Back Spin

*

Chapter 1

Myron Bolitar used a cardboard periscope to look over the suffocating throngs of ridiculously clad spectators, He tried to recall the last time he'd actually used a toy periscope, and an image of sending in proof-of-purchase seals from a box of Cap'n Crunch cereal flickered in front him like headache-inducing sunspots.

Through the mirrored reflection, Myron watched a man dressed in knickers knickers, for crying out loudstand over a tiny white sphere. The ridiculously clad spectators mumbled excitedly. Myron stifled a yawn. The knickered man crouched. The ridiculously clad spectators jostled and then settled into an eerie silence. Sheer stillness followed, as if even the trees and shrubs and well-coiffed blades of grass were holding their collective breath, Then the knickered man whacked the white sphere with a stick.

The crowd began to murmur in the indistinguishable syllables of backstage banter. As the ball ascended, so did the volume of the murmurs. Words could be made out, Then phrases. "Lovely golf stroke." "Super golf shot"

"Beautiful golf shot." "Truly fine golf stroke," They always said golf stroke, like someone might mistake it for a swim stroke, or as Myron was currently contemplating in this blazing heat a sunstroke.

"Mr. Bolitar'?"

Myron took the periscope away from his eyes. He was tempted to yell Up periscope," but feared some at stately. snooty Marion Golf Club would view the act as immature. Especially during the U. S. Open. He looked down at a ruddy-faced man of about seventy.

"Your pants," Myron said.

"Pardon me?"

"You`re afraid of getting hit by a golf cart, right?"

They were orange and yellow in a hue slightly more luminous than a bursting supernova. To be fair, the man`s clothing hardly stood out. Most in the crowd seemed to have woken up wondering what apparel they possessed that would clash with. say, the free world. Orange and green tints found exclusively in several of your tackiest neon signs adorned many. Yellow and some strange shades of purple were also quite big --usually together -like a color scheme rejected by a Midwest high school cheerleading squad. lt was as if being surrounded by all this, God given natural beauty made one want to do all in his power to offset lt. Or maybe there was something else at work here. Maybe the ugly clothes had a more functional origin. Maybe in the old days, when animals roamed free. Golfers dressed this way to ward off dangerous wildlife.

Good theory.

"l need to speak with you," the elderly man whispered.

"lt`s urgent."

The rounded, jovial cheeks belied his pleading eyes.

He suddenly gripped Myron`s forearm. "Please." he added.

"What`s this about?" Myron asked.

The man made a movement with his neck, like his collar was on too tight. "You`re a sports agent. right'?"

"Yes."

"You're here to find clients?"

Myron narrowed his eyes. "How do you know l`m not here to witness the enthralling spectacle of grown men taking a walk'?"

The old man did not smile, but then again, golfers were not known for their sense of humor. He craned his neck again and moved closer. His whisper was hoarse.

"Do you know the name Jack Coldren?" he asked.

"Sure," Myron said.

lf the old man had asked the same question yesterday, Myron wouldn't have had a clue. He didn't follow golf that closely (or at all), and Jack Coldren had been little more than a journeyman over the past twenty years or so.

But Coldren had been the surprise leader after the U. S.

Open's first day, and now. with just a few holes remaining in the second round, Coldren was up by a commanding eight strokes. "What about him?"

"And Linda Coldren?" the man asked. "Do you know who she is?"

This one was easier. Linda Coldren was Jack's wife and far and away the top female golfer of the past decade.

"Yeah, I know who she is," Myron said.

The man leaned in closer and did the neck thing again.

Seriously annoying not to mention contagious. Myron found himself fighting off the desire to mimic the movement. "They're in deep trouble," the old man whispered.

If you help them, you'll have two new clients."

"What sort of trouble?"

The old man looked around. "Please," he said.

"There are too many people. Come with me."

Myron shrugged, No reason not to go. The old man was the only lead he'd unearthed since his friend and business associate Windsor Home Lockwood III Win, for short-had dragged his sorry butt down here. Being that the U. S. Open was at Merion home course of the Lockwood family for something like a billion years Win had felt it would be a great opportunity for Myron to land a few choice clients. Myron wasn't quite so sure. As near as he could tell. the major component separating him from the hordes of other locust-like agents swarming the green meadows of Merion Golf Club was his naked aversion to golf. Probably not a key selling point to the faithful.

Myron Bolitar ran MB SportsReps. a sports representation firm located on Park Avenue in New York City. He rented the space from his former college roommate, Win.

a Waspy, old-money, big-time investment banker whose family owned Lock-Horne Securities on the same Park Avenue in New York. Myron handled the negotiations while Win, one of the country`s most respected brokers.

handled the investments and finances. The other member of the MB team, Esperanza Diaz, handled everything else. Three branches with checks and balances. Just like the American govermnent. Very patriotic.

Slogan: MB SportsReps the other guys are commie pinkos.

As the old man ushered Myron through the crowd.

Several men in green blazers another look sported mostly at golf courses. perhaps to camouflage oneself against the grass-- --greeted him with whispered. "How do. Bucky." or "Looking good. Buckster." or "Fine day for golf. Buckaroo." They all had the accent of the rich and preppy. The kind of inflection where mommy is pronounced "mummy" and summer and winter are verbs.

Myron was about to comment on a grown man being called Bucky, but when your name is Myron. well. glass houses and stones and all that.

Like every other sporting event in the free world. The actual playing area looked more like a giant billboard than a field of competition. The leader board was sponsored by IBM. Canon handed out the periscopes. American Airlines employees worked the food stands {an airline handling food what think tank came up with that one?) Corporate Row was jam-packed with companies who shelled out over one hundred grand a pop to set up a tent for a few days, mostly so that company executives had an excuse to go. Travelers Group, Mass Mutual, Aetna (golfers must like insurance). Canon, Heublein. Heublein, What the hell was a Heublein? They looked like a nice company. Myron would probably buy a Heublein if he knew what one was.

The funny thing was, the US. Open was actually less commercialized than most tourneys. At least they hadn't sold their name yet. Other tournaments were named for sponsors and the names had gotten a little silly, Who could get up for winning the JC Penney Open or the Michelob Open or even the Wendy's Three-Tour Challenge?

The old man led him to a primo parking lot, Mercedeses, Caddies. limos. Myron spotted Win`s Jaguar.

The USGA had recently put up a sign that read MEMBERS PARKING ONLY.

Myron said, "'You`re a member of Merion." Dr. Deduction.

The old man twisted the neck thing into something approaching a nod. "My family dates back to Merion's inception." he said. The snooty accent now more pronounced.

"Just like your friend Win."

Myron stopped and looked at the man. "You know Win?"

The old man sort of smiled and shrugged. No commitment.

"You haven't told me your name yet," Myron said.

"Stone Buckwell," he said, hand extended. "Everyone calls me Bucky."

Myron shook the hand.

"l'm also Linda Coldren's father," he added.

Bucky unlocked a sky blue Cadillac and they slid inside.

He put the key in the ignition. The radio played Muzak-- worse. The Muzak version of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head. " Myron quickly opened the window for air. Not to mention noise.

Only members were allowed to park on the Merion grounds, so it wasn't too much of a hassle getting out.

They made a right at the end of the driveway and then another right. Bucky mercifully flipped off the radio. Myron stuck his head back in the car.

"What do you know about my daughter and her husband?"

Bucky asked.

"Not much."

"You are not a golf fan. are you. Mr. Boiitar?"

"Not really."

"Golf" is truly a magnificent sport." he said. Then he added. `"Though the word sport does not begin to do it justice."

"Uh-huh." Myron said.

"lt's the game of princes." Buckwell's ruddy face glowed a bit now. The eyes wide with the same type of rapture one saw in the very religious. His voice was low and awed. "There is nothing quite like it. you know. You alone against the course. No excuses. No teammate. No bad calls. lt`s the purest of activities."

"Uh-huh," Myron said again. "Look. l don't want to appear rude. Mr. Buckwell, but what's this all about?"

"Please call me Bucky."

"Okay. Bucky."

He nodded his approval. "l understand that you and Windsor Lockwood are more than business associates."

he said.

"Meaning?"'

l understand you two go back a long way. College roommates, am l correct?"

"Why do you keep asking about Win?"

"I actually came to the club to find him," Bucky said.

"But l think it`s better this way."

"What way'?

"Talking to you first. Maybe after . , . well, we'll see. Shouldn`t hope for too much."

Myron nodded. 'l have no idea what you're talking about."

Bucky turned onto a road adjacent to the course called Golf House Road. Golfers were so creative.

The course was on the right, imposing mansions on the left. A minute later. Bucky pulled into a circular driveway. The house was fairly big and made of something called river rock. River rock was big in this area, though Win always referred to it as "Mainline Stone"

There was a white fence and lots of tulips and two maple trees, one on each side of the front walk. A large porch was enclosed on the right side. The car came to a stop, and for a moment neither of them moved.

"What`s this all about, Mr. Buckwell?"

"We have a situation here," he said.

"What kind of situation?"

"l'd rather let my daughter explain it to you" He grabbed the key out of the ignition and reached for the door.

"Why come to me'?" Myron asked.

"We were told you could possibly help."

"Who told you that?"

Buckwell started rolling his neck with greater fervor.

His head looked like it'd been attached by a loose ball socket. When he finally got it under control, he managed to look Myron in the eyes.

"Win`s mother," he said.

Myron stiffened. His heart plummeted down a dark shaft. He opened his mouth. closed it, waited. Buckwell got out of the car and headed for the door. Ten seconds later, Myron followed.

"Win won't help," Myron said.

Buckwell nodded. "That's why l came to you first."

They followed a brick path to a door slightly ajar.

Buckwell pushed it open. "Linda?"

Linda Coldren stood before a television in the den.

Her white shorts and sleeveless yellow blouse revealed the lithe, toned limbs of an athlete. She was tall with short spunky black hair and a tan that accentuated the smooth, long muscles. The lines around her eyes and mouth placed her in her late thirties, and he could see instantly why she was a commercial darling. There was a fierce splendor to this woman, a beauty derived from a sense of strength rather than delicacy.

She was watching the tournament on the television.

On top of the set were framed family photographs. Big, pillowy couches formed a V in one corner. Tactfully furnished, for a golfer. No putting green, AstroTurf carpet.

