Back Spin

'Chapter 15 .

The Crusty Nazi was still there.

He sat at a comer table by himself downing a burger of some sort like it had personally offended him. The girls were right. Skunk was the only word to describe him, even though Myron didn't know what the word meant or if it even existed. The punk's face was aiming for tough-guyunshaven, but a lack of testosterone made it land far closer to upkempt adolescent-Hasid. He wore a black baseball cap with a skull and crossbones decal. His ripped white T-shirt was rolled all the way up to reveal milky, reedy arms, one with a swastika tattoo. Myron shook his head. Swastika. The kid was too old to be so utterly clueless.

The Crusty Nazi took another vicious bite, clearly furious with his burger now. The mall girls were there, pointing toward Crusty like Myron might not know which guy they'd been talking about. Myron signaled them to stop with a shushing finger at his lips. They obeyed, overcompensating by engaging in a too-loud, too-casual conversation, sliding furtive-to-the-point-of-totally-obvious glances in his direction. Myron looked away.

The Crusty Nazi finished his burger and stood. Good timing. As advertised, Crusty was very skinny. The girls were right the boy had no ass. None at all. Myron couldn't tell if the kid was going for that too-big-jeans look or if it was because he lacked a true backside, but every few steps, Crusty paused to hitch up the pants. Myron suspected a bit of both.

He followed him outside into the blazing sun. Hot.

Damn hot. Myron felt almost a nostalgic longing for the omnipresent mall air-conditioning. Crusty strutted coollike into the lot. Going to his car, no doubt. Myron veered to the right so as to get ready to follow. He slid into his Ford Taurus (read: Chick Trawler) and started up the engine.

He slowly cruised the lot and spotted Crusty heading way out to the last row of cars. Only two vehicles were parked out there. One was a silver Cadillac Seville. The other was a pickup truck with those semi-monster wheels, a Confederate flag decal, and the words BAD TO THE BONE

painted on the side. Using his years of investigative knowhow, Myron deduced that the pickup truck was probably Crusty's vehicle. Sure enough, Crusty opened the door and hopped up and in. Amazing. Sometimes Myron's powers of deduction bordered on the psychic. Maybe he should get a 900 line like Jackie Stallone.

Tailing the pickup truck was hardly a challenge. The vehicle stuck out like a golfer's clothing in a monastery, and El Crust-ola wasn't heavy on the gas pedal. They drove for about half an hour. Myron had no idea where they were going, but up ahead he recognized Veterans Stadium. He'd gone with Win to several Eagles games there. Win always had seats on the fifty yard line, lower tier. Being an old stadium, the "luxury" skyboxes at the Vet were too high up; Win did not care for them. So he chose instead to sit with the masses. Big of him.

About three blocks before the stadium, Crusty pulled down a side road. He threw his pickup into park and got out running. Myron once again debated calling Win for backup, but it was pointless. Win was at Merion. His phone would be off. He wondered again about last night and about Esperanza's accusations this morning. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was, at least partially, responsible for what Win did. But that wasn't the point. He knew that now. The truth, the one that scared Esperanza too, was far clearer: Maybe Myron didn't care so much.

You read the papers and you watch the news and you see what Myron has seen and your humanity, your basic faith in human beings, begins to look frighteningly Pollyanna. That was what was really eating away at him not that he was repulsed by what Win did, but that it really didn't bother him that much.

Win had an eerie way of seeing the world in black and white; lately, Myron had found his own gray areas blackening.

He didn't like that. He did not like the change that experience seeing the cruelty man inflicts on man was forcing upon him. He tried to hold on to his old values, but the rope was getting awfully slick. And why was he holding on, anyway? `Was it because he truly believed in these values, or because he liked himself more as a person who believed?

He didn't know anymore.

He should have brought a gim. Stupid. Still he was only following some grunge-ball. Of course, even a grunge-ball could fire a gun and kill him. But what choice did he have? Should he call the police? Well, that would appear a bit extreme based on what he had. Come back later with a firearm of some sort? By that time, Crusty could be gone along with Chad Coldren maybe.

Nope, he had to follow. He'd just be careful.

Myron was not sure what to do. He stopped the car at the end of the block and got out. The street was crowded with low-rise brick dwellings that all looked the same. At one time, this might have been a nice area, but now the neighborhood looked like a man who'd lost his job and stopped bathing. There was an overgrown, faded quality to it, like a garden that no one bothered to tend anymore.

Crusty turned down an alleyway. Myron followed.

Lots of plastic garbage bags. Lots of rusted tire escapes.

Four legs stuck out of a refrigerator box. Myron heard snoring. At the end of the alley, Crusty turned right. Myron trailed slowly. Crusty had gone into what looked like an abandoned building through a fire door. There was no knob or anything, but the door was slightly ajar. Myron reached in with his lingers and pried it open.

As soon as he crossed the musty threshold, Myron heard a primal scream. Crusty. Right in front of him.

Something swung toward Myron's face. Fast reflexes paid off. Myron managed to duck enough so that the iron bar only clipped his shoulder blade. A quick Hash of pain bolted down his arm. Myron dropped to the ground. He rolled across the cement floor and stood back up.

There were three of them now. All armed with crowbars or tire irons. All with shaved heads and tattooed swastikas. They were like sequels to the same awful movie. The Crusty Nazi was the original. Beneath the Planet of Crusty Nazi the one on his left was smiling with idiotic glee. The one on his right Escape from the Planet of Crusty Nazi looked a bit more frightened. The weak link, Myron thought.

"Changing a tire'?" Myron asked.

The Crusty Nazi slapped the tire iron against his palm for emphasis. "Gonna flatten yours."

Myron raised his hand in front of him with the palm facing down. He shook it back and forth and said, "Eh."

