11
Later that night, I called home.
“Hi, honey,” I said when Mary Jane picked up my call. “I think I’ve done it again.”
“Oh, crap,” she said. “I don’t like the sound of that. Have you been arrested for homicide?”
I laughed.
“Have I ever been arrested for homicide?” I asked.
“It’s been threatened once or twice if I recall,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
So I did.
“It’s a good thing I love you so much,” she said when I was finished. “Otherwise I might believe that you are a dead body attractor. So tell me, how many police officers have you pissed off today?”
“Not a one,” I said, trying not to sound proud about it. “My man Delbert Connor actually likes me, I think.”
“Well, that’s progress,” she said. “What are the chances that Officer Connor will let you leave town on Sunday to come home?”
“I can’t see why he wouldn’t,” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Ben Oswald sent me over to see why Parker wasn’t talking anymore. I discovered the reason: he was dead. We don’t know how or why, yet. So I think I’m in the clear. I’ve got about twenty alibis.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” she said. “The kids would miss you if you got locked up for a stretch in the Georgia state pen.”
“You would too, right?”
There was silence on the line. Which continued on longer than it should have. Finally, Mary Jane giggled.
“Of course, you big jerk,” she said. “Come home. All is forgiven.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said. “So I don’t need forgiveness.”
“Well, maybe not for whatever happened to the dead guy,” she said. “But overall your slate is far from clean.”
She made some kissing sounds and we hung up.
I was thinking how lucky I was to have an understanding wife, sort of, when there was a rap at the door to my hotel room. I opened the door. Ben Oswald was standing there, nervously shifting back and forth and looking frazzled.
“Hacker,” he said, “As you know, we’re down a man for the weekend. I want you to take over Parker’s spot on sixteen.”
“Are you insane?” I said. “I’ve never done any broadcasting before. Well, except for yesterday. But all I did was whatever Shooter told me to.”
“Jeezus, Hacker,” he said, shaking his head. “All I’m asking you to do is sit in the booth up there, watch what’s going on and talk about it. How hard can that be? And I’ll be in your ear the whole time, telling you what to say and when to say it.”
“Why don’t you just hire a talking parrot then?” I said. “Be easier than trying to train me.”
“If I could, I would,” he said. “But we’ve got a broadcast tomorrow afternoon, and we’re up against it. I need someone, and you’re it.”
“Swell,” I said. “This has got disaster written all over it.”
“Look,” he said, “I just put in a call to Billy Joe Bosworth. He’s filled in for us a couple of times in the last year or two. He’s a little corn pone, but he’s not bad. The viewers seem to like him. If he can get over here from Texas tomorrow, I’ll put him with you at sixteen. Between the two of you, we might be able to pull this off.”
I knew Billy Joe, of course. So did every golf fan. The Boz. He was from San Angelo, Texas, which as everyone knows, is where the fictional Tin Cup was from. But unlike Kevin Costner, Billy Joe had an honest-to-God Texas twang and the country-boy persona to go with it. He had played the Tour for about ten years, won two or three events, and charmed the socks off fans with his countrified similes and yee-haw enthusiasm. But I could see Oswald’s strategy clearly: with Billy Joe’s nonstop observations and my own meager contributions, we might just be able to make it through a weekend of golf without looking stupid or ignorant.
“Yippee-o-ky-yay,” I said. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
Oswald looked relieved.
“Great,” he said. “Thanks.”
He turned and walked away down the hall. I closed the door. “And good night to you, too,” I said to myself.
I sat on the bed and thought for a while. First, I thought of all the things that could go wrong. I knew the TV guys did lots of preparation. Each week, the announcers all were given thick notebooks with facts and figures about the players in the field, and statistics about how they had played the course at Plantation Pines in the past, and personal anecdotes they had collected over their years of experience. I also knew, based in part on my observations while watching the production over the last couple days, that the “talent” was called that because they were good at talking while thinking on the fly. And having Ben Oswald or one of the assistant directors yapping in their ears the whole time. I was flying cold and alone here, Billy Joe or no Billy Joe. I felt my stomach do a little nervous flip-flop.
Then I thought about what could happen if we pulled this off. Maybe IBS would hire me full time. That would go a long way towards helping with the new house problem waiting for me back in Boston. And it would make me a TV star. People would come up to me in public and ask for my autograph. Golfers would slap me on the back and tell me how brilliant I was. Women would throw room keys at me, or maybe their underwear. Hey…it could happen.
My reverie was interrupted by another rap on the door. I opened it. Ben Oswald again.
“One more thing,” he said. “Your existing contract is still in effect. So in addition to this new assignment, I need you to keep doing those history segments. I liked the one we ran today. New York says the initial feedback was positive.”
“Aw, gee, stop all the compliments…you’re gonna make me blush,” I said. “I take it I’m still getting paid the same amount?”
