Two Jakes (23 page)

Scarne
went into a zone.
Take the club back slowly, and hold the finish. Imagine
the shot and execute.
He knew immediately it was a great shot. He heard it,
felt it and now watched it.
If it has enough legs, if the wind stays calm,
if I haven’t misjudged the distance, if I don’t hit a fucking pelican, it will
be all over the flag.
The ball landed on the green and ran 15 feet past the
cup. It was the best golf shot of his life. He was on in three and could save
par!

He
felt the silence. Without looking back, but knowing Ballantrae could hear him,
he said, “Damn. Too much club. Should have used a 3-iron.”

Caligula
would have said “nice shot.” Not Ballantrae, who was stunned.

In
the cart Alana said, “That was the greatest pressure shot I ever saw.”

“It
will mean nothing unless I sink that putt.”

“You
will!”

They
all drove up to Ballantrae’s ball. For the first time, Scarne noticed a sheen
of sweat on the other man’s face. His 4-iron left him almost 170 yards from the
green and some of it was over water.

“Still
planning to lay up Victor?” Alana said. It was almost a taunt.

Ballantrae
looked at her. His eyes glittered. He angrily pulled a 5-wood from his bag. He
hit it flush and the ball tracked right at the pin. It landed softly and rolled
to about eight feet from the hole. It was a gutsy play.

“Great
shot.”

Scarne
meant it, even as he hated saying it.

Alana
also reached the green in two. When they got there she walked to the pin and
pulled it. Her ball was five feet past Ballantrae’s, on the same line.

Word
of the high-stakes match had spread and there was a considerable crowd standing
around the green, including Lee Rodriguez and his friends. As Scarne walked by,
Rodriguez asked, “What did you hit off the tee?”

“A
2-iron. But it was my third shot. I was out of bounds on my drive.”

“That
makes it even better,” the old pro said.

Alana
was away. She asked Ballantrae to mark his ball, which was in her line, off to
the side.

“For
Christ’s sake. You’re not even in the goddamn match. Just pick up!”

Ballantrae’s
bad manners elicited disapproving murmurs from the crowd.

“I’ll
putt out, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,
sure. Just hurry up.”

He
placed his marker behind his ball and then used his putter head as a measure to
move the mark out of her line. She lined up her putt and boldly sank it. There
is a smattering of applause from the crowd. She quickly picked up her ball and
walked past Scarne.

“You’re
up.” She lowered her voice. “Just be quiet when he putts.”

He
looked at her. What did she mean?

Scarne’s
putt was downhill, with a left to right break towards the water. As he knelt to
read the putt, perspiration trickled down his spine and his heart pounded. He
walked over to the hole and looked at the rim. The grass seemed to be growing
towards where his ball was. That meant the “grain” was running against the ball
and any putt would be marginally slower, even downhill. At least he hoped so,
because he wasn’t planning to leave the putt short. He needed to hit the putt
strongly enough to hold the line. If he missed it wouldn’t matter if the ball
rolled to China. A par four was his only chance.

“Jesus
Christ! Are you going to putt or not?”

“Soon
as you move out of sight line,” Scarne said.

Ballantrae
grumbled and walked to the side.

Scarne
took a deep breath and took a practice stroke. Grounding his club behind the
ball, he willed himself to relax and putted through the ball firmly. It took
off like a cue ball on a pool table! This ball is going in the hole or in the
lake, he thought wildly. But the grain slowed it a fraction and at the last
second the ball curled in the middle of the cup with a satisfying clunk.

By
now the crowd had taken sides and roared approval of the miracle par.

“Great
putt, Jake,” Alana blurted, drawing a scathing look from Ballantrae.

But
Scarne was realistic. Ballantrae could still win with a birdie and was assured
no less than a tie. And his putt was straight uphill. Needing only a two- putt
to tie, there would be no pressure. He could be bold and confidently go for the
winning birdie. In that situation, most people make their putts.

Alana
holding the pin, was standing next to Victor, whispering to him. He looked
distracted. Finally, he walked over to his marker. As he bent to replace his
ball, she dropped the pin, which clattered. Disconcerted, he stared at her.

“Sorry.”

Ballantrae
put his ball down and angrily snatched up his marker. Then he looked at Scarne
with what only could be described as a sneer.
This birdie is for you
, it
implied. He was just about to putt when Scarne suddenly realized the ball was
not in the proper spot – Ballantrae had moved it by the length of a club head
to accommodate Alana’s putt. If he hadn’t been distracted by what she had
whispered to him and then the dropped flag, he might have realized his mistake.
So, that’s what she’d meant when she told Scarne to remain quiet! Seeing the
opportunity presented by the positions of the balls on the green, she had set
Ballantrae up. Amazingly quick thinking by a devious mind.

