“What do you want, Herman? What’s it going to cost to get Frank off?”

He put on a golf glove and took a very deliberate swing, watching his hands. “I’m an old man, Myron. A rich old man. What could you possibly give me?”

Win sat forward, moving for the first time. “Your club is too far open on your swing, Mr. Ache. Try turning your wrists a little more. Shift your grip to the right a little.”

The sudden change in subject caught everyone by surprise. Herman looked at Win. “I’m sorry. I never caught the name.”

“Windsor Home Lockwood III.”

“Ah, so you are the immortal Win. Not exactly what I expected.” He tested the new grip. “Feels odd.”

“Give it a few weeks,” Win said. “Do you play often?”

“As often as I can. It’s more than just a game to me. It’s …”

“Sacred,” Win finished for him.

His eyes livened. “Exactly. You play, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing like it, is there?”

“Nothing,” Win agreed. “Where do you play?”

“Not easy for my kind to find good courses. I joined a club in Westchester. St. Anthony’s. You know it?”

“No.”

“It’s not much of a course. Eighteen holes, of course. Very rocky. You have to be half mountain goat.”

Golf stories. Myron loved them. Didn’t everyone?

“I don’t understand something,” Myron said, playing along. “With all your, uh, influence, why don’t you play anywhere you want?”

Herman and Win looked at him as though he were a naked infidel praying in the Vatican. “Excuse him,” Win said. “Myron does not understand golf. He thinks a nine iron is a vitamin supplement.”

Herman laughed. The hoods joined suit. Myron didn’t get it.

“I understand fine,” Myron said. “Golf is a bunch of silly-dressed men using massive tracts of real estate to play with a ball and stick.”

Myron laughed. No one joined suit. Golfers are not known for their sense of humor.

Herman put the club back in the bag. “A man does not force or buy or bully his way onto a golf course,” he explained. “I have too much respect for the game, for the traditions, to do anything so crass. It would be like putting a gun against a priest’s head to get the front pew.”

“Sacrilege,” Win said.

“Exactly. No real golfer would do it.”

“He has to be invited,” Win added.

“Right. And you don’t merely play a great course. You pay homage to it. I’d love to be invited to one of the world’s great courses. It would be my dream. But it is not meant to be.”

“How about being invited to two of them?” Win asked.

“Two—” Herman stopped. His eyes widened for a millisecond, then quickly dimmed as though afraid he was being teased. “What do you mean?”

Win pointed to a picture on the left wall. “Merion Golf Club,” he said. Then he pointed to a picture on the far wall. “And Pine Valley.”

“What about them?”

“I assume you’ve heard of them?”

“Heard of them?” Herman repeated. “They’re the top two courses on the East Coast, two of the best in the world. Name a hole. Go ahead, any hole, either course.”

“Sixth hole at Merion.”

Herman’s face glowed like a little kid’s on Christmas morning. “One of the most underrated holes anywhere. It sets up with a semiblind tee-shot to a fairway that favors a soft fade. Start your tee-shot at middle bunker, then cut back to the center, keeping clear of the boundary, which comes in on the right. Long-to-middle iron to the modestly elevated green, careful of the bunkers on the left and right.”

Win smiled. “Very impressive.”

Snore.

“Don’t tell me, Mr. Lockwood, that you’ve played Merion and Pine Valley.” Something well past awe resonated in Herman’s voice.

“I’m a member of both.”

Herman inhaled sharply. Myron half-expected him to cross himself. “A member,” he began incredulously, “of both?”

“I’m a three handicap at Merion,” Win continued. “A five handicap at Pine Valley. And I’d like you to be my guest at both for a weekend. We’ll try to get in seventy-two holes a day, thirty-six at each course. We’ll start at five A.M. Unless that’s too early.”

Herman shook his head. Myron thought his eyes looked teary. “Not too early,” he managed.

“Next weekend okay for you?” Win asked.

Herman picked up the phone. “Let the girl go,” he said. “And the contract is off. Anyone touches Myron Bolitar, they’re dead.”

Chapter 31

Win and Myron went back to the office. Myron felt sore from the beating, but nothing was broken. He would preserve. He was that kind of guy. Terribly brave.

Esperanza said, “You look like shit.”

“You’re so hung up on appearances.”

He tossed her the photograph of Adam Culver. “See if your friend Lucy recognizes him.”

She snapped a salute. “Jawohl, Kommandant.” Of all the old shows, Esperanza’s favorite was Hogan’s Heroes. Myron was not a big fan, though he always wished he could have been there when some young TV hotshot said, “Hey, I got an idea for a sitcom! Set it in a POW camp in Nazi Germany. Laughs galore.”

“How many calls?” he asked.

“About a million. Mostly the press wanting your comments on Christian’s signing.” She smiled. “Nice job on that one.”

“Thank you.”

“That Otto Burke,” she said, a pencil near her mouth. “Is he single?”

Myron looked at her, horrified. “Why would you want to know?”

“He’s kinda cute.”

The nausea was back. “You’re hitting me up for a raise, aren’t you? Please say yes.”

Esperanza smiled coyly but said nothing. He started for his office.

“Hold it,” she said. “A strange message just came in for you a few minutes ago.”

“From?”

“A woman named Madelaine. Wouldn’t give her last name. Sounded sultry.”

The dean-nessa. Hmm.

“She leave a number?”

Esperanza nodded, handed it to him. “Remember: The condom is your friend.”

“Thanks, Mom.”