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 Colossemn.

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 comer 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 concem 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." .

"lf 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.