None of that golf artwork that seemed a step or two below the aesthetic class of, say, paintings of dogs playing poker. No cap with a tee and ball on the brim hanging from a moose head.

Linda Coldren suddenly swung her line of vision toward them, firing a glare past Myron before settling on her father. "I thought you were going to get Jack," she snapped.

"He hasn't finished the round yet."

She motioned to the television. "He's on eighteen now. I thought you were going to wait for him."

"l got Mr. Bolitar instead."

Who?"

Myron stepped forward and smiled. "I'm Myron Bolitar."

Linda Coldren flicked her eyes at him, then back to her father. 'Who the hell is he?"

"He's the man Cissy told me about." Buckwell said.

"Who's Cissy"" Myron asked.

Win`s mother."

"Oh." Myron said. "Right."

Linda Coldren said. `l don't want him here. Get rid of him."

Linda. listen to me. We need help."

"Not from him."

"He and Win have experience with this type of thing."

'Win." she said slowly., is psychotic."

. Ah." Myron said. `Then you know him well?"

Linda Coidren finally turned her attention to Myron.

Her eyes. deep and brown. met his. 'l haven't spoken to Win since he was eight years old." she said. "But you don`t have to leap into a pit of flames to know it's hot."

Myron nodded. "`Nice analogy."

She shook her head and looked back at her father. l told you before: no police. We do what they say."

"But he's not police her father said.

"And you shouldn't he telling anyone."

"l only told my sister,|| Bucky protested. "She'd never say anything.

Myron felt his body stiffen again. Wait a second."

he said to Bucky. "Your sister is Win's mother?'

"Yes."

"`You're Win's uncle." He looked at Linda Coldren.

"And you're Win's first cousin."

Linda Coldren looked at him like he`d just peed on the floor. "With smarts like that," she said., "I'm glad you"re on our side.

Everyone's a wiseass.

"If its still unclear. Mr. Bolitar, I could break out some poster board and sketch a family tree for you.

Could you use lots of pretty colors?" Myron said.

I like pretty colors."

She made a face and turned away. On the television.

Jack Coldren lined up a twelve-foot putt. Linda stopped and watched. He tapped it; the ball took off and arched right into the hole. The gallery applauded with modest enthusiasm. Jack picked up the ball with two fingers and then tipped his hat. The IBM leader board flashed on the screen. Jack Coldren was up by a whopping nine strokes.

Linda Coldren shook her head. "Poor bastard."

Myron kept still. So did Bucky.

He's waited twenty-three years for this moment."'

she continued. "And he picks now."

Myron glanced at Bucky. Bucky glanced back. shaking his head.

Linda Coldren stared at the television until her husband exited to the clubhouse. Then she took a deep breath and looked at Myron. "You see, Mr. Bolitar, Jack has never won a professional tournament. The closest he ever came was in his rookie year, twenty-three years ago. When he was only nineteen. lt was the last time the U. S. Open was held at Merion. You may remember the headlines."

They were not altogether unfamiliar. This morning`s papers had rehashed it a bit. "He lost a lead, right?"

Linda Coldren made a scoffing sound. "That's a bit of an understatement, but yes. Since then, his career has been completely unspectacular. There were years he didn't even make the tour."

He picked a hell of a time to snap his streak." Myron said. "The U. S. Open."

She gave him a funny look and folded her arms under her chest. `Your name rings a bell," she said. "You used to play basketball, right'?"

"Right."

"In the ACC. North Carolina?" , "Duke," he corrected.

' 'Right, Duke. I remember now. You blew out your knee after the draft." , Myron nodded slowly.

"That was the end of your career, right?"

Myron nodded again.

"It must have been tough," she said.

Myron said nothing.

She made a waving motion with her hand. "What happened to you is nothing compared to what happened to Jack."

"Why do you say that?"

"You had an injury. It may have been tough, but at least you weren't at fault. Jack had a six-stroke lead at the U. S. Open with only eight holes left. Do you know what that's like? That's like having a ten-point lead with a minute left in the seventh game of the NBA finals. It's .

like missing a wide-open slam dunk in the final seconds to lose the championship. Jack was never the same man after that. He never recovered. He has spent his whole life since, just waiting for the chance of redemption." She turned back to the television. The leader board was back up. Jack Coldren was still up by nine strokes.

"If he loses again . . ."

She did not bother finishing the thought. They all stood in silence. Linda staring at the television. Bucky craning his neck, his eyes moist, his face quivering near tears. .

"So what's wrong, Linda?" Myron asked.

"Our son," she said. "Somebody has kidnapped our son." .

Chapter 2

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Linda Coldren said.

"He said he'd kill him."

"Who said?"

Linda Coldren took several deep breaths, like a child atop the high board. Myron waited. It took some time, but she finally took the plunge.

"I got a call this morning," she said. Her large indigo eyes were wide and everywhere now, settling down on no one spot for more than a second. ' 'A man said he had my son. He said if I called the police, he would kill him."

"Did he say anything else'?'

"Just that he'd call back with instructions."

"That's it'?"

She nodded.

' 'What time was this?" Myron asked.

"Nine, nine-thirty."

Myron walked over to the television and picked up one of the framed photographs. ' 'Is this a recent photograph of your son?" '

' 'Yes.' '

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen. His name is Chad."

Myron studied the photograph. The smiling adolescent had the fleshy features of his father. He wore a baseball cap with the brim curled the way kids like to nowadays. A golf club rested proudly on his shoulder like a minuteman with a bayonet. His eyes were squinted as though he were looking into the sun. Myron looked over Chad's face, as if it might give him a clue or some rare insight. It didn't.

' 'When did you first notice that your son was missing'?' '

Linda Coldren gave her father a quick glance, then straightened up, holding her head high as if she were readying himself for a blow. Her words came slow.

"Chad had been gone for two days."

"Gone'?" Myron Bolitar, Grand lnquisitor.

' 'Yes.' '

"When you say gone "

"l mean just that," she interrupted. ' 'I haven't seen him since Wednesday."

"But the kidnapper just called today'?"

' 'Yes.' '

Myron started to speak, stopped himself, softened his voice. Tread gently, fair Myron. Ever gently. ' 'Did you have any idea where he was'?' '

' 'I assumed he was staying with his friend Matthew,"

Linda Coldren replied.

Myron nodded, as if this statement showed brilliant insight. Then nodded again. "Chad told you that?"

' 'No.' '

"So," he said, aiming for casual, "for the past two days, you didn't know where your son was."

"I just told you: I thought he was staying with Matthew.' '

"You didn't call the police.,"

"Of course not."

Myron was about to ask another follow up question, but her posture made him rethink his words. Linda took advantage of his indecisiveness. She walked to the kitchen with an upright, fluid grace. Myron followed.

Bucky seemed to snap out of a trance and trailed.

"Let me make sure I'm following you," Myron said, approaching fiom a different angle now. "Chad vanished before the tournament'?' '

"Correct," she said. "The Open started Thursday."

Linda Coldren pulled the refrigerator handle. The door opened with a sucking pop. "Why? ls that important?"

"lt eliminates a motive," Myron said.

"What motive?"

"Tampering with the tournament," Myron said. "If Chad had vanished today with your husband holding such a big lead I might think that someone was out to sabotage his chances of winning the Open. But two days ago, before the tournament had begun . . ."

"No one would have given Jack a snowball's chance in hell,' ' she finished for him. "Oddsmakers would have put him at one in five thousand. At best." She nodded as she spoke, seeing the logic. "Would you like some lemonade?" she asked.

"No, thanks."

"Dad'?"

Bucky shook his head. Linda Coldren bent down into the refrigerator.

"Okay," Myron said, clapping his hand together, trying his best to sound casual. "We've ruled out one possibility. Let's try another."

Linda Coldren stopped and watched him. A gallon glass pitcher was gripped in her hand, her forearm bunching easily with the weight. Myron debated how to approach this. There was no easy way.

"Could your son be behind this?" Myron asked.

"What?"

"It's an obvious question," Myron said, "under the circumstances." .

She put the pitcher down on a wooden center block.

' 'What the hell are you talking about? You think Chad faked his own kidnapping?"

"I didn't say that. I said I wanted to check out the possibility. ' '

"Get out."

"He was gone two days, and you didn't call the police,"

Myron said. "One possible conclusion is that there was some sort of tension here. That Chad had run away before."

"Or," Linda Coldren countered, her hands tightening into fists, "you could conclude that we trusted our son.

That we gave him a level of freedom compatible with his level of maturity and responsibility."

Myron looked over at Bucky. Bucky's head was lowered.

"If that's the case "

"That's the case."

"But don't responsible kids tell their parents where they're going? I mean, just to make sure they don't worry."

Linda Coldren took out a glass with too much care.

She set it on the counter and slowly poured herself some lemonade. "Chad has learned to be very independent,"

she said as the glass filled. "His father and I are both professional golfers. That means, quite frankly, that nei-ther one of us is home very often."

"Your being away so much," Myron said. "Has it led to tension?"

Linda Coldren shook her head. "This is useless."

"I'm just trying "

"Look, Mr. Bolitar, Chad did not fake this. Yes, he's a teenager. No, he's not perfect, and neither are his parents.

But he did not fake his own kidnapping. And if he did - I

know he didn't, but let's just pretend for the sake of argument that he did then he is safe and we do not need you.

If this is some kind of cruel deception, we'll learn it soon enough. But if my son is in danger, then following this line of thought is a waste of time I can ill afford."

Myron nodded. She had a point. "I understand," he said.

' 'Good. ' '

, "Have you called his friend since you heard from the kidnapper? The one you thought he might've been staying with'?' '

"Matthew Squires, yes."

"Did Matthew have any idea where he was?"

' 'None. ' '

"They're close friends, right?"

"Yes.' '

"Very close?"

She frowned. "Yes, very."

"Does Matthew call here a lot'?"

"Yes. Or they talk by E-mail."

"I'll need Matthew's phone number,' ' Myron said.

"But I just told you I spoke to him already."

"Humor me," Myron said. "Okay, now let's back up a second. When was the last time you saw Chad'?' '

"The day he disappeared.' '

"What happened?"

