| |
THE MORNING OF THE final round of the Carolinas Open dawned bright and sunny, with a stillness of air that foretold an afternoon of almost unbearable heat and humidity. The tournament was scheduled to begin earlier than usual for a Sunday, however, due to the fact that CBS had scheduled an important West Coast ballgame for broadcast late in the afternoon. Starting times had been moved up two hours so that the exciting finish could be completed by 4:00 p.m.
My aches and pains had subsided a bit after a good night’s rest. My knee was still a little tender, but my head had stopped throbbing and had settled into just a dull ache. The rest of me was stiff, but I felt a bit more mobile. After a long hot shower and a couple cups of black coffee, I felt semi-human once again.
I don’t know if the change in schedule allowed the God Squad time for their usual Sunday morning chapel service, but the regular meeting of the Press room Irregulars took place promptly at 9:00 a.m., as it does every week. There are about twenty of us in the Irregulars, most of us writers with a few Tour officials thrown in as well. We attack the breakfast buffet first, spend about five minutes discussing any earth-shaking world news, and then get down to business. Ten bucks a man thrown into the pot, payoffs only for win and place. We don’t screw around trying to pick a tournament winner before the week begins: That’s a fool’s game. Hell, any one of the 150 or so pros entered have the capabilities to win. And a dozen or more might be riding a hot hand. The odds are way too long for the Irregulars. We like short odds, and on a Sunday morning, there are usually no more than 10 guys with a chance to win, and usually less than that.
We all studied the leaderboard and waited for the Gods to whisper an answer, then wrote down a name on a slip of paper and passed it on, along with a ten-spot. Tie-breakers are total strokes and number of putts in the last round. If there are still ties after that, the pot is split. No winners means a carryover until next week. Since no one had predicted Mark Cranmer’s last-round charge up in Atlanta, there was more than $500 in this week’s pot.
I thought about it for a while, figured Lanny Wadkins was overdue for one of his lightning-strike rounds and picked him to win, with a 272 total, 29 putts on Sunday. I gave my slip and money to Woody, who was this month’s secretary-treasurer. He glanced at my choice.
“A conservative pick, Hacker,” he said, peering at me over his bifocals. “Faint heart never won fair child.”
“Ne’er,” I said.
“Near what?” he said, puzzled.
“It’s ‘faint heart ne’er won fair child,’” I told him. “And I think it’s lady fair, not fair child.”
He just stared at me. It was pretty early in the morning for Burns, I’ll give him that.
“Hacker!” somebody called out. “Line four!”
I strolled back to my desk and picked up the phone. “Monsieur Le Golf,” said a familiar voice. “Bonjour!”
“Sherman,” I said. “You’re sounding chipper for early on a Sunday morning.”
“Well, the little woman is out in the kitchen rustling up some kippers n’ grits,” he said. “The typical Dallas Sunday breakfast. But I did find out some stuff on that reverend whosis for ya.”
“Great,” I said. “Shoot.”
“Well, the way I figure, the guy’s congregation must be a bunch of midgets,” he said. “Cause he ain’t got a church. All he’s got is a post office box.”
“You mean the Church of the Holiness—?”
“Is nothing but an address,” Sherman said. “No steeple, no people. No annex building, no Sunday school, no bean suppers. Remember those, Hacker? No thrift shop, no choir loft. In short, just one big pew.”
I laughed. “You’re right...something smelly there,” I said. “Hmmm,” he assented. “Anyway, ole whassis-name and his Holiness whatever are on the questionable list. Which means no annual report or any way to track what comes in and what goes out. Or where.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Glad you asked,” Sherman continued. “By now, of course my own curiosity is aroused –”
“Which is better than some other parts of your anatomy,” I interjected.
“Haw! So I kept digging here and there,” he continued. “This Durkee character owns himself a nice ole place out in Eastland. Now I’ve never been out there, but I’m told there’s cattle farms, trees, some chickens, and not much else in Eastland, Texas. Isolated, as they say. Anyway, Durkee’s got himself a little old country estate with about five bedrooms, swimming pool, riding stables. I’d say about fifty acres and worth in the neighborhood of two mil.”
“Shazzam,” I said.
“Yeah,” Sherman agreed. “I always wonder where I went wrong. Guess I shoulda been a questionable preacher man. More money in it, apparently, than the newspaper game. Mother always wanted me to be a priest.”
“Too much weekend work, and no one to bring you kippers n’ grits in bed,” I said.
“That and a total lack of pussy,” he said, suddenly sounding a lot more like a kid born in Needham, Mass. than a Texas reporter.
I thanked him for the information, told him I’d call when I blew into town next and we rang off.
I called Lt. Ravenel. He was already in his office. “Morning, lieutenant,” I said when he came on the line. “Is there ever a time when you don’t work?”
“Not as long as there are bad guys to arrest,” he said. “Duty, honor and country.”
“I think I’m going to weep,” I said. “Had any luck finding Rudy Hill?”
“Nah,” Ravenel yawned. “He’s still hiding. But he’s gotta come out soon. He’ll either run out of booze or girls, and I got all the liquor stores staked out.”
“Great police work,” I laughed. “I’ve got another piece of the puzzle for you,” and I told him what I had just learned about Brother Ed Durkee. “I know it’s not conclusive,” I said. “And the guy could still be legitimate even though he doesn’t have a real church, but it smells a lot like a bunko deal. And since Turnbull seemed to be on the verge of pulling out ...”
“Durkee has a reasonable motive for wanting the guy dead and cashing in his insurance,” Ravenel concluded. “Yeah, that makes sense. But what about Bert Lewis? What role does he have in this? He’s not part of the Christian fellowship.”
“No,” I admitted. “He’s not.”
“And why would the good reverend want to snuff out poor old Jocko?” he asked.
“A little earthly retribution?” I suggested. Ravenel snorted.
“And do you think it was a little pantywaist like Durkee who was trying to force you off the road the other night?” he continued.
“That sounds a little drastic to me. And more Rudy Hill’s speed.”
I thought about Ed Durkee, his black shock of hair and pale white complexion. I guess Ravenel had a point.
“Well,” he said finally. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the guy.”
“How about running his name through the computer?” I asked. “Assuming, of course, that you have computers down here in the South.”
“Up yours, you carpetbagging scum,” Ravenel growled. “Have you seen the good father out there today?”
“Not me,” I said. “Hang on a sec.” I put my hand over the phone. Billy Corcoran was rushing past my desk. “Hey Billy... whoa big fella! Have you seen Ed Durkee around anywhere today?”
He ground to a halt. You could almost hear his heels screeching. “Durkee? Uh, no Hacker, I haven’t,” he said. “Come to think of it, he wasn’t at the chapel service this morning. We waited for him for about fifteen minutes.” He rushed off again, little currents of air trailing in his wake.
“No Durkee sightings,” I told Ravenel. “Didn’t show up to lead his sheep this morning.”
“Seems like everyone of interest is disappearing,” Ravenel said.
“Probably they’re all out at the beach,” I suggested. “Nice day for it.”
“Damn,” Ravenel said. “Why didn’t I think of that? Listen, Hacker, why don’t you just go back to golf writing? I’ve got some police work to do.”
I felt as dismissed as a sixth-grader who’s been fussed at for hitting Sally Dixon with an eraser full of chalk dust. And, like a sixth-grader, I couldn’t think of a good rejoinder. So I did what I was told.