The sun peeked through the surrounding trees. It was barely 6 A.M., and the fairways were shimmering with dew, the air crisp. Desmond picked infinitesimal bits of grit out of the grooves of his driver with a tee. He was a gray-haired black man of medium height, smooth skinned and fit, wearing light brown trousers and a matching polo shirt. His golf shoes were shined bright. A former cop, Desmond looked more like a tenured college professor, soft spoken and serene. Jimmy would have trusted Desmond with his life, and with the truth too-as much of it as he knew, anyway.
Desmond bent down and grazed a hand across the grass. "Look at this. Not a weed, not a sign of crabgrass, no brown spots. I bet the White House lawn isn't as well taken care of. I should ask the groundskeeper what he uses on it."
It was a beautiful course, but Jimmy didn't care about golf. He just wanted to talk to Trunk about Willard Burton. His attempts to locate Burton had failed; the pageant photographer's business license had lapsed eight years ago and had not been renewed, his last known address vacated the day after Heather Grimm was murdered. According to Desmond, Abel "Treetrunk" Jones had worked vice all over L.A. Trunk had arrested Burton once, said he had stories to tell, but he wasn't telling them-not even to Desmond-without a round of golf at the Golden Wedge, the "whitest course in the West." Desmond thought it was pretty funny.
"Where is he?" asked Jimmy.
"He'll be along presently."
Jimmy pulled out one of his own thrift-store clubs, swung it like a baseball bat, and almost hit himself in the head. Stupid game. He put the club back into his bag before he hurt himself. "Heather Grimm's agent sent her to Walsh's beach house to seduce him. I'm sure of it. I just don't think Heather knew what she was getting herself into."
"I doubt she did." Desmond stood just back of the first tee, adjusting his grip on the driver. "The way you described her-young girl, full of vanity and ambition-I expect she thought Walsh was going to fall for her. Make her a star."
"The agent knew what was happening. That nine-one-one call from a phone booth had to be part of the setup. No way someone makes a call like that, then doesn't step forward to tell their story. Or sell their story."
"It happens. Not often, but it happens. Some folks have enough money, or they just don't want the attention."
"That's what Brimley said. I think you're both wrong."
"I've been wrong before. I expect Detective Brimley has also."
"The agent wasn't working for Heather, she was using her. She was working for someone else. Someone who wanted to set Walsh up, maybe for statutory rape, maybe for murder. But the agent is the only one who knows what really happened."
"Not exactly." Desmond cocked his hips, taking a half-swing in slow motion. "There's the husband." He took a full swing, and the clubhead grazed the ground, sending wisps of grass skyward. "And there's the man who killed Heather Grimm." He looked at Jimmy. "Unless you think it was really Garrett Walsh who killed her. You said he didn't remember. Drugs make people do crazy things, things they couldn't imagine themselves doing. Maybe he did kill that girl."
"Walsh didn't do it."
"You sure of that?"
Jimmy glanced back toward the clubhouse again. "Where is he?"
"Throwing up probably."
Jimmy looked over at him.
"Trunk is sick." Desmond wiped the clubhead with his hand. "He's on disability leave. Pancreatic cancer."
"Jeeeeeeeeeemy!"
Napitano hurtled toward them in a golf cart, a tall emaciated black man beside him, hanging on for dear life. The cart skidded up to the first tee, missed Jimmy by inches, and pulled up beside their cart. " Buon giorno," chirped Napitano, dressed in white shorts and a white dinner jacket.
"How are you doing, Trunk?" said Desmond.
"Better, now." Trunk stared at Jimmy. His skin was a deep black, his hair in patches. His head and hands were enormous-no way they belonged with his pipe-cleaner arms and hollowed-out torso. He wore a Raiders football jersey and baggy paisley knickers, the waistband cinched with a belt that had been shortened, new holes punched in. "What are you looking at, motherfucker?" He still had a big man's voice.
"Good to meet you too," said Jimmy.
"How are you and Nino getting along?" asked Desmond, stepping in.
Trunk grinned, his teeth as incongruously large as his hands. He clapped Napitano on the back. "This little fella puked right along beside me. Everybody else cleared out when they heard me unloading in the shitter, but Nino just walked over, grabbed the next stall, and let loose, the two of us going at it in stereo. You believe that, Desmond?"
"Vomiting is an ancient Roman tradition." Napitano smoothed his dinner jacket. "It is a healthy thing, to make room for more eating."
"You hear that, Desmond?" said Trunk. "Maybe I'm I-talian."
Desmond just smiled.
"Where's your clubs, Nino?" asked Jimmy.
"I do not play golf. I joined the club because at first they did not want me. Now I just come to drive the carts and to hear the cursing of the other players. Their frustration-it is a symphony to me."
Trunk clapped Napitano on the back again.
"We should get started," said Jimmy. "The foursome behind us is getting antsy."
Trunk looked over and saw four short white men in designer outfits, the leather bags in the back of their carts stuffed with titanium clubs. "They'll wait." He got out of Napitano's cart slowly, carefully-he seemed so frail that if he moved too quickly, one of his arms would snap off. "Nice course, eh Desmond? They always keep the best for themselves, don't they?"
"You've got the honors, Trunk," said Desmond.
Trunk pulled his driver out and bent down on one knee to tee up his ball, not resisting when Desmond had to help him up. He stood over the ball, adjusting his hips, taking his time, looking around to see who was watching, enjoying himself. The air smelled clean and green. His first shot dribbled about ten yards. He didn't leave the tee but reached instead into his pocket. The next ball went a little farther. The third one landed almost a hundred yards away; a weak shot but straight and true. He must have been good when he still had some muscle to go with that frame. "I'll take that one." No one argued.
Desmond was up next. He took a practice swing, then uncorked a deep drive, two hundred and fifty yards at least, but hooking into the rough.
Jimmy reached for his club.
"Put that back," growled Trunk. "I didn't come here to play golf with you. I'll talk with you, but I'm only playing with Desmond."
"Fine." Jimmy shoved his club back into his bag and jumped behind the wheel of the cart. Desmond started to climb in beside him, but Trunk stopped him.
"Ride with my man Nino, Des. Whiteboy's going to caddy for me this eighteen."
Desmond smiled at Jimmy, grabbed his clubs, and put them in Nino's cart.
"What are you waiting for, whiteboy?" said Trunk. "Go fetch my clubs."
Jimmy flipped the finger at Napitano and Desmond, who were enjoying the show, then transferred Trunk's clubs for him. He slid into the cart and started the engine.
"Pick up my mulligan," said Trunk.
Jimmy stopped the cart, got out, and picked up Trunk's first ball. He got back in, drove another thirty yards, and did the same thing with the second ball.
Trunk held out his hand for the ball. "You should run. I don't like being kept waiting."
"Yaz, boss."
Trunk looked at him hard but didn't say anything.