Silence. Win hated the obvious. "It's me," was both questionable grammar (at best) and a complete waste.

Win would know who it was by the voice. If he didn't, hearing "It's me" would undeniably not help.

"I thought you didn't answer the phone on the course," Myron said.

"I'm driving home to change," Win said. "Then I'm dining at Merion." Mainliners never ate; they dined.

"Care to join me?"

"Sounds good," Myron said.

"Wait a second."

"What'?"

"Are you properly attired?"

"I don't clash," Myron said. "Will they still let me in?"

"My, my, that was very funny, Myron. I must write that one down. As soon as I stop laughing, I plan on locating a pen. However, I am so filled with mirth that I

may wrap my precious Jag around an upcoming telephone pole. Alas, at least I will die with jocularity in my heart."

Win.

"We have a case," Myron said.

Silence. Win made this so easy.

"I'll tell you about it at dinner."

"Until then," Win said, "it'll be all I can do to douse my mounting excitement and anticipation with a snifter of cognac."

Click. Gotta love that Win.

Myron hadn't driven a mile when the cellular phone rang. Myron switched it on.

It was Bucky. "The kidnapper called again."

Chapter 4

"What did he say?" Myron asked.

"They want money," Bucky said.

"How much?"

"I don't know."

Myron was confused. "What do you mean, you don't know? Didn't they say?"

"I don't think so," the old man said.

There was noise in the background. "Where are you?" Myron asked.

"I'm at Merion. Look, Jack answered the phone. He's still in shock."

"Jack answered?"

"Yes."

Doubly confused. "The kidnapper called Jack at Merion?"

"Yes. Please, Myron, can you get back over here? It'll be easier to explain."

"On my way."

He drove from the seedy motel to a highway and then into green. Lots of green. The Philadelphia suburbs were lush lawns and high bushes and shady trees. Amazing how close it was at least in a geographic sense to the meaner streets of Philly. Like most cities, there was tremendous segregation in Philadelphia. Myron remembered driving with Win to Veterans Stadium for an Eagles game a couple of years back. They'd gone through an Italian block, a Polish block, an African American block; it was as if some powerful, invisible force field again, like on Scar Trek isolated each ethnicity. The City of Brotherly Love could almost be called Little Yugoslavia.

Myron turned down Ardmore Avenue. Merion was about a mile away. His thoughts turned to Win. How, he wondered, would his old friend react to the maternal connection in this case?

Probably not well.

In all the years they had been friends, Myron had heard Win mention his mother on only one occasion.

It had been during their junior year at Duke. They were college roommates, just back from a wild frat party.

The beer had flowed. Myron was not what you'd call a good drinker. Two drinks and he'd usually end up trying to French-kiss a toaster. He blamed this on his ancestryhis people had never handled spirits well.