"Why the fuck you following me, asshole?"

"Me?" _

"Yeah, you. Why the fuck you following me?"

"Who says l'm following you?"

There was momentary confusion on Crusty's face.

Then: "You think I'm flicking stupid or something?"

"No, I think you're Mr. Mensa."

"Mister what?"

Beneath the Planet of Crusty Nazi said, "He's just fucking with you, man."

"Yeah," Escape chimed in. "Fucking with you."

Crusty's wet eyes bulged out. "Yeah? Is that what you're doing, asshole? You fucking with me, huh? Is that what you're doing? Fucking with me?"

Myron looked at him. "Can we move on please?"

Beneath said, "Let's fuck him up a little. Soften his ass up."

Myron knew that three of them were probably not experienced fighters, but he also knew that three armed men beat one good man on almost any given day. They were also a bit too jittery, their eyes as glazed as morning doughnuts. They were constantly sniffing and rubbing their noses.

Two words: Coked up. Or Nose Candy. Or Toot Sweet. Take your pick.

Myron's best chance was to confuse and strike. Risky.

You wanted to piss them off, to upset their already-tipsy equilibrium. But at the same time, you wanted to control it, to know when to back off a bit. A delicate balance requiring Myron Bolitar, darling of the high wire, to perform high above the crowd without the benefit of a safety net.

Once again Crusty asked, "Why the fuck you following me, asshole?"

"Maybe I'm just attracted to you," Myron said.

"Even if you don't have an ass."

Beneath started cackling. "Oh man, oh man, let's fuck him up. Let's fuck him up good."

Myron tried to give them the tough guy look. Some mistook this for constipation, but he was getting better at it. Practice. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Oh no?" It was Crusty. "Give me one good reason why we don't just fiick you up. Give me one good reason why I don't break every fucking rib in your body with this." He raised the tire iron. In case Myron thought he was being too subtle.

+ ' 'You asked before if I thought you were stupid,' ' Myron said.

"Yeah, so?"

"So do you think I'm stupid? Do you think somebody who meant you harm would be dumb enough to follow you in here knowing what was about to go down?"

That made all three of them pause.

"I followed you," Myron continued, "as a test."

"What the fuck you talking about?"

"I work for certain people. We won't mention names." Mostly, Myron thought, because he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "Let's just say they are in a business you guys frequent."

"Frequent?" More nose rubbing. Toot, sweet, toot, _

sweet. '

"Frequent," Myron repeated. "As in occurring or appearing quite often or at close intervals. Frequent."

"What?"

Jesus. "My employer," Myron said, "he needs someone to handle certain territory. Somebody new. Somebody who wants to make ten percent on sales and get all the free blow they can."

Eyes went buggy.

Beneath turned to Crusty. "You hear that, man?"

"Yeah, I hear him."

"Shit, we don't get no commission from Eddie," Beneath went on. "The fucker is so small-time." He gestured at Myron with the tire iron. "This guy, man, look how fucking old he is. He's gotta be working for somebody with juice."

"Got to be," Escape added.

The Crusty One hesitated, squinted suspicion. "How did you find out about us?"

Myron shrugged. "Word gets around." Shovel, shovel.

"So you was just following me for some kinda fucking test?"

"Right"

"Just came to the mall and decided to follow me?"

"Something like that."

Crusty smiled. He looked at Escape and at Beneath.

His grip on the tire iron tightened. Uh-oh. "Then how the fuck come you were asking about me last night, huh?

How come you want to know about a call I made?"

Uh-oh.

Crusty stepped closer, eyes aglow.

Myron raised his hand. "The answer is simple." They all hesitated. Myron took advantage. His foot moved like a piston, shooting out and landing squarely on the knee of the unprepared Escape. Escape fell. Myron was already running.

"Get the fucker!"

They chased, but Myron had already slammed his shoulder into the fire door. The "macho bullshit" part of him, as his friend at the Court Manor Inn had described it, wanted to try to take them on, but he knew that would be foolhardy. They were armed. He wasn't.

By the time Myron reached the end of the alley, his lead was only about ten yards. He wondered if he'd have enough time to open his car door and get in. No choice.

He'd have to try.

He grabbed the handle and swung the door open. He was sliding in when a tire iron whacked his shoulder.

Pain erupted. He kept rolling, closing the door. A hand grabbed it, offered resistance. Myron used his weight and leaned into the pull.

His window exploded.

Glass tinkled down into his face. Myron kicked his heel through the open window and hit face. The grip on the door released. He already had the key out and in the ignition. He tumed it as the other car window exploded.

Crusty leaned into the car, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Motherfucker, you're gonna die!"

The tire iron was heading toward his face again. Myron blocked it. From behind him, he felt a sharp blow connect with his lower neck. Numbness ensued. Myron shifted into reverse and flew out of the spot, tires squealing.

Crusty tried to leap into the car through the broken window. Myron elbowed him in the nose and Crusty's grip eased. He fell hard to the pavement, but then he jumped right back up. That was the problem with fighting cokeheads. Pain often does not register.

All three men ran for the pickup, but Myron already had too big a lead. The battle was over. For now. _

Chapter 16

Myron called in the pickup truck's license plate number, but that was a dead end. The plate had expired four years ago. Crusty must have taken it off a car in a dump or something. Not uncommon. Even petty crooks knew enough not to use their real plates when committing a traceable crime.

He circled back and checked the inside of the building for clues. Bent syringes and broken vials and empty bags of Doritos lay scattered about the cement. There was also an empty garbage can. Myron shook his head. Bad enough being a drug dealer. But a litterbug?

He looked around a bit more. The building was abandoned and half burned out. There was no one inside. And no clues.

