Behind him one of Lauren’s friends started crying—something about someone getting the wrong goodie bag. Karl Snow heard the commotion. He hurried over to the girls, all someone’s daughters, girls who would grow up quickly and have crushes on rock stars. But for now here they were, at a little girl’s birthday party, simply wanting ice cream and the right goodie bag.

Chapter 21

21

Win knew how to get an immediate meeting with Herman Ache.

Windsor Horne Lockwood III had, like Windsor Horne Lockwood II and Windsor Horne Lockwood, been born with a silver golf tee in his mouth. His family had been original members of Merion Golf Club in Ardmore, outside Philadelphia. Win was also a member of Pine Valley, routinely ranked as the number one course in the world (this despite the fact that the course was located near a cheesy water park in southern New Jersey), and for those times he wanted to play a great course near New York City, Win had joined Ridgewood Golf Club, an A. W. Tillinghast–designed twenty-seven-hole paradise that rivaled the best parkland courses in the world.

Herman Ache—the “former” mobster—loved golf more than he loved his children. That might be hyperbole, but based on Win’s recent visit to a federal penitentiary, Herman Ache certainly loved golf more than he loved his brother Frank. So Win called Herman’s office that morning and invited him to play a round at Ridgewood that very day. Without hesitation, Herman Ache said yes.

Herman Ache was too cagey not to realize that Win had an agenda, but he didn’t care. This was a chance to play Ridgewood—a rare opportunity for even the wealthiest and most powerful of mob bosses. He would parry and thrust and probably walk headfirst into a fed wiretap sting if it meant that he could tee off on one of Tillinghast’s most legendary courses.

“Thanks again for inviting me,” Herman said.

“My pleasure.”

They were on the first tee, known as One East. No cell phones were allowed on the course, but Win had spoken to Myron right before