wide balcony overlooking the beach. I dropped my bag onto the couch and went out on the balcony.
The sun was shining, reflecting off the water and making the waves sparkle. Several people lay on blankets on the sand, working on their tans, and a group of kids were tossing a football back and forth near the water’s edge. Too cold for them to be swimming yet. A single boat with a bright blue-and-yellow sail was cutting through the water a few hundred yards off the beach. I leaned over the rail and looked down. The beach wasn’t very crowded, but that didn’t surprise me. It was too early in the year for family vacations, and there was at least a week still to go before spring break would bring the college kids down. I left the balcony door open to let the warm breeze in and went back inside. It was a beautiful day and I had a beautiful hotel room, but I was here to work. I took off my long-sleeved shirt and pulled on a thin polo shirt, then slipped the Glock into its holster at the base of my spine. I wasn’t expecting trouble, but Randy Hartwick had certainly attracted some in Cleveland, so I wasn’t about to go in search of his associates unprepared. I slipped the keycard for the room into my pocket and rode the elevator back down to the lobby. The receptionist saw me coming and smiled.
“Is the room satisfactory?”
“It’s amazing,” I said, and her smile widened, as if I’d just made her day. “But I have another question.”
“What’s that?”
“I was hoping to speak to the owner. Do you know where I might find him?”
She hesitated. “Well, Mr. Burks isn’t here. Is there something a manager could help you with? Can I ask why you want to speak to the owner?”
“Because I want to know who’s responsible for this dump,” I said, waving my hand at the gleaming lobby. Her smile disappeared, and I said, “I’m just kidding.”
“Oh.” Her smile was back in place now. Relieved.
“I need to talk to the owner about a mutual acquaintance,” I said. “Someone who passed away, I’m afraid.”
She put her hand to her chest. “Oh, no! Why, we’re really having some bad luck lately. Just two days ago a man called to tell our security chief that one of his close friends had died.”
This was the same woman I’d talked to on the phone. Possibly the nicest person in the world, and now I’d cast a shadow over her day twice in the same week. I was from Cleveland, though. She probably expected it.
“Hmm,” I said. “Yes, that is depressing. Now, do you have any idea where I might find the owner? A Mr. Burks, is it?”
“Yes, Lamar Burks. As I said, he’s not here today, and I don’t think he will be, but I could take a message for him.”
“Well, I was really hoping to find him today.”
She frowned. “I think he’s playing golf, but I don’t know which course.”
“I suppose I could call around and ask,” I said, and she smiled at me and shook her head.
“You’re in the wrong place for that. There are about one hundred golf courses within an hour of this hotel.”
“Yikes.” I drummed my fingers on the counter and thought about it. The receptionist was wearing a name tag that said REBECCA. Pretty name. Pretty face, too. Probably nice legs under that counter. What was I thinking about again? Oh, right, finding the owner.
“You said the hotel has golf packages available?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, maybe Burks plays those courses frequently. It seems like he’d be on pretty good terms with the management.”
“Good idea,” she said, sounding truly impressed, and I tried not to blush. Shucks. I’m full of great ideas, Rebecca. Having a few about you right now, in fact.
She crossed the room and pulled a brochure from the rack on the wall. I’d been right; she
“It looks like we have packages with five different courses,” she said. “That would be a place to start.”
I took the brochure from her. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“I’m not supposed to let you use it, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Deal.”
She put the phone on the counter, and I began calling and asking the pro shops if Lamar Burks was around. I said it casually, as if I fully expected he’d be there, trying not to make anyone uneasy with my calls. On the fourth call, I found him at the Sweetwater Bay Golf Course.
“Yeah, Lamar’s around,” the man who answered said. “Hell, he’s been here all day. We’ve been trying to throw him out for hours.” Someone laughed loudly in the background. Nothing like a little fun in the pro shop, smoking cigars and talking golf all day while everyone else is working for a living. “I don’t see him right now, but he’s got a tee time in an hour,” the man told me. “He’s probably down at the putting green, maybe out at the range.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll try to catch up with him.”
I hung up and smiled. “Success, Rebecca. Thanks for your help.”
She seemed to like my using her name. “You’re welcome. Should you need anything else, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask me.”
“I’ll probably have to hesitate,” I said. “Sweet, elegant women like yourself shouldn’t be corrupted by men like me.”
She smiled and ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “A little corruption never hurt anyone.”
Oh, man. I needed to leave, or Lamar Burks and Randy Hartwick were quickly going to become forgotten goals of the afternoon.
“I’ve got to go, Rebecca,” I said. “But promise you’ll miss me.”
“I promise,” she said, and laughed. I left the hotel. I was starting to like South Carolina just fine.
The Sweetwater Bay Golf Course was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel. There was a map on the brochure, and I found the course without trouble. The pro shop was a small, white clapboard building surrounded by palm trees. If you’ve just spent a winter in Cleveland, palm trees rank among the most welcome sights in the world. Signs pointed down golf cart paths toward the “Championship Course” and the “Executive Course.” I parked and went inside. An overweight man in khaki shorts and a Nike polo shirt was seated behind the counter. I asked him if he’d seen Lamar Burks.
“You the guy who called earlier?” he said, not taking his eyes off the small television suspended from the ceiling. The Golf Channel was on, and someone was demonstrating the art of chipping. Fascinating stuff.
“Yeah, I called earlier. Is Lamar around?”
“Uh-huh.” He waved his head toward the front of the building without looking at me. “He’s on the range. He’ll be going out on the executive course soon.”
I looked out the window and saw the driving range at the far end of the parking lot. There were only six people there, and three of them were women. There were two young white men and a middle-aged black man.
“Can I get a bucket of balls?” I asked.
“Grab one from the rack,” he said. “It’s five dollars.”
“Okay. Got any clubs I can use?”
He finally looked away from the screen, staring at me as if I’d asked to borrow his underwear. “You don’t have any clubs?”
“I’m from out of state. Wasn’t planning on playing.”
He shook his head as if this were stunning news. “Well, there are some beaters on the stand against the wall. Grab whatever you’d like.”
I paid him for the bucket and selected a seven-iron, pitching wedge, and driver from the stand of clubs on the wall. The “beaters” were nicer than any clubs I’d ever owned.
I went outside and walked up to the range. The white guys had left, leaving only the women and the black man. As I approached, one of the women said, “Nice shot, Lamar.”
Lamar Burks was hitting off the grass. I emptied half of my bucket beside him, and he smiled and nodded at me. He was about forty, a short, powerfully built man, with shoulders like gigantic hams. He was wearing white shorts and a white shirt, and under the shorts his thighs and butt were massive. Not fat, either, just thick. It was