She frowned again. ' 'What do you mean, what happened? He left for summer school. I haven't seen him since.' '

Myron studied her. She stopped and looked back at him a little too steadily. Something here was not adding up. "Have you called the school," he asked, "to see if he was there that day?"

"l didn't think of it."

Myron checked his watch. Friday. Five P. M. ' 'I doubt anyone will still be there, but give it a shot. Do you have more than one phone line?' '

' 'Yes.' '

' 'Don't call on the line the kidnapper called in on. I

don't want the line tied up in case he calls back."

She nodded. "Okay."

' 'Does your son have any credit cards or ATM cards or anything like that'?' ' +

' 'Yes."

' 'I'll need a list. And the numbers, if you have them."

She nodded again.

Myron said, "I'm going to call a friend, see if I can get an override Caller ID put in on this line. For when he calls back. I assume Chad has a computer'?"

"Yes," she said.

"Where is it?"

"Up in his room."

"I'm going to download everything on it to my office via his modem. I have an assistant named Esperanza.

She'll comb through it and see what she can find-"

' 'Like what'?"

"Frankly I have no idea. E-mails. Correspondence.

Bulletin boards he participates in. Anything that might give us a clue. It's not a very scientific process. You check out enough stuff and maybe something will click."

Linda thought about it for a moment. ' 'Okay,' ' she said.

' 'How about you, Mrs. Coldren? Do you have any enemies'?"

She sort of smiled. ' 'I'm the number one rated woman golfer in the world," she said. ' 'That gives me a lot of enemies."

' 'Anyone you can imagine doing this'?' '

"No," she said. "No one."

' 'How about your husband? Anybody who hates your husband enough'?' '

' 'Jack'?' ' She forced out a chuckle. "Everyone loves Jack.' '

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She just shook her head and waved him off Myron asked a few more questions, but there was little left for him to excavate. He asked if he could go up to Chad's room and she led him up the stairs.

The first thing Myron saw when he opened Chad's door were the trophies. Lots of them. All golf trophies.

The bronze figure on the top was always a man coiled in postswing position, the golf club over his shoulder, his head held high. Sometimes the little man wore a golf cap.

Other times he had short, wavy hair like Paul Hornning in old football reels. There were two leather golf bags in the right corner, both jammed past capacity with clubs. Photographs of Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Sam Snead, Tom Watson blanketed the walls. Issues of Golf Digest littered the floor.

"Does Chad play golf?" Myron asked.

Linda Coldren just looked at him. Myron met her gaze and nodded sagely.

"My powers of deduction," he said. ' 'They intimidate some people."

She almost smiled. Myron the Alleviator, Master Tension-Easer. "I'll try to still treat you the same," she said.

Myron stepped toward the trophies. "Is he any good?"

"Very good." She turned away suddenly and stood '

with her back to the room. "Do you need anything else?' '

"Not right now."

"I'll be downstairs."

She didn't wait for his blessing.

Myron walked in. He checked the answering machine on Chad's phone. Three messages. Two from a girl named Becky. From the sound of it, she was a pretty good friend.

Just calling to say, like, hi, see if he wanted to, like, do anything this weekend, you know? She and Millie and Suze were going to, like, hang out at the Heritage, okay, and if he wanted to come, well, you know, whatever. Myron smiled. Times they might be a changin', but her words could have come from a girl Myron had gone to high school with or his father or his father's father. Generations cycle in. The music, the movies, the language, the fashion they change. But that's just outside stimuli.

Beneath the baggy pants or the message-cropped hair, the same adolescent fears and needs and feelings of inadequacy remained frighteningly constant.

The last call was from a guy named Glen. He wanted to know if Chad wanted to play golf at "the Pine" this weekend, being that Merion was off-limits because of the Open. "Daddy," Glen's preppy taped voice assured Chad, "can get us a tee time, no prob."

No messages from Chad's close buddy Matthew Squires. .

He snapped on the computer. Windows 95. Cool. Myron used it too. Chad Coldren, Myron immediately saw, used America Online to get his E-mail. Perfect. Myron hit FLASHSESSION. The modem hooked on and screeched for a few seconds. A voice said, "Welcome. You have mail."

Dozens of messages were automatically downloaded. The . same voice said, "Good-bye." Myron checked Chad's E-mail address book and found Matthew Squires's E-mail address. He skimmed the downloaded messages. None were from Matthew.

Interesting.

It was, of course, entirely possible that Matthew and Chad were not as close as Linda Coldren thought. lt was also entirely possible that even if they were, Matthew had not contacted his friend since Wednesday even though his friend had supposedly vanished without waning. It happens.

Still, it was interesting.

Myron picked up Chad's phone and hit the redial button. Four rings later a taped voice came on. "You've reached Matthew. Leave a message or don't. Up to you."

Myron hung up without leaving a message (it was, after all, "up to him"). Hmm. Chad's last call was to Matthew. That could be significant. Or it could have nothing to do with anything. Either way, Myron was quickly getting nowhere.

He picked up Chad's phone and dialed his office. Esperanza answered on the second ring.

"MB SportsReps."

"lt's me." He filled her in. She listened without interrupting.

Esperanza Diaz had worked for MB SportReps since its inception. Ten years ago, when Esperanza was only _

eighteen years old, she was the Queen of Sunday Morning Cable TV. No, she wasn't on any infomercial, though her show ran opposite plenty of them, especially that one with the abdominal exerciser that bore a striking resemblance to a medieval instrument of torture; rather, Esperanza had been a professional wrestler named Little Pocahontas, the Sensual Indian Princess. With her petite, lithe figure bedecked in only a suede bikini, Esperanza had been voted s FLOW's (Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling) most popular wrestler three years running or, as the award was officially known, the Babe You'd Most Like to Get in a Full Nelson. Despite this, Esperanza remained humble.

When he finished telling her about the kidnapping, _

Esperanza's first words were an incredulous, "Win has a mother?"

"Yep."

Pause. "There goes my spawned-from-a-satanic-egg theory."

"Ha+ha." +

"Or my hatched-in-an-experiment-gone-very-wrong theory."

"You're not helping."

"What's to help?" Esperanza replied. "I like Win, you know that. But the boy is what's the official psychiatric term again? cuckoo."

"That cuckoo saved your life once," Myron said.

"Yeah, but you remember how," she countered.

Myron did. A dark alley. Win's doctored bullets.

Brain matter tossed about like parade confetti. Classic Win. Effective but excessive. Like squashing a bug with a wrecking ball.

Esperanza broke the long silence. "Like I said before," she began softly, "cuckoo."

Myron wanted to change the subject. "Any messages?"

"About a million. Nothing that can't wait, though."

Then she asked, "Have you ever met her?"

"Who?"

"Madonna," she snapped.- "Who do you think?

Win's mother."

"Once," Myron said, remembering. More than ten years ago. He and Win had been having dinner at Merion, in fact. Win hadn't spoken to her on that occasion. But she had spoken to him. The memory made Myron cringe anew.

"Have you told Win about this yet?" she asked.

"Nope. Any advice?"

Esperanza thought a moment. ' 'Do it over the phone,' '

she said. "At a very safe distance."

Chapter 3

They got a quick break.

Myron was still sitting in the Coldrens' den with Linda when Esperanza called back. Bucky had gone back to Merion to get Jack.

"The kid's ATM card was accessed yesterday at 6: 18

P. M.," Esperanza said. "He took out $180. A First Phila- (

delphia branch on Porter Street in South Philly."

"Thanks."

Information like that was not difficult to obtain. Any

body with an account number could pretty much do it with a phone by pretending they were the account holder.

Even without one, any semi human who had ever worked in law enforcement had the contacts or the access numbers or at least the wherewithal to pay off the right person.

It didn't take much anymore, not with today's overabundance of user-friendly technology. Technology did more than depersonalize; it ripped your life wide open, gutted you, stripped away any pretense of privacy.

A few keystrokes revealed all.

"What is it?" Linda Coldren asked.

He told her.

"It doesn't necessarily mean what you think," she said. "The kidnapper could have gotten the PIN number from Chad."

"Could have," Myron said.

"But you don't believe it, do you?"

He shrugged. "Let's just say I'm more than a little skeptical."

"Why?"

"The amount, for one thing. What was Chad's max?"

"Five hundred dollars a day."

"So why would a kidnapper only take $l80?"

Linda Coldren thought a moment. "If he took too much, someone might get suspicious."

Myron sort of frowned. "But if the kidnapper was that careful," he began, "why risk so much for $l80?

Everyone knows that ATMs are equipped with security cameras. Everyone also knows that even the simplest computer check can yield a location."

She looked at him evenly. "You don't think my son is in danger."

"I didn't say that, This whole thing may look like one thing and be another. You were right before. It's safest to . assume that the kidnapping is real."

"So what's your next step?"

"I'm not sure. The ATM machine was on Porter Street in South Philadelphia. Is that someplace Chad likes to hang out?"

"No," Linda Coldren said slowly. "In fact, it's a place I would never imagine him going."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's a dive. One of the sleaziest parts of the city."

Myron stood. "You got a street map?"

"In my glove compartment?

"Good. I'll' need to borrow your car for a little while."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to drive around this ATM."

She frowned. "What for?" '

"I don't know," Myron admitted. "Like I said before, investigating is not very scientific. You do some legwork and you push some buttons and you hope something happens."

Linda Coldren reached into a pocket for her keys.

"Maybe the kidnappers grabbed him there," she said.

"Maybe you'll see his car or something."

Myron almost slapped himself in the head. A car. He had forgotten something so basic. In his mind, a kid disappearing on his way to or from school conjured up images of yellow buses or strolling sprightly with a book bag. How could he have missed something as obvious as a car trace?

He asked her the make and model. Gray Honda Accord. Hardly a car that stands out in a crowd. Pennsylvania license plate 567-AHJ. He called it in to Esperanza.

Then he gave Linda Coldren his cellular phone number.

"Call me if anything happens."

"Okay."

"I'll be back soon," he said.

The ride wasn't far. He traveled, it seemed, from green splendor to concrete crap instantaneously like on Star Trek where they step through one of those time portals.

The ATM was a drive-through located in what would l generously be labeled a business district. Tons of cameras. No human tellers. Would a kidnapper really risk , this? Very doubtful. Myron wondered where he could get a copy of the bank's videotape without alerting the police.

