by Harlan Coben
The “early days” had begun Myron’s sophomore year at Duke. It was not something he liked to remember. His father had been gambling. And losing. On the day before a game against Georgia State, Myron returned to his dorm to find his father and two of Herman Ache’s hoods. The two hoods told Myron that if Georgia State did not cover the twelve-point spread, his father would lose a finger. His father was crying, the first time Myron had ever seen his father cry. Myron made three turnovers in the last forty seconds to make sure Duke won by only ten.
Father and son never talked about it.
“Why is this kid, this Chaz Landreaux, so important to you, Myron?”
“I think he’s worth saving.”
“Saving from what?”
“He’s just a kid, Herman. Frank is putting the screws to him. I want it to stop.”
Herman smiled, changed clubs, took a few more swings. Then he picked up his putter. “Still a crusader, eh, Myron?”
“Hardly. I’m just trying to help the kid.”
“And yourself.”
“Fine. And myself.”
Myron realized that Herman Ache was wearing golf cleats. Jesus. To most people golf is an idiotic excuse for a sport. For others it’s a life-consuming obsession. There is no in between.
“I don’t think,” Herman said, reading the break in his carpet, “I can stop Frank. He’s very determined.”
“You run the show,” Myron said. “Everyone knows that.”
“But Frank is my brother. I don’t step on his toes unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t think that’s the case here.”
“What did Frank do to him?”
“Pardon?”
“How did he scare the kid?”
“Oh,” Herman said. Another club changed. This time he exchanged the putter for a wood. “He kidnapped his sister. Twin sister, I think.”
Myron felt his stomach dive anew. They’d been right. Not much satisfaction in that. “Is she okay?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Herman said, as if that were a truly foolish question. “They won’t hurt her. Long as Landreaux continues to cooperate.”
“When are they going to let her go?”
“Two more days. Something about making sure the contract is official and Landreaux doesn’t have second thoughts.”
“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. “Wh
y 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.”
“Speaking of which, your mother called twice, your father once. I think they’re worried about you.”
He entered his office. His little private sanctuary. He liked it in here. Myron held most of his negotiations and important meetings in the traditionally decorated conference room, freeing him up to make his office whatever he wanted it to be. He had, of course, his view of the Manhattan skyline to his left. On the wall behind his desk he had framed posters from Broadway musicals: Fiddler on the Roof, The Pajama Game, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, Man of La Mancha, Les Misérables, La Cage aux Folles, A Chorus Line, West Side Story, Phantom.
Another wall had movie stills: Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall. Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy in Adam’s Rib. Groucho, Chico, and Harpo in A Night at the Opera. Adam West and Burt Ward in Batman, the TV show, the real Batman, the one where Burgess Meredith played the Penguin and Cesar Romero played the Joker. The Golden Age of Television.
The final wall had photographs of Myron’s clients. In a few days Christian Steele cloaked in Titan blue would join the group.
He dialed Madelaine Gordon’s number. The answering machine picked up. Her silky voice. Hearing it again made his throat dry. He hung up, not leaving a message. He checked the time on the far wall. The clock was shaped like a giant watch with a Boston Celtics insignia in the center.
Three-thirty.
Still time to get to the campus. Madelaine was not important, but Myron very much wanted to see the dean. And he wanted to show up unexpectedly.
At Esperanza’s desk he said, “I’m going out for a while. You can reach me in the car.”
“Are you limping?” she asked.
“A little. Ache’s men roughed me up.”
“Oh. See you later.”
“Hurts like hell, but I can take it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t make a scene.”
“Inside,” she said. “I’m dying.”
“Please see if you can reach Chaz Landreaux. Tell him we need to talk.”
“Okay.”
He left. He picked up his car in the garage. Win was into cars. He loved his racing-green Jag. Myron drove a blue Ford Taurus. He was not what one might call a car man. A car got him from point A to point B, that was all. It was not a status symbol. It was not a second home. It was not his baby.
The drive didn’t take long. Myron took the Lincoln Tunnel. He passed the famed York Motel. Long sign:
$11.99 PER HOUR
$95 PER WEEK
MIRRORED ROOMS
NOW FEATURING SHEETS!
He paid the toll on the Parkway. The woman in the booth was very friendly. She almost looked at him when she tossed him the change.
He called his mother on the car phone and reassured her he was okay. She told him to call his father, he was the worried one. Myron called his father and reassured him he was okay. He told him to call his mother, she was the worried one. Great communication. The secret to a happy marriage.
He thought about Kathy Culver. He thought about Adam Culver. He thought about Nancy Serat. He tried to draw little lines, connecting them. The lines were tenuous at best. He was sure Fred Nickler, Sir Sleaze Rag, was one line. That picture hadn’t sneaked into Nips by itself. Fred seemed to run a tight operation. He had to know more than he was saying. Win was digging into his background, seeing what he could unearth.
