31

 

 

Tommy Scannell began his third round as the leader by a couple of strokes. By the time he had played five holes, his lead was gone and there were twelve players bunched within four shots.

He bogied the first hole, never a good start. Saved par on two but only by getting up and down from the greenside bunker. Bogey on three. Par on four, bogey on five.

The New York gallery was ecstatic at this turn of events, notwithstanding Scannell’s crestfallen look. Most of them, I hope, were just happy to be able to witness a close, hotly contested and bare-knuckled brawl between the dozen or so at the top of the leaderboard. A few of them, I think, were happy to witness another human’s misfortune. New York sports fans can be tough like that.

Boz and I watched the early collapse from our booth on sixteen. Ben Oswald had told us to be ready to offer commentary for golfers when they played seven and eight. We were nowhere close to those two holes, but we had video screens, so we winged it.

When Scannell missed his par putt on five, and the feed went to a commercial, Boz shook his head sitting next to me.

“Could be curtains for the kid,” he said alliteratively.

“Could,” I said. “Or could not.”

“What does that mean?”

“Could is one of those weasel words,” I said. “Like when they say on the news, such-and-such could mean the end of the world. They don’t say it will mean the end of the world, they say it could mean it. Of course, they don’t say it also could not mean anything because then everyone will realize that they’re just guessing. Or trying to blow smoke up your dress. But the implication is there—it could, or it could not. You choose.”

“You make my head ache,” he said. “And I didn’t have anything to drink last night.”

“Really?” I said.

“Well, I had a couple of beers with some of the caddies,” Boz said with a smile. “But that doesn’t count.”

Scannell parred the sixth. Of the others in the field, the South Korean, Lee Kyung-Ju, was three-under for the day and right there near the lead. Enrico Paz, the Spanish Flash, had come out of nowhere, six under for the day, and was now just a stroke behind.

Ben Oswald buzzed in our headphones.

“Okay you morons,” he said, “Our leader is playing seven. Call it straight, for Chrissakes. This is a major.”

Van Collins tossed us the ball. “Tommy Scannell has moved to the seventh tee,” he said. “Let’s go to Boz and Hacker for the call.”

“Tommy Scannell is leaking so much oil so far in this round that he’s a one-man environmental disaster,” I said. “Somebody should call the EPA and have him arrested. But the fat lady hasn’t warmed up her pipes yet. Let’s see what he can do on this hole, a long dogleg left.”

“Worst feeling in the world, Hacks,” the Boz said. “You’re going backwards on a day when you need to put the hammer down. Scannell has made some bad swings so far today, and let a whole lot of people back into the contest. All the experts predicted that this young man would eventually fade away, and so far today, all the experts have been right.”

“Ain’t over yet,” I said. “Let’s see what he can do with this tee shot. You need a nice controlled draw around the corner, otherwise there are all kinds of problems to deal with.”

We watched on the monitor as Scannell conferred with his caddie, pulled the driver and lined up his shot. He made a pretty nice swing at it and the FlitePath camera traced the ball’s flight as it started just right of center and began bending back to the left.

“That’s a beauty,” I said. “He made a good swing on that one. No sign of the shakiness we’ve seen so far this round.”

Oswald had us toss the feed up ahead, where Paz was chipping up onto the 12th green. He played that shot to about six feet for par, we broke for another commercial, and when it came back, Scannell was ready for his approach.

“Easy six-iron into this green,” Boz said. “Pin is back left, which should work for Tommy’s right-to-left ball path.”

He made another nice pass at the ball, and his shot flew up onto the green, checked and rolled down to about ten feet below the hole.

“Man, if he can drain-o that one, he’ll be right back in it,” Boz said.

“Don’t think he was ever out of it,” I said.

“Leakin’ lots of oil, tho, Hacks,” Boz retorted. “Like you said.”

“Or maybe getting used to the atmosphere,” I said. “He’s only played in two other majors, and never was on the leaderboard until this week. Rarified air up here. Now he’s been through the worst of it, maybe he’s about to turn it around, play some good golf again.”

“You’re such a glass-half-full kinda guy, Hack,” Boz said.

“All-the-way full if it’s a fine peaty Scotch,” I said.

“I hear ya, my brother,” Boz said. “Set ‘em up, Joe.”

“Geezus,” Oswald said in our ears, “Are you guys drinking on the job out there?”