Win might know somebody. Financial institutions were usually anxious to cooperate with the Lockwood family.

The question was, would Win be willing to cooperate?

Abandoned warehouses or at least, they looked abandoned lined the road. Eighteen-wheelers hurried by like something out of an old convoy movie. They reminded Myron of the CB craze from his childhood. Like everyone else, his dad had bought one a man born in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn who grew up to own an undergarment factory in Newark, barking "breaker one nine" with an accent he had picked up watching the movie Deliverance. Dad would be driving on Hobart Gap Road between their house and the Livingston Mallmaybe a one-mile drive asking his "good buddies" if there was any sign of "smokeys." Myron smiled at the memory. Ah, CBs. He was sure that his father still had his , someplace. Probably next to the eight-track player.

On one side of the ATM was a gas station so generic that it didn't even bother having a name. Rusted cars stood upon crumbling cinder blocks. On the other side, a dirt-bag, no-tell motel called the Court Manor Inn greeted customers with green lettering that read: $19.99 PER

HOUR.

Myron Bolitar Traveling Tip #83: You may not be dealing with a live star deluxe property when they prominently advertise hourly rates.

Under the price, in smaller black print, the sign read, MIRRORED CEILINGS AND THEME R0OMs SLIGHTLY EXTRA.

Theme rooms. Myron didn't even want to know. The last line, back in the green big print: ASK ABOUT OUR FREQUENT

VISITORS CLUB. Jesus.

Myron wondered if it was worth a shot and decided, why not? It probably wouldn't lead to anything, but if Chad was hiding out or even if he'd been kidnapped a motel was as good a place as any to disappear.

He parked in the lot. The Court Manor was a textbook two level dump. The outer stairs and walkway terraces were made of rotting wood. The cement walls had that unfinished, swirling look that could cut your hand if you leaned against it wrong. Small chunks of concrete lay on the ground. An unplugged Pepsi machine guarded the door like one of the Queen's guards. Myron passed it and entered.

He'd expected to find the standard motel lobby interior that is, an unshaven Neanderthal in a sleeveless, too-short undershirt chewing on a toothpick while sitting behind bullet-proof glass burping up a beer. Or something like that. But that was not the case. The Court Manor Inn had a high wooden desk with a bronze sign reading CONCIERGE on top of it. Myron tried not to snicker. Behind the desk, a well-groomed, baby-faced man in his late twenties stood at attention. He wore a pressed shirt, starched collar, dark tie tied in a perfect Windsor knot. He smiled at Myron.

"Good aftemoon, sir!" he exclaimed. He looked and sounded like a John Tesh substitute on Entertainment Weekly. "Welcome to the Court Manor Inn!"

"Yeah," Myron said. "Hi."

"May I be of some service to you today, sir?"

"I hope so."

' 'Great! My name is Stuart Lipwitz. I'm the new manager of the Court Manor Inn." He looked at Myron expectantly.

Myron said, "Congrats."

"Well, thank you, sir, that's very kind. If there are any problems if anything at the Court Manor does not meet '

your expectations please let me know immediately. I

will handle it personally." Big smile, puifed-out chest.

"At the Court Manor, we guarantee your satisfaction."

Myron just looked at him for a minute, waiting for the ;

full-wattage smile to dim a bit. It didn't. Myron took out the photograph of Chad Coldren.

"Have you seen this young man?"

Stuart Lipwitz did not even look down. Still smiling, he said, "I'm sorry, sir. But are you with the police?" _

"No."

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm very sorry."

"Pardon me?"

"l'm sorry, sir, but here at the Court Manor Inn we pride ourselves on our discretion."

"He's not in any trouble," Myron said. "I'm not a private eye trying to catch a cheating husband or anything like that."

The smile did not falter or sway. "I'm sorry, sir, but this is the Court Manor Inn. Our clientele use our services for a variety of activities and often crave anonymity. We at the Court Manor Inn must respect that."

Myron studied the man's face, searching for some signal that this was a put-on. Nothing. His whole persona glowed like a performer in an Up with People halftime show. Myron leaned over the desk and checked out the shoes. Polished like twin mirrors. The hair was slicked back. The sparkle in the eye looked real.

It took Myron some time, but he finally saw where this was leading. He took out his wallet and plucked a twenty from the billfold. He slid it across the counter. Stuart Lipwitz looked at it but made no move.

"What's this for, sir'?"

"It's a present," Myron said.

Stuart Lipwitz did not touch it.

"It's for one piece of information," Myron continued.

He plucked out another and held it in the air. "I have another, if you'd like."

"Sir, we have a credo here at the Court Manor Inn:

The guest must come first."

"Isn't that a prostitute's credo?"

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Never mind," Myron said.

"I am the new manager of the Court Manor Inn, sir."

"So I've heard."

"I also own ten percent."

"Your mom must be the envy of her mah-jongg group." .

Still the smile. "In other words, sir, I am in it for the long term. That's how I look at this business. Long term.

Not just today. Not just tomorrow. But into the future. For the long term. You see?"

"Oh," Myron said flatly. "You mean long term?"

Stuart Lipwitz snapped his fingers. "Precisely. And our motto is this: There are many places you can spend your adultery dollar. We want it to be here."

Myron waited a moment. Then he said, "Noble."

"We at the Court Manor Inn are working hard to eam your trust, and trust has no price. When I wake up in the morning, I have to look at myself in the mirror."

"Would that mirror be on the ceiling?" `

Still smiling. "Let me explain it another way," he said. "If the client knows that the Court Manor Inn is a place he can feel safe to commit an indiscretion, he or she will be more likely to retum." He leaned forward, his eyes wet with excitement. "Do you see?"

Myron nodded. "Repeat business."

"Precisely."

"Referrals too," Myron added. "Like, 'Hey, Bob, I

l know a great place to get some ass on the side.' "

A nod added to the smile. "So you understand."

"That's all very nice, Stuart, but this kid is fifteen years old. Fifteen." Actually, Chad was sixteen, but what the hey. "That's against the law."

The smile stayed, but now it signaled disappointment in the favorite pupil. "I hate to disagree with you, sir, but the statutory rape law in this state is fourteen. And secondly, there is no law against a fifteen-year-old renting a motel room."

The guy was dancing too much, Myron thought. No reason to go through this rigmarole if the kid had never been here. Then again, let's face facts. Stuart Lipwitz was probably enjoying this. The guy was several french fries short of a Happy Meal. Either way, Myron thought, it was time to shake the tree a bit.

"lt is when he is assaulted in your motel," Myron said. "It is when he claims that someone got an extra key from the front desk and used it to break into the room."

Mr. Bluff Goes to Philadelphia.

"We don't have extra keys," Lipwitz said.

"Well, he got in somehow."

Still the smile. Still the polite tone. "If that were the case, sir, the police would be here."

"That's my next stop," Myron said, "if you don't cooperate."

' 'And you want to know if this young man' ' Lipwitz gestured to the photograph of Chad- "stayed here?"

"Yes."

The smile actually brightened a bit. Myron almost shaded his eyes. "But, sir, if you are telling the truth, then this young man would be able to tell if he was here. You wouldn't need me for that, correct?"

Myron's face remained neutral. Mr. Bluff had just been outsmarted by the new manager of the Court Manor lun. "That's right," he said, changing tactics on the fly.

"I already know he was here. It was just an opening question. Like when the police ask you to state your name even though they already know it. Just to get the ball rolling." Mr. Improvision Takes Over for Mr. Bluff Stuart Lipwitz took out a piece of paper and began to scribble. "This is the name and telephone number of the Court Manor Inn's attomey. He will be able to help you with any problems you may have."

"But what about that handling it personally stuff?

What about the satisfaction guarantee?"

"Sir." He leaned forward, maintaining eye contact.

Not a hint of impatience had crept into his voice or face.

"May I be bold?"

"Go for it."

"I don't believe a word you're saying."

"Thanks for the boldness," Myron said.

"No, thank you, sir. And do come again."

"Another prostitution credo."

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing," Myron said. "May I too be bold?"

"Yes."

"I may punch you in the face very hard if you don't tell me if you've seen this kid." Mr. Improvisation Loses His Cool.

The door swung open hard. A couple entwined about one another stumbled in. The woman was openly rubbing the man's crotch. "We need a room pronto," the man said.

Myron turned to them and said, "Do you have your frequent visitor card?"

"What?" .

Still the smile from Smart Lipwitz. "Good-bye, sir.

And have a nice day." Then he rejuvenated the smile and moved toward the writhing mound. "Welcome to the Court Manor Inn. My name is Smart Lipwitz. I'm the new manager."

Myron headed out to his car. He took a deep breath in the parking lot and looked back behind him. The whole visit already had an unreal feeling, like one of those descriptions of alien abductions sans the anal probe. He got in the car and dialed Win's cellular. He just wanted to leave him a message on the machine. But to Myron's surprise, Win answered.

"Articulate," he drolled.

Myron was momentarily taken aback. "It's me," he said. .

Silence. Win hated the obvious. "It's me," was both questionable grammar (at best) and a complete waste.

Win would know who it was by the voice. If he didn't, hearing "It's me" would undeniably not help.

"I thought you didn't answer the phone on the course," Myron said.

"I'm driving home to change," Win said. "Then I'm dining at Merion." Mainliners never ate; they dined.

"Care to join me?"

"Sounds good," Myron said.

"Wait a second."

"What'?"

"Are you properly attired?"

"I don't clash," Myron said. "Will they still let me in?"

"My, my, that was very funny, Myron. I must write that one down. As soon as I stop laughing, I plan on locating a pen. However, I am so filled with mirth that I

may wrap my precious Jag around an upcoming telephone pole. Alas, at least I will die with jocularity in my heart."

Win.

"We have a case," Myron said.

Silence. Win made this so easy.

"I'll tell you about it at dinner."

"Until then," Win said, "it'll be all I can do to douse my mounting excitement and anticipation with a snifter of cognac."

Click. Gotta love that Win.

Myron hadn't driven a mile when the cellular phone rang. Myron switched it on.

It was Bucky. "The kidnapper called again."

Chapter 4

"What did he say?" Myron asked.

"They want money," Bucky said.

"How much?"

"I don't know."

Myron was confused. "What do you mean, you don't know? Didn't they say?"

