The course was on the right, imposing mansions on the left. A minute later. Bucky pulled into a circular driveway. The house was fairly big and made of something called river rock. River rock was big in this area, though Win always referred to it as "Mainline Stone"

There was a white fence and lots of tulips and two maple trees, one on each side of the front walk. A large porch was enclosed on the right side. The car came to a stop, and for a moment neither of them moved.

"What`s this all about, Mr. Buckwell?"

"We have a situation here," he said.

"What kind of situation?"

"l'd rather let my daughter explain it to you" He grabbed the key out of the ignition and reached for the door.

"Why come to me'?" Myron asked.

"We were told you could possibly help."

"Who told you that?"

Buckwell started rolling his neck with greater fervor.

His head looked like it'd been attached by a loose ball socket. When he finally got it under control, he managed to look Myron in the eyes.

"Win`s mother," he said.

Myron stiffened. His heart plummeted down a dark shaft. He opened his mouth. closed it, waited. Buckwell got out of the car and headed for the door. Ten seconds later, Myron followed.

"Win won't help," Myron said.

Buckwell nodded. "That's why l came to you first."

They followed a brick path to a door slightly ajar.

Buckwell pushed it open. "Linda?"

Linda Coldren stood before a television in the den.

Her white shorts and sleeveless yellow blouse revealed the lithe, toned limbs of an athlete. She was tall with short spunky black hair and a tan that accentuated the smooth, long muscles. The lines around her eyes and mouth placed her in her late thirties, and he could see instantly why she was a commercial darling. There was a fierce splendor to this woman, a beauty derived from a sense of strength rather than delicacy.

She was watching the tournament on the television.

On top of the set were framed family photographs. Big, pillowy couches formed a V in one corner. Tactfully furnished, for a golfer. No putting green, AstroTurf carpet.

None of that golf artwork that seemed a step or two below the aesthetic class of, say, paintings of dogs playing poker. No cap with a tee and ball on the brim hanging from a moose head.

Linda Coldren suddenly swung her line of vision toward them, firing a glare past Myron before settling on her father. "I thought you were going to get Jack," she snapped.

"He hasn't finished the round yet."

She motioned to the television. "He's on eighteen now. I thought you were going to wait for him."

"l got Mr. Bolitar instead."

Who?"

Myron stepped forward and smiled. "I'm Myron Bolitar."

Linda Coldren flicked her eyes at him, then back to her father. 'Who the hell is he?"

"He's the man Cissy told me about." Buckwell said.

"Who's Cissy"" Myron asked.