Two Jakes (20 page)

“Too
dangerous. For now.” She smiled. “Victor wants to play golf with him, find out
what he knows.” Her mouth went down at one corner. “To see what he’s made of.”

Garza
rarely looked surprised. He did now.

“Perhaps
I should give Victor the fruitcake.”

***

Things
were moving more quickly than Scarne had imagined. For some reason Ballantrae
was taking him seriously. He had, in fact, overruled his own legal counsel.
Despite her icy calm Alana Loeb had not managed to suppress her surprise – and
anger – at the golf invitation. Something in her eyes had flashed a warning to
Ballantrae, which he chose to ignore. It was almost as if he was taunting her,
or reestablishing his authority in the presence of another man. A sign of
insecurity? Jealousy? Stress? Scarne had also noticed the slight twitch in
Ballantrae’s damaged brow. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake. Alana Loeb
had been right. Despite his challenging words, or perhaps because of them,
Scarne should have been shown the door. That was what an innocent man would
have done.

On
the drive back to La Gorce he called Evelyn and told her to go to his apartment
and ship his golf set overnight to Pelican Trace. He had indeed heard of the
club; it was one of the premier courses in Florida. Many touring pros were
members. If she hurried, he’d have them by 10 AM the next day.

“Won’t
that be expensive? Can’t you get some at the club, or rent?”

“Not
as expensive as losing a big money match with unfamiliar clubs.”

“How
do you know there will be a large wager involved?”

“I
know Ballantrae’s type. He won’t be happy just beating me. He’ll want to grind
me into the dust.”

“My,
that sounds like fun.”

“Actually,
I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be here longer than I thought. Stuff my golf
bag with some extra underwear and golf socks.”

“It
will be an honor to pick through your unmentionables, Jake.”

CHAPTER
24 – DEAD MAN’S LOCKER

It
was just before noon when Scarne drove under the porte cochere at the clubhouse
entrance of Pelican Trace. A valet in white shorts and shirt gave him a ticket
for his car. He was wearing a pith helmet.

“Many
tigers on the course, my good man?”

“Occasionally
one, sir,” the man said. “Between tournaments.”

Scarne
pulled a small bag and some fresh clothes on hangers from the back seat. The
men’s locker room was everything he expected, given the club’s reputation. It
contained a small card room, a television lounge and a bar. There were two
barber chairs set up in a small alcove. An attendant sat behind a counter in
another alcove stocked with towels, plastic shoe bags and golf shoe cleaning
and repair equipment. He came out and walked over to Scarne.

“Can
I help you, sir?”

“Yes,
I’m a guest of Mr. Ballantrae. Do you have a locker I can use?

“We’ve
been expecting you. Come this way. Let me take your things.”

The
man led Scarne to a bank of lockers. All but one had large brass nameplates.
The attendant opened the locker that had no nameplate, but still showed its
outline and four small screw holes. It was between the lockers of an aging rock
star and the head of a Wall Street investment bank now under investigation by
the S.E.C.

“Don’t
tell me this one was convicted,” Scarne said, pointing to the locker.

“Actually,
this was Mr. McGillicuddy’s locker. Dropped dead after a hole in one. His first
after 50 years of golfing. Hope you’re not superstitious.”

Scarne
started to laugh, but caught himself.

“Too
bad. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well,
at least he didn’t have to buy a round of drinks,” the attendant said. “By the
way, if you have a cell phone please leave it here. Not allowed on the course.
Put your street shoes outside the locker and I’ll shine them for you. The
showers, steam room and sauna are right through there. If you need a massage
after your match, I can set it up for you. Compliments of Mr. Ballantrae.”

“Thank
you, but no. Just tell me when the Dallas Cowboys are due back.”

The
attendant drew a blank for a second, and then laughed.

“The
Cowboys wish they had a locker room like this. Best I’ve worked.”

Scarne
put on his golf shoes. He stopped by to thank and tip the attendant.

“Thank
you, sir. Enjoy your round. By the way, your clubs are at the starter’s shack.
Mr. Ballantrae is waiting for you in the Grill Room.”

After
Scarne left, the attendant dialed the house phone.

“It’s
Danny. He just left. His phone is in the locker.”

“I’ll
be right down,” Jesús Garza said.

“How
about grabbing me a sandwich? I missed breakfast waiting for him.”

“What
am I, Meals on Fucking Wheels?” Garza looked over at Christian Keitel and
rolled his eyes. “All right, what do you want?”

***

Ballantrae
was sitting at a table with Alana Loeb.

