He shook his head.
'Now you know the bad Trey-cocaine and porn, gals and gambling.'
'Hard to believe he could lose fifteen million gambling,' Scott said.
'You read Daly's book? He said he lost fifty million gambling, had to send his endorsement checks straight to the casinos.'
'So why were you dropping Trey? You were still making money off him.'
'There was more to it.'
'What?'
Nick picked up the remote and pointed it at the big TV on the wall. The screen flashed on to a menu. Nick scrolled down the menu then clicked.
'This.'
Trey Rawlins' image filled the screen. He was young, he was handsome, and he was putting.
'Eighteenth hole, Bay Classic in California, early March. He makes this putt, he wins the tournament and one million bucks. A fucking three-foot putt.'
Trey missed the putt.
'He didn't miss three-foot putts,' Nick said.
Nick clicked through to another tournament and another putt to win.
'Five weeks later. Miami Open. A two-foot putt to win.'
Trey missed the putt.
'Not even close,' Nick said.
'The drugs?'
'The mob.'
'The mob? '
'He was throwing tournaments.'
'You're kidding? People gamble on golf tournaments?'
Nick chuckled. 'Hell, yes, people gamble on golf tournaments. Big money. And when the difference between winning and losing comes down to one putt, it's an easy game to rig. How many times have you watched a tournament and seen a pro miss a short putt and think, how could he possibly have missed that? All you need is one player in your debt. A really good player, someone who's going to have one putt to win. Or lose.'
Nick turned up the tape. The announcer was saying that the pressure got to Trey Rawlins.
'The mob got to him.'
'To repay his debts?'
'That's what I figure.'
'But if he'd made the putt and won, he'd have made a million bucks, paid that to the mob.'
'Half that after taxes. But by losing, he probably made the mob five, six million in bets. Tax-free.'
'Why wouldn't he have just played badly and missed the cut?'
'Doesn't work that way. For gamblers to make big money, they've got to win against long odds. But that means they've got to bet against the star winning, because in golf odds are the stars are gonna win every time. So the star has to be in the hunt at the end, otherwise no one's putting up any money. I mean, would you ever bet against Tiger? Neither would the mob. But the next best thing would be someone like Trey, a player who could win but who owed a big debt. He misses a short putt, you can't prove anything. Could've been nerves, a ball mark on the green, a bad putt. It happens. But not to Trey. I knew it. And I knew if he was our client-my client-when the shit hit the fan-and shit like this always hits the fan-SSI-and me — we'd always be linked to the golfer who threw tournaments. WM squared don't like that shit, Scott.'
'So you were dropping him?'
'Like a bad habit.' Nick exhaled. 'Drinking and drugs, that's just part of the job description for a pro athlete today. But throwing tournaments-that's prison time, even for Trey Rawlins. That's a criminal trial. That's SSI-and me-dragged into court, on TV, in the newspapers, and for all the wrong reasons.'
'Did you tell him?'
'They killed him first.'
'You think the mob killed him?'
Nick nodded.
'Why would they kill him if he was throwing tournaments so they could win their bets?'
Nick clicked through to another tournament. 'Atlanta Open. Back in May.'
On the screen, Trey was stalking the green and studying a putt.
'Sixty-three-foot putt for eagle on the eighteenth hole,' Nick said. 'He's down by one. He makes it, he wins. Misses and he's got a long putt back for birdie to tie.'
The ball sat at the back end on the high side of the green; the hole was at the front end on the low side. The announcer explained that the ball sat three feet higher than the hole, so the ball would be rolling fast down the slope. It would either go in or continue twenty feet past the hole. Trey crouched over the ball, placed his putter behind the ball, and made a smooth stroke. The ball rolled across the green, hit the big slope halfway across the green, then took a sharp turn down and picked up speed. It was rolling fast when it hit the back of the cup, popped up, and fell in. The camera cut to Trey. He appeared shocked. Nick hit the remote to freeze the frame on Trey's face.
'That's not the face of a winner. That's the face of a loser.'
'What do you mean?'
'I think he was supposed to lose that tournament. When he started the final round leading by four, the betting was heavy on him-I checked. Which means the mob could bet against him and make big money if he lost. So they bet big on him to lose-but he didn't lose. He won. I figure that putt cost the mob maybe ten million, and he knew it. That's why he looks like he does.'
'How do you know this?'
'I don't. I think it. If I knew someone in the mob, I'd ask.'
'That's exactly what happened,' Gabe Petrocelli said after his goons had patted Scott down. 'But that putt cost the Vegas boys twenty million, not ten.' He shook his head. 'I was watching it on TV. Big breaker, no way he makes that putt. When that ball dropped and they showed Trey's face, I said, there's the face of a dead man.'
'So the mob did kill him?'
'I think your wife beat them to it.'
'My client.'
'Can't let her go, huh?' Gabe gave Scott a knowing nod. 'They get to you, don't they? It was like that with my first wife, she drove me fucking nuts every fucking day. So we split up and I started drinking 'cause I missed her.' He sighed. 'Don't be a drunk 'cause of a woman. Be a drunk over something important, like baseball.'
'The mob wanted him dead? Trey?'
'Yeah, they were severely pissed, no question about it.'
'But you had nothing to do with his death?'
He held up an open hand. 'On my mother's grave. Cops here, they know me, we grew up together. A lot of them bet with me. They know what I do and what I don't do. I book… I don't kill.'
'Will you take a polygraph?'
Gabe smiled. 'I don't do polygraphs either.'
'But how can you lose twenty million on a golf tournament?'
'Easy. Three Brits bet eighty grand each, won nineteen million on a long shot named John Daly to win the British Open in ninety-five. Scott, today, you can win or lose millions betting on anything, not just the stock market.'
'But if Trey were making so much money, why didn't he just pay off his debt?'
'Fifteen million at twenty-five percent interest, that's a tough debt to repay.'
'The mob charges twenty-five percent interest?'
Gabe shrugged. 'Credit card companies charge thirty percent. Shit, twenty-five years ago, there were laws against that sort of thing. Banks couldn't charge more than ten percent interest. That's where we came in. Now, the sky's the limit. They took our loan-sharking business and made it legal. Same thing with gambling. Hell, ten years from now, there'll be a casino in every town in America-all the businessmen in Galveston want one here,