"I don't think so," the old man said.

There was noise in the background. "Where are you?" Myron asked.

"I'm at Merion. Look, Jack answered the phone. He's still in shock."

"Jack answered?"

"Yes."

Doubly confused. "The kidnapper called Jack at Merion?"

"Yes. Please, Myron, can you get back over here? It'll be easier to explain."

"On my way."

He drove from the seedy motel to a highway and then into green. Lots of green. The Philadelphia suburbs were lush lawns and high bushes and shady trees. Amazing how close it was at least in a geographic sense to the meaner streets of Philly. Like most cities, there was tremendous segregation in Philadelphia. Myron remembered driving with Win to Veterans Stadium for an Eagles game a couple of years back. They'd gone through an Italian block, a Polish block, an African American block; it was as if some powerful, invisible force field again, like on Scar Trek isolated each ethnicity. The City of Brotherly Love could almost be called Little Yugoslavia.

Myron turned down Ardmore Avenue. Merion was about a mile away. His thoughts turned to Win. How, he wondered, would his old friend react to the maternal connection in this case?

Probably not well.

In all the years they had been friends, Myron had heard Win mention his mother on only one occasion.

It had been during their junior year at Duke. They were college roommates, just back from a wild frat party.

The beer had flowed. Myron was not what you'd call a good drinker. Two drinks and he'd usually end up trying to French-kiss a toaster. He blamed this on his ancestryhis people had never handled spirits well.

Win, on the other hand, seemed to have been weaned on schnapps. Liquor never really affected him much. But at this particular party, the grain alcohol laced punch made even his steps wobble a bit. It took Win three tries to unlock their dorm room door.

Myron quickly collapsed on his bed. The ceiling spun counterclockwise at a seemingly death-defying speed. He closed his eyes. His hands gripped the bed and held on in terror. His face had no color. Nausea clamped down painfully on his stomach. Myron wondered when he would vomit and prayed it would be soon.

Ah, the glamour of college drinking.

For a while neither of them said anything. Myron wondered if Win had fallen asleep. Or maybe Win was gone.

Vanished into the night. Maybe he hadn't held on to his spinning bed tightly enough and the centrifugal force had hurled him out the window and into the great beyond.

Then Win's voice cut through the darkness. "Take a look at this."

A hand reached out and dropped something on Myron's chest. Myron risked letting go of the bed with one hand. So far, so good. He fumbled for whatever it was, found it, lifted it into view. A streetlight from outside campuses are lit up like Christmas trees cast enough illumination to make out a photograph. The color was grainy and faded, but Myron could still make out what looked to be an expensive car.

"Is that a Rolls-Royce?" Myron asked. He knew nothing about cars.

"A Bentley S Three Continental Flying Spur," Win corrected, " 1962. A classic."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

The bed spun silently.

"How did you get it?" Myron asked.

"A man who was fucking my mother gave it to me."

The end. Win had shut down after that. The wall he put up was not only impenetrable but unapproachable, filled with land mines and a moat and lots of high-voltage electric wires. Over the ensuing decade and a half, Win had never again mentioned his mother. Not when the packages came to the dorm room every semester. Not when the packages came to Win's office on his birthday even now. Not even when they saw her in person ten years ago.

The plain dark wood sign merely read MERION GOLF CLUB.

Nothing else. No "For Members Only." No "We're Elitist and We Don't Want You." No "Ethnics Use Service Entrance." No need. It was just a given.

The last U. S. Open threesome had finished a while back and the crowd was mostly gone now. Merion could hold only seventeen thousand for a tournament less than half the capacity of most courses but parking was still a chore. Most spectators were forced to park at nearby Haverford College. Shuttle buses ran constantly.

At the top of the driveway a guard signaled him to stop.

"I'm here to meet Windsor Lockwood," Myron said.

Instant recognition. Instant wave-through.

Bucky ran over to him before he had the car in park.

The rounded face was more jowly now, as if he were packing wet sand in his cheeks.

"Where is Jack?" Myron asked.

"The western course."

"'The what?"

"Merion has two courses," the older man explained, stretching his neck again. "The east, which is the more famous one, and the west. During the Open, the western course is used as a driving range."

"And your son-in-law is there?"

'Yes."

"Driving balls?"

"Of course." Bucky looked at him, surprised. "You always do that after a round. Every golfer on the tour kows that. You played basketball. Didn't you used to practice your shot after a game?"

"No."

"Well, as I told you earlier, golf is very special. Players need to review their play immediately after a round.

Even if they've played well. They focus in on their good strokes, see if they can figure out what went wrong with the bad strokes. They recap the day."

"Uh-huh," Myron said. "So tell me about the kidnapper's call."

"I'll take you to Jack," he said. "This way."

They walked across the eighteen fairway and then down sixteen. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and pollen. It'd been a big year for pollen on the East Coast;

nearby allergists swooned with greedy delight.

Bucky shook his head. "Look at these roughs," he said. "Impossible."

He pointed to long grass. Myron had no idea what he was talking about so he nodded and kept walking.

"Damn USGA wants this course to bring the golfers to their knees," Bucky ranted on. "So they grow the rough way out. Like playing in a rice paddy, for chrissake. Then they cut the greens so close, the golfers might as well be putting on a hockey rink."

Myron remained silent. They two men kept walking.

+

"This is one of the famed stone-quarry holes,' ' Bucky said, calmer now.

"Uh-huh." The man was babbling. People do that when they're nervous.

"When the original builders reached sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen," Bucky continued, sounding not unlike a tour guide in the Sistine Chapel, "they ran across a stone quarry. Rather than giving up then and there, they plowed ahead, incorporating the quarry into the hole."

"Gosh," Myron said softly, "they were so brave back then."

Some babble when nervous. Some grow sarcastic.

They reached the tee and made a right, walking along Golf House Road. Though the last group had finished playing more than an hour ago, there were still at least a dozen golfers hitting balls. The driving range. Yes, professional golfers hit balls here practicing with a wide array of woods and irons and big clubs, nay, warheads, they called Bertha and Cathy and the like but that was only part of what went on. Most touring pros used the range to work out strategies with their caddies, check on equipment with their sponsors, network, socialize with fellow golfers, smoke a cigarette (a surprising amount of pros chain-smoke), even talk to agents.

ln golf circles, the driving range was called the office.

Myron recognized Greg Norman and Nick Faldo. He also spotted Tad Crispin, the new kid on the block, the next Jack Nicklaus in a phrase, the dream client.

The kid was twenty-three, good looking, quiet, engaged m an equally attractive, happy-just to-be here woman. He also did not yet have an agent. Myron tried not to salivate.

Hey, he was as human as the next guy. He was, after all, a sports agent. Cut him some slack.

"Where is Jack?" Myron asked.

"Down this way," Bucky said. "He wanted to hit alone."

"How did the kidnapper reach him?"

"He called the Merion switchboard and said it was an emergency?

' 'And that worked?"

"Yes," Bucky said slowly. "Actually, it was Chad on the phone. He identified himself as Jack's son."

Curious. "What time did the call come in?"

"Maybe ten minutes before I called you." Bucky stopped, gestured with his chin. "There."

Jack Coldren was a touch pudgy and soft in the middle, but he had forearms like Popeye's. His flyaway hair did just that in the breeze, revealing bald spots that had , started off the day better covered. He whacked the ball with a wood club and an uncommon fury. To some this might all seem very strange. You have just learned your son is missing and you go out and hit golf balls. But Myron understood. Hitting balls was comfort food. The more stress Myron was under, the more he wanted to go in his driveway and shoot baskets. We all have something.

Some drink. Some do drugs. Some like to take a long drive or play a computer game. When Win needed to unwind, he often watched videotapes of his own sexual exploits. But that was Win.

"Who's that with him'?" Myron asked.

"Diane Hoffman," Bucky said. "Jack's caddie."

Myron knew that female caddies were not uncommon on the men's pro tour. Some players even hired their wives. Saves money. "Does she know what's going on?"

"Yes. Diane was there when the call came in. They're pretty close."

"Have you told Linda?" .

Bucky nodded. "I called her right away. Do you mind introducing yourself? l'd like to go back to the house and check up on her."

"No problem."

"How will I reach you if something comes up'?"

"Call my cellular."

Bucky nearly gasped. "Cellular phones are forbidden at Merion." Like it was a papal command.

"I walk on the wild side," Myron said. "Just call."

Myron approached them. Diane Hoffman stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her arms folded, her face intent on Coldren's backswing. A cigarette dangled from her lips almost vertically. She didn't even glance at Myron. Jack Coldren coiled his body and then let go, snap+

ping like a released spring. The ball rocketed over the distant hills.

Jack Coldren turned, looked at Myron, smiled tightly, nodded a hello. "You're Myron Bolitar, right?"

"Right."

He shook Myron's hand. Diane Hoffman continued to study her player's every move, frowning as if she'd spotted a flaw in his hand-shaking technique. "l appreciate your helping us out," he said.

Face-to-face now no more than a few feet away

Myron could see the devastation on the man's face. The jubilant glow after nailing the putt on eighteen had been muffed out by something more pasty and sickly. His eyes had the surprised, uncomprehending look of a man who'd just been sucker punched in the stomach.

"You tried making a comeback recently," Jack said.

"With New Jersey."

Myron nodded.

"I saw you on the news. Gutsy move, after all these years."

Stalling. Not sure how to begin. Myron decided to help. "Tell me about the call."

Jack Coldren's eyes swerved over the expanse of green. "Are you sure it's safe?" he asked. "The guy on the phone told me no police. To just act norrnal."

"l'm an agent seeking clients," Myron said. "Talking to me is about as normal as it gets."

Coldren thought about that for a moment then nodded.

He still hadn't introduced Diane Hoffman. Hoffman didn't seem to mind. She remained about ten feet away, rock-still. Her eyes remained narrow and suspicious, her face weathered and pinched. The cigarette ash was incredibly long now, almost defying gravity. She wore a cap and one of those caddie vests that looked like a jogger's night reilector.

"The club president came up to me and whispered that there was an emergency call from my son. So I went inside the clubhouse and picked it up."

He stopped suddenly and blinked several times. His breathing became heavier. He was wearing a tad-tootight, yellow V-necked golf shirt. You could see his body expand against the cotton blend with each inhale. Myron waited.