 

As it turned out, Tommy Scannell did start playing better. He made that birdie putt on seven, made another on eight and once he made the turn, he relaxed and resumed playing beautiful golf. Some of the others did as well, so by the time the third round came to an end, Scannell was up by two shots again. Eight other players were within four shots. Sunday shaped up to be fun.

Once the last group had played our hole, we began collecting and stacking up our notebooks and other papers and got ready to head back to Television City. I still had my headphones on, so I heard the buzz when Bill Stirling, one of Oswald’s assistant directors, called down from the control room.

“Hey Hacker,” he said, “Can you see Kelsey anywhere? She’s gone dark. Not answering.”

I glanced out our small window overlooking the green. It was pretty empty around the green, as people began heading home once the last group has passed through. There were still crowds of people in the hospitality tents that ringed the green. But those places had air conditioning, soft seats and an endless river of booze for the guests to swill down. They’d still be serving people after the sun went down.

I looked around but didn’t see Kelsey, one of the two fairway followers we had out with the last groups today. She wouldn’t be hard to spot, with her fanny pack, microphone and a cameraman lugging around a portable camera who in turn was followed by the sound guy with his fuzzy microphone on an extended pole. But I didn’t see any of them from my vantage point.

“No sign of her, Bill,” I reported. “Where was she when you last talked to her?”

“Seventeen tee,” he said. “If you guys are leaving the booth, would you mind going over there and see if you can find her? I’ll bet her equipment crashed or something.”

“Ten-four,” I said.

I turned to Boz. “Kelsey is missing in action,” I said. “We gotta go find her.”

We climbed down from our booth and walked over to the tee of the par-three seventeenth. The semi-island green sat empty in the near-distance, with water on the left and those big glacial boulders protecting the front. More hospitality stands towered over the riverbank all the way down the right side from tee to green, and these, too, were filled with fans swilling down the free booze and food.

The Boz was staring up at the people partying in the stands. He looked at me. “Say, Hack-Man,” he said, “I could use a wee bracer after all that hard work. You with me?”

“I thought we were looking for Kelsey,” I said.

“We’ll find her,” he said. “After we fortify ourselves.”

I sighed. “OK,” I said. “One quick one.”

“That’s the Hack I know and love,” he said, and he led me up the stairs and into the nearest hospitality stand.

There was a security type standing at the entrance, and he started to protest about our coming in. We apparently didn’t have the proper badges or something. But one of the people inside—maybe it was the CEO of the energy company that had paid for the space—caught sight of the Boz and came running over.

“Billy Joe Bosworth!” he said excitedly. “Harwood Warwick. We met at a pro-am down in Houston a couple of years ago. I love your stuff on the golf broadcasts. Really great!”

“Well howdy, Harwood, good to see ya agin,” Boz drawled in his best imitation of a Texas good ole boy. “Who do I have to pay off to get a cold beer around here?”

“Your damn money ain’t no good here, my man,” Harwood said, and he grabbed Boz’s arm and led him off towards the nearest bar.

I felt slightly abandoned, but I didn’t take offense. Instead, I glanced around the space. In the front, outside the windows overlooking the tee box, there were a few rows of stadium seats. They were mostly empty now, since play had ended for the day. Inside, there were two bars on either end, and a long table along the back which served as the buffet. I imagined during the long afternoon, the table had been filled with food and plates and utensils. Now, though, there were just some big bowls filled with popcorn, and some smaller dishes of peanuts, Goldfish and other snacks. They clearly were trying to gear it down for the day.

The middle of the space was filled with tables covered in tablecloths and ringed by white folding chairs. People milled about, some standing, cocktails in hand, others seated at one of the tables. It was noisy, it was happy, it was crowded madness.

I started to fight my way to one of the bars to grab something to drink when I noticed a table way on the other side of the room. Two people were sitting there, alone. I could only see the backs of their heads, since they were facing away, but one of the two was a woman who looked, from the back, a lot like Kelsey Jenkins. Sitting next to her was a slightly chubby, fuzzy headed man. From the back, he looked a lot like Digby Allen.

I changed direction, went over, saw that it was indeed Kelsey and Digby, so I pulled up a chair and plunked down across from them, facing back towards the crowded room.

“Hiya, kids,” I said. “What’s shakin’?”

