by Harlan Coben
“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.
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 Colosseum. 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 corner 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 concern 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.”
“If 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 largest 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 al
l ages,’ I’d think it was me.”
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?”
“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?”
“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 combin
ed. 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 beautiful.”
Win, in spite of himself, laughed. Several ruddy-faced men turned and stared. Norman waved at them, friendly-like. “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?”