Body Copy - Michael Craven [36]
Tremaine knew about L.A.C.C., a little bit anyway. No entertainment folks; that’s what Nina and Jack Sawyer had said. This was old money, white money, WASP money.
As he strolled down the sidewalk, around to a big back patio flanked on one side by an enormous putting green, he looked at the people sitting underneath the umbrellas. And boy, did they look at him. They eyed him.
Mostly older men, Tremaine noticed. Older white men with those perma-scowls on their faces. White hair, parted on the side, pink, saggy faces, khaki pants, and Brooks Brothers shirts. Not many smiles around these parts. Place was peaceful, though. No cell phones. No loud groups convened together. Some women; not many, though. The 111
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occasional trio of female golfers would stroll by, tan faces and conservative haircuts.
As nice as the place was, certainly the most prestigious golf club in town, it was understated indeed. There was no flash. It was simple. And that simplicity gave it style and grace.
Tremaine entered the Grill to see groups of men at tables eating club sandwiches and drinking drinks and playing cards. This place, too, was very simple. Some card tables, some chairs, a bar with one bartender. Big windows everywhere looking out to the courses. But in terms of decoration, it was no more than you would see in a club in a small town in Middle America. Some game tables over in the corner. Paper napkins. No flash. This was the way the members liked it. Any kind of ostentation was show-offy.
Tacky. Too much decoration said, “We’ve got money.”
These people weren’t like that. The simpler the better. But, boy, did they have money.
Tremaine strolled through the Grill. Yes, there were some stares. He looked perfectly presentable, but the old-school surfer ’stache certainly threw off some of the gee-zers in the room. Passing by one table, a man who looked to be somewhere around a hundred just blatantly stared at Tremaine, his mouth hanging open in confusion.
“Howdy,” Tremaine said.
“Who?” the old man grunted back.
Tremaine moved on. He thought to himself, that guy might die later. Then, standing in the middle of the room, sort of looking around for Phillip Cook, Tremaine heard,
“You must be Donald Tremaine.”
Tremaine looked down and to his left to see a man sit-112
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ting at one of the square lunch tables. Tremaine had inad-vertently found Phillip Cook. He was practically on top of him.
“Yes, I’m Donald Tremaine.”
“Phillip Cook,” he said as he stood up, extending a hand for Tremaine to shake.
Tremaine shook Phillip’s hand, then sat down at the table and ordered a Diet Coke from a passing waiter. “Yes, sir,” the waiter said.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here,” Phillip Cook said, now seated as well. Tremaine looked for Phillip’s glass eye. It wasn’t hard to find, as Tremaine was face to face with a man whose left eye simply did not move. It just stared straight ahead, like a doll’s. Tremaine thinking, that would be a good device for a P.I. A glass eye to confuse and fluster people you interviewed. Close your good eye and just stare at them with the glass one, freak them out. But then I couldn’t see, he thought . . .
“My pleasure,” Tremaine said. “I’ve always wanted to see the Club.”
Tremaine studied Phillip Cook. He almost couldn’t believe the guy was wearing a blazer with a crest and an ascot. Combined with his black hair with a part on the side that looked like a white line down his head and his glass eye, he fit the mold of a consummate country club gentleman. Or a villain in a James Bond movie.
“It’s interesting that you’re investigating this case more than a year after the murder.”
Man, it was tough to tell this guy’s angle with that glass eye.
“I’m a P.I. I investigate old cases all the time.”
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“Nina hired you, right? That’s what mother said.”
Mother? Another one of those words only these people used. Mother? Shall?
Phillip continued, “So, how can I help?”
Tremaine thought, this guy needs a big