"I'm watching now," Crispin said.

"You're watching your money, true. I doubt you're watching everything else."

Crispin considered that for a moment. "I appreciate the talk," he said, "but I think I'm okay on my own."

Myron pointed at Tad Crispin's head. "How much are you getting for that hat?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're wearing a hat with no company logo on it,"

Myron explained. "For a player of your ilk, that's a loss of at least a quarter of a million dollars."

Silence.

"But I'm going to be working with Zoom," Crispin said.

"Did they purchase hat rights from you'?"

He thought about it. "I don't think so." .

"The front of the hat is a quarter million. We can also sell the sides if you want. They'll go for less. Maybe we'll total four hundred grand. Your shirt is another matter."

"Now just wait one minute here," Zuckerman interjected. "He's going to be wearing Zoom shirts."

"Fine, Norm," Myron said. "But he's allowed to wear logos. One on the chest, one on either sleeve."

"Logos?"

"Anything. Coca-Cola maybe. IBM. Even Home Depot."

"Logos on my shirt?"

"Yep. And what do you drink out there?"

"Drink? When I play?"

"Sure. I can probably get you a deal with Powerade or one of the soda companies. How about Poland Spring water? They might be good. And your golf bag. You have to negotiate a deal for your golf bag."

"I don't understand."

"You're a billboard, Tad. You're on television. Lots of fans see you. Your hat, your shirt, your golf bag those are all places to post ads."

Zuckerman said, "Now hold on a second. He can't just-"

A cell phone began to sound, but it never made it past the first ring. Myron's finger reached the ringer and turned it off with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp retire. Fast reflexes. They came in handy every once in a while.

Still, the brief sound had drawn the ire of nearby club members. Myron looked around. He was on the receiving end of several dagger-glares, including one from Win.

"Hurry around behind the clubhouse," Win said pointedly. "Let no one see you."

Myron gave a flippant salute and rushed out like a man with a suddenly collapsing bladder. When he reached a safe area near the parking lot, he answered the call.

"Hello."

"Oh, God . . ." It was Linda Coldren. Her tone struck the marrow of his bone.

"What's wrong?"

"He called again," she said.

"Do you have it on tape?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right over "

"No!" she shouted. "He's watching the house."

"You saw him?"

"No. But . . . Don't come here. Please."

"Where are you calling from?"

"The fax line in the basement. Oh God, Myron, you should have heard him." '

"Did the number come up on the Caller lD?"

"Yes." '

"Give it to me."

She did. Myron took out a pen from his wallet and wrote the number down on an old Visa receipt.