Myron looked over at Esme. Esme smiled and shrugged. .

"Nice talking to you, Norm," Myron said.

"What? You don't think I'm right?"

"I see your point."

"So if it was your client, what would you do?"

"Make sure the caddie kept the logo in plain view."

"Exactamundo." He swung his arm back around Myron's shoulder and lowered his head conspiratorially. "So what's going on with you and golf; Myron?" he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not a golfer. You don't have any golf clients.

All of a sudden I see you with my very own eyes closing in on Tad Crispin and now I hear you're hanging out with the Coldrens."

"Who told you that?"

"Word gets around. I'm a 'man with tremendous sources. So what's the deal? Why the sudden interest in golf?"

"I'm a sports agent, Norm. I try to represent athletes.

Golfers are athletes. Sort of"

"Okay, but what's up with the Coldrens?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look, Jack and Linda are lovely people. Connected, if you know what I mean."

"I don't know what you mean."

"LBA represents Linda Coldren. Nobody leaves LBA.

You know that. 'I`hey're too big. Jack, well, Jack hasn't done anything in so long, he hasn't even bothered with an agent. So what I'm trying to figure out is, why are the Coldrens suddenly hot to trot with you?"

"Why do you want to figure that out?"

Norm put his hand on his chest. "Why?"

"Yeah, why would you care?"

"Why?" Norm repeated, incredulous now. "I'll tell you why. Because of you, Myron. I love you, you know that. We're brothers. Tribe members. I want nothing but the best for you. Hand to God, I mean that. You ever need a recommendation, I'll give it to you, you know that."

"Uh-huh." Myron was less than convinced. "So what's the problem?"

Norm threw up both hands. "Who said there's a problem? Did I say there was a problem? Did I even use the word problem? I'm just curious, that's all. It's part of my nature. I'm a curious guy. A modem-day yenta. I ask a lot of questions. I stick my nose in where it doesn't belong.

It's part of my makeup."

"Uh-huh," Myron said again. He looked over at Esme Fong, who was now comfortably out of earshot. She shrugged at him. Working for Norm Zuckerman probably meant you did a lot of slnugging. But that was part of Norm's technique, his own version of good-cop, bad-cop.

He came across as erratic, if not totally irrational, while his assistant always young, bright, attractive was the calming influence you grabbed on to like a life preserver.

Norm elbowed him and nodded toward Esme. "She's a looker, huh? Especially for a broad from Yale. You ever see what that school matriculates? No wonder they're known as the BuIldogs."

"You're so progressive, Norm."

"Ah, screw progressive. I'm an old man, Myron. I'm allowed to be insensitive. On an old man, insensitive is cute. A cute curmudgeon, that's what they call it. By the way, I think Esme is only half."