Win, on the other hand, seemed to have been weaned on schnapps. Liquor never really affected him much. But at this particular party, the grain alcohol laced punch made even his steps wobble a bit. It took Win three tries to unlock their dorm room door.

Myron quickly collapsed on his bed. The ceiling spun counterclockwise at a seemingly death-defying speed. He closed his eyes. His hands gripped the bed and held on in terror. His face had no color. Nausea clamped down painfully on his stomach. Myron wondered when he would vomit and prayed it would be soon.

Ah, the glamour of college drinking.

For a while neither of them said anything. Myron wondered if Win had fallen asleep. Or maybe Win was gone.

Vanished into the night. Maybe he hadn't held on to his spinning bed tightly enough and the centrifugal force had hurled him out the window and into the great beyond.

Then Win's voice cut through the darkness. "Take a look at this."

A hand reached out and dropped something on Myron's chest. Myron risked letting go of the bed with one hand. So far, so good. He fumbled for whatever it was, found it, lifted it into view. A streetlight from outside campuses are lit up like Christmas trees cast enough illumination to make out a photograph. The color was grainy and faded, but Myron could still make out what looked to be an expensive car.

"Is that a Rolls-Royce?" Myron asked. He knew nothing about cars.

"A Bentley S Three Continental Flying Spur," Win corrected, " 1962. A classic."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

The bed spun silently.

"How did you get it?" Myron asked.

"A man who was fucking my mother gave it to me."

The end. Win had shut down after that. The wall he put up was not only impenetrable but unapproachable, filled with land mines and a moat and lots of high-voltage electric wires. Over the ensuing decade and a half, Win had never again mentioned his mother. Not when the packages came to the dorm room every semester. Not when the packages came to Win's office on his birthday even now. Not even when they saw her in person ten years ago.

The plain dark wood sign merely read MERION GOLF CLUB.

Nothing else. No "For Members Only." No "We're Elitist and We Don't Want You." No "Ethnics Use Service Entrance." No need. It was just a given.

The last U. S. Open threesome had finished a while back and the crowd was mostly gone now. Merion could hold only seventeen thousand for a tournament less than half the capacity of most courses but parking was still a chore. Most spectators were forced to park at nearby Haverford College. Shuttle buses ran constantly.

At the top of the driveway a guard signaled him to stop.

"I'm here to meet Windsor Lockwood," Myron said.

Instant recognition. Instant wave-through.

Bucky ran over to him before he had the car in park.

The rounded face was more jowly now, as if he were packing wet sand in his cheeks.