Mark Gimenez - Accused

The video froze on Trey Rawlins' golden smile.

"That's all the public knows of a pro athlete. They're never gonna meet him in person, so an athlete's public image is derived entirely from a thirty-second commercial. We can craft any image we want, and the public will buy into it-just like they bought into Tiger. See, Scott, ninety percent of a star athlete's income is from endorsements, so his public image is critical. And let me tell you, creating a positive public image for some of these self-centered prima donnas, that takes a fucking magician. Or kids. Guy can be the biggest asshole in the world, but surround him with a bunch of smiling kids, the buying public thinks he's a goddamn saint." Nick stared at Trey's image on the screen. "Trey Rawlins was the golden boy."

"We found prescription drugs at his home, for high blood pressure."

Nick smiled. "He took a beta-blocker."

"You knew?"

"I figured. Hard to make a five-foot putt for par and a million bucks when your heart's punching a hole in your chest. Beta-blockers control the stress hormones, which slows the heart, steadies the nerves. Anti-anxiety drugs work, too."

"He had Prozac."

Nick shrugged. "Covered all his bases."

"He took drugs to putt better?"

"The miracles of science." Nick chuckled. "Hey, baseball and football players take steroids to play better. At least beta-blockers and Prozac are legal."

Porn, Viagra, using kids for PR and prescription drugs to putt better. What else would Scott learn about Trey Rawlins?

"Anyone on tour who might've wanted Trey dead?"

Nick laughed. "You mean other than Goose?"

"Who's Goose?"

"Trey's ex-caddie." Nick held his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, Goose might've wanted him dead, but he didn't kill Trey… I don't think."

"Tell me about him. Goose."

Nick put a DVD in the player then clicked the remote. The screen now showed a still frame from behind of Trey Rawlins standing in the fairway of a golf course. Next to him stood the massive white golf bag Scott had seen at Trey's house. And next to the bag stood a short, stocky man with a gray goatee and ponytail wearing shorts and a tunic that read "Rawlins" in block letters and above that in script "The Mexican Open." He had a big cigar clamped between his teeth.

"Clyde 'Goose' Dalton," Nick said. "A lifer on tour, real popular with the fans, they're always yelling 'Goose! Goose!' when he walks down the fairway."

"Why Goose?"

"All the caddies have nicknames-Fluffy, Doc, Bones…"

"No. Why's his nickname Goose?"

"Oh. 'Cause he waddles like a duck."

"Why not Duck?"

"You want people yelling 'Duck! Duck!' on a golf course?"

"Good point."

Nick gestured at the screen. "This was down in Acapulco, back in April. Tour's trying to expand into Latin America. Nice weather and great beaches, but it's a little unnerving to see Federales with AK-47s walking down the fairways. They got into a shootout with some cartel gunmen at the resort down the beach while we were there." He chuckled. "Vacationing in Mexico these days is like starring in a fucking Schwarzenegger movie."

Nick started the DVD. The scene went into motion. Goose tossed some grass into the air then consulted a little notebook like a preacher reading the Bible.

Goose: "Two-twelve to the hole, two-oh-two to clear the front bunker. Uphill into a breeze." Goose pulled a club out of the bag and held it out to Trey. "Five-iron."

Trey: "Give me the six."

Goose: "Big lip on the front bunker. Come up short, it's a bogie. Hit the five."

Trey: "Six."

Goose: "Five."

Trey: "Give me the goddamned six."

Goose shook his head and swapped clubs then yanked the golf bag out of view. Trey made a smooth swing then posed on his follow-through. The camera cut to the ball in midair, rising high above the course then arching majestically-and diving down into the front sand trap. The camera cut back to Trey and Goose in the fairway.

Goose: "Bunker. Probably buried."

Trey: "Damnit!"

Goose took a thoughtful puff on his cigar then blew out a cloud of smoke.

"Good decision, to go with the six."

Trey flung the iron at Goose, who ducked under it. He gave Trey a long hard look, then stared down at the club as if trying to decide whether to pick it up. After another long puff on the cigar, he leaned over and retrieved the club. He put the club in the bag then grabbed the strap and hefted the golf bag onto his shoulder. Trey and Goose walked side by side up the fairway. Goose did in fact waddle like a duck. The cameraman followed close behind like the cameras on that reality dating show Scott had caught the girls watching one night.

Trey: "You gave me the wrong yardage."

Goose: "You hit the wrong club."

Trey: "I hired the wrong caddie."

Goose: "When in doubt, blame the caddie."

Trey: "No-fire the caddie."

Goose: "What?"

Trey: "You're fired."

Goose dropped the golf bag. "You're firing me?"

Trey stopped and faced Goose. "You can't count… Are you deaf, too?"

Goose: "Who's gonna carry your bag the last four holes?"

Trey pointed off-camera. "I'll get a Mexican. They can't be any worse than you."

Goose glared at Trey then abruptly pushed him hard in the chest. Trey stumbled back then jumped at Goose. The two men grabbed each other like pro wrestlers, went down to the ground, and rolled around on the lush green fairway. Nick was laughing so hard he was crying.

"A pro golfer and his caddie fighting in the middle of a round-you can't make that shit up."

Back on the screen, other players and caddies were trying to separate Trey and Goose. Trey brushed himself off and walked over to the rope that lined the fairway and kept the fans away from the players. The cameraman followed. Trey pointed at a beautiful Mexican girl and said, "You want to caddie for me?"

Someone interpreted for her. She broke into a big smile. " Si." She ducked under the rope and walked with Trey over to his bag. She was voluptuous and billowing out of her tight shirt. Trey stuck his hand out to Goose.

"Give me the yardage book."

"Go to hell. It's mine."

Trey grabbed at the book. They struggled a moment then Goose pulled away with the book. Trey puffed up.

"Fine. Keep it." To the Mexican girl: "Pick up the bag."

Trey stormed off. The girl struggled to lift the heavy golf bag, then tried to catch up to Trey, but not before turning back and waving to her friends outside the ropes, as if she had just won the bachelor. Goose stood alone on the wide fairway with the camera in his face; his expression was that of a fired auto worker. He put the big cigar in his mouth, sucked hard, and blew out another smoke cloud. He then turned slowly to the camera and made a quick movement; the picture was suddenly of the blue sky.

"What happened?"

"Goose decked the cameraman."

"No. To Goose and Trey."

"Oh. Tour fined them both, but it only aired on a few cable outlets, got posted on YouTube, but golf sponsors aren't exactly the YouTube demographics. So no big PR problem."

"What's Goose doing now?"

"He's a good caddie, got picked up by another player. Pete Puckett."

"What'd Trey do without Goose? Who caddied for him?"

"He tried to bring that Mexican gal up, but she couldn't get a visa. Fucking Homeland Security. He only played three tournaments after Mexico, so he picked up local caddies. I was trying to get one lined up before the Open next week."

"So if Goose hired on with another player, why was he mad at Trey?"

"Because Trey won that tournament and a million bucks. He never paid Goose his ten percent."

"Caddies get ten percent?"

"For a win. Seven percent for a top ten finish, five below that. Tiger's caddie makes a million a year."