Half an hour later, Myron arrived at the campus. Extra-deserted today. No one on the commons. Very few cars. He parked near the dean’s house and knocked on the door. Madelaine (he still liked the name) answered. She smiled when she saw him, clearly pleased, tilting her head a little. “Well, hello, Myron.”
“Hi.” The Return of Mr. Smooth.
Madelaine Gordon was dressed for tennis. Short white skirt. Great legs. White shirt. He noticed that the shirt was see-through. Keen observation, the sign of a master investigator. Madelaine noticed him noticing. She did not seem particularly offended.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Myron said.
“No intrusion,” she said. “I was just about to take a shower.”
Hmm. “Your husband’s not in, is he?”
She crossed her hands under her breasts. “Not for hours yet,” she said. “You got my message?”
He nodded.
“Would you care to come inside?”
Myron said, “ ‘Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?’ ”
“Pardon me?”
“The Graduate.”
“Oh.” Madelaine wet her lips. She had a very sexy mouth. People overlook the mouth. They talk about the nose, the chin, the eyes, the cheekbones. Myron was a mouth man. “I guess I should be offended,” she continued. “I mean, I’m not that much older than you, Myron.”
“Good point. Quote withdrawn.”
“So,” she said. “I’ll ask again. Would you like to come inside?”
Myron said, “Sure.” Bowling her over with quick wit. What chance did she have against such sparkling repartee?
She disappeared back into the house, creating an air vacuum that sucked Myron—against his will, of course—in after her. The inside was nice, the kind of house that obviously saw plenty of company. Big open room on the left. Tiffany lamps. Persian rugs. Busts of French guys with long, curly hair. Grandfather clock. Painted portraits of stern-faced men.
“Care to sit down?” she said.
“Thank you.”
Sultry. That had been the word Esperanza used. It fit. Not just Madelaine’s voice but her mannerisms, her walk, her eyes, her persona.
“How about a drink?” she asked.
He noticed she already had one made for herself. “Sure, whatever you’re having.”
“A vodka tonic.”
“Sounds good.” Myron hated vodka.
She mixed the drink. He sipped it, trying not to make a face. He wasn’t sure if he was successful. She sat down next to him. “I’ve never been this forward before,” she said.
“That a fact?”
“But I’m very attracted to you. It’s one of the reasons I loved watching you play. You’re really very handsome. I’m sure you’re sick of hearing that.”
“Well, I don’t know if sick is the right word.”
Madelaine crossed her legs. It wasn’t Jessica’s leg cross, but it was still worth watching. “When you came to the door yesterday, I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity. I decided to throw caution to the wind and just go for it.”
Myron could not stop grinning. “I see.”
She stood and reached out her hand to him. “Now how about that shower?”
“Uh, can we talk first?”
Puzzlement shadowed her face. “Is there something wrong?”
Myron feigned embarrassment. “Aren’t you married?”
“And that bothers you?”
Not really. “Yes. I guess it does.”
“Admirable,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Stupid too.”
“Thank you.”
She laughed. “Actually, it’s sweet. But Dean Gordon and I have what we call a semi-open marriage.”
Hmm. “Could you elaborate a little?”
“Elaborate?”
“Just to make me feel more comfortable about all t
his.”
She sat back down. The white skirt might as well not have been there. Her legs could best be described as scrumptious. “I’ve never had to elaborate before,” she said.
“I realize that. But I’m interested.”
Arched eyebrow. “In?”
“Can we start with your definition of semi-open?”
She sighed. “My husband and I have been close friends since childhood. Our parents summered together in Hyannis Port. We were both from the ‘right families.’ ” She made little quote marks in the air when she said “right families.” “We thought that would be enough. But it wasn’t.”
“So why not divorce?”
She looked a question. “Why am I telling you this?”
“My honest blue eyes,” he said. “They’re hypnotic.”
“Maybe they are.”
Now Myron gave her aw-shucks modesty. Mr. Adaptable Face.
“My husband is politically connected. He was an ambassador. He’s next in line to be university president. If we get divorced—”
“That ends,” Myron finished.
“Yes. Even these days, the hint of scandal can destroy a career and a lifestyle. But more than that, Harrison and I are still dear friends. Best friends, really. It’s just that we need limited outside stimulation.”
“Limited?”
“Once every two months,” she said.
Yikes. “How did you come up with that number?” he asked. “Some kind of new algorithm, perhaps?”
She smiled. “Lots of discussions. Negotiations, really. Once a month seemed like too much. Once a semester too little.”
Myron nodded at her. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
“And we always use a condom,” she added. “That’s part of the arrangement.”
“I see.”
“Do you have one?” she asked. “A condom.”
“On?”
She smiled. “I have some upstairs.”
“Can I ask one more thing?”
“If you must.”
“How do you and your husband know that the other has kept to their, er, limit?”
“Easy,” she said. “We tell each other. Everything. Helps spice things up a little.”
Madelaine was seriously strange, which only made her more attractive to Myron.