"It was Chad," he finally spat out. "All he could say 'was 'Dad,' before someone grabbed the phone away from him. Then a man with a deep voice came on the line."

"How deep'?" Myron asked.

"Pardon?"

"How deep was the voice?"

"Very." +

"Did it sound funny to you? A little robotic?"

"Now that you mention it, yes, it did."

Electronic altering, Myron guessed. Those machines could make Barry White sound like a four-year-old girl.

Or vice versa. They weren't hard to get. Even Radio Shack sold them now. The kidnapper or kidnappers could be any sex. Linda and Jack Coldren's description of a "male voice" was irrelevant. "What did he say'?"

"That he had my son. He told me that if I called the police or anybody like that, Chad would pay. He told me that someone would be watching me all the time." Jack Coldren accentuated the point by looking around again.

No one suspicious lurked about, though Greg Norman waved and gave them a smiling thumbs-up. G'day, mate.

"What else?" Myron asked.

"He said he wanted money," Coldren said.

"How much?" `

"He just said a lot. He wasn't sure yet how much, but he wanted me to get it ready. He said he'd call back."

Myron made a face. "But he didn't tell you how much?"

"No. Just that it would be a lot."

"And that you should get it ready."

"Right."

This made no sense. A kidnapper who wasn't sure how much ransom to extort? "May I be blunt, Jack?"

Coldren stood a little taller, tucked in his shirt. He was what some would call boyishly and disarmingly handsome. His face was big and unthreatening with cottony, malleable features. "Don't sugarcoat anything for me,"

he said. "I want the truth."

"Could this be a hoax?"

Jack shot a quick glance at Diane Hoffman. She mowed slightly. Might have been a nod. He turned back to Myron. "What do you mean?"

"Could Chad be behind this?"

The longer flyaway hairs got caught up in a crossbreeze and fell down into his eyes. He pushed them away with his fingers. Something came across his face. Rumination, maybe? Unlike Linda Coldren, the idea had not snapped him into a defensive stance. He was pondering the possibility, or perhaps merely grasping at an option thatmeant safety for his son.

"There were two different voices," Coldren said.

"On the phone." _

"It could be a voice changer." Myron explained what that was.

More rumination. Coldren's face scrunched up. "I

really don't know."

"Is it something you can imagine Chad doing?"

"No," Coldren replied. "But who can imagine anyone's kid doing something like this? I'm trying to remain objective here, hard as that is. Do I think my boy could do something like this? Of course not. But then again, I woudn't be the first parent to be wrong about my kid;

now, would I?"

Fair enough, Myron thought. "Has Chad ever run away?"

"No."

"Any trouble in the family? Anything that might make him want to do something like this?"

"Something like fake his own kidnapping?"

"It doesn't have to be that extreme," Myron said.

"Maybe something you or your wife did that got him upset."

"No," he said, his voice suddenly faraway. "I can't think of anything." He looked up. The sun was low and not very strong anymore, but he still sort of squinted up at Myron, the side of his hand resting on his forehead in an eye-shading salute. The posture reminded Myron of the photograph of Chad he'd seen at the house.

Jack said, "You have a thought, Myron, don't you?"

"Barely."

"I'd still like to hear it," Coldren said.

"How badly do you want to win this tournament, Jack?"

Coldren gave a half-smile. "You were an athlete, Myron. You know how badly." .

"Yes," Myron said, "l do."

"So what's your point?"

"Your son is an athlete. He probably knows too."

"Yes," Coldren said. Then: "I'm still waiting for the point."

"lf someone wanted to hurt you," Myron said, "what better way than to mess up your chance of winning the Open?"

Jack Coldren's eyes had that sucker punched look again. He took a step back.

"I'm only theorizing," Myron added quickly. "I'm not saying your son is doing that .... "

"But you need to explore every avenue," Jack Coldren finished for him.

"Yes."

Coldren recovered, but it took him a little time. ' 'Even if what you're saying is true, it doesn't have to be Chad.

Someone else could have done this to get at me." Again he glanced over at his caddie. Still looking at her, he said, "Wouldn't be the first time."

"What do you mean?"

Jack Coldren didn't answer right away. He turned away from both of them and squinted out toward where he had been hitting balls. There was nothing to see. His back was to Myron. "You probably know I lost the Open '

a long time ago."

"Yes."

He didn't elaborate.

"Did something happen back then?" Myron asked.

"Maybe," Jack Coldren said slowly. "I don't know anymore. The point is, someone else might be out to get me. It doesn't have to be my son."

"Maybe," Myron agreed. He didn't go into the fact that he'd pretty much dismissed this possibility because Chad had vanished before Coldren had his lead. No reason to go into it now.

Coldren turned back to Myron. "Bucky mentioned + something about an ATM card," he said.

"Your son's ATM card was accessed last night. At Porter Street."

Something crossed his face. Not for long. Not for more than a second. A flash and then it was gone. "On Porter Street?" he repeated.

"Yep. A First Philadelphia Bank on Porter Street in South Philadelphia."

Silence.

"Are you familiar with that part of town?"

"No," Coldren said. He looked over at his caddie.

+Diane Hoflinan remained the statue. Arms still folded.

Feet still shoulder-width apart. Ash finally gone.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am."

"I visited there today," Myron said.

His face remained steady. "Did you learn anything?"

"No."

Silence.

Jack Coldren gestured behind him. "You mind if I

take a few more swings while we talk?"

"Not at all."

He put on his glove. "Do you think I should play tomorrow?"

"That's up to you," Myron said. "The kidnapper said to act normal. Your not playing would certainly draw suspicion."

Coldren bent down to put a ball on the tee. "Can I ask you something, Myron?"

"Sure."

"When you played basketball, how important was winning to you?"

Odd question. "Very."

Jack nodded like he'd been expecting that. "You won the NCAA championship one year, right'?"

"Yes."

Coldren shook his head. "Must have been something, Myron did not reply.

Jack Coldren picked up a club and flexed his fingers around the grip. He lined up next to the ball. Again the smooth coil-and-release movement. Myron watched the ball sail away. For a moment no one spoke. They just looked off into the distance and watched the final streaks of sim color the sky purple.

When Coldren finally spoke, his voice was thick.

"You want to hear something wierd?

Myron moved closer to him. Coldren's eyes were wet.

"I still care about winning this thing," Coldren said.

He looked at Myron. The pain on his face was so naked, Myron almost reached out and hugged him. He imagined that he could see the reflection of the man's past in his eyes, the years of torment, of thinking of what might have been, of finally having the chance at redemption, of having that chance suddenly snatched away.

"What kind of man still thinks about winning at a time like this?" Coldren asked.

Myron didn't say anything. He didn't know the answer. Or maybe he feared that he did.

Chapter 5

Merion's clubhouse was an expanded white farmhouse with black shutters. The only splash of color came from the green awnings shading the famed back porch and even that was muted by the surrounding green of the golf course. You expected something more awe-inspiring or intimidating at one of the country's most exclusive clubs, and yet the simplicity seemed to say, "We're Merion. We don't need more."

Myron walked past the pro shop. Golf bags were lined up on a metal stand. The men's locker room door was on his right. A bronze sign read that Merion had been designated a historic landmark. A bulletin board listed members' handicaps. Myron skimmed the names for Win's.

Three handicap. Myron didn't know much about golfing, but he knew that was pretty damn good.

The outside porch had a stone floor and about two dozen tables. The legendary dining area did more than overlook the first tee it actually seemed perched right over it. From here, members watched golfers tee off with the practiced glares of Roman senators at the Colossemn.

Powerful businessmen and community leaders often crumbled under such century-old scrutiny. Even professionals were not immune the porch's dining facility was kept open during the Open. Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer and Ben Hogan and Bobby Jones and Sam Snead had all been subjected to the small restaurant-noises, the grating tinkling of glass and silverware blending most Disharmoniously with golf`s hushed crowds and distant cheers.

The porch was packed with members. Most were men elderly and red-faced and well fed. They wore blue or green blazers with different crests on them. Their ties were loud and usually striped. Many had floppy white or yellow hats on their heads. Floppy hats. And Win had been worried about Myron's "attire."

Myron spotted Win at a comer table with six chairs.

He sat alone. His expression was both glacial and serene, his body completely at ease. A mountain lion patiently waiting for prey. One would think that the blond hair and patrician good looks would be life assets for Win. In many ways, they were; in many more ways, they branded him. His entire appearance reeked of arrogance, old money, and elitism. Most people did not respond well to that. A specific, seething hostility frothed and boiled over when people looked at Win. To look at such a person was to hate him. Win was used to it. People who judged purely on looks did not concem him. People who judged purely on looks were oft surprised.

Myron greeted his old friend and sat down.

"Would you care for a drink?" Win said.

"Sure." .

"lf you ask for a Yoo-Hoo," Win said, "I'll shoot you in the right eye."

"Right eye," Myron repeated with a nod. "Very specific."

A waiter who must have been a hundred years old materialized. He wore a green jacket and pants green, Myron surmised, so that even the help would blend into the famed milieu. Didn't work, though. The old waiter looked like the Riddler's grandfather. "Henry," Win said "I'll have an iced tea."

Myron was tempted to ask for a "Colt 45, like Billy Dee," but decided against it. "I'll have the same."

"Very good, Mr. Lockwood." .

Henry left. Win looked over at Myron. "So tell me."

"It's a kidnapping," Myron said.

Win arched an eyebrow.

"One of the players' sons is missing. The parents have gotten two calls." Myron quickly told him about them.

Win listened in silence.

When Myron finished, Win said, "You left something out."

"What'?"

"The name of the player."

Myron kept his voice steady. "Jack Coldren."

Win's face betrayed nothing, but Myron still felt a cold gust blow across his heart.

Win said, "And you've met Linda."

"Yes."

"And you know that she is related to me."

"Yes."

"Then you must have realized that I will not help."

"No."

Win sat back, steepled his fingers. "Then you realize it now."

"A boy might be in real danger," Myron said. "We have to help."

"No," Win said. "I do not."

"You want me to drop it?"

"What you do is your affair," Win said.

"Do you want me to drop it?" Myron repeated.

The iced teas came. Win took a gentle sip. He looked off and tapped his chin with his index finger. His signal to end the topic. Myron knew better than to push it.