Okay, so what did this all mean? Were the three cokeheads the kidnappers? Myron had a hard time picturing it. Cokeheads break into houses. Cokeheads jump people in alleyways. Cokeheads attack with tire irons.

Cokeheads, by and large, do not plan elaborate kidnappings.

But on the other hand, how elaborate was this kidnapping?

The first two times the kidnapper called, he didn't even know how much money to extort. Wasn't that a little `

odd? Could it be that all this was merely the work of some out-of-their league crusty cokeheads?

Myron got into his car and headed toward Win's house. Win had plenty of vehicles. He'd switch for a car without smashed windows. The residual damage to his body seemed to be clearing up. A bruise or two but nothing broken. None of the blows had landed plush, except the ones to his car windows.

He ran several possibilities through his head and eventually managed to come up with a pretty decent scenario.

Let's say that for some reason Chad Coldren decided to check into the Court Manor Inn. Maybe to spend some time with a girl. Maybe to buy some drugs. Maybe because he enjoyed the friendly service. Whatever. As per the bank surveillance camera, Chad grabbed some dough at a local ATM. Then he checked in for the night. Or the hour. Or whatever.

Once at the Court Manor Inn, something went awry.

Stu Lipwitz's denials notwithstanding, the Court Manor is a sleazy joint patronized by sleazy people. It wouldn't be hard to get in trouble there. Maybe Chad Coldren tried to buy drugs from Crusty. Maybe he witnessed a crime.

Maybe the kid just talked too much and some nasty people realized that he came from money. Whatever. The life orbits of Chad Coldren and the Crusty Nazi's crew dovetailed. The end result was a kidnapping.

It kinda fit.

The key word here: kinda.

On the road toward Merion, Myron helped deflate his own scenario with several well-placed puncture holes.

First of all, the timing. Myron had been convinced that the kidnapping had something to do with Jack's return to playing the U. S. Open at Merion. But in his Crusty-orbit scenario, the nagging timing question had to be written off as mere coincidence. Okay, maybe Myron could live with that. But then how, for example, had the Crusty Nazi stationed at a mall pay phone known that Esme Fong was in the Coldren house? How did the man who climbed out the window and disappeared on Green Acres Road a person Myron had been sure was either Matthew Squires or Chad Coldren fit into all this? Was the well-shielded Matthew Squires in cahoots with the Crusties? Or was it just a coincidence that the window man disappeared down Green Acres Road?

The scenario balloon was going ssssss in a very big way.

By the time Myron got to Merion, Jack Coldren was on the fourteenth hole. His partner for today's round was none other than Tad Crispin. No surprise there. First place and second place were normally the final twosome of the day.

Jack was still playing well, though not spectacularly.

He'd lost only one stroke off his lead, remaining a very comfortable eight strokes ahead of Tad Crispin. Myron trudged toward the fourteenth green. Green that word again. Everything was so dang green. The grass and trees, naturally, but also tents, overhangs, scoreboards, the many television towers and scaffolds everything was lush green to blend in with the picturesque natural surroundings, except, of course, for the sponsors' boards, which drew the eye with all the subtlety of Vegas hotel signs. But hey, the sponsors paid Myron's salary. Be kinda hypocritical to complain. "Myron, sweetheart, get your wiggly ass over here."

Norm Zuckerman beckoned Myron forward with a big wave. Esme Fong stood next to him. "Over here," he said.

"Hey, Norm," Myron said. "Hi, Esme."

"Hi, Myron," Esme said. She was dressed a bit more casual today, but she still clutched at her briefcase like it was a favorite stuffed animal.

Norm threw his arm around Myron's back, draping the hand over the sore shoulder. "Myron, tell me the truth here. The absolute truth. I want the truth, okay?"

"The truth?" .

' 'Very funny. Just tell me this. Nothing more, just this.

Am I not a fair man? The truth, now. Am I a fair man?"

"Fair," Myron said.

"Very fair, am I right? I am a very fair man."

"Let's not push it, Norm."

Norm put up both hands, palms out. "Fine, be that way. I'm fair. Good enough, I'll take it." He looked over toward Esme Fong. "Keep in mind, Myron is my adversary.

My worst enemy. We're always on opposite sides.

Yet he is willing to admit that I'm a fair man. We straight on that?"

Esme rolled her eyes. "Yes, Norm, but you're preaching to the converted. I already told you that I agreed with you on this "

"Whoa," Norm said, as though reining in a frisky pony. "Just hold the phone a sec, because I want Myron's opinion too. Myron, here's the deal. I bought a golf bag.

Just one. I wanted to test it out. Cost me fifteen grand for the year."

Buying a golf bag meant pretty much what it said.

Norm Zuckerman had bought the rights to advertise on a golf bag. In other words, he put a Zoom logo on it. Most of the golf bags were bought by the big golf companiesPing, Titleist, Golden Bear, that kind of thing. But more and more often, companies that had nothing to do with golf advertised on the bags. McDonald's, for example.

Spring-Air mattresses. Even Pennzoil oil. Pemizoil. Like someone goes to a golf tournament, sees the Pennzoil logo, and buys a can of oil.

"So?" Myron said.

"So, look at it!" Norm pointed at a caddie. "I mean, just look at it!" .

"Okay, I'm looking."

"Tell me, Myron, do you see a Zoom logo?"

The caddie held the golf bag. Like on every golf bag, there were towels draped over the top in order to clean off the clubs.

Norm Zuckerman spoke in a first-grade teacher singsong. "You can answer orally, Myron, by uttering the syllable 'no.' Or if that's too taxing on your limited vocabulary, you can merely shake your head from side to side like this." Norm demonstrated.

"It's under the towel," Myron said.

Norm dramatically put his hand to his ear. "Pardon?"

"The logo is under the towel."

