The Feathery (8 page)

T
wo men accompanied Anthony Imperato to Claudio’s apartment. One was dressed like Claudio’s uncle in an Armani suit with a black silk shirt and a wide-white necktie of the same material. Uncle Anthony’s friend’s wavy white hair was a vivid contrast to the dark skin of his face. He was introduced as Mario Carrabba, a collector of golf antiques and memorabilia.

The other man was large, over six feet and stocky. He wore a black leather jacket over a turtleneck shirt of the same color. The turtleneck didn’t hide the thick gold chain looped around his neck. His head was shaved of all hair and so shiny it mirrored the kitchen lighting. Carrabba introduced him as his chauffeur, Rocco, but he looked and acted more like the stereotypical bodyguard.

The golf antiques were spread out on the kitchen table. Mario examined each item in detail. He held the nude bronze statuette of the naked woman golfer in his hand and said, "bella! bella!" His companions laughed.

Rocco repeated Mario’s remark with his own interpretation in crude English. "Good-looking broad."
Mario briefly scrutinized the books and old golf clubs before he slid open the cover of the box with the feathery golf ball inside. Carrabba stared at the feathery for a few minutes before taking some white silk gloves from the inside pocket of his suit coat and slipping them on. He addressed those watching him with a New York City inflected Italian accent. "You must not touch this ball with bare hands or the oil of your skin will ruin the leather."
Mario took a jeweler’s loupe from another pocket and picked up the feathery. He examined the numbers
26
and
78
inscribed on the leather with the name,
HUGH
, while holding the loupe up against one eye. When finished, he put the feathery back in the box. He studied Sandy’s note and the yellowed parchment showing McNair’s record score at St. Andrews in 1849. Carrabba slowly placed the loupe and gloves back in the inside pocket of his suit coat and spoke to Scott, "I’d like to talk alone to my friends for a few moments."
Uncle Anthony and Mario’s so-called chauffeur joined Carrabba in a room off the kitchen.
Anthony spoke first. "What’s up, Mario?"
"Mama mia, Tony! This golfing guy, Beckman, doesn’t have a clue of what he’s got in that box."
"Is that the funny-looking ball you looked at for so long, Mario?" Anthony asked.
"Christ, yes. That feathery has been lost for years. Collectors all over the world have been looking for it. It’s very valuable…almost priceless. I’ve gotta have it in my collection, Tony, before anyone else gets wind of the find."
"What’s the problem, Mario? Just offer the guy a low-ball figure," Rocco injected. "He doesn’t know shit from Shineola about how much it’s worth, and he needs money. You can stiff him."
"Hey, wait a minute, you guys, my nephew is the one who turned you on to this, and he’s straight. He’s just trying to help a friend who needs money to stay on the golf tour."
Rocco spoke up again. "Bring the nephew in here and ask him how much this guy needs to play golf for a year on the tour if he doesn’t win enough for expenses."
Claudio was summoned from the kitchen.
Claudio told them about tour expenses. "It takes at least a hundred grand a year to meet expenses for a player and his caddie." He looked at Mario Carrabba and said, "don’t screw Scott, he’s a friend."
Carrabba narrowed his eyes and stared at Claudio. The index finger of his right hand touched his thumb. He wriggled his wrist close to Claudio’s face. "Hey, I’m talkin to you, kid…listen. This is my business. Let it alone. I’ll make a deal the golfer can’t refuse."

After they returned to the kitchen, Carrabba sent Rocco to the car for the cash. He came back with a black leather satchel and plunked it down on the table beside the golf antiques. Carrabba opened the bag and Scott, Matt and Claudio saw $100 bills wrapped with rubber bands stacked inside. Matt whistled.