"So who are the other seats for?" Myron asked.

"I am mining a major lead."

"A new client?"

"For me, almost definitely. For you, a barely remote possibility."

"Who?"

"Tad Crispin."

Myron's chin dropped. "We're having dinner with Tad Crispin?"

"As well as our old friend Norman Zuckerman and his latest rather attractive ingenue."

Norm Zuckerman was the owner of Zoom, one of the hugest sneaker and sporting apparel companies in the country. He was also one of Myron's favorite people.

"How did you get to Crispin? I heard he was agenting himself."

"He is," Win said, "but he still wants a financial adviser." Barely in his mid-thirties, Win was already something of a Wall Street legend. Reaching out to Win made sense. "Crispin is quite a shrewd young man, actually." he went on. "Unfortunately, he believes that all agents are thieves. That they have the morals of a prostitute practicing politics."

"He said that? A prostitute practicing politics?"

"No, I came up with that one myself" Win smiled.

"Pretty good, no?"

Myron nodded. "No." _

"Anyway, the Zoom folks here are tailing him like a lapdog. They're introducing a whole new line of men's clubs and clothing on the back of young Mr. Crispin."

Tad Crispin was in second place, a goodly distance behind Jack Coldren. Myron wondered how happy Zoom was about Coldren possibly stealing their thunder. Not very. he supposed.

"So what do you make of Jack Coldren's good showing?" Myron asked. "You surprised?"

Win shrugged. "Winning was always very important to Jack."

"Have you known him long?"

Flat eyes. "Yes."

"Did you know him when he lost here as a rookie?"

"Yes."

Myron calculated the years. Win would have been in elementary school. "Jack Coldren hinted that he thought someone tried to sabotage his chances back then."

Win made a noise. "Guff"," he said.

"Guff?"

"You don't recall what happened?"

"No."

"Coldren claims his caddie gave him the wrong club on sixteen," Win said. "He asked for a six iron and supposedly his caddie handed him an eight. His shot landed short. More specifically, in one of the rock quarry bunkers. He never recovered. ' '

"Did the caddie admit the error?"

"He never commented, as far as I know."

"What did Jack do?"

"He fired him."

Myron chewed on that tidbit. "Where is the caddie now?"

"I do not have the slightest idea," Win said. "He wasn't a young man at the time and this was more than twenty years ago."

"Do you remember his name?"

"No. And this conversation is officially terminated?

Before Myron could ask why, a pair of hands covered his eyes. "Guess who'?" came a familiar sing-song. "I'll give you a couple of hints: I'm smart, good-looking, and loaded with talent."

"Gee," Myron said, "before that hint, I would have thought you were Norm Zuckerman?

"And with the hint?"

Myron shrugged. "If you add 'adored by women of all ages I'd think it was me."

Norman Zuckerman laughed heartily. He bent down md gave Myron a big, loud smack on the cheek. "How are you, meshuggener?"

"Good, Norm. You?"

"I'm cooler than Superfly in a new Coupe de Ville."

Zuckerman greeted Win with a loud hello and an enthusiastic handshake. Diners stared in distaste. The stares did not quiet Norman Zuckerman. An elephant gun could not quiet Norman Zuckerman. Myron liked the man.

Sure, a lot of it was an act. But it was a genuine act.

Norm's zest for everything around him was contagious.

He was pure energy; the kind of person who made you examine yourself and left you feeling just a little wanting.

Norm brought forward a young woman who'd been standing behind him. "Let me introduce you to Esme Fong," he said. "She's one of my marketing vee-pees. In charge of the new golf line. Brilliant. The woman is absolutely brilliant."

The attractive ingenue. Early-to-mid twenties, Myron guessed. Esme Fong was Asian with perhaps a hint of Caucasian. She was petite with almond eyes. Her hair was long and silky, a black fan with an earthy auburn tinge.

She wore a beige business suit and white stockings. Esme nodded a hello and stepped closer. She wore the serious face of an attractive young woman who was afraid of not being taken seriously because she was an attractive young woman.

She stuck out her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr.

Bolitar," she said crisply. "Mr. Lockwood."

"Doesn't she have a firm handshake?" Zuckerman asked. Then turning to her: "What's with all the misters?

This is Myron and Win. They're practically family, for crying out loud. Okay, Win's a little goyish to be in my family. I mean, his people came over on the Mayflower, while most of mine fled a czar pogrom in a cargo ship.

But we're still family, right, Win'?"

"As rain," Win said.

"Sit down already, Esme. You're making me nervous with all the seriousness. Try a smile, okay?" Zuckerman demonstrated, pointing at his teeth. Then he turned to Myron, spread his hands. "The truth, Myron. How do I look?"

Norman was over sixty. His customary loud clothing, matching the man's personality, hardly stood out after what Myron had seen today. His skin was dark and rough;

his eyes dropped inside black circles; his features jutted out in classical Semitism; his beard and hair were too long and somewhat unkempt.

"You look like Jerry Rubin at the Chicago Seven trial," Myron said.

"Just the look I wanted," Norm said. "Retro. Hip.

Attitude. That's what's in nowadays."

"Hardly Tad Crispin's look," Myron said.

"I'm talking about the real world, not golf. Golfers don't know from hip or attitude. Hasidim are more open to change than golfers, you know what I'm saying? I'll give you an example: Dennis Rodman is not a golfer. You know what golfers want? The same thing they've wanted since the dawn of sports marketing: Arnold Palmer.

That's what they want. They wanted Palmer, then Nicklaus, then Watson always good ol' boys." He pointed a thumb at Esme Fong. "Esme is the one who signed Crispin. He's her boy."

Myron looked at her. "Quite a coup," he said.

"Thank you," she said.

"We'll see how big a coup it is," Zuckerman said.

"Zoom is moving into golf in a very big way. Huge.

Humongous. Gigantic."

"Enormous," Myron said.

"Mammoth," Win added.

' 'Colossal. ' '

"Titantic."

` ' Bunnyanesque. ' '

Win smiled. "Brobdingnagian," he said. +

"Oooo," Myron said. "Good one."

Zuckerman shook his head. "You guys are funnier than the Three Stooges without Curly. Anyway, it's a helluva campaign. Esme is running it for me. Male and female lines. Not only have we got Crispin, but Esme's landed the numero uno female golfer in the world."

"Linda Coldren?" Myron asked.

"Whoa!" Norm clapped his hands once. "The Hebrew hoopster knows his golf. By the way, Myron, what kind of name is Bolitar for a member of the tribe?"

"It's a long story," Myron said.

"Good, I wasn't interested anyway. I was just being polite. Where was I?" Zuckerman threw one leg over the other, leaned back, smiled, looked about. A ruddy-faced man at a neighboring table glared. "Hi, there," Norm said with a little wave. "Looking good."

The man made a huffing noise and looked away.

Norm shrugged. "You'd think he never saw a Jew before."

"He probably hasn't," Win said.

Norm looked back over at the ruddy-faced man.

"Look!" Zuckerman said, pointing to his head. "No horns!"

Even Win smiled.

Zuckerman tumed his attention back to Myron. "So tell me, you trying to sign Crispin?"

"I haven't even met him yet," Myron said.

Zuckerman put his hand to his chest, feigning surprise. "Well then, Myron, this is some eerie coincidence.

You being here when we're about to break bread with him what are the odds? Wait." Norm stopped, put his hand to his ear. "I think I hear Twilight Zone music."

"Ha-ha," Myron said.

"Oh, relax, Myron. I'm teasing you. Lighten up, for crying out loud. But let me be honest for a second, okay?

I don't think Cripsin needs you, Myron. Nothing personal, but the kid signed the deal with me himself No agent. No lawyer. Handled it all on his own."

"And got robbed," Win added.

Zuckerman put a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Win."

"Crispin told me the numbers," Win said. "Myron would have gotten him a far better deal."

"With all due respect to your centuries of upper-crust inbreeding, you don't know what the hell you're talking about. The kid left a little money in the till for me, that's all. Is that a crime nowadays for a man to make a profit?

Myron's a shark, for crying out loud. He rips off my clothes when we talk. He leaves my office, I don't even have undies left. I don't even have furniture. I don't even have an office. I start out with this beautiful office and Myron comes in and I end up naked in some soup kitchen someplace.' ' `

Myron looked at Win. "Touching."

"He's breaking my heart," Win said.

Myron turned his attention to Esme Fong. "Are you happy with how Crispin's been playing?"

"Of course," she said quickly. "This is his first major, and he's in second place."

Norm Zuckerman put a hand on her arm. "Save the spinning for those morons in the media. These two guys are family."

Esme Fong shifted in her seat. She cleared her throat.

"Linda Coldren won the U. S. Open a few weeks ago,"

she said. "We're running dual television, radio, and print ads they'll both be in every spot. It's a new line, completely unknown to golf enthusiasts. Naturally, if we could introduce Zoom's new line with two U. S. Open winners, it would be helpful."

Norm pointed his thumb again. "Ain't she something? Helpful. Nice word. Vague. Look, Myron, you read the sports section, am I right?"

"As rain."

"How many articles did you see on Crispin before the tournament began?"

"A lot."

"How much coverage has he gotten in the past two days'?" I

"Not much."

"Try none. All anybody is talking about is Jack Coldren. In two days that poor son of a bitch is either going to be a miracle man of messianic proportions or the most pitiful loser in the history of the world. Think about it for a second. A man's entire life both his past and his future will be shaped by a few swings of a stick. Nuts, when you think about it. And you know what the worst part is?"

Myron shook his head.

"I hope like hell he messes up! I feel like a major son of a bitch, but that's the truth. My guy comes back and wins, you wait and see the way Esme spins it. The brilliant play of newcomer Tad Crispin forces a veteran to crack. The new kid stares down the pressure like Palmer and Nicklaus combined. You know what it'll mean to the launch of the new line?" Zuckerman looked over at Win and pointed. "God, I wish I looked like you. Look at him, for crying out loud. He's beautifiul."

Win, in spite of himself laughed. Several ruddy-faced men turned and stared. Norman waved at them, friendlylike. "Next time I come," Norm said to Win, "I'm wearing a yarmulke."

Win laughed harder. Myron tried to remember the last time he'd seen his friend laugh so openly. It'd been a while. Norm had that effect on people.