Sportsmanship
decreed that even your opponents remind you to replace your marker in the right
spot. Having been cheated for almost the entire round, Scarne never entertained
the idea. He was now fervently hoping that Ballantrae made his birdie. He idly
wondered how Alana Loeb would play the scene.

Ballantrae
stroked through the ball.

“Victor!
Wait!” It was Alana.

Too
late. The ball tracked right into the hole. Ballantrae whirled around.

“Bloody
hell! You almost cost me the goddamn match! It’s damn lucky I made it.” He
looked at Scarne. “Too bad, pal. I make them when I have to.”

“I
was just trying to warn you.”

“Warn
me? About what?”

“Victor...your
mark.”

There
was excited chatter among the bystanders. Doubt started to cross Ballantrae’s
face. He walked toward her.

“What
the hell you talking about?”

“You
forgot to replace your mark after you moved it out of my line. You putted from
the wrong spot.”

“I
replaced the mark.” He looked at Scarne for help. “You saw me.”

“You
know…I think she’s right. I was so annoyed at myself I wasn’t paying
attention...or I would have told you. Sorry.”

“Bullshit!”

He
turned to the crowd, now entranced at the spectacle.

“Who
saw me replace the mark?”

“You
forgot, Victor.”

It
was Rodriguez.

“Why
didn’t anyone say anything?” Ballantrae’s voice had a wheedling tone. “Lee?”

“With
$20,000 on the line?”

“I
hate to say it,” Scarne said, not hating it at all. “But you lose the hole,
Victor. And, unfortunately, the match. Pity, really. You played so…well.”

“I’ll
place the ball back.” Ballantrae was so desperate Scarne almost felt sorry for
him. It was such a public humiliation. “You know I could two-putt from there
and get a tie. Let’s just call the match even.”

“Doesn’t
work that way,” Scarne said officiously. “Rub of the green. You caught some
miraculous breaks out on the course. Guess it all evens out.”

He
extended his hand. Ballantrae stormed away.

Rodriguez
walked over to Jake.

“Miraculous
breaks? You mean he cheated the entire match.”

“Only
when he wasn’t in his cart.”

Rodriguez
laughed.

“Alana’s
timing was priceless,” he said. “She made it sound like she wanted to stop him
in time.”

Alana
approached them. The great golfer patted Scarne on the arm.

“That
20 grand may be the least of your winnings, my friend.” He lowered his voice.
“But be careful. She just proved how cruel she can be.”

He
kissed Alana and walked away.

“What
did Lee say?”

“He
saw through your little charade. I’m sure Victor did, too. Why did you do it?
He’s your boss.”

“No
one’s my boss. And I wanted you to win.”

CHAPTER
27 – BOSTON AT THE BEACH

After
dropping their clubs off at the starter’s shack to be cleaned, Scarne and Alana
agreed to meet in the Grill Room in 20 minutes.

“I
want to freshen up,” she said.

Since
that probably meant he had closer to 45 minutes, Scarne took the opportunity to
take a quick shower. He put on a pair of fresh grey slacks and a light V-necked
burgundy sweater. He slipped into his loafers without socks as he checked his
cell phone for messages. There was no display. He turned it back on. Funny, he
didn’t remember turning it off. He went to the grill and ordered a celebratory
drink. He began to muse about his winnings. It would certainly buy a kick-ass
vacation somewhere, although thinking about a vacation outside a gorgeous
country club in Florida seemed a bit much. Hit Atlantic City on the way home
and try to run it up? It was found money. That would probably be very stupid,
but Scarne, like most gamblers, did not dismiss the idea out of hand. Invest it
wisely? Please. Buy some art? The apartment in New York could use some sprucing
up.

Ballantrae
walked in wearing a business suit.

“Can
I buy you a drink, Victor?”

“No...Thank
you. Something has come up. I have to go to New York. My plane is waiting for
me in West Palm. I wonder if you will do me a favor. I don’t want to leave
Alana in the lurch. Can you take her home?”

“Of
course. It will be my pleasure.”

Ballantrae
took out his checkbook and, leaning on the bar, wrote out a check, which he
handed to Scarne.

“I
play by the rules. Same in business. We have nothing to hide.”

Scarne
folded the check and put it in his pocket, as if it were an everyday
occurrence.

“Then
you won’t mind me nosing around your company?”

“Talk
to Alana. She’ll set it up. You two seem to have hit it off.”

Just
then she walked into the grill. She had showered and changed into a simple,
strapless blue cotton sundress. Scarne couldn’t help but stare. She languidly
sat on a bar stool, crossing her legs.

