Nick waved to a young golfer strutting past followed by his entourage.
"And football and basketball players, they're all homeboys from the 'hood, foul-mouthed, chest-pounding, crotch-grabbing, gun-packing, tattooed-and-taunting homies who brought the 'hood culture to the pros." Nick shook his head. "WM squared don't like homies, Scott."
Nick acknowledged another golfer trailed by kids seeking autographs.
"Course, what do you expect? You give a twenty-year-old black kid from the ghetto ten million in cash 'cause he can dunk a basketball or catch a football, what do you think he's gonna do? Invest in a retirement account with Schwab? Hell, no. He's gonna bling himself out with a chrome-plated Hummer and gold jewelry and high-powered guns, then go back to the 'hood and show off to his homies. He ain't suddenly gonna start wearing Tommy Hilfiger."
Nick was amused by his own words.
"Which leaves pro golf to provide the white-and-polite, English-speaking, non-violent, suburban sports experience for WM squared."
"Tiger's black."
Nick dismissed that comment as if he were annoyed by a gnat.
"Tiger transcends race. He's the best there ever was and he's a marketing machine because he's programmed like a fucking computer—at least until he drove his life into a tree." Nick shook his head. "I preach to my athletes all the time: 'Never text your mistresses!' Do they listen? No, they don't." He sighed. "But Tiger, he'll be back. WM squared will forgive him because he ain't a homie—no trash talking, no tattoos, no guns. He always acted polite, and he endorsed white man products—Nike, Tag Heuer, Gillette, Buick, American Express." Nick grinned. "Homies wouldn't be caught dead behind the wheel of a Buick and they don't carry American Express when they go shopping—they carry Smith & Wesson."
He thought that was funny.
"White and polite—that's the key to success in golf marketing, Scott. Boy scouts, not homeboys." Nick's attention was suddenly diverted. He called out to a player. "Yo, Jake! My man! You seen Goose?"
The player's cap and clothes sported logos for a dozen different sponsors. He yelled, "Practice tee!" Nick waved a thanks to the player.
"Jake's one of my guys, looks like a goddamned NASCAR driver. Why? Because advertisers are chasing WM squared onto the golf course. Nike started off selling sneakers, now they sell golf clubs, balls, shoes, and clothes. Under Armour, they made their name selling sports underwear endorsed by pumped-up black football players. Now they make golf clothes for fat white guys. Hell, even Clint Eastwood's got his own golf apparel company, Tehama. Good stuff."
Nick Madden, sports agent, paused and inhaled his world.
"This is the whitest place on the planet—a pro golf tournament. We're not at a muny course down in the Fifth Ward, Scott. We're in the suburbs, baby—because that's where WM squared lives. White men with money."
His expression changed, as if he had had an epiphany, and he turned to Scott.
"Can I trademark that? WM squared?"
"Probably."
Nick smiled. "Might be some money in that."
"Let's find Goose."
They found Goose on the practice range, drinking beer from a can, jotting in a little notebook, and sitting on a red golf bag with
Pete Puckett
stenciled down one side.
"Hey, Goose," Nick said.
Goose didn't look up at Nick or smile at Nick. Clyde "Goose" Dalton was a squat man with muscular legs protruding from baggy shorts and thick arms from a white T-shirt with "Who's Your Caddie Now?" printed across the front. His cap was pushed back on his head, revealing a sunburned forehead beaded with sweat. His hair was gray and pulled into a ponytail, and his matching goatee needed trimming. He had the complexion of a construction worker—
"The fuck you want, Nick?"
—and the vocabulary.
"Jesus, you're still pissed off? Give it up, Goose—he's dead." Nick turned to Scott. "I got him caddied up with Trey, now he blames me because Trey stiffed him." Back to Goose: "Where's Pete?"
"Eating lunch." He held up the beer can. "I'm on a strict liquid diet." He nodded at Scott. "Who's the spectator?"
"That the infamous yardage book?" Scott said.
"Got one for every course on tour. Make 'em myself, walk off the exact yardage from every tree and sprinkler head to every pin position on every green." He glanced up at Scott. "Who are you and what the fuck does infamous mean?"
"It means notorious, and I'm Scott Fenney."
"Rebecca's husband."
"Lawyer."
Now Goose smiled. He stuck a hand out, and they shook. Goose had big hands.
"I'll contribute to her defense fund," Goose said.
"Better save it for your own lawyer."
Goose pulled his hand back and frowned. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Where were you last Thursday?"
"Caddying for Pete, at the Atlantic Open."
"Where's that?"
"Orlando," Nick said. "Pete played Thursday and Friday, didn't make the cut. Means he didn't play the weekend."
"Well, actually," Goose said, "Pete didn't play Friday either. He DQ'd Thursday."
"
DQ'd?
"
"Yeah, he seemed real out of sorts at the pro-am and right from the git-go on Thursday. Opened with a four-putt snowman—"
Nick, to Scott: "An eight … number eight looks like a little snowman."
—"then threw his putter all the way to the second tee. I knew we were in for a long day."
"Why'd he DQ?" Nick asked.
"Wrote down the wrong scores for two holes, signed the card."
Nick, to Scott: "Automatic disqualification." Back to Goose: "Why didn't I hear about that?"
"Maybe because Pete's a grown man and don't figure he's gotta report in to his snot-nosed agent every fuckin' day." Goose shrugged. "That, or he forgot."
Goose's attention was diverted by a flashy girl in a short skirt and a halter top slinking by on high-heeled wedges. Goose leaned over as if trying to look up her skirt.
"She's gonna make a golfer happy tonight," he said.