Esme Fong glanced at her watch and rose. "I only stopped by to say hello,' ' she explained. "I really must be going."

All three men stood. Norm bussed her cheek. "Take care, Esme, okay? I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Norm." She gave Myron and Win demure smiles accompanied by a shy lowering of the head. "Nice meeting you, Myron. Win."

She left. The three men sat. Win steepled his fingers.

"How old is she?" Win asked.

"Twenty-five. Phi Beta Kappa from Yale."

' 'Impressive. ' '

Norm said, "Don't even think it, Win."

Win shook his head. He wouldn't. She was in the business. Harder to disentangle. When it came to the opposite sex, Win liked quick and absolute closure.

"I stole her from those sons of bitches at Nike,"

Norm said. "She was a bigwig in their basketball department. Don't get me wrong. She was making a ton of dough, but she smartened up. Hey, it's like I told her:

There's more to life than money. You know what I'm saying?"

Myron refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Anyway, she works like a dog. Always checking and rechecking. In fact, she's on her way to Linda Coldren's right now. They're going to have a late-night tea party or something girly girl. ' '

Myron and Win exchanged a glance. "She's going to Linda Coldren's house?"

"Yeah, why?"

"When did she call her'?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was this appointment made a long time ago'?"

"What, now, I look like a receptionist?"

"Forget it." .

' ' Forgotten. ' '

"Excuse me a second," Myron said. "Do you mind if I go make a call?" '

"AmI your mother?" Zuckerman made a shooing motion. "Go already."

Myron debated using his cellular phone but decided not to piss oif the Merion gods. He found a phone booth in the men's locker room foyer and dialed the Coldrens'

house. He used Chad's line. Linda Coldren answered.

"Hello?"

"Just checking in," Myron said. "Anything new?"

"No," Linda said.

"Are you aware that Esme Fong is coming over?"

"I didn't want to cancel," Linda Coldren explained.

"I didn't want to do anything that would draw attention."

"You'll be okay, then?"

"Yes," she said.

Myron watched Tad Crispin walk by in the direction of Win's table. "Were you able to reach the school?"

"No; nobody was there," she said. "So what do we do next?'

"l don't know," Myron said. "I have the override Caller ID on your phone. If he calls again, we should be able to get the number."

"What else?"

"I'll try to speak to Matthew Squires. See what he can for me."

"I already spoke to Matthew," Linda said impatiently. "He doesn't know anything. What else?"

"I could get the police involved. Discreetly. There's not much else I can do on my own."

"No," she said firmly. "No police. Jack and I are both adamant on that point."

"I have friends in the FBI "

"No."

He thought about his conversation with Win. "When Jack lost at Merion, who was his caddie?"

She hesitated. "Why would you want to know that?"

"I understand Jack blamed his caddie for the loss."

"In part, yes."

"And that he fired him."

"So?"

"So I asked about enemies. How did the caddie feel about what happened?"

"You're talking about something that happened over twenty years ago," Linda Coldren said. "Even if he did harbor a deep hatred for Jack, why would he wait so long?"

"This is the first time the Open has been at Merion since then. Maybe that's reawakened dormant anger. I

don't know. Chances are there's nothing to this, but it might be worth checking out." '

He could hear talking on the other end of the line.

Jack's voice. She asked Myron to hold on a moment.

A few moments later, Jack Coldren came on the line.

Without preamble, he said, "You think there's a connection between what happened to me twenty-three years ago and Chad's disappearance?"

"I don't know," Myron said.

His tone was insistent. "But you think "

"I don't know what I think," he interrupted. "I'm just checking out every angle."

There was a stony silence. Then: "His name was Lloyd Rennart," Jack Coldren said.

"Do you know where he lives?"

"No. I haven't seen him since the day the Open ended."

"The day you fired him."

"Yes."

"You never bumped into him again? At the club or a tournament or something?" +

"No," Jack Coldren said slowly. "Never."

"Where did Rermart live back then?"

"In Wayne. It's the neighboring town."

"How old would he be now?"

' ' Sixty eight. ' ' No hesitation.

"Before this happened, were you two close?"

Jack Coldren's voice, when he finally spoke, was very soft. "I thought so," he said. "Not on a personal level.

We didn't socialize. I never met his family or visited his home or anything like that. But on the golf course" he paused "I thought we were very close."

Silence.

"Why would he do it?" Myron asked. "Why would he purposely ruin your chances of winning?"

Myron could hear him breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and scratchy. "I've wanted to know the answer to that for twenty-three years."

Chapter 6

Myron called in Lloyd Rennart's name to Esperanza.

It probably wouldn't take much. Again modern technology would simplify the feat. Anyone with a modem could type in the address www.switchboard.com -a Web site that was virtually a telephone directory of the entire country.

If that site didn't work, there were others. It probably wouldn't take long, if Lloyd Rennart was still among the living. If not, well, there were sites for that too.

"Did you tell Win?" Esperanza asked.

"Yes."

"How did he react?"

"He won't help."

"Not surprising," she said.

"No," he agreed.

Esperanza said, "You don't work well alone, Myron."

"I'll be fine," he said. "You looking forward to graduation?"

Esperanza had been going to NYU Law School at night for the past six years. She graduated on Monday.

"I probably won't go."

"Why not?"

"I'm not big on ceremony," she Esperanza's only close relative, her mother, had died a few months back. Myron suspected that her death had more to do with Esperanza's decision than not being big on ceremony.

"Well, I'm going," Myron said. "Sitting front row center. I want to see it all."

Silence. +

Esperanza broke it. "Is this the part where I choke back tears because someone cares?"

Myron shook his head. "Forget I said anything."

' 'No, really, I want to get it right. Should I break down in loud sobs or just smile a little? Or better yet, I could get a little teary, like Michael Landon on Little House on the Prairie." .

"You're such a wiseass."

"Only when you're being patronizing."

"I'm not being patronizing. I care. Sue me."

"Whatever," she said.

"Any messages?"

"About a million, but nothing that I can't handle until Monday," she said. "Oh, one thing."

"What?"

"The bitch asked me out to lunch."

"The bitch" was Jessica, the love of Myron's life.

Putting it kindly, Esperanza did not like Jessica. Many assumed that this had something to do with jealousy, with some sort of latent attraction between Esperanza and Myron.

Nope. For one thing, Esperanza liked, er, flexibility in her love life. For a while she had dated a guy named Max, then a woman named Lucy, and now another woman named Hester. "How many times have- I asked you not to call her that?" Myron said.

"About a million."

"So are you going?"

"Probably," she said. "I mean, it's a free meal. Even if I do have to look at her face."

They hung up. Myron smiled. He was a bit surprised. _+

While Jessica did not reciprocate Esperanza's animosity, a lunch date to thaw out their personal cold war was not something Myron would have anticipated. Perhaps now that they were living together, Jess figured it was time to offer an olive branch. What the hell. Myron dialed Jessica.

The machine picked up. He heard her voice. When the beep came on, he said, "Jess? Pick up."

She did. "God, I wish you were here right now."

Jessica had a way with openings.

"Oh?" He could see her lying on the couch, the phone cord twisted in her fingers. "Why's that?"

"I'm about to take a ten-minute break."

"A full ten minutes?"

"Yup."

"Then you'd be expecting extended foreplay?"

She laughed. "Up for it, big guy?"

"I will be," he said, "if you don't stop talking about it."

"Maybe we should change the subject," she said.

Myron had moved into Jessica's Soho loft a few months ago. For most people, this would be a somewhat dramatic change moving from a suburb in New Jersey to a trendy section of New York, moving in with a woman you love, etc. but for Myron, the change rivaled puberty. He had spent his entire life living with his mom and dad in the classic suburban town of Livingston, New Jersey. Entire life. Age zero to six in the upstairs bedroom on the right. Age six to thirteen in the upstairs bedroom on the left. Age thirteen to thirty-something in the basement.

After that long, the apron strings become steel bands.

"I hear you're taking Esperanza out for lunch," he said.

"Yup."

"How come?"

"No reason."

"No reason?"

"I think she's cool. I want to go to lunch. Stop being so noisy."

"You realize, of course, that she hates you."

"I can handle it," Jessica said. "So how's the golf tournament?"

"Very strange," he said.

"How so?"

"Too long a story to tell now, sweetcakes. Can I call you later'?"

"Sure." Then: "Did you say 'sweetcakes' ?"

When they hung up, Myron frowned. Something was amiss. He and Jessica had never been closer,their relationship never stronger. Moving in together had been the right move, and a lot of their past demons had been exorcised away of late. They were loving toward each other, considerate of each other's feelings and needs, and almost never fought.

So why did Myron feel like they were standing on the cusp of some deep abyss?

He shook it off. All of this was just the by-product of an overstimulated imagination. Just because a ship is sailing upon smooth waters, he surmised, does not mean it is heading for an iceberg.

Wow, that was deep.

By the time he got back to the table, Tad Crispin was sipping an iced tea too. Win made the introductions. Crispin was dressed in yellows, lots of yellows, kind of like the man with the yellow hat from the Curious George books.

Everything was yellow. Even his golf shoes. Myron tried not to make a face.

As if reading his mind, Norm Zuckerman said, "This isn't our line."

"Good to hear," Myron said. '

Tad Crispin stood. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Myron offered up a great big smile. "It's a true honor to meet you, Tad." His voice reeked with the sincerity of, say, a chain-store appliance salesman. The two men shook hands. Myron kept on smiling. Crispin began to look wary.

Zuckerman pointed a thumb at Myron and leaned toward Win. "Is he always this smooth?"

Win nodded. "You should see him with the ladies."

Everyone sat.

"I can't stay long," Crispin said.

"We understand, Tad," Zuckerman said, doing the shooing thing again with both hands. "You're tired, you need to concentrate on tomorrow. Go already, get some sleep."

Crispin sort of smiled a little and looked at Win. "I

want you to have my account," he said.

"I don't 'have' accounts," Win corrected. "I advise on them."

"'There's a difference?"

"Most definitely," Win said. "You are in control of your money at all times. I will make recommendations. I

will make them to you directly. No one else. We will discuss them. You will then make a final decision. I will not buy or sell or trade anything without you being fully aware of what is going on."