Cruel Justice

29

BEN SIGNED THE CHIT in the pro shop and threw a bag of rented golf clubs over his shoulder. The bag knocked him forward, almost across the counter. Man, they were heavy. And people do this for fun?

Gritting his teeth, Ben schlepped the clubs to the first tee, where he was supposed to meet the rest of the group. He didn’t actually remember where the first tee was, but he headed in the general direction of the course and hoped for the best.

Ben stumbled across the driving range, irritating several serious golfers who were mastering their slices, but he still couldn’t find the tee. The sun was hot and the bag was heavy, and getting heavier by the step. He realized he was dripping with sweat, and he hadn’t even started playing yet. He was about to give up when he heard strains of fractured Frankie wafting over the next hill.

“That’s why the lady … is a traaaamp. Ka-boom boom.”

That would be Dick Crenshaw. Like a hound tracking a scent, Ben followed the semimelodic rendition of the second verse to the first tee.

The course was beautiful; rolling hills undulated down the fairway. The grass was immaculately trimmed and the greens well watered.

Ben found Crenshaw pacing in a circle, with Chris Bentley and Captain Pearson nearby. And—yes! They had a golf cart.

Ben approached the group and, with a great grunting noise, heaved his golf bag into the back of the cart with the others. Pearson’s bag, with his initials embroidered on the side, had each of his clubs neatly separated inside plastic tubes. Crenshaw’s clubs were hooded with soft leather gloves bearing the images of various Warner Brothers cartoon characters—Bugs Bunny, Wile E. Coyote, and Pepe Le Pew.

“Are you the fourth?” Crenshaw asked, interrupting his song.

Pearson frowned. “Mitch didn’t tell me anything about this.”

“It was my idea,” Ben said hurriedly. He introduced himself to Crenshaw and Bentley. “I’d been wanting to chat with you. I heard you were playing golf today and lost your fourth player when Hal Rutherford begged out. It seemed like a perfect fit.”

“I hope you won’t be asking a lot of distressing questions,” Bentley said in his soft Southern accent. “We came here to play golf. We don’t want anybody disturbing our equilibrium with a lot of fool questions.”

“I’ll try to keep myself in line,” Ben replied.

“Are you sure you know how to play golf?” Pearson asked, eyeing Ben’s clumsy grip on his wood.

“Of course I do,” Ben replied. “I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? It’s required.” In fact, Ben’s last visit to a golf course had been in law school when a professor took him out one morning to play nine holes. He hadn’t been any good then and he hadn’t played since. But how hard could it be? he reasoned. All you do is swing a club at a little ball and knock it down the fairway, for Pete’s sake. Piece of cake.

“Fine,” Pearson said. “You go first.”

This was not particularly encouraging. Ben had hoped to pick up a few pointers by watching the other men play. But he couldn’t back down now.

He rammed a little orange tee into the soft earth and placed his ball on top. It fell off. He did it again. It fell off again. After two more repetitions, Pearson bent down, huffing and puffing, and fixed Ben’s tee for him.

“Thanks a million,” Ben said. All right, he told himself. Concentrate. First impressions are everything. If I can just hit a good one first off, they’ll assume I can play and won’t notice if I fumble a bit later on.

He held the club next to the ball, closed his eyes, concentrated, and inhaled deeply. What was it Christina was always talking about? Focusing on your third eye? All right, third eye. Come through for me.

He reared back and swung the club as hard as he could.

And missed. The ball wobbled a bit from the rush of wind as the club passed over it, then settled back onto the tee.

“That was my practice shot,” Ben said hurriedly. “We all get practice shots, right? Okay, this one is for real.”

Bentley, Pearson, and Crenshaw all exchanged silent looks.

“Here I go.” This time, for a change in approach, Ben decided to keep his eyes open. He swung the club around and actually managed to make contact with the ball. Barely. The tiny white sphere dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically down the fairway at an extreme left angle. The golf equivalent of a gutter ball.

“Huh,” Ben said, looking away. “Wrist’s a little stiff. Must’ve spent too long on the driving range. Who’s next?”

After they all took their tee shot, Bentley walked with Ben to his ball. Given the distance involved, or lack thereof, the golf cart seemed rather unnecessary.

“Now look here, Kincaid,” Bentley said. “If you’re going to play the entire nine holes with us, you’re going to have to know something about the game.”

“Well, I suppose I could use a few pointers. …”

“I can boil the whole thing down to four rules for you. Hell, I taught my third ex-wife to play in half an hour. Now first, you need to loosen your grip. Club head speed generates power, not your grip. So there’s no point in swinging the club like you’re trying to kill someone.”