“Ah,
the rules chairwoman herself,” Ballantrae said. “Alana, Jake has offered to
take you home. Maybe he will even buy you dinner. He certainly can afford it.”

With
that, he offered a brusque handshake to Scarne and left.

“How
about dinner in Paris?” Scarne said, pulling out the check and waving it in the
air.

“I
know a nice place that’s a bit closer,” she said, laughing. “But I want a drink
first.” She looked at his glass. “I never would have figured you for the
Planter’s Punch type, Jake.”

“Want
my cherry?”

She
reached across and pulled it out of his drink by the stem and popped it in her
mouth, smiling mischievously. He ordered two more and they took their time
drinking them.

“I
guess I should thank you for this $20,000.”

“You
were a fool to bet that much. Male pride. I’ll never understand it. But I
couldn’t let you be cheated.”

“Why
does he do it? Everybody around here apparently knows. Soon he won’t be able to
get a game.”

“Why
do any of you do anything?” She put her hand on his arm and he felt the
electric jolt again. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

Only
Scarne’s clubs were waiting for them at the valet station.

“Where
are yours?”

“I
leave a set here. I’m not a member, but I never know when I’m going to be asked
to play with Victor. They’re nice about it. They let me keep some clothes as
well. Like this little old thing.”

“You
look lovely.”

Scarne’s
car pulled up. An attendant put his golf bag in the trunk and Scarne threw his
duffel in the rear seat. Alana looked at the Rouche Mustang.

“I
didn’t realize NASCAR had a rental division.”

“A
friend is letting me use it,” Scarne said noncommittally.

“Must
be a good friend,” she said as the valet held her door. “But isn’t it difficult
to tail a suspect in this.”

“Not
when they’re in the car with me.”

“In
that case,” she said, laughing, “let’s keep the top down? It's lovely out.”

With
that, she kicked off her sandals and stretched out her long legs. She had
exquisite ankles and long toes, which she flexed. Scarne found that oddly
erotic. As he drove away the wind caught her hair.

“Are
you in a hurry, Jake? If we take the Dixie Highway down the coast I know a
great spot in Delray Beach. I just don’t feel like rushing back.”

Looking
at her, Scarne didn’t feel like rushing back, either.

***

It
took a half an hour to get to Delray. Alana was silent much of the way and
seemed content to enjoy the wind blowing through her hair. She set a striking
figure with her blond and tan good looks and aviator-type sunglasses. Other
drivers stared at her. She also got a going over when they walked into the
restaurant, a place called Boston at the Beach. Considering that this was
Florida in season and the place was full of spectacular looking women, Scarne
got a new appreciation of how attractive his companion was. They were shown to
a table on the second deck facing the ocean. When a waitress wearing a pink
tank top and black shorts tried to give them menus, Alana looked at Scarne.

“Are
you choosy about your seafood? I come here a lot. I’ll order for the both of us
if you like.”

“That’s
fine,” he said, taking a wine list from the waitress. “Just make sure it goes
with champagne.”

“What’s
the freshest fish in the house?” Alana asked the waitress.

“All
our fish…” She stopped when she saw the look on Alana’s face. “The cobia just
came in,” she finished.

“A
dozen oysters, the Apalachicolas, to split.” She looked at Scarne. “It is
winter, the Gulf Coast oysters are safe now.” She turned her attention back to
the waitress. “And two conch chowders. Then have the chef broil two cobia
filets with lemon, butter and a little white wine. Sides of coleslaw and
Spanish rice. Plenty of tartar sauce and some lemon and lime wedges. Thank
you.”

Scarne
was surprised to find a bottle of Brut Heritage on the wine list. He ordered
one and asked the waitress to keep another in reserve.

“You
must be planning to get me drunk, Jake,” Alana said.

“Hell,
you’re the one who ordered oysters and conch chowder.”

“The
aphrodisiac powers of oysters and conchs are overrated,” she said. “As are
champagne’s. At least with me. And you proved today that you probably don’t
need extra stimulation. You like to live dangerously.”

She
gave him a bold, challenging look any man with a pulse would recognize.

“You
must relate to that, working for Ballantrae. He’s an interesting guy. How did
you wind up with him?”

“Ah,
the interrogation begins. I was wondering when you would start.”

“I’m
just interested.”

“As
a spider is interested in a fly.” She put her hand along her cheek and studied
him with an amused smile. Scarne wondered just who the spider was. “I worked
for a Miami law firm and was the lead counsel in an employment suit against a
Ballantrae subsidiary. Victor is always firing people. I won a large
settlement. He doesn’t like losing, as you know. He asked me to head up his
legal department.”

“Seems
like you've carved out a niche. How did you jump from house lawyer to chief
operating officer?”

