'And California and Massachusetts get stuck with all the mathematicians and scientists.'
'Exactly.'
Nick apparently wasn't trying for irony.
'Nick, you ever been to Trey's beach house in Galveston?'
'Sure. Nice place.'
'When was the last time?'
'Right before Doral. Couple months ago.'
That ruled Nick out for the unidentified prints on the kitchen counter-and Scott was pretty sure Nick wouldn't have been in Trey's bed or closet.
'Scott, I was gonna make a lot of money off Trey. I didn't kill him.'
' 'Show me the money'-is that the deal with sports agents?'
'What? Oh, from that movie. Yeah, Scott, that is the deal-for agents and athletes. You gotta understand something about Trey-about most pro athletes today. Everyone who was part of his life-me, Rebecca, his sponsors-we lived in Trey's world. He didn't live in ours.'
Like a lawyer and his richest client.
'He really would've made five hundred million over his career?'
'Tiger's made a billion, and he's only thirty-three.'
'I didn't know golfers made that kind of money.'
'Most Nicklaus ever made on tour was three hundred twenty thousand-hell, we got caddies making more than that today. The leading money winner this year will make ten million, twenty if he wins the year-end bonus.' He gestured at the golf tournament playing on the TV. 'Every week on tour, the winner takes home a million, runner-up half a million. Trey had already won twice this year. With endorsements and corporate outings, he stood to make twenty-five million.'
'That's a lot of money.'
'There's a lot of money in sports today, Scott.' Nick pointed at the portraits on the wall. 'Tom Brady made thirty million last year, A-Rod made forty, Kobe forty-five… but Tiger made a hundred. That's the advantage of golf. Football, basketball, baseball-those are American sports with American endorsements. Even superstars can't go international. Anyone in Europe give a shit what A-Rod drinks? No. But they care what Tiger drinks… and what clubs he swings and clothes he wears. Golf is a worldwide sport played with the same equipment made by the same manufacturers endorsed by the same players wearing the same clothes. Nike, Reebok, Adidas, Under Armour-you can buy their stuff anywhere in the world in any currency. So star golfers are the most marketable athletes in sports. And Trey could've been a big star.'
'I need copies of all his endorsement contracts.'
Nick frowned.
'I can subpoena them.'
Nick nodded. 'I know. Every time one of my athletes gets divorced, the wife's lawyer subpoenas all contracts, correspondence, emails, earning statements… I'll have to clear it with legal, but I'm sure I can get you copies without a subpoena.'
'What can you tell me about Trey?'
Nick shrugged. 'Like what?'
'Did he have any health problems?'
' Trey? '
Nick picked up a remote control, pointed it at the TV screen, and clicked through a menu. The screen abruptly flashed on to the image of Trey Rawlins.
'His marketing video.'
The video featured clips of Trey's long drives and winning putts, his life off the course-running the beach without a shirt on, piloting a sleek boat without a shirt on, driving the BMW bike without a shirt on-
'Healthy as a horse,' Nick said. 'Look at that body. Six foot, one-eighty, ripped. Check out those abs. Those fat boys on tour take their shirts off, you'd fucking throw up. Trey's numbers among women eighteen to thirty-five were off the charts.' He froze the video on Trey's bare chest. 'He waxed his chest.'
'Why?'
'Manscaping. All the movie stars do it. Shows off the pecs and abs better. Women love that.'
'Oh.'
— giving interviews-'Yes, sir'… 'No, ma'am'… 'I'm blessed'… 'I love my country'…
'Market research tells us which words and phrases resonate with the buying public. Trey was a natural- programmed without sounding programmed. And he smiled. Most of the guys, they get face time on TV-which is why sponsors pay to put their logos on the players' caps and shirts-they put their game faces on, look like they're passing a goddamned kidney stone instead of playing golf for millions. Trey, he flashed that smile, win or lose. Fans loved that-and that's money in the bank, brother.'
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?'