“How
are you today, Mr. Scarne,” she said, extending her hand. “Has Victor told you
that you will be playing for your first born?”

“I
don’t have children, Alana, but if I lose, I’ll adopt. And it’s Jake.”

Both
she and Ballantrae laughed as he sat.

Ballantrae
had on bright yellow golf slacks and a blue short-sleeve shirt. His massive
arms were covered with rust-colored hair. The effect was slightly ridiculous.
But Scarne realized it could have been worse. If Ballantrae’s legs were equally
hirsute, the result would be borderline grotesque.

Alana
Loeb, on the other hand, radiated elegance – and sex. She was wearing white
shorts and a short-sleeve coral blouse. Barely visible fine downy blond hairs
speckled her well-tanned and toned arms and legs.

A
waiter approached the table with menus.

“I’ll
have my usual, Jorge,” Ballantrae said. He glanced at Scarne. “The house club.
It’s great. Made with Russian dressing and coleslaw.”

“Sounds
a bit heavy before a match,” Scarne said.

“Why
don’t you get it,” Alana said. “I’ll help you out. I’m just going to have some
lobster bisque. It’s wonderful here. I’ll let you have a taste.”

“Done,”
Scarne said.

They
all ordered “Arnold Palmers” – half ice tea, half lemonade.

Ballantrae
said, “Alana is going to play with us, Jake. I hope you don’t mind. She won’t
be in our match. She’d probably beat our pants off.”

“Not
at all,” Scarne said. “I’d be delighted.” He wasn’t being polite.

Ballantrae
switched gears. “All right, Jake. You have questions?”

Scarne
again saw a slight tremor of the right eyelid. Tension? Or just a result of
whatever had caused the scar above it? He decided to press the issue.

“Josh
Shields was investigating you. He told his father to stall your investment in
Shields Inc. Your company rubs a lot of people the wrong way.”

“There’s
a big difference between rubbing people the wrong way and rubbing them out,”
Ballantrae said angrily. “What would be my motivation? Fear of publicity? Fear
of the S.E.C.? They’re a joke. Read the papers.”

“You
own an offshore bank. Some people might assume you launder money. You have
South American clients. People could think drugs.”

“Are
you out of your fucking mind? That bank is totally legitimate. Why don’t they
go after the Swiss, for Christ sake? They’ve been hiding money forever. Or the
Vatican? And hinting at drugs is defamatory. You’re profiling. Hasn’t anyone
told you that you can’t do that anymore?”

His
voice had risen an octave. A few heads at nearby tables turned.

“Victor,
keep your voice down,” Alana Loeb said quietly.

“Let’s
consider another possibility,” Scarne said. “Perhaps someone who works for you
took matters in his own hands. Are you sure of all your employees?”

“Nobody
is sure of everyone who works for him,” Ballantrae said. Then he looked at the
woman. “Present company excepted, of course.” He appeared thoughtful. “You
think someone in my employ might have harmed the boy?”

“It’s
possible.”

“He
may have a point, Victor,” Alana Loeb said.

“Or
it could be entirely something else,” Scarne continued, “not related to
journalism. Something personal. I have an open mind. It would help me to know
just exactly what kind of business you operate. Maybe meet some of the people
Josh interviewed.”

Ballantrae
assumed an air of bored resignation.

“I
invest my clients’ money using offshore banks and various trust instruments,
all designed to keep asshole regulators off their backs and limit confiscatory
taxation. They can pass their assets down to their heirs without some banana
republic government eviscerating their estate. That pisses off a lot of people
on Wall Street who stole money the old-fashioned way and don’t want anybody
else getting rich. It’s pure jealousy. And hypocrisy.”

He
paused while their lunch was served. Scarne put two of his sandwich quarters on
his bread plate and pushed it toward Alana. She only took one and pushed the
plate back with a smile. Her bisque smelled wonderful. She slid the bowl toward
Scarne.

“You
have to try it.”

He
did and it was excellent. Ballantrae looked annoyed. He resumed his spiel with
a mouthful of food.

“Do
you really believe Wall Street is legit? They give you this bullshit about revenues,
earnings and share value and it’s all just paper and promises. Stocks are
traded like commodities in bushel baskets. A lot of it is done by computer. A
stock hits a certain price, it’s sold or bought. What does the company produce?
Who gives a rat’s ass? It’s a financial shell game. The hell with the
companies, their workers, their prospects or the poor slobs who buy the stock.
The Dow drops by a thousand points in six minutes. Investors lose a half
trillion dollars and the regulators say ‘oops.’ The bond market is no better.
Wall Street repackages bad loans as new debt securities with higher interest
rates to attract buyers. At some point the buyers get wise and dry up, with the
last jerks holding the paper stuck with it. It’s the world’s largest Ponzi
scheme, with the possible exception of the American Social Security system.”