"No shit it's under the towel!" Norm railed. Spectators turned and glared at the crazy man with the long hair and heavy beard. "What good does that do me, huh?

When I film an advertisement for TV, what good would it do me if they stick a towel in front of the camera? When I

pay all those schmucks a zillion dollars to wear my sneakers, what good would it do me if they wrapped their feet in towels? If every billboard I had was covered with a great big towel "

"I get the picture, Norm."

"Good. I'm not paying fifteen grand for some idiot caddie to cover my logo. So I go over to the idiot caddie and I kindly tell him to move the towel away from my logo and the son of a bitch gives me this look. This look, Myron. Like I'm some brown stain he couldn't rinse out of the toilet. Like I'm this little ghetto Jew who's gonna take his goy crap."

Myron looked over at Esme. Esme smiled and shrugged. .

"Nice talking to you, Norm," Myron said.

"What? You don't think I'm right?"

"I see your point."

"So if it was your client, what would you do?"

"Make sure the caddie kept the logo in plain view."

"Exactamundo." He swung his arm back around Myron's shoulder and lowered his head conspiratorially. "So what's going on with you and golf; Myron?" he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not a golfer. You don't have any golf clients.

All of a sudden I see you with my very own eyes closing in on Tad Crispin and now I hear you're hanging out with the Coldrens."

"Who told you that?"

"Word gets around. I'm a 'man with tremendous sources. So what's the deal? Why the sudden interest in golf?"

"I'm a sports agent, Norm. I try to represent athletes.

Golfers are athletes. Sort of"

"Okay, but what's up with the Coldrens?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look, Jack and Linda are lovely people. Connected, if you know what I mean."

"I don't know what you mean."

"LBA represents Linda Coldren. Nobody leaves LBA.

You know that. 'I`hey're too big. Jack, well, Jack hasn't done anything in so long, he hasn't even bothered with an agent. So what I'm trying to figure out is, why are the Coldrens suddenly hot to trot with you?"

"Why do you want to figure that out?"

Norm put his hand on his chest. "Why?"

"Yeah, why would you care?"

"Why?" Norm repeated, incredulous now. "I'll tell you why. Because of you, Myron. I love you, you know that. We're brothers. Tribe members. I want nothing but the best for you. Hand to God, I mean that. You ever need a recommendation, I'll give it to you, you know that."

"Uh-huh." Myron was less than convinced. "So what's the problem?"

Norm threw up both hands. "Who said there's a problem? Did I say there was a problem? Did I even use the word problem? I'm just curious, that's all. It's part of my nature. I'm a curious guy. A modem-day yenta. I ask a lot of questions. I stick my nose in where it doesn't belong.

It's part of my makeup."

"Uh-huh," Myron said again. He looked over at Esme Fong, who was now comfortably out of earshot. She shrugged at him. Working for Norm Zuckerman probably meant you did a lot of slnugging. But that was part of Norm's technique, his own version of good-cop, bad-cop.

He came across as erratic, if not totally irrational, while his assistant always young, bright, attractive was the calming influence you grabbed on to like a life preserver.

Norm elbowed him and nodded toward Esme. "She's a looker, huh? Especially for a broad from Yale. You ever see what that school matriculates? No wonder they're known as the BuIldogs."

"You're so progressive, Norm."

"Ah, screw progressive. I'm an old man, Myron. I'm allowed to be insensitive. On an old man, insensitive is cute. A cute curmudgeon, that's what they call it. By the way, I think Esme is only half."

"Half?"

"Chinese," Norm said. "Or Japanese. Or whatever. I

think she's half white too. What do you think?"

"Good-bye, Norm."

"Fine, be that way. See if I care. So tell me, Myron, how did you hook up with the Coldrens? Win introduce you?"

"Good-bye, Norm."

Myron walked off a bit, stopping for a moment to watch a golfer hit a drive. He tried to follow the ball's route. No go. He lost sight of it almost immediately. This shouldn't be a surprise really it is, after all, a tiny white sphere traveling at a rate of over one hundred miles per hour for a distance of several hundred yards except that Myron was the only person in attendance who couldn't achieve this ophthalmic feat of hawklike proportions.

Golfers. Most of them can't read an exit sign on an interstate, but they can follow the trajectory of a golf ball through several solar systems.

No question about it. Golf is a weird sport.

The course was packed with silent fans, though fans didn't exactly feel like the right word to Myron. Parishicners was a hell of a lot closer. There was a constant reverie on a golf course, a hushed, wide-eyed respect.

Every time the ball was hit, the crowd release was nearly orgasmic. People cried sweet bliss and urged the ball with the ardor of Price Is Right contestants: Run! Sit! Bite!

Grab! Grow teeth! Roll! Hurry! Get down! Get up!

almost like an aggressive mambo instructor. They lamented over a snap hook and a wicked slice and a babied putt and goofy greens and soft greens and waxed greens and the rub of the green and the pursuit of a snowman and being stymied and when the ball traveled off the fairway and on the fringe and in the rough and deep lies and rough lies and bad lies and good lies. They showed admiration when a player got all of that one or ripped a drive or banged it home and gave dirty looks when someone loudly suggested that a certain tee shot made a certain player "da man." They accused a putter who did not reach the hole of hitting the ball "with your purse, Alice."

Players were constantly playing shots that were ' 'unplayable. ' '

Myron shook his head. All sports have their own lexicons, but speaking golfese was tantamount to mastering Swahili. It was like rich people's rap.

But on a day like today the sun shining, the blue sky unblemished, the summer air smelling like a lover's hair Myron felt closer to the chalice of golf He could imagine the course tree of spectators, the peace and tranquillity, the same aura that drew Buddhist monks to mountaintop retreats, the double cut grass so rich and green that God Himself would want to run barefoot. This did not mean Myron got it he was still a nonbeliever of heretic proportions- but for a brief moment he could at least envision what it was about this game that ensnared and swallowed so many whole.