"Now that's a sweet two-piece," Nick said.
"Two-piece?" Scott said.
"She's wearing exactly two pieces of clothing: the halter top and miniskirt. Nothing else touching that body."
"I think I'm having a Cialis moment," Goose said.
"I may need to seek immediate medical attention," Nick said, 'cause this might last more than four hours."
Nick and Goose laughed and fist-punched. They had bonded over a two-piece. She wasn't alone. There were many young, beautiful women wearing only two pieces of clothing in attendance—not as many as at a college football game, but more than Scott would have expected at a pro golf tournament.
"Groupies for golfers," Goose said.
"Bald, pudgy, out-of-shape bastards," Nick said. "But they got gorgeous gals hanging on their arms because they're rich. You know why they don't wear underwear?"
"The players?"
"The two-pieces."
"I hate to even guess."
Nick grinned like a teenage boy with a girlie magazine. "They sit right behind the green, wait for the players to walk up, then flash 'em a crotch shot."
Goose chuckled. "Shit, every time me and Trey walked onto a green, there was a chorus line of crotches. Network guys had to be careful not to broadcast that across America on a Sunday afternoon."
Scott tried to refocus the conversation on his murder investigation.
"Goose, did you stay in Orlando Thursday night?"
Goose reluctantly pulled his eyes off the two-piece. "Nope. Flew back to Austin."
"What time did you get in?"
"About five."
"It's only a four-hour drive from Austin to Galveston. You could've been there by nine at the latest. Time of death was after midnight."
"I didn't kill him."
"You ever been to his beach house?"
"I ain't never been to Galveston."
"You didn't travel with Trey?"
Goose snorted. "Don't work that way. Players, they travel in private jets. Caddies fly commercial. Coach, 'cause we pay our own way. Players stay in five-star hotels. We double up in cheap motels by the highway."
"Will you take a polygraph?"
"To prove I stayed in cheap motels?"
"To prove you didn't kill Trey."
"No one said I did."
"You stayed in Austin Thursday night?"
"I live there."
"Any witnesses?"
"That I live there?"
"That you stayed in Austin that night."
Goose finished off the beer, belched, and dropped the can by the golf bag.
"I got drunk that night."
"Where?" Scott said.
"Broken Spoke."
"Anyone who'd remember you being there Thursday night?"
"The other regulars won't remember they were there."
"What about the bartender?"
"It ain't that kind of place. It's a dance hall."
"So you got drunk in a dance hall but no one can vouch for you. Pretty vague alibi, Goose."
"Didn't know I needed one."
"Six days since he died—you don't seem too upset."
"He treated me like shit."
"And he fired you."
"You think I killed him 'cause he fired me?" He spit. "Hell, if caddies killed their pros for firing them, tour wouldn't have enough players to field a foursome."
"Trey owed you a hundred thousand."
Goose eyes flashed dark. "Damn right he did. I was gonna sue the bastard. I can't now … Can I?"
"And he humiliated you on TV, replaced you with a Mexican girl."
"He banged her after the round."
"What?"
"Yeah, Rebecca got the runs, drinking the water. While she's stuck in the bathroom, Trey's humping the Mexican gal in a pool cabaña."
Scott glanced at Nick; he gave Scott a "heck if I know" shrug. Scott turned back to Goose. "A hundred-thousand-dollar debt—that's a pretty good motive."
"So is screwing my wife."
"You don't have a wife," Nick said.
Goose gestured at Scott. "I meant him … and Brett."
"
Brett?
" Nick said.
"Who's he?" Scott said.
"Brett McBride. Tour player, ranked two-eighty-seven in the world."
Scott turned to Goose: "Trey was—?"
Goose nodded. "Screwing his wife."
Nick's mouth dropped open. "Trey was screwing Tess?"
Goose chuckled. "Who wasn't?"
"When?" Scott asked.
"Whenever he could."
"How long do you think he was?"
Goose shrugged. "I don't know. I never saw him naked."
"No. How long do you think he was screwing Tess?"
"Oh. They hooked up at the Hope back in January."
Scott turned to Nick. "You didn't know?"
Nick shook his head. "I tell my athletes, if I don't get twenty percent, I don't want to know about it."
"You know her? This Tess?"
Nick nodded. "Everyone knows Tess, if you know what I mean. Brett was a judge in the Miss Hooters pageant in Vegas last year. She was runner-up, they got married five months later, at the Reno tournament."
"And you represent him, too?"
Nick nodded again. Scott turned back to Goose.
"A jealous husband … Did Brett know?"
"They're still married."
"Did Rebecca know?"
"I don't think so." He pulled a thick cigar out of the golf bag, bit off the tip, and spit it across the practice tee. "Trey was an idiot, taking a chance on losing her over Tess. I mean, Tess is hot, sure, but Rebecca's world-class gorgeous. She had options out here, could've switched bags anytime she wanted."
"Trey ever mention to you that he was going to marry her? Rebecca."
"Nope."
Goose dug around in his shirt pocket, pulled out a wooden match, and struck it on the bottom of the golf bag until it ignited. He put the flame to the cigar and puffed until the cigar caught fire. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke then gave Scott a thoughtful look.
"Lawyering for your ex—what's that all about? She must be paying you a boatload of Trey's money."
"She's indigent."
"Hell, I'd be pissed off, too, way Trey treated her."
"Not indignant. Indigent. Means she doesn't have any money. All of Trey's money goes to his sister."
Goose grunted. "He stiffed her, too, huh? Figures." He sucked on the cigar and blew out smoke. "You know, I've always wondered something, about Rebecca?"
"What's that?"
"Is she a natural redhead?"