“Some
would say that’s how a free market system works,” Scarne said. “Let the buyer
beware.”

“You
think it’s a free market system? Bullshit. It is American socialism reserved for
hedge fund managers, investment bankers and private-equity hotshots. And if
something comes along to upset the apple cart, the Fed steps in to save the
hides of the very people who screwed the pooch.”

Ballantrae
jabbed a finger at Scarne.

“And
I love this crap about derivatives and how only sophisticated investors can get
hurt, not little old Aunt Sadie in Idaho. You think some billionaire is going
to risk his own dough on some synthetic security with no real assets behind it?
Many of those so-called sophisticated investors are institutional traders
representing banks and pension funds and they are gambling with the money
thousands of small investors gave them for safe keeping. Why? Because they get
a cut of any profits they make and don’t get penalized when a deal goes down
the toilet. And people question my business ethics? If your bankers and
regulators pulled this crap in China and North Korea, they’d be shot. Bullet to
the brain and their families would have to pay for the bullet. Here, they keep
their jobs or resign with a $100 million payout. Give me a fucking break.”

It
was a marvelous rant. And, Scarne thought, the big oaf was probably right about
most of it.

“There
are no rules, Jake, except for suckers. And I’m not a sucker.”

“That’s
a matter of opinion, amigo.”

Scarne
looked up and immediately recognized the man who had just walked up to their
table. It was Lee Rodriguez, the famous professional golfer. “I don’t want to
intrude, Victor, but I must say hello to the beautiful Alana.”

“Nice
to see you again, Lee,” she said as Rodriguez bent to kiss her hand. “You’ve
just rescued us from one of Victor’s moral lectures.”

The
pro golfer laughed and then joined an adjacent table with three men who had
‘CEO’ all but stamped on their foreheads. Ballantrae pulled back his chair a
bit so that what he said would include the men, as well as Scarne and Alana
Loeb.

“You
hear about the guy who meets this gal at a bar. He asks her to dinner. She’s
bright, funny and a real looker. Can talk to her, you know. He mentions that
he’s a golfer and she says she loves the game too. He’s in heaven. So he asks
her to his club and they play a round. And she’s good! Even beats him. He can’t
believe his luck in finding such a companion. She becomes his regular playing partner.
She usually wins, but what the hell, he’s falling for her. After dinner one
night she invites him back to her place. After a couple of drinks, they tumble
into bed. He can’t believe his good luck. He slides his hand down her panties,
and feels a pair of balls! And they ain’t Top-Flites! He jumps out of bed and
starts yelling, “How could you do this to me. How could you deceive me like
this? I let you play from the ladies’ tees!”

All
the men laughed. Alana Loeb smiled indulgently. Ballantrae slid back to his own
table and turned to Scarne.

“By
the way, Alana hits from the men’s tees. And she’s all woman. Played golf for
the University of Miami.”

The
room was filling up. There were greetings and loud forced laughter.

“A
lot of new money here,” Ballantrae observed. “Not as refined as some of the
older clubs. Funny how money stolen a hundred years ago is quieter than money
stolen recently. Speaking of money, now that I’ve fattened you up for the kill,
Jake, let’s talk game. What’s your handicap?”

“I’m
a 10,” Scarne replied. “U.S.G.A.”

“And
I’m an 11. You’ll have to give me a stroke.”

“Nice
try, Ballantrae. But I’m not a sucker either. This is your home course and I’m
at a disadvantage. We’ll play even, how about it?”

The
United States Golf Association handicap system was supposed to level the
playing field among amateur golfers but there was always a little room for
horse trading. It was a ritual repeated thousands of time a day among honest
golfers and thieves, and everyone in between.

“Sure,
why not?’

Scarne
nodded at the false generosity. Ballantrae had undoubtedly checked Scarne’s
handicap on the computerized stroke system most courses used. And why not?
Scarne had checked him out, too. Ballantrae was telling the truth. So even
given the home field advantage, it should be a pretty square match, made even
more interesting by the presence of a beautiful woman, who was now staring at
Scarne with a curious look on her face.

“So,
Jake,” Ballantrae said smoothly, “what’s your poison?”