across to me. The article was from the Telegraph and was about him. It was fairly standard sports stuff, with a photograph of him hitting a shot and sketching his background and career and touting him as the future of Australian golf. But not according to the person who’d drawn a gun on the cutting in red with a bullet travelling towards Joel Grinter’s head.
‘I’ll admit it scared me,’ Grinter said. ‘Put me off my game. I played lousy in the Pro-Am.’
I looked blank.
‘It’s a game you play a day or so before the tournament. There’s a little bit of money up and businessmen and such pay to play with the pros. It’s supposed to be a fun day, but I was looking over my shoulder every second shot. I was in the trees and the sand more than I was on the fairway.’
‘I get the idea,’ I said. ‘I don’t blame you. But don’t you blokes have a management arrangement with some mob or other? Don’t they lay on the security?’
He looked troubled. ‘Yeah, that’s right. And there’s a couple of management companies after me to sign with them. I haven’t decided who to go for, but they might shy away if they hear about this. Lynx, the one I like, might not be as keen about me. It’s not like with Elvis-you can’t sell golf gear using a dead man.’
‘I guess not. So what d’you want me to do?’
‘Find out who’s behind this and stop them.’
‘Big ask. I thought you were just going to hire me as a bodyguard.’
‘That, too.’
I smoothed out the news cutting on the desk as I thought about it. The death threat probably wasn’t serious, just some nutter, and bodyguarding usually isn’t a long-term commitment. I thought about Billy Sunday and his crook kidneys and how he’d saved me from having the shit beaten out of me some years back. ‘You’re on,’ I said. ‘We have to sign a contract and you have to pay me some money. I’ll knock the rate down on account of Billy’
He pulled out a cheque book and shook his head. ‘No way. I’ll pay my whack.’
I had no idea what his golf earnings were but a new Commodore doesn’t come cheap so he could probably afford me with room to spare. We did the paperwork and he took on that look people do when they’ve hired a detective. Nothing’s been done or achieved, but they feel better. I took out a notebook and poised a pen. ‘Okay, Mr Grinter…’
‘Joel.’
‘Joel. What does your coach think about all this?’
‘Brett? I haven’t told him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ah, I don’t want to worry him. He’s got enough on his plate.’
I got the names of his contact at Lynx Sports and at the two other management companies who were bidding for him-Golf Management Services (GMS) and Sports Management International (SMI).
‘Which one do you favour?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Depends whether I go to Europe or America or play the Australasian and Asian tours for a season. SMI’s the shot if I go overseas. Brett reckons I should. I’m still thinking about it.’
‘What does your family think?’
‘Mum and Dad are dead. Died real young. No brothers or sisters. There’s people close to me, like Billy and them, but they don’t know anything about the business.’
‘Where’re you going now?’
‘The gym for an hour or so and then back to Brett’s. Early tea and early to bed. I’ve got a six thirty tee-off tomorrow.’
That wasn’t welcome news because I thought I’d better stick with him over the course of the tournament to see if I could spot anyone taking an undue interest or displaying signs of hostility. I knew a little about the geography of Concord and had the impression that some houses had back yards that bordered the golf course. Not ideal. He said he’d arrange for me to get a pass that’d let me in for free and give me access to certain places that were off limits to the public.
I pointed to the cutting. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘Sure. Happy to see the last of it.’
I said I’d be there in the morning but that he shouldn’t notice me. We shook hands and he left.
This time I read the cutting carefully. Both of Joel’s parents had been stolen children. Light skinned. His father’s work in an asbestos mine had killed him in his late thirties; his mother died soon after with belatedly diagnosed diabetes as a contributing factor. Joel spelled all this out in an interview he gave after his win and he also made the point that all four major golf championships that year had been won by black men. Up-front stuff.
I hauled out the phone book, located the numbers for GMS and SMI and spoke to their media liaison officers, posing as a journalist for Harry Tickener’s paper. Harry would always cover for me. I put the hypothetical to them that a sportsman or sportswoman they were thinking of taking on was getting death threats. What would their reaction be?
‘We’d snap him or her up,’ the SMI man said. ‘Great publicity, plus we’ve got guys to cope with that sort of thing.’
‘What effect could it have on a career?’
‘On sales of products, zero. On appearance fees a plus, a big plus. People like danger.’
‘If it’s not directed at them.’
‘Hey, you don’t get it. How many people d’you think tried to get close to Salman Rushdie to feel the vibe?’
The GMS man was more circumspect. ‘Handled right it could play. As long as it didn’t go on too long and the man or the girl didn’t make inflammatory statements.’
‘But you wouldn’t shy away?’
A pause. ‘No, but we’d surveille it to see if it was bona fide. People have been known to devise such things to lift the interest quotient.’
I thanked him and rang off, thinking that if I heard any more language like that I’d have to have my ears syringed. But it gave me things to think about. I had a feeling that Joel hadn’t been completely frank with me but I couldn’t put my finger on where the feeling sprang from. Fake the death threat to up the price? I didn’t think so. I rang Lynx and laid it on a bit thicker. I got a similar reaction to the publicity possibilities as long as the threat didn’t actually eventuate. That made a difference.
‘Dead sports stars are forgotten as soon as the funeral’s over. And death threats give sports a bad name- puts the parents off. On balance I’d say a definite no-no.’
I trailed around after Joel on the first day of the tournament and I found it a bloody long walk in the sun. At least I could get under shade for some of the time and have a few beers. Also I wasn’t swinging a club and bending down to place and pick up a ball. Golfers might not always look fit but they must be. I heard nothing in the crowd to suggest that there was anything but goodwill towards Joel. I’d advised him to try to keep trees and other people between him and the spots where back fences bordered the course and, as far as I could tell, he did it and I saw nothing suspicious. Knowing stuff-all about the game, it seemed to me that he played well, but he wasn’t happy.
‘Three over,’ he said.
‘Better than the blokes you were playing with.’
‘But maybe not good enough. The cut’s likely to be two over or even one. Means I have to be one or two under tomorrow.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Sure I can do it. I’ve shot a sixty-five around here. I can do it if I can just clear my bloody head.’
‘Look, I’ve seen and heard nothing alarming. It could all be just bullshit.’
He didn’t seem interested and went off to practise his putting. I hung around, kept an eye out, followed the Commodore back to the address he’d given me, Brett Walker’s house in Lane Cove, and called it a day.
The next day I found out what a tough game professional golf is. The cut mark was set by the general standard of play in the field and on the second day it was better than the first. Because of the calmer conditions, the pundits said. While other players, including two of the three Joel was playing with, were starting to hit the ball
