William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

They descended a staircase to the main locker room, which Ben was informed was referred to as “Chambers.” Huge bathing areas, rows of spacious showers, a Jacuzzi, implacable attendants, sky-high mirrors, wall-attached hair dryers, and forty different bottles of cologne and aftershave. The faucets and handles were made of brass; the countertops were solid black marble.

Not someplace you’d drop by just to clip your toenails.

It occurred to Ben that this might be an appropriate time to milk Mitch for whatever information he could provide. “So how long have you been working for Pearson? Uh, Captain Pearson, I mean.”

“Now there’s a captain who never sailed the stormy seas. I don’t think he could pilot a paddleboat.” Mitch laughed. “It’s an honorary title, I guess. To answer your question, I came onboard fresh out of business school, a little less than ten years ago, not long after that murder. All the bad publicity that incident generated convinced the board members they needed someone to manage the grounds on a full-time basis. So they hired me. As you may have guessed, I do the work that keeps this Disneyland-for-dilettantes afloat.”

“Does the job pay well?”

“Not as well as having rich parents does.”

Mitch spun Ben through the locker room. The lockers were of carved pine. None of them had locks; Ben surmised that would be considered bad taste. Such a measure would suggest it was possible that one of the esteemed members might actually commit theft, perish the thought.

“Not a bad place to take a leak, huh?” Mitch said dryly.

“It’d do in a pinch,” Ben concurred.

They left the building and walked outside to survey the perfectly trimmed greens. The sun was still blazing; Ben found himself feeling nostalgic for the air-conditioned paradise of the locker room.

At Ben’s request, Mitch showed him the caddyshack. The scene of the ancient crime. After a short walk, Mitch removed a key and opened the door.

“Who has keys to this place?” Ben asked.

‘Ten years ago all the board members. Today, just me. After the murder, when the keys turned them into suspects, the board didn’t want anything to do with it anymore. They turned in their keys and put me in charge of the shack. Actually, I requested the assignment. I figured I couldn’t do any worse than those guys had.”

Together, they entered. The shack was a well-constructed building more spacious than Ben’s apartment. Benches and chairs lined the walls; golf magazines cluttered every table.

“I don’t see many caddies around today,” Ben observed.

“Right. Welcome to the post-golf cart era. Caddies are not essential anymore to ensuring that you can play eighteen holes without the least bit of physical exertion. It’s mostly just the old codgers who use caddies these days.”

Well, thank goodness someone is preserving those grand old traditions, Ben thought. “You know, I’m kind of surprised that this club would hire Leeman Hayes as a caddy. Or anything else.”

“What’s wrong with this picture, huh? Well, I think I can explain that mystery. You read the papers much?”

“Almost never.”

“Then you wouldn’t know. About every five years or so, some crusading-journalist type decides to rail against the gross inequities represented by the old boys’ country-club system. ‘How dare they live in such grand opulence, when less than ten miles away you can find the poorest, most impoverished families of north Tulsa?’ Or: ‘Why are all the board members men?’ Or: ‘Why are the employees all the same color?’ ”

“So the board indulges in a little equal-opportunity sham,” Ben murmured.

“Right the first time.” Mitch picked up some golf shoes and slid them under a bench. “Leeman was a perfect face-saving hire. Not only was he black, not only was he from a bitterly poor family—he was retarded as well. Now how could anyone say Utica Greens was heartless after they made a magnanimous gesture like hiring him?”

“No comment,” Ben said.

“Hey, don’t spare my feelings. I’ve been living with it for a good long time.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“What, you mean like, do I have a conscience?” He grinned. “Naaaaah. I checked that in my locker my first day here and I haven’t seen it since.”

Ben walked to the far north corner of the shack. “This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

“Yup. That’s where they found her, slammed against the wall, the club shaft rammed through her throat.”

Ben stared at the empty corner. “I suppose all traces have been long since eliminated.”

“Obviously. In fact, that was a major source of controversy. The board wanted her removed and the room repainted immediately after she was found. They were having a big tournament the next day, and the last thing they wanted was a murder scene. The police, however, insisted on roping off the shack, taking pictures, and scouring the room for evidence. Put the board members’ noses extremely out of joint.”

“And the four members of the board back then …”

“Are the same four who compose the board today.”

“Did they ever try to find out who committed the murder?”

“Who? The board?” Mitch laughed. “You must be joking. Leeman was arrested at the scene. That was good enough for them. Once they cleaned up the mess and got their tournament back on schedule, I doubt if any of them ever thought about it again.”

“Didn’t they try to protect Leeman? He was their employee, after all.”

“Protect him? Hardly. I think they were glad to feed him to the wolves, to resolve the mystery before it attracted any more attention. He was the perfect scapegoat, for the board and the police. Ever since then, the board has used Leeman as an object lesson in what happens when you bring ‘one of them’ into the hallowed halls of Utica Greens.”

“Mitch,” Ben said, his teeth clenched, “would you get me the hell out of here?”

“My pleasure.” He opened the door and together they walked back into the blinding sunlight.

19

AFTER THE FEEDING AND the changing and the burping, Christina spent the remainder of the morning trying to convince Joey it really wouldn’t be such a horrible idea to take a nap. Or even just to close his eyes and pretend he was taking a nap. She wasn’t particular. Just so he wasn’t screaming anymore.

Christina had done a considerable amount of baby-sitting during her teen years and thought she was fairly competent, but Joey was proving particularly fussy. She began to have a bit more sympathy for Ben, who had been dealing with the kid all night without any of her experience to fall back on. She wasn’t sure what Joey’s problem was; he was just unhappy. Poor babe was going through a lot of trauma—separated from his mommy and dumped with a bunch of weirdos he’d never seen before.

Eventually she resorted to singing. He seemed interested, but didn’t care for any of her tunes. Everyone’s a critic. She tried “Annie Laurie,” a tune her mother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. Not interested. She tried “Ave Maria.” She tried “A Tisket, a Tasket.” “The Noble Duke of York.” “Polly Wolly Doodle.” She tried twenty other songs. No luck.

Ben had made a suggestion before he left, but Christina had disregarded it. Totally lame. What did he know about babies, anyway? But finally, in sheer desperation, she gave in and began singing, “Flintstones … meet the Flintstones …”

The caterwauling ceased, and by the time she got to the part about “courtesy of Fred’s two feet,” Joey was making a soft chortling noise. He giggled when she said, “Yabba-dabba-doo.” And after a few quiet repetitions, he was asleep.