A noteworthy choice of phrase, Ben thought.

“Swing like this.” Bentley demonstrated his smooth, easy approach. “Hold the club like it’s a tube of toothpaste, not a battle-ax.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Ben said, practicing the swing.

“Second, be generous with yourself when you’re picking out a club. Pick a club that’s one size longer than you think you need.”

Ben was confident he could do that, too. Especially since he didn’t understand the differences between the clubs, anyway.

“Third, check your club.”

“For what?”

“The fidelity of the club is critical. Golf clubs take a real pounding over time, especially cheap rented ones like you’re using.”

They arrived at the spot where Ben’s ball now rested. “If your club is off, your ball will veer to the side, even if your stroke is perfect. Have the golf pro check your clubs before you start.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ben said, positioning himself behind his ball. “What’s the fourth rule?”

“Whenever possible, cheat.” Bentley looked all around, made sure no one else was watching, then picked up Ben’s ball and hurled it toward the green. It landed maybe a hundred feet from the hole.

“But … .that’s cheating,” Ben said.

“Only if you get caught.”

By the fifth hole, Ben had begun to kinda sorta get the hang of it. His scores still came in at roughly three times par, but at least his balls rose off the ground.

“So how’s the investigation coming?” Bentley asked with unexpected interest.

“Slowly. It’s hard to dig up evidence on a ten-year-old crime. The floors have all been scrubbed, if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m getting a subpoena to search the country-club offices and lockers and all, but I don’t have high hopes.”

“Sounds like a huge waste of time to me.”

“You’re probably right. But I have to try. I heard you’re throwing a charity ball tonight,” Ben said as they left the fifth green.

“That’s my business,” Bentley replied cheerily. “I spend most of my working time on charity assignments these days.”

“Really?” Perhaps he had misjudged the man. “What charity are you working for?”

“Several. I think tonight’s shindig is about providing meals for homeless children. Or vaccinations. Something like that. I run an umbrella organization that provides services to a variety of charities.”

“You … provide services? To charity? What does that mean?”

“Whatever they need, I try to provide. Volunteers, parties, fund-raisers, whatever.”

“Interesting.” Ben washed his ball in the cute plastic washer stand beside the tee. “How did you get involved with that?”

“Well, it’s something I started about ten years ago.”

Ben looked up. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I was … well, lemme see. How can I phrase it? Between wives. Flat busted is what I was. And the bar bill was getting pretty damn high. So I started this line of work.”

“But how can you make money working for charity?”

“I didn’t say I was working for charity. I said I was providing services to charities. There’s a big difference. See, when national charitable organizations want to raise some money in a particular locality, say, Tulsa, they need a local who knows who’s got the big money and knows how to pry it out of their tight little wallets. That’s what I do. If they need a hundred well-heeled socialites for a black-tie fund-raiser, I round them up. If they need a hundred volunteers to staff phone lines, I enlist some rich housewives who feel guilty because their lives don’t amount to a hill of beans.”

“And this is profitable?”

“Extremely. I typically charge a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer up front per job, and keep twenty-five percent of the ultimate take. And I have almost no expenses! After all, the charity pays the expenses for the fund-raisers and I don’t have to pay any of those women to make phone calls. They’re volunteers! They do it for nothing, because they think they’re helping a worthy cause. I get a percentage of what they collect, the charity gets the rest. And the volunteers get to sleep easy with the knowledge that they’re making a difference.” He chortled softly. “It’s a perfect arrangement.”

“I don’t suppose any of those volunteers knows that you’re running a for-profit business.”

“Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

“But think how many meals for homeless children your cut could provide. If you didn’t carve out your piece of the action, that money might actually do some good in the world instead of being frittered away on green fees and martinis.”

Bentley gave Ben a long look. “As I mentioned, Kincaid, I got into this business because I needed money. Big money. Back then, I would’ve done almost anything to make a few bucks. But the glory of it was, I turned out to be good at this. I see nothing wrong with being adequately compensated for a job well done. Charities seek me out and gladly pay my fee, because they know I can make their fund-raising drive a success.”

“But still—”

“Look, Kincaid, it’s easy to be sanctimonious in the abstract. But I have practical considerations. My pot of gold isn’t as infinite as the rest of these jokers’. I had to seek a balance. I had to merge my living with my charitable works. Is that a crime?”

“It’s not a crime, but—”

“I’m sure you’re a paragon of compassion, Kincaid, but are all your cases pro bono cases?”