I got no response. Kelsey sat stone-faced, staring out the Plexiglas window in the side of the canvas covering. Digby, who was sitting pretty close to Kelsey, shifted in his seat and glanced at me, frowning.

“We’re having a private conversation, Hacker,” he said finally. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Talk away. Pretend I’m not here. I’m just unwinding after a long day at the golf tournament. Can I get you a drink or something?”

Digby shifted again. “I said we’re talking,” he said. “Why don’t you go away?”

“Well, gee, Digby,” I said, feigning hurt feelings. “That’s not very nice. Kels…you want me to go, too?”

She didn’t say anything. She continued to stare out the window.

“Yes, she does,” Digby said, his voice strained a little. “Now go away.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t do that, my friend,” I said. “Until Kelsey here tells me what’s going on. Because Ben Oswald has been trying to contact her and is worried. Hell, by now, I expect he’s got the local cops fanning out across the golf course, looking for her. And after last night’s bomb attack, everyone’s on high alert. So maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on?”

“He’s got a gun, Hacker,” Kelsey said, softly. She sounded scared out of her wits. “You’d better go. Before someone gets hurt.”

“A gun?” I said. “Why in the hell do you need a gun to talk with Kelsey, Digs? You gonna hold her up or something? Hell, if it’s money you need, I can lend you a few bucks.”

He shifted his position again. When he did, I saw the revolver tucked in his waistband in front. Maybe that’s why he kept shifting around…having the barrel of a pistol pointed down at your goolies would be enough to make any man nervous.

“Go away,” he said again. He wouldn’t look at me. “Just go. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Fine, fine, I’m going,” I said. I didn’t move. “But before I go, tell me something Digby. I haven’t been able to figure it out. Why in the hell did you kill Parker Long? I figured out how you did it. I just don’t know why.”

He shuffled around again, but he did look at me finally with something resembling pride.

“I did it for Arnie,” he said.

“Wasserman ordered you to kill him?” I said. I hope I sounded as surprised as I was. “Man, that’s ice cold.”

Digby smiled at me, as if I was an idiot. “No, he didn’t order me,” he said. “Nobody orders me to do anything. I did it because he and Ben wanted Parker gone. Off the team. But they couldn’t do it, because he had a contract through the end of this year, and he wasn’t going to resign.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked. “That’s all private personnel records and stuff like that. How do you know?”

“You people look at me and just think ‘There’s old Digby Allen, tech guy.’ Everyone thinks I’m as dumb as a rock.” He straighted his shoulders. “Well, I’m not. I know how to access people’s emails. I can bug a telephone. I know how to listen. I know things. I find out things. I’m not stupid.”

He looked at me with a superior smirk. “I know what school your daughter goes to,” he said. “Except she’s not your daughter, is she? She’s a step-daughter or something. Not really yours.”

“Wow,” I said. “You do know how to snoop around on people. That’s pretty goddam impressive.”

Kelsey looked at me sideways. I think—I hope—she understood I was just trying to keep him talking.

“So what do you mean you killed Parker for Arnie?” I continued.

“They wanted Parker gone,” he said. “Him and Ben. I figured out the way to do it. I fixed up some earphones that would conduct an electrical charge directly from the router unit into the ear pieces.”

He sat back in his chair and laughed.

“I gotta tell you, it was a bitch and a half testing those phones to make sure they worked,” he said. “But I figured it out. Then I just had to wait my chance. I knew Parker would be calling for help after I screwed up his headphones so he got a lot of static. And sure enough, he did.”

“But I thought Sheila answered the call that afternoon,” I said. “She told the cops she’d changed a fuse or something in the desk unit.”

Digby laughed again.

“And I was waiting until she left,” he said with a grin. “Sure enough, ole Parker was sitting there, mad as a wet hen because he still couldn’t hear a damn thing. So I just gave him my new earphone set and he plugged it in.”

His eyes went a little unfocused for a moment. He was reliving the moment.

“Fuckers worked like a charm,” he said. “Beautiful blue flash and zappo! That was the end of Parker Long. I unplugged the phones, plugged his old ones back in, put them on his head and got out of there. Pretty damn simple.”

“And then you came back to New York and told Arnie what you did, right?” I pressed. “What…did you think he’d approve?”