When he reached the fourteenth green, Jack Coldren was lining up for a fifteen-foot putt. Diane Hoflinan took the pin out of the hole. At almost every course in the world, the "pin" had a Hag on the top. But that would just not do at Merion. Instead, the pole was topped with a wicker basket. No one seemed to know why. Win came up with this story about how the old Scots who invented golf used to carry their lunch in baskets on sticks, which could then double as hole markers, but Myron smelled the pungent odor of lore in Win's rationale rather than fact.

Either way, Merion's members made a big fuss over these wicker baskets on the end of a big stick. Golfers.

Myron tried to move in closer to Jack Coldren, looking for Win's "eye of the tiger." Despite his protestations, Myron knew very well what Win had meant the previous night, the intangibles that separated raw talent from on-field greatness. Desire. Heart. Perseverance. Win spoke about these things as though they were evil. They were not. Quite the opposite, in fact. Win, of all people, should know better. To paraphrase and completely abuse a famous political quote: Extremism in the pursuit of excellence is no vice.

Jack Coldren's expression was smooth and unworried and distant. Only one explanation for that: the zone. Jack had managed to squeeze his way into the hallowed zone, that tranquil room in which no crowd or big payday or famous course or next hole or knee-bending pressure or hostile opponent or successful wife or kidnapped son may reside. Jack's zone was a small place, comprising only his club, a small dimpled ball, and a hole. All else faded away now like the dream sequence in a movie.

This, Myron knew, was Jack Coldren stripped to his purest state. He was a golfer. A man who wanted to win.

Needed to. Myron understood. He had been there his zone consisting of a large orange ball and a metallic cylinder and a part of him would always be embeshed in that world. It was a fine place to be in many ways, the best place to be. Win was wrong. Winning was not a worthless goal. It was noble. Jack had taken life's hits. He had striven and battled. He had been battered and bloodied.

Yet here he stood, head high, on the road to redemption.

How many people are awarded this opportunity?

How many people truly get the chance to feel this vibrant, to reside for even a short time on such a plateau, to have their hearts and dreams stirred with such unquenchable inner passion?

Jack Coldren stroked the putt. Myron found himself watching the ball slowly arc toward the hole, lost in that vicarious rush that so fiercely drew spectators to sports.

He held his breath and felt something like a tear well up in his eye when the ball dropped in. A birdie. Diane Hoffman made a iist and pumped it. The lead was back up to nine strokes.

Jack looked up at the applauding galley. He acknowledged them with a tip of his hat, but he saw nothing. Still in the zone. Fighting to stay there. For a moment, his eyes locked on Myron's. Myron nodded back, not wanting to nudge him back to reality. Stay in that zone, Myron thought. In that zone, a man can win a tournament. In that zone, a son does not purposely sabotage a father's lifelong dream.

Myron walked past the many portable toilets they'd been provided by a company with the semiaccurate name Royal Flush and headed toward Corporate Row. Golf matches had an unprecedented hierarchy for ticket holders.

True, at most sporting arenas there was a grading of one sort or another some had better seats, obviously, while some had access to skyboxes or even courtside seats. But in those cases, you handed a ticket to an usher or ticket collector and took your place. In golf, you displayed your entrance pass all day. The general-admission folk (read: serfs) usually had a sticker plastered on their shirt, not unlike, say, a scarlet letter. Others wore a plastic card that dangled from a metal chain wrapped around their neck. Sponsors (read: feudal lords) wore either red, silver, or gold cards, depending on how much money they spent. There were also different passes for players' family and friends, Merion club members, Merion club officers, even steady sports agents. And the different cards gave you different access to different places. For example, you had to have a colored card to enter Corporate Row. Or you needed a gold card if you wanted to enter one of those exclusive tents the ones strategically perched on hills like generals' quarters in an old war movie.

Corporate Row was merely a row of tents, each sponsored by one enormous company or another. The theoretical intention of spending at least one hundred grand for a four-day tent rental was to impress corporate clients and gain exposure. The truth, however, was that the tents were a way for the corporate bigwigs to go to the toumament for free. Yes, a few important clients were invited, but Myron also noticed that the company's major officers always managed to show too. And the hundred grand rental fee was just a start. lt didn't include the food, the drinks, the employees not to mention the first-class flights, the deluxe hotel suites, the stretch limos, et cetera, for the bigwigs and their guests.

Boys and girls, can you say, "Chu-ching goes the cash register"? I thought you could.

Myron gave his name to the pretty young woman at the Lock-Horne tent. Win was not there yet, but Esperanza was sitting at a table in the corner.

"You look like shit," Esperanza said.

"Maybe. But at least I feel awful."

"So what happened?"

"Three crackheads adorned with Nazi memorabilia and crowbars jumped me."

She arched an eyebrow. "Only three?"

The woman was constant chuckles. He told her about his run-in and narrow escape. When he was finished, Esperanza shook her head and said, "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

"Don't get all dewy-eyed on me. I'll be fine."

"I found Lloyd Rermart's wife. She's an artist of some kind, lives on the Jersey shore."

."Any word on Lloyd Rermart's body'?" +

Esperanza shook her head. "I checked the NVI and Treemaker Web sites. No death certificate has been issued."

Myron looked at her. "You're kidding."

"Nope. But it might not be on the Web yet. The other ffices are closed until Monday. And even if one hasn't been issued, it might not mean anything."

"Why not?" he asked.

"A body is supposed to be missing for a certain amount of time before the person can be declared dead,"

Esperanza explained. "I don't know five years or something. But what often happens is that the next of kin files a motion in order to settle insurance claims and the estate.