“Well, no, of course not …”

“Of course not. Neither are mine. I make money for myself, and I make money for the other guy. What’s wrong with that?”

Ben shrugged. Perhaps he had been too hasty to condemn these people. He was letting the experiences of his childhood, the stereotype of the wealthy Ugly American, taint his perceptions. Maybe. “Well, I hope your charity ball is a success.”

“Me, too. You’d be welcome to come, Kincaid, if you’ve got a tux and you promise not to spend the whole night talking about the damn murder.”

Not a bad idea, Ben thought, but I really can’t spare the time. “I’m afraid I have to prepare for trial. Maybe I could send my legal assistant.”

Bentley’s head turned. “A woman?”

“Ye-es.”

“Good-looking?”

“Well … it’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. I think so.”

“You know, Kincaid, I don’t have a date for the ball. You may have heard that I’m …”

“Between wives?”

“Right.”

Ben cleared his throat. “I don’t think Christina is your type.”

“Why not?”

“Well … she’s, um, she’s …”

“Yes?”

Ben swallowed. “She’s poor. Well, not rich, anyway. After all, she works for me.”

All of a sudden Bentley burst into laughter. “Kincaid, where did you get the idea that all I care about is how much money a woman has?”

“Then … it isn’t true?”

Bentley bent down and checked the slope of the hill. “I didn’t say that. I just want to know who’s been talking about me.”

Bentley took his shot, a beautiful drive right down the fairway and just a bit short of the green.

“I’m surprised the police have time for this ten-year-old murder,” Bentley commented as they walked toward their balls. “I would’ve thought they’d have all hands out looking for the man who’s killing those little boys.”

“They’re trying,” Ben said. “Believe me.”

“That’s such a disgusting crime. I don’t understand these kiddie perverts. I think they should all be castrated and hanged.”

“The police are scouring the area where the last boy was killed.”

“Would they know him if they found him? He’s not likely to walk up and say, ‘Yes, sir, I’m the pedophile. Why do you ask?’ ”

“There are certain pieces of physical evidence they hope to find. The last little boy disappeared wearing a red baseball cap, for instance. It’s never been found. If it turns up—”

“Someone’s going to have the police descending upon him like flies. Got it.” Bentley pulled back his club. The ball descended onto the green just inches from the hole. “Excellent. You’re next, Kincaid.”

“Oh. Well, if you insist.” He squared himself in front of his ball. “Here goes nothing.”

Bentley grinned. “Truer words were never spoken.”

By the seventh hole, Ben was really feeling the heat. He seemed to be sweating more than anyone else. Of course, he was swinging about three times as often as anyone else.

Just when he thought he was going to have to call for an oxygen mask, he saw Mitch tootling over the hill in a golf cart. “Refreshments, anyone?”

Mitch unpacked a chest filled with drinks, both soft and hard, then unwrapped an elaborate food spread. He had pâté and chips, caviar and crackers, and several other exotic treats Ben couldn’t identify. Mitch passed Pearson and Crenshaw ice-cold beers; Bentley got a martini poured out of a thermos.

“What about for you, Ben?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t suppose by any wild chance you’d be carrying chocolate milk?”

“Uh, no. I could go back to the clubhouse. …”

“Never mind.” Ben took a can of Coke Classic. “Thanks anyway; Mitch. You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s why they pay me the big money. Not.”

After everyone was done munching and imbibing, Mitch cleared away the spread and packed up the cart. “How’s it going, anyway?” he whispered to Ben.

“Not too bad.”

“Are they talking?”

“Some. Mostly about Rutherford, since he’s not here today. Bentley says at dinner last night Rutherford droned on for an hour about soil composition and bagworm infestation. And he tried to make everyone eat his radishes. Sounded unpleasant.”

Mitch laughed. “Humorous, but not very helpful.”

“True. Still, I’m probably getting a lot more than I would’ve if we were sitting around in some office. Thanks for getting me in on this game.”

“No problem.” Mitch climbed behind the wheel of the cart and turned the key. “Anything else I can bring you?”

“Yeah. Arnold Palmer. Hey, let me ask you a question before you go.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of his golf partners was listening. “How does Pearson make so much money?”

“Like he says. Oil and gas. Foreign investments.”

“So as far as you know, he doesn’t have … anything going on the side?”

Mitch laughed. “Oh, you found out about the green fees.”

Ben didn’t know what Mitch was talking about, but he saw no reason to admit it “Then it’s true?”

“It’s true. Pearson skims a healthy percentage off the top of the green fees. Hell, he makes back twice what he contributes in dues each year.”

