They played the first nine and were making the turn when two large men made an appearance, apparently leaving their car in Stone Canyon Drive and coming through the high hedge.

“More members of the committee, come to congratulate you?” Dino asked.

“I doubt it,” Stone said, picking a club from his bag and leaning on it. “I expect them to have Russian accents. Are you armed?”

Dino took his driver from his bag. “I am now.”

“You Barrington?” the larger of the two asked. His accent was, indeed, Russian.

“Yes, I am, and this is my dear friend, the police commissioner.”

The man looked at Dino and blinked. “That don’t look like him.”

“I get that all the time,” Dino said.

“We got a message for you, Barrington,” the man said, unbuttoning his jacket, “from Boris Tirov.” He put his hand under his jacket.

“If that hand comes out with anything in it,” Stone said, “you’re going to get a message from the edge of a steel sand wedge, in your teeth.” He displayed the implement for emphasis.

“And a driver, too,” Dino said, waggling his club.

The man’s hand stopped, then came out empty. “Dis is de message from Boris—he gonna kick your ass.”

“Tell him,” Stone said, “that I wish him a continued lack of success in that effort. Oh, and you might tell him there’s news from the membership committee of this golf club—he has been rejected as a member.” Stone smiled. “We just heard.”

“He ain’t gonna like that message,” the man said.

“I hope not,” Stone replied. “Now get your ass back through that hedge and out of here.” He took a step toward the man, sand wedge at the ready.

The two men fumbled their way through the hedge and, a moment later, were heard to drive away.

“I think,” Dino said, “you’d better start arming yourself with something more threatening than a sand wedge.”

8

Stone and Dino finished their round and adjourned to the clubhouse bar for a sandwich.

Martin Glock was there and introduced them to a few other members, then he placed a key on the table. “Here’s your locker key, Stone. I think you’ll find it commodious enough for the commissioner’s clubs, as well.”

“Thank you, Martin.”

“Oddly enough, I had a visit from Mr. Tirov while you were playing. Apparently, he had got wind of his rejection by the committee. I can’t imagine how.”

“Bad news travels fast, I suppose.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Tirov had to be assisted from the grounds—for the last time, I hope.”

“I hope so, too.”

“We’ve since heard that he’s been barred from Centurion Studios and from the Arrington, as well.”

“I can confirm that,” Stone said.

“It seems the committee made the right decision. Good day, gentlemen.” He strolled away.