The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (90 page)

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 combined. 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?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was this appointment made a long time ago?”

“What, now, I look like a receptionist?”

“Forget it.”

“Forgotten.”

“Excuse me a second,” Myron said. “Do you mind if I go make a call?”

“Am I your mother?” Zuckerman made a shooing motion. “Go already.”

Myron debated using his cellular phone but decided not to piss off the Merion gods. He found a phone booth in the men’s locker room foyer and dialed the Coldrens’ house. He used Chad’s line. Linda Coldren answered.

“Hello?”

“Just checking in,” Myron said. “Anything new?”

“No,” Linda said.

“Are you aware that Esme Fong is coming over?”

“I didn’t want to cancel,” Linda Coldren explained. “I didn’t want to do anything that would draw attention.”

“You’ll be okay then?”

“Yes,” she said.

Myron watched Tad Crispin walk by in the direction of Win’s table. “Were you able to reach the school?”

“No; nobody was there,” she said. “So what do we do next?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said. “I have the override Caller ID on your phone. If he calls again, we should be able to get the number.”

“What else?”

“I’ll try to speak to Matthew Squires. See what he can tell me.”

“I already spoke to Matthew,” Linda said impatiently. “He doesn’t know anything. What else?”

“I could get the police involved. Discreetly. There’s not much else I can do on my own.”

“No,” she said firmly. “No police. Jack and I are both adamant on that point.”

“I have friends in the FBI—”

“No.”

He thought about his conversation with Win. “When Jack lost at Merion, who was his caddie?”

She hesitated. “Why would you want to know that?”

“I understand Jack blamed his caddie for the loss.”

“In part, yes.”

“And that he fired him.”

“So?”

“So I asked about enemies. How did the caddie feel about what happened?”

“You’re talking about something that happened over twenty years ago,” Linda Coldren said. “Even if he did harbor a deep hatred for Jack, why would he wait so long?”

“This is the first time the Open has been at Merion since then. Maybe that’s reawakened dormant anger. I don’t know. Chances are there’s nothing to this, but it might be worth checking out.”

He could hear talking on the other end of the line. Jack’s voice. She asked Myron to hold on a moment.

A few moments later, Jack Coldren came on the line. Without preamble, he said, “You think there’s a connection between what happened to me twenty-three years ago and Chad’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said.

His tone was insistent. “But you think—”

“I don’t know what I think,” he interrupted. “I’m just checking out every angle.”

There was a stony silence. Then: “His name was Lloyd Rennart,” Jack Coldren said.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since the day the Open ended.”

“The day you fired him.”

“Yes.”

“You never bumped into him again? At the club or a tournament or something?”

“No,” Jack Coldren said slowly. “Never.”

“Where did Rennart live back then?”

“In Wayne. It’s the neighboring town.”

“How old would he be now?”

“Sixty-eight.” No hesitation.

“Before this happened, were you two close?”

Jack Coldren’s voice, when he finally spoke, was very soft. “I thought so,” he said. “Not on a personal level. We didn’t socialize. I never met his family or visited his home or anything like that. But on the golf course”—he paused—“I thought we were very close.”

Silence.

“Why would he do it?” Myron asked. “Why would he purposely ruin your chances of winning?”

Myron could hear him breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and scratchy. “I’ve wanted to know the answer to that for twenty-three years.”

Myron called in Lloyd Rennart’s name to Esperanza. It probably wouldn’t take much. Again modern technology would simplify the feat. Anyone with a modem could type in the address www.switchboard.com—a Web site that was virtually a telephone directory of the entire country. If that site didn’t work, there were others. It probably wouldn’t take long, if Lloyd Rennart was still among the living. If not, well, there were sites for that too.

“Did you tell Win?” Esperanza asked.

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

“He won’t help.”

“Not surprising,” she said.

“No,” he agreed.

Esperanza said, “You don’t work well alone, Myron.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “You looking forward to graduation?”

Esperanza had been going to NYU Law School at night for the past six years. She graduated on Monday.

“I probably won’t go.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not big on ceremony,” she said.

Esperanza’s only close relative, her mother, had died a few months back. Myron suspected that her death had more to do with Esperanza’s decision than not being big on ceremony.

“Well, I’m going,” Myron said. “Sitting front row center. I want to see it all.”

Silence.

Esperanza broke it. “Is this the part where I choke back tears because someone cares?”

Myron shook his head. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, really, I want to get it right. Should I break down in loud sobs or just sniffle a little? Or better yet, I could get a little teary, like Michael Landon on
Little House on the Prairie.”

“You’re such a wiseass.”

“Only when you’re being patronizing.”

“I’m not being patronizing. I care. Sue me.”

“Whatever,” she said.

“Any messages?”

“About a million, but nothing that I can’t handle until Monday,” she said. “Oh, one thing.”

“What?”

“The bitch asked me out to lunch.”