The
waitress appeared with their champagne in an ice bucket on a stand. She set out
glasses and poured some in Scarne’s. He tasted it and nodded and she filled
both glasses and left. Alana took a sip and looked at Scarne.

“Where
were we? Oh yes, you asked me if I fucked Victor to get ahead.”

An
elderly man and a bejeweled younger woman, who had Palm Beach trophy wife
written all over her, were dining at the next table. The woman, who was closest
to Alana, held a shrimp on a fork poised to go in her mouth. She looked over at
Alana and almost put the crustacean in her ear.

“That
wasn’t quite the question,” Scarne said equably.

“The
hell it wasn’t. But before I answer I want to ask you a question. Is this
interrogation for business or pleasure? Are you on the job, or on the make?”

Scarne
had to laugh at her directness. He realized he wasn’t sure.

“I
don’t have a clue.”

“Funny
phrasing for a private investigator. But I’ll take it to mean that you want to
know for personal reasons. So I’ll tell you. Victor is now my boss, period.”
The emphasis on the
now
was unmistakable. “I admired him a great deal.
He’s a handsome man. I was flattered. It was obvious he could get any woman he
wanted. I also like to think that I offered more to the company than merely
hauling the chairman’s ashes. Victor wouldn't risk his company or his dreams on
a piece of ass.”

That
got another look from the shrimp lady. Their food came. Alana raised her glass.

“Eat
hearty, Jake. Then it’s my turn to ask the probing questions.”

They
ate in virtual silence. When they finished, Scarne asked Alana if she wanted
coffee and dessert.

“It’s
getting chilly. And I’ve had enough champagne. I’d rather go to the bar for a
drink.”

Scarne
signaled for the check. Then he reached across the table and squeezed her hand,
which was pleasantly warm and soft.

“I’m
sorry if I was out of line. I’m sure now this isn’t business.”

She
turned the full force of her eyes on him.

“I’m
going to powder my nose. Meet me inside.” She got up, and as she passed the
lady next to her smiled and said sweetly, “You’re going to miss the good part.”

The
woman laughed and said, “Damn.”

The
man with her cupped his hand to his ear.

“What
did she say, Doris?”

“Nothing,
darling. Do you want my greens?”

Scarne
paid the bill and went to the bar. Alana was already seated at the far end
sipping a reddish drink from a highball glass. He sat next to her.

“It’s
an Americano,” she said, holding up her glass. “So popular among Americans in
Italy in the 1890’s they named it after them. But definitely an acquired taste.
Campari and sweet vermouth, the bitter with the sweet. Fitting for us I
thought. Want a taste?”

He
shook his head and ordered a brandy.

“Where
did you acquire the taste? Italy?”

“I
read about them in a novel. They sounded so romantic. I … lived … in Buenos
Aires for a time and a woman I … worked for … used to make them. Liked them
ever since.”

A
strange look came over her face as she remembered.

“What
were you doing in Buenos Aires?”

“Oh
no,” she said with a smile. “Now it’s my turn.”

Scarne
clinked glasses with Alana.

“Shoot,”
he said.

She
asked him about his childhood. She seemed fascinated by his grandfather.

“He
must have been an amazing man. I always thought the Italians were maligned
unfairly in World War II. Their navy did quite well. I think some German
generals made a laughing stock out of the Italian army to deflect criticism
from their own shortcomings. I met some German and Italian officers in
Argentina. They were old, of course, but their memories were sharp. They bore
no animus towards each other. They had been lower ranks during the war and saw
things better than the generals.”

Scarne
was impressed by her grasp of history.

“You
are part German, aren’t you?”

“Yes,
my family was Bavarian. But my great-grandmother was Jewish. So they left for
Argentina when Hitler still felt compelled to treat Jewish World War I veterans
decently. They were well ensconced in South America when many Germans fled
there after 1945.”

“Some
of them were war criminals. What did your family think of that?”

“My
grandfather made a nice living helping them get, how should I say, readjusted
to civilian life all over South America. He knew many politicians and was very
friendly with the police in many countries.”

“He
sounds very forgiving.”

“Business
is business, Jake. Besides, many of the people he helped – for a profit – were
low level. Some were probably Nazis, but they had families, wives, children. He
wasn’t doing anything the Vatican or the Pentagon wasn’t. Nazi scientists
helped America land on the moon, no?”

“But
your grandfather was part Jewish.”

“Yes,
he lost relatives in the camps. Hilton is opening up hotels in Hanoi, so what?
Besides, he also had contacts with Israeli intelligence. Some people even think
he helped them find Eichmann, who was an embarrassment to everyone. I think he
aided the little fish, and got his revenge on the big ones.”