"Did the caddie admit the error?"

"He never commented, as far as I know."

"What did Jack do?"

"He fired him."

Myron chewed on that tidbit. "Where is the caddie now?"

"I do not have the slightest idea," Win said. "He wasn't a young man at the time and this was more than twenty years ago."

"Do you remember his name?"

"No. And this conversation is officially terminated?

Before Myron could ask why, a pair of hands covered his eyes. "Guess who'?" came a familiar sing-song. "I'll give you a couple of hints: I'm smart, good-looking, and loaded with talent."

"Gee," Myron said, "before that hint, I would have thought you were Norm Zuckerman?

"And with the hint?"

Myron shrugged. "If you add 'adored by women of all ages I'd think it was me."

Norman Zuckerman laughed heartily. He bent down md gave Myron a big, loud smack on the cheek. "How are you, meshuggener?"

"Good, Norm. You?"

"I'm cooler than Superfly in a new Coupe de Ville."

Zuckerman greeted Win with a loud hello and an enthusiastic handshake. Diners stared in distaste. The stares did not quiet Norman Zuckerman. An elephant gun could not quiet Norman Zuckerman. Myron liked the man.

Sure, a lot of it was an act. But it was a genuine act.

Norm's zest for everything around him was contagious.

He was pure energy; the kind of person who made you examine yourself and left you feeling just a little wanting.

Norm brought forward a young woman who'd been standing behind him. "Let me introduce you to Esme Fong," he said. "She's one of my marketing vee-pees. In charge of the new golf line. Brilliant. The woman is absolutely brilliant."

The attractive ingenue. Early-to-mid twenties, Myron guessed. Esme Fong was Asian with perhaps a hint of Caucasian. She was petite with almond eyes. Her hair was long and silky, a black fan with an earthy auburn tinge.

She wore a beige business suit and white stockings. Esme nodded a hello and stepped closer. She wore the serious face of an attractive young woman who was afraid of not being taken seriously because she was an attractive young woman.

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;