“He’d know he would have to keep me around,” Digby said, smirking again. “I had him. Him and Ben. They were the ones who wanted Parker gone. I just did what they wanted done.”

“Well, Digs,” I said, “The one small little hitch in your plan is that neither one of them wanted Parker Long dead, they just wanted him to retire.”

“He’s retired,” Digby said. “Permanently.”

“Yeah, but I imagine that Arnie was a little freaked out when you told him what you’d done,” I said.

Digby frowned.

“Maybe he was so freaked out that he threatened to call the cops,” I said. “Maybe he was so freaked out that he threatened to have you fired.”

Digby Allen shrugged.

“Whatever he was going to do, he can’t do it now,” he said. “I followed him home that afternoon. Saw him go into that girl’s apartment. I knew they were screwing. I monitored their emails. Saw him come out a bit later. Followed him to the grocery store. Knew he was going back for more.”

“So you waited, just far enough away from the market to avoid the security cameras,” I said. “And then, pop.”

Digby giggled, “Pop is right,” he said. “Pop goes the weasel.”

Kelsey finally spoke.

“You’re one sick fucker, Digby,” she said.

Her comment landed like a slap across the face. Digby’s face turned red and his eyes narrowed.

“Enough talking,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

He rummaged around in his waistband and pulled the gun out. He kept it under the table so nobody standing nearby could see.

“Hacker, I want you out of here,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been a good friend to me. So I want you to leave first. Once you’re outside, Kelsey and I will leave. I’ve got a car stashed down by the trailers. As long as nobody tries to stop us, I’ll let Kelsey live. If not…”

He let that idea drift in the air.

“Okey doke,” I said. I stood up. “I’m outta here. Kels…I’d do what he says.”

Digby looked scared. A little desperate. Perhaps at the end of his rope. Those were not good things for someone like Digby Allen to be thinking, with a loaded gun in his hand.

I glanced over at the bar. The Boz was standing there with his new best friend from Texas. He had a beer in one hand and some kind of munchies in the other. He saw me looking at him. I tried to send some mental warning messages, but I’ve never been very good at clairvoyance. And I couldn’t really try to wave him over, without risking getting shot in the gut.

Kelsey shot a look at me, a look of desperation. I could imagine she was a bit stressed, having heard Digby’s plan for her. I tried a short reassuring smile and hoped it registered.

“You guys take care,” I said. I started walking away, but as I passed by Digby, I reached out, grabbed his shirt collar and yanked it hard, backwards and down. His folding chair tipped back and over, his feet coming up and kicking the big table hard and almost turning it over, too.

Kelsey screamed and leaped away. “He’s got a gun,” she yelled. “Gun!”

That was the magic word to create instant chaos. People in the hospitality space began to scatter. Women screamed. Men shouted. Chairs overturned. Doors slammed open as people began shoving each other out of the way in an attempt to escape.

I kept a tight hold on Digby’s shirt collar, but he reacted quickly, turning and twisting to get free. I reached over and grabbed the gun from his hand, pointed the barrel straight up and put two shots through the roof of the place. I needed some police on the scene and that was the fastest way I could think of to get them.

The ear-splitting sound of the gun shots—after the cry of ‘gun’—sent the panic level up a few more notches. More screaming, more shouting and people began leaping over tables, jumping over the front of the viewing area outside and otherwise scrambling away any way they could.

Digby gave a final hard twisting move—he was surprisingly strong—and I heard something tear. Then he was free and I was holding nothing but a piece of his collar which had ripped away at the seams. I was looking at the scrap of material stupidly when Digby picked up one of the white folding chairs and whacked me with it, across my back and shoulders. I went down in a heap.

“What the everloving fuck!” cried the Boz, as he picked me up a few seconds later. I looked around. Digby was gone. He had melted into the crowd of panicked people and skedaddled. Kelsey had disappeared as well, melting into the panicked crowd and hopefully getting outside and to safety.

I was still holding Digby’s ripped shirt collar in one hand, and his gun in the other. The security guy from the door came up behind Boz and looked at me. He wasn’t armed, of course, and he didn’t know what the hell was going on.

“You’d better drop that,” he said. “Cops will be here in a minute, if they see anyone holding a gun, it’ll be shoot first and ask questions later.”

I handed the security guy the pistol and grabbed Boz.

“We gotta go get Digby,” I said. “Can’t let him get away.”