“Why don’t the other board members stop him?”

“Because they’ve each got a little fiddle of their own. Crenshaw takes his from the pro shop. Bentley takes his from the dining room. I could make you a list.”

In due time, Ben thought. “Do they know that you know about this?”

“I’d have to be a blind man, or seriously mathematically challenged, to miss it. What do they care? What could I do? As Pearson has repeatedly pointed out, I’m an employee, not a member. And how they decide to divvy up the money in their own private club is their own business.”

“The dues-paying members who aren’t on the board might have a different view.”

“Probably,” Mitch agreed. “But they’ll never know.”

By the time the golfing party reached the ninth hole, Crenshaw was looking seriously winded. Although they had a cart, and Crenshaw spent more time in it than anyone, he still looked beat. His eyes were lined and hollow; sweat dripped from every pore. Of course, it was an abominably hot day. And, Ben reasoned, being a short fat bald man, Crenshaw was probably more subject to heat prostration.

“Looks to me like Dick needs a shower,” Ben whispered to Bentley.

“Looks to me like Dick needs a hit,” Bentley replied.

“A hit?”

“You know.” Bentley mimed an exaggerated snorting through his nose.

“Crenshaw? You’re kidding.”

“How do you think that man keeps going all day long at that energy level? He’s more high-strung than Robin Williams.”

Ben watched carefully as Crenshaw approached the tee. Ten minutes ago he’d been loud, animated, and boisterous. Now he looked as if he’d gone six days without sleep. Ben was no expert on substance abusers, but he supposed it was possible.

Crenshaw took a swing and totally missed his golf ball. Wasn’t even close. Privately, Ben was pleased to see he wasn’t the only one who had ever committed that humiliating gaffe, although, of course, Crenshaw did it when he was exhausted, and Ben did it on his first swing of the day.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Crenshaw shouted. He hurled his golf club across the fairway at a tree with sudden and startling force. The club hit a tree and splintered, just as the club that killed Maria Alvarez must have done.

“Now don’t get your dick in a twist,” Pearson grumbled.

“I can’t get it in a twist!” Crenshaw shouted back. “It isn’t big enough!”

Ah, Ben thought. Here we go again.

“I hate this game. I don’t know why I play it. I quit.”

“Calm down, Dick,” Bentley said. He glanced at the scorecard. “You’re only … twenty strokes over par. You’re still beating Kincaid, though!” Bentley and Pearson laughed heartily.

Crenshaw ripped off the Porky Pig cover and grabbed a new club. “Sure, laugh. I know you guys just make fun of me because my dick’s so small. Sons of bitches.”

Eventually Crenshaw managed to get off his shot. After all four had teed off, Ben managed to pair himself in the cart with Crenshaw for the drive down the fairway.

“Mitch told me you knew Leeman Hayes back when he was caddying here ten years ago.”

“Oh, damn it all to hell. You’re not going to hassle me about that, are you? I’ve already told the police everything I know about a thousand times.”

“The police questioned you?”

“Damn straight. Just because I had the kid over to my house a few times.”

Ben’s head turned. “You had Leeman at your home?”

“Sure. Why not? I didn’t know he was going to kill someone.”

“I don’t believe he did—”

“Man, it’s blazing today! I’m pooped.” He stopped the cart, bent over, and placed his hands on his knees. “Look, Leeman caddied for me a few times. He was okay. Quiet, but I like that in a caddy. You could tell he wasn’t quite right in the head, but what did it matter? Caddying doesn’t require rocket scientists. I needed some work done at my house, laying bricks around the garden and such. Simple stuff, but tiring. I didn’t want to do it. I figured he would.” Crenshaw winked. “I also figured I wouldn’t have to pay him too much, since he couldn’t tell a nickel from a hundred-dollar bill.”

“You mean you—”

“It was just a few times. I got some work done; he made some pin money. It was a perfect arrangement.”

Where have I heard that before? Ben reflected.

“But after the kid got arrested, the cops started acting like we were best friends or something.”

“You didn’t know anything about the murder?”

“Absolutely nothing. How would I know why he killed that woman? He was probably trying to get into her pants. You know how those retards are.”

Ben felt his neck stiffening. “Mr. Crenshaw—”

“Quiet. I’m taking my shot.” Crenshaw positioned himself, then swung. The ball flew about a hundred feet, still a good ways from the hole. “Damn! Rack up another one to Dick Crenshaw, the dickless wonder.”

“Mr. Crenshaw—”

He grinned. “Sorry, kid. Guess I’m embarrassing you with my ribald sense of humor. You’re probably not used to public discussions about genitalia.”

