Norman Zuckerman laughed heartily. He bent down and 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.”

“Bunyanesque.”

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 turned 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?”