But Lloyd Rennart committed suicide."

"So there'd be no insurance," Myron said.

"Right. And assuming everything was held jointly between Rennart and his wife, then there would be no need for her to press it."

Myron nodded. It made sense. Still it was yet another nagging hangnail that needed to be clipped. "You want something to drink?" he asked.

She shook her head. `

"I'll be right back." Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo. Win had made sure the Lock-Home tent stocked them. What a pal. A television monitor in the upper. corner had a scoreboard. Jack had just iinished the fifteenth hole. Both he and Crispin had parred it. Barring a sudden collapse, Jack was going to take a huge lead into tomorrow's' final round.

When Myron got settled again, Esperanza said, "I

want to talk to you about something."

"Shoot." +

"It's about my graduating law school."

"Okay," Myron said, dragging out the word.

"You've been avoiding the subject," she said.

"What are you talking about? I'm the one who wants to go to your graduation, remember?"

"That's not what I mean." Her fingers found and began to fiddle with a straw wrapper. "I'm talking about what happens after I graduate. I'm going to be a fullfledged attorney soon. My role in the company should change."

Myron nodded. "Agreed."

"For one thing, I'd like an office."

"We don't have the space."

"The conference room is too large," she countered.

"You can slice a little out of there and a little out of the waiting room. It won't be a huge office, but it'll be good enough}'

Myron nodded slowly. "We can look into that."

"It's important to me, Myron."

"Okay, it sounds possible."

"Second, I don't want a raise."

"Don't?"

"That's right." +

"Odd negotiating technique, Esperanza, but you convinced me. Much as I might like to give you a raise, you will not receive one penny more. I surrender."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Joking around when I'm serious. You don't like change, Myron. I know that. It's why you lived with your parents until a few months ago. It's why you still keep Jessica around when you should have forgotten about her years ago."

"Do me a favor," he said wearily. "Spare me the amateur analysis, okay?"

"Just stating the facts. You don't like change."

"Who does? And I love Jessica. You know that."

"Fine, you `love her," Esperanza said dismissively.

"You're right, I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Good. Are we done?"

"No." Esperanza stopped playing with the straw wrapper. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. "'l`his isn't easy for me to talk about," she said.

"Do you want to do it another time?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, I don't want to do it another time. I want you to listen to me. Really listen."

Myron stayed silent, leaned forward a little.

"The reason I don't want a raise is because I don't want to work for someone. My father worked his whole life doing menial jobs for a variety of assholes. My mother spent hers cleaning other people's houses." Esperanza stopped, swallowed, took a breath. "I don't want to do that. I don't want to spend my life working for anyone."

"Including me?"

"I said anyone, didn't I?" She shook her head.

"Jesus, you just don't listen sometimes."

Myron opened his mouth, closed it. "Then I don't see where you're going with this."

"I want to be a part owner," she said.

He made a face. "Of MB SportsReps?"

"No, of AT&T. Of course MB."

"But the name is MB," Myron said "The M is for Myron. B for Bolitar. Your name is Esperanza Diaz. I

can't make it MBED. What kind of name is that?"

She just looked at him. "You're doing it again; I'm trying to have a serious conversation."

' 'Now? You pick now when I just got hit over the head '

with a tire iron "

' ' Shoulder. ' '

"Whatever. Look, you know how much you mean to me "

"This isn't about our friendship," she interrupted. "I

don't care what I mean to you right now. I care about what I mean to MB SportsReps."

"You mean a lot to MB. A hell of a lot." He stopped.

"But'?"

"But nothing. You just caught me a little off balance, that's all. I was just jumped by a group of neo-Nazis. That does funny things to the psyche of people of my persuasion.

I'm also trying to solve a possible kidnapping. I

know things have to change. I planned on giving you more to do, letting you handle more negotiations, hiring someone new. But a partnership . . . that's a different kettle of gefilte."

Her voice was unyielding. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I'd like to think about it, okay? How do you plan on becoming a partner? What percentage do you I

want'? Do you want to buy in or work your way in or what'? These are things we'll have to go over, and I don't think now is the time."

'Fine." She stood up. "I'm going to hang around the players' lounge. See if I can strike up a conversation with one of the wives."

"Good idea."

"I'll see you later." She tumed to leave.

"Esperanza?"

She looked at him.

"You're not mad, right'?"

"Not mad," she repeated.

"We'll work something out," he said.

She nodded. "Right."

"Don't forget. We're meeting with Tad Crispin an hour after they finish. By the pro shop."

"You want me there?"

"Yes."

She shrugged. "Okay." Then she left.

Myron leaned back and watched her go. Great. Just what he needed. His best friend in the world as a business partner. It never worked. Money screwed up relationships;

it was simply one of life's givens. His father and his uncle two closer brothers you never saw had tried it. The outcome had been disastrous. Dad finally bought Uncle Morris out, but the two men didn't speak to each other for four years. Myron and Win had labored painstakingly to keep their businesses separate while maintaining the same interests and goals. It worked because there was no crossinterference or money to divide up. With Esperanza things had been great, but that was because the relationship had always been boss and employee. Their roles were well defined. But at the same time, he understood. Esperanza deserved this chance. She had earned it. She was more than an important employee to MB. She was a part of it.

So what to do?

He sat back and chugged the Yoo-Hoo, waiting for an idea. Fortunately, his thoughts were waylaid when someone tapped his shoulder.

Chapter l7

"Hello."

Myron turned around. It was Linda Coldren. Her head was wrapped in a semi-babushka and she wore dark sunglasses.

Greta Garbo circa 1984. She opened her purse.

"I forwarded the home phone here," she whispered, pointing to a cellular phone in the purse. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Please do," Myron said.