He looked at me, appraisingly.
“I’ll talk to New York,” he said. “If this works out, we can probably do a contractual addendum. Get you a little more.”
“Swell,” I said. “My newborn son will appreciate that.”
“You got a new kid?” he said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was born last October. I was two under par on the thirteenth green at Brookline when Mary Jane went into labor.”
That made him smile. “Hope you finished the goddam round,” he said. “Two under at Brookline ain’t something you quit on.” But he was just kidding. I could tell by how his eyes went a little soft around the edges. “I remember where I was when my two were born, too.”
“I didn’t know you had kids,” I said.
“Yeah, well, we’re not that close,” he said. “And they’re mostly grown up now. I wasn’t a very good father, being away most weekends doing TV shows.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I expect that would be hard. But I’m sure they understand.”
“I’m not sure they do,” he said. “But there’s not a goddam thing I can do about it now.”
He turned and walked away again. Mister Happiness.
The next day, I got out to the golf course by late morning. I’m not sure why: there isn’t much one can do to practice for talking about golf. Announcers don’t go out to the putting green and repeat “Hoo, boy, Johnnie, that putt had a little extra sauce on it” about six times, playing with emphasizing different words to see which one sounds best. At least, I had never seen nor heard of one.
But I did run into Van Collins in the canteen. He was munching on a salad and sipping some iced tea while he read the sports page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down next to him.
“Hacker,” he said, peering at me over the top of his paper. “I hear you’re making your virgin voyage with us this afternoon. Nervous?”
“Yeah, a little,” I said. “I’ve always wondered how you guys avoid saying ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ when you’re on the air.”
He chuckled. “That’s easy,” he said. “If you even think of those words, Ben Oswald will reach through the wires from the control room and choke the very life out of you. Knowing that, it’s actually pretty easy.”
“Great,” I said. “That’s one potential worry dispensed with. Here’s another: what if I have to pee?”
He shook out his paper, folded it in half, laid it on the table and smoothed it out. The man liked his newsprint wrinkle free.
“You get the assistant director’s attention, tell her that you gotta go,” he said. “Next time a commercial break comes up, she’ll give you the word. You got three minutes to get down to the Port-A Potty and back. But if you pee before the show, like your mother always said, you can generally make it through the afternoon. I’ve heard stories about guys taking milk jugs up to the booth with them, but I’ve never gone there.”
“Not a big milk drinker,” I said, “So I guess I’ll just hold it.”
“I heard Billy Joe Bosworth is flying in,” he said. “Word of advice…don’t let him start to ramble. He can tell a story that goes on for hours if you let him. This is TV. Keep it short and sweet and toss the ball down the line to the next guy.”
“Right,” I said. “Short, sweet and pass the ball.”
He smiled at me. “You’ll be fine,” he said. He paused. “I hope.”
With his last words ringing in my ears and causing my insides to cramp up, I went outside. The day was warm and sunny, and the wind was light. There was a good crowd on hand for a Friday, and the air was filled now and then with the cheers announcing that someone had made a nice birdie putt somewhere out on the course.
I saw Delbert Connor in his well-pressed navy uniform talking to a couple of others who looked like detectives outside one of the TV trailers. I went over. He saw me coming and broke away from his conversation before I got close enough to listen.
“Morning, Captain Connor,” I said. “How’s the investigation going?”
“It’s going,” he said, shaking my hand. “But like most investigations, it’s not going in a straight line.”
“Care to tell me what that means?” I said.
“Not particularly,” he said, but he smiled kindly.
“Do you have a cause of death yet?”
“Yeah,” he said. “The victim was electrocuted. Some kind of high current zapped him.”
“Really?” I said. “Was that accidental or on purpose?”
“We don’t know yet,” he said. “We’ve impounded all the equipment and our crime lab rats are going over it right now. Hope to have something to go on by tonight.”
“I’m supposed to do the broadcast from that booth this afternoon,” I said. “Do I need to worry about getting zapped?”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Think?”
He chuckled. “Well, one theory is that there was some kind of equipment malfunction,” he said. “If that’s the case, we’ve taken the equipment away and sent it to the lab, so you should be okay.”
“And theory two?”
“Ah,” he said. “That theory says that there was a bad actor involved. If that theory is true, then he, or she, might still be out there.”
“Oh, great,” I said. My stomach did another lap.
“But if that theory holds,” he said, “Then the bad actor was pissed off at Parker Long, not you. Of course, the bad actor, if there was one, might have some kind of problem with all IBS announcers, or people who like golf, or men in general. Under any of those assumptions, you could very well be in mortal danger.”
“You really know how to assure a guy, don’t you?” I said.
“Just doin’ my job,” he said, and doffing his captain’s hat, he walked away.