Carrabba gave Scott a hard look. "There’s one hundred grand cash in the bag. That’s my offer."
Scott was in shock. He was surprised at the value and thrilled that the money would allow him to play worry-free on tour. But caution started to creep in.
Rocco pushed the satchel full of cash at Scott. "Take it, it’s tax free."
The fast cash offer and pressure made Scott hesitate. He was becoming more suspicious as to the real value of the antiques."I need a day to think it over, Mr. Carrabba. He indicated the golf antiques spread out on the table. "I inherited them from a good friend, and I may want to keep some."
"You what?" Rocco came on strong. "Are you wasting our time?" He was now so close to Scott’s face that the next words came with breath tainted with garlic. "If you’re smart you’ll make the deal with Mr. Carrabba right now and not fuck around with anyone else."
Rocco started to move in closer to Scott before his boss stopped him with an outstretched arm and said, "okay, Rock, that’s enough. Sorry, Mr. Beckman, Rocco gets carried away when I don’t get what I want. You need a day? That’s okay. Call me tomorrow."
Carrabba handed Scott a card and headed for the door. Uncle Anthony kissed his nephew on both cheeks, and followed behind Carrabba. Rocco snatched the satchel from the table, scowled at Scott and left the apartment behind the others.
After a squeal of rubber accentuated an angry departure by Rocco at the wheel, Scott asked, "Hey, Claudio what’s with those guys?"
"Like I told you, Uncle Anthony has all kinds of connections. Had no clue before this that one of his friends would play hardball to get some golf antiques."
"Matt, you’re awful quiet. What’s your take?"
"I think I just lived through a scene from
The Sopranos.
What now, Scott?"
"I’m going to call this antique dealer I know who’s a member at El Camino. He doesn’t do golf stuff, but maybe he can steer me in the right direction to get an honest appraisal around here."
After he finished the call, Scott told them the results. "He recommended an auction gallery in New York City. Claudio, can I borrow your car tomorrow?"
"Sure, only you’ll have to clean out the trunk to fit in those antiques. It’s filled with my PGA tour survival kit."

Later, Scott took a small piece of paper from his wallet. Written on it was Lizbeth Sweeney’s phone number. He made the call and connected with the lady he had met in Monterey. They set a time and place to meet in New York City.

T
he Covington Gallery security guard was an older man in uniform. The plaque on his desk was engraved with the name, LEM SHATTUCK
.
He was pleasant, but with a policeman’s authoritative manner. He stood up from his desk in the lobby to ask the nature of Scott’s business. Satisfied, he phoned Jason Gamby, the golf antique and memorabilia specialist for the gallery. While waiting for Gamby, Shattuck chatted with them. It turned out he was an avid golfer and a fan of the PGA.

"When I retired from the NYPD, I was planning to move to Florida, play golf five days a week and watch all the PGA tournaments there," Shattuck said.

Matt asked the obvious question. "What changed your plan?"

"It turns out my honest cop retirement pension isn’t enough to cover buying or renting a condo and paying greens fees. So I’ll work here and save up enough to get down there eventually."
Scott said, "good luck in retirement Mr. Shattuck."
"And the same to you on tour, Scott." And he asked for Scott’s autograph on a cap that already held those of Ernie Els and Tiger Woods. Scott was flattered to scrawl his name in their company.
Gamby entered the lobby. He was a tall thin man with sharp, angular features. A perfectly trimmed white goatee didn’t match his long jet-black hair held back in a ponytail. Gamby looked over his small rimmed glasses at Scott and Matt as if he was making a human appraisal before he would do the same with the golf antiques. His polite greeting came at them with a British accent.
Scott told Jason about Carrabba’s offer, but Gamby didn’t comment on the $100,000 amount. Instead he took a cart from a storage room behind the guard’s desk. They helped him load the antiques onto it. Gamby left, wheeling the cart to a room where he and his staff would appraise the collection.
An hour later Gamby returned to the lobby. An expression of dismay was on his face and he shook his head. "Carrabba offered you one hundred thousand for the lot?"
"That’s right. Do you know him?" Scott asked.
"The man is a scoundrel. He owns a golf course upstate, with a clubhouse full of museum-quality golf antiques to show off. I must say, some of the items were obtained by devious means." Gamby’s eyes shifted between Scott and Matt before he continued in agitated words that didn’t guard his native Yorkshire dialect. "Carrabba knows the worth of that feathery, and that bugger tried to steal the bloody ball from you."
"What’s it worth?" Scott asked.
"The feathery alone at auction could be bid up at well over a million." Gamby rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Packaged with the score card signed by the Society of Saint Andrews Golfers, along with McNair’s journal, further authenticating the record…who knows how much higher it could go?" Gamby continued in the same high-pitched voice caused by his excitement over the feathery. "The Royal and Ancient would have dearly wanted the feathery donated to a museum when found, but evidently Sandy McNair decided to keep it in his family before he left it to you. Collectors have been seeking this lost treasure for years."
Scott was stunned. After a few minutes, he recovered enough to ask Gamby. "How about the other things in the collection?"
"The old books, clubs and paintings should get bids totaling between one hundred and one-hundred, fifty thousand. The bronze statuette of the nude woman golfer is unique. That bronze came from the studio of Rodin in Paris around 1865, according to the mark on the base. The circumstances on how and why it got to Scotland and into Hugh McNair’s possession require some research before an estimated value can be established."
"What happens now?" Scott asked.
"Well, if you’d like Covington Gallery to represent you at auction, we may proceed," Gamby said.
Scott glanced over at Matt and saw him shrug his shoulders. His palms-up gesture was like when the club selection for a golf shot was Scott’s final call, not his. Scott reasoned for a time about his decision before answering Gamby.
Would Sandy want me to keep the feathery? But I need the money to continue playing, and I’m certain he’d want me to do that
.

Scott’s sigh was edged in regret and some sadness. "Okay, let’s do the auction."

They left the lobby for Gamby’s office where he explained the auction process to Scott. "You must consign the collection to Covington Gallery. We will make up an announcement in brochure format that’ll describe the items and include the time and place for previewing the auction. The announcement will be sent by email and target a select list of collectors whose interest we know to be high."

"Will the auction be here in New York?"
"No, Scott, we’ll hold it in our London gallery. After I appraised the lot I phoned our owner to confirm the London location. She’s very excited about the find. Sarah Covington played on the European Women’s Tour for five years before she inherited the gallery from her mother. Sarah’s an avid collector of golf antiques with early Saint Andrews origination."
The name, Covington as part of the Gallery, got Matt’s attention when he first heard it, but he cast aside any connection with Sarah Covington other than a name coincidence until Gamby spoke about the owner. Matt thought,
Damn it, that’s her! I’ll warn Scott about Sarah when the time is right, but while doing the deal, he doesn’t need that confusion.
"Why is the auction in London, Mr. Gamby?" Scott asked.
"Keen interest in the collection centers in Great Britain, Ireland and, of course, Scotland. Collectors from the United States and other countries not in attendance will be connected by satellite link to our auction in London and bids may come in by phone."
"Covington’s commission?" Scott asked.
"We contract for twenty percent of the collection’s value as sold."
"When would the auction take place, Mr. Gamby?"
"I must do some more thinking before we set a date, but my guess is in about four weeks from now."
Scott looked over at Matt. "Uh- oh."
Matt hesitated to calculate their expenses to stay on tour for four weeks. "Hey, my meager savings can cover a loan…and, Scott, your credit rating has just jumped to triple A."
Before Scott signed the contract with Covington, he removed Hugh McNair’s journal from the collection, wanting to learn more about his mentor’s famous relative and the feathery ball he had used when he set a record.

Gamby voiced his concerns about the journal leaving the collection. "As I said before, McNair’s journal is a very valuable item when packaged with the feathery. Please take very good care of it. It would be best to wear these when you read it." He handed Scott a pair of latex gloves.

 They took a last look at the feathery and the other antiques before all were locked in the Covington Gallery vault.

On the way out to Long Island, Matt told Scott about Sarah Covington. "Remember when we met at my place in Santa Barbara and you asked about my Europe gig?"

"Yeah, and you said you were fired by a player, and it was a long story."
"Well, the player was Sarah Covington, owner of Covington Gallery."
"Wow, it’s a small golf-world. Why did she fire you, Matt? Did you club her wrong or something like that?"
"Not about my looping abilities. She did it because I had a relationship with another player she wanted to hit on, and I was in her way."
"Do you think I should continue to deal with Covington Gallery?"
"Probably be okay, Scott, but be careful. She’s very possessive, and will do most anything to get what she wants."