She sat facing him. The sunglasses were big, but Myron could still see a hint of redness around the rims of her eyes. Her nose, too, looked like it had been rubbed raw by a Kleenex overdose. "Anything new?" she asked.

He told her about the Crusty Nazis jumping him.

Linda asked several follow-up questions. Again the internal paradox tore at her: she wanted her son to be safe, yet she did not want it all to be a hoax. Myron finished by saying, "I still think we should get in touch with the feds.

I can do it quietly."

She shook her head. "Too risky."

"So is going on like this."

Linda Coldren shook her head again and leaned back.

For several moments they sat in silence. Her gaze was cast somewhere over his shoulder. Then she said, "When Chad was bom, I took off nearly two years. Did you know that'?"

"No," Myron said.

"Women's golf" she muttered. "I was at the height of my game, the top female golfer in the world, and yet you never read about it."

"I don't follow golf much," Myron said.

"Yeah, right," she snorted. "If Jack Nicklaus took two years off you would have heard about it."

Myron nodded. She had a point. "Was it tough coming back?" he asked.

"You mean in terms of playing or leaving my son?"

"Both."

She took a breath and considered the question. "I

missed playing," she said. "You have no idea how much.

I regained the number one spot in a couple of months. As for Chad, well, he was still an infant. I hired a nanny to travel with us."

"How long did that last?" "

"Until Chad was three. That's when I realized that I

couldn't drag him around anymore. It wasn't fair to him.

A child needs same sort of stability. So I had to make choice."

They fell into silence.

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "I'm not into the self-pity thing and I'm glad women are given choices. But what they don't tell you is that when you have choices, you have guilt."

"What kind of guilt?"

"A mother's guilt, the worst kind there is. The pangs are constant and ceaseless. They haunt your sleep. They point accusatory fingers. Every joyous swing of the golf club made me feel like I was forsaking my own child.

I flew home as often as I could. I missed some tournaments that I really wanted to play in. I tried damn hard to balance career and motherhood. And every step of the way, I felt like a selfish louse." She looked at him. "Do you understand that?"

"Yes, I think so."

"But you don't really sympathize," she added.

"Of course I do."

Linda Coldren gave him a skeptical glance. "If I had been a stay-at-home mother, would you have been so quick to suspect that Chad was behind this? Didn't the fact that I was an absent mother sway your thinking?"

"Not an absent mother," Myron corrected. "Absent parents."

"Same thjng."

"No. You were making more money. You were by far the more successful parent business-wise. If anyone should have stayed home, it was Jack." `

She smiled. "Aren't we politically correct'?"

"Nope. Just practical."

"But it's not that simple, Myron. Jack loves his son.

And during the years he didn't qualify for the tour, he did stay home with him. But let's face facts: Like it or not, it's the mother who bears that burden."

"Doesn't make it right."

"Nor does it let me off the hook. Like I said, I made my choices. If I had to do it all over again, I still would have toured."

"And you still would have felt guilty."

She nodded. "With choice comes guilt. No escaping it." '

Myron took a sip of his Yoo-Hoo. "You said that Jack stayed home some of the time."

"Yes," she said. "When he failed Q school."

"Q school?"

"Qualifying school," she said. "Every year the top 125 moneymakers get their PGA Tour card automatically.

A couple of other players get sponsor exemptions. The rest are forced to go to Q school. Qualifying school. If you don't do well there, you don't play for the year."

"One toumament decides all that'?"

She tilted the glass at him as though making a toast.

"That's right."

Talk about pressure. "So when Jack failed Q school, he'd stay home for the year?"

She nodded "How did Jack and Chad get along?" .

"Chad used to worship his father," Linda said.

"And now?"

She looked off, her face vaguely pained. "Now Chad is old enough to wonder why his father keeps losing. I

don't know what he thinks anymore. But Jack is a good man. He tries very hard. You have to understand what happened to him. Losing the Open that way it might sound overly melodramatic, but it killed something inside him. Not even having a son could make him whole."

"It shouldn't matter so much," Myron said, hearing the echo of Win in his words. "It was just one tournament."

"You were involved in a lot of big games," she said.

; "Ever choke away a victory like Jack did?"

"No."

"Neither have I."

Two gray-haired men sporting matching green ascots made their way down the buifet table. They leaned over each food selection and frowned like it had ants. Their plates were still piled high enough to cause the occasional avalanche.

"There's something else," Linda said.

Myron waited.

She adjusted the sunglasses and put her hands on the table palms down. "Jack and I are not close. We've haven't been close in many years."

When she didn't continue, Myron said, "But you've stayed married."

"Yes."

He wanted to ask why, but the question was so obvious, just hanging out there within easy view, that to voice it would be redundant.

"I am a constant reminder of his failures," she continued.

"It's not easy for a man to live with that. We're supposed to be life partners, but I have what Jack longs for most." Linda tilted her head. "It's funny."

"What?"

"l never allow mediocrity on the golf course. Yet I

allowed it to dominate my personal life. Don't you find that odd?"

Myron made a noncommittal motion with his head.

He could feel Linda's unhappiness radiating off her like a breaking fever. She looked up now and smiled at him.

The smile was intoxicating, nearly breaking his heart. He found himself wanting to lean over and hold Linda Coldren.

He felt this almost uncontrollable urge to press her against him and feel the sheen of her hair in his face. He tried to remember the last time he had held such thought for any woman but Jessica; no answer came to him.

"Tell me about you," Linda suddenly said. .

The change of subject caught him off guard. He sort of shook his head. "Boring stuff."

"Oh, I doubt that," she said, almost playfully. "Come on now. It'll distract me."

Myron shook his head again.

"I know you almost played pro basketball. I know you hurt your knee. I know you went to law school at Harvard.

And I know you tried to make a comeback a few months ago. Want to fill in the blanks?"

"That's pretty much it."

"No, I don't think so, Myron. Aunt Cissy didn't say that you could help us because you were good at basketball."

"I worked a bit for the govemment."

"With Win?"

"Yes."

"Doing what?"

Again he shook his head.

"Top secret, huh?"

"Something like that."

"And you date Jessica Culver?"

"Yes."

"I like her books."

He nodded.

"Do you love her?"

"Very much."

"So what do you want?"

"Want?"

"Out of life. What are your dreams?"

He smiled. "You're kidding, right?"

"Just getting to the heart of the matter," Linda said.

"Humor me. What do you want, Myron?" She looked at him with keen interest. Myron felt flushed.

"I want to marry Jessica. I want to move to the suburbs.

I want to raise a family."

She leaned back as though satisfied. "For real?"

"Yes."

"Like your parents?"

"Yes." `

She smiled. "I think that's nice."

"It's simple," he said.

"Not all of us are built for the simple life," she said, "even if it's what we want."

Myron nodded. "Deep, Linda. I don't know what it means, but it sounded deep."

"Me neither." She laughed. It was deep and throaty and Myron liked the sound of it. ' 'Tell me where you met Win."

"At college," Myron said. "Freshman year."

"I haven't seen him since he was eight years old."

Linda Coldren took a swallow of her seltzer. "I was fifteen then. Jack and I had already been dating a year, believe it or not. Win loved Jack, by the way. Did you know that?"

"No," Myron said.

"It's true. He followed Jack everywhere. And Jack could be such a prick back then. He bullied other kids. He was mischievous as all hell. At times he was downright cruel."

"But you fell for him?"

"I was fifteen," she said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

"What was Win like as a kid?" Myron asked.

She smiled again, the lines in the comers of her eyes and lips deepening. "Trying to figure him out, eh?"

' 'Just curious," Myron said, but the truth in her words stung. He suddenly wanted to withdraw the question, but it was too late.

' 'Win was never a happy kid. He was always" Linda stopped, searching for the word "off I don't know how else to put it. He wasn't crazy or flaky or aggressive or anything like that. But something was not right with him.

Always. Even as a child, he had this strange ability to detach."

Myron nodded. He knew what she meant.

"Aunt Cissy is like that too."

"Win's mother'?"

Linda nodded. "'The woman can be pure ice when she wants to be. Even when it comes to Win. She acts as though he doesn't exist."

"She must talk about him," Myron said. "To your father, at least."

Linda shook her head. "When Aunt Cissy told my father to contact Win, it was the first time she'd mentioned his name to him in years."

Myron said nothing. Again the obvious question hung in the air unasked: What had happened between Win and his mother? But Myron would never voice it. This conversation had already gone too far. Asking would be an unforgivable betrayal; if Win wanted him to know, he'd tell him.

Time passed, but neither one of them noticed. They talked, mostly about Chad and the kind of son he was.

Jack had held on and still led by eight strokes. A gigantic lead. If he blew it this time, it would be worse than twenty-three years ago.

The tent began to empty out, but Myron and Linda stayed and talked some more. A feeling of intimacy began to warm him; he found it hard to breathe when he looked at her. For a moment he closed his eyes. Nothing, he realized, was really going on here. If there was an attraction of some sort, it was simply a classic case of damselin distress syndrome-and there was nothing less politically correct (not to mention Neanderthal) than that.

The crowd was gone now. For a long time nobody came into view. At one point, Win stuck his head into the tent. Seeing them together, he arched an eyebrow and then slipped back out.

Myron checked his watch. "I have to go. I have an appointment? +

"With whom?"

"Tad Crispin."

"Here at Merion?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you'll be long?"

"No."

She started fiddling with her engagement ring, studying it as though making an appraisal. "Do you mind if I

wait?" she asked. "We can catch dinner together." She took off her glasses. The eyes were puffy, but they were also strong and focused.

Okay." .

He met up with Esperanza at the clubhouse. She made a face at him.

"What?" he said.

"You thinking about Jessica?" Esperanza asked suspiciously.

"No, why?"

"Because you're making your nauseating, lovesickpuppy face. You know. The one that makes me want to throw up on your shoes."

"Come on," he said. "Tad Crispin is waiting."

The meeting ended with no deal. But they were getting close.

"'That contract he signed with Zoom," Esperanza said. "A major turkey."

"I know." .

"Crispin likes you."

"We'll see what happens," Myron said.

He excused himself and walked quickly back to the tent. Linda Coldren was in the same seat, her back to him, her posture still queenlike.

"Linda?"

"It's dark now," she said softly. "Chad doesn't like the dark. I know he's sixteen, but I still leave the hall light on. Just in case."

Myron remained still. When she tumed toward himwhen he first saw her smile it was like something corkscrewed into his heart. "When Chad was little," she began, "he always carried around this red plastic golf club and White ball. It's funny. When I think about him now.

that's how I see him. With that little red club. For a long time I hadn't been able to picture him like that. He's so much like a man now. But since he's been gone, all I see is that little, happy kid in the backyard hitting golf balls."

Myron nodded. He stretched out his hand toward hers.

"Let's go, Linda," he said gently.

She stood They walked together in silence. The night sky was so bright it looked wet. Myron wanted to reach out and hold her hand. But he didn't. When they got to her car, Linda unlocked it with a remote control. Then she opened the door as Myron began circling for the passenger side. He stopped suddenly.

The envelope was on her seat.

For several seconds, neither of them moved. The envelope was manila, big enough for an eight by ten photograph.

It was flat except for an area in the middle that puffed up a bit.

Linda Coldren looked up at Myron. Myron reached down, and using his palms, he picked up the envelope by the edges. There was writing on the back. Block letters:

I WARNED YOU NOT SEEK HELP