, and an angry glare in his eyes, parted the crowd. “Stansfield, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department,” he grumbled, waving a badge. He stared down at the body for a moment, then at Cox, then turned his attention to my blood-stained hands and arms. Looking up at me, he asked quietly, “Who might you be?”
…
Aspen, CO