“You should’ve been at my last trial.”

That slowed Crenshaw down—for a moment, anyway. “What kind of work do you do, Kincaid, when you’re not representing underprivileged killers?”

Ben gave Crenshaw a brief description of his keenly unglamorous practice. How long can you go on representing the scum of the earth?

“Sounds like you stay pretty, uh, diverse,” Crenshaw said. “Is that by choice, or do you have to take whatever walks in the door?”

“I don’t—”

“Never mind. Unfair question. Well, hang in there. The law will keep you fed, till you move on to something else.”

“Something else?”

“Hell, yes. Surely you don’t want to be trudging through courtrooms forever.”

“Well—”

“There’s no future in that. You know where the future is?”

“Uh, plastics?”

“No. Turkish mutual funds.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard it. I’m not going to say it again. Now that we’ve declawed the Russian bear, some of those third-world countries are making money for the first time, and they don’t know what to do with it. A smart man playing some smart investments could make a killing. And that’s what it’s all about, right?”

“Well …”

“You don’t want to be chasing child-custody payments for the rest of your life, do you?”

“Well …”

“Look, Kincaid, I get more cases these days than I can possibly handle. I refer out as many as I take. I’ll keep you in mind. If I get some small-potatoes stuff I don’t want to screw with, I’ll send it your way.”

“Well, gee whiz. Thanks very much.”

“No problem.” He looked at Ben pointedly. “I can be a help to people I consider my friends. If you get my drift.”

Ben had a sneaking suspicion that he did.

To Ben’s relief and, truth be told, his mild surprise, they completed the nine holes. There was a brief discussion of making it eighteen, but Ben pleaded work and begged off. Pearson and Bentley followed his lead, while Crenshaw, tired as he was, or seemed to be, proceeded to the tenth tee. Ben watched Crenshaw recede into the distance. “ ’S wonderful … ’S marvelous …”

Ben and Captain Pearson left the course and headed back to the main club building. Pearson gave Ben his personal short course on how to improve his golf game. Ben listened politely as Pearson babbled on about Pings and torque and swinging the club like you’re serving a tray.

As they passed Pearson’s office, Ben noticed three black teenagers sitting inside. And one of them was distinctly familiar.

It was Booker—Joni’s boyfriend. And, according to Ernie Hayes, a member of a major Tulsa street gang.

The one he said was always hanging around the country club.

Ben was about to ask Pearson about that when the office’s mahogany door abruptly closed, with Pearson on the other side.

Well, Ben thought, you can’t get rid of me that easily.

Checking both ways down the corridor and finding it momentarily uninhabited, he pressed his ear against the door.

It wasn’t that hard to hear, as Pearson was screaming. “What in God’s name are you doing? Coming here in broad daylight!”

The restaurant maître d’ suddenly appeared in the corridor. Ben moved away from the door and tried to act as if he had lost his balance. With the huge golf bag on his shoulder, his performance wasn’t altogether unbelievable.

He hustled back to the pro shop and turned in his gear. It had been a miserable afternoon, but he was glad he’d done it. He’d picked up some fascinating tidbits about the board members. Problem was, the tidbits didn’t add up to a murderer. He was going to have to keep on probing.

Starting with the man on the other side of that mahogany door.

As soon as Kincaid was out of sight, Chris Bentley quietly stepped through the patio doors and ducked down the secluded staircase that led to the private locker room.

Bentley slid into what was called the Golden Room by those in the know. An exclusive hideaway for the board members and a few of the staff. A quick look around told him no one else was here at the moment.

Good. Now, which one was it? Twenty-two, twenty-four … Yes, that was it. He loved these new computerized digital locks. He had arranged for their installation himself. All the boys on the board had a great feeling of security knowing their locker could be penetrated only by entering a four-digit code chosen by and known only to the owner of the locker. Truth to tell, though, Bentley knew the universal access code that would open all of them. But there was no need for anyone else to know about that.

Quietly, with studied stealth, Bentley opened the locker.

There it was. A bright red baseball cap. Boy’s size.

Bentley grabbed the cap and shoved it under his shirt. Christ. Imagine if Kincaid had found this! That would’ve been the end of the world, as he knew it, anyway.

He closed the locker and tiptoed up the stairs. He’d shove it into his golf bag for now, then get it off the grounds. No one need be the wiser.

Back outside, Bentley headed back toward the clubhouse. The sun felt warm and refreshing, and he basked in it, with the happy inner glow of a man who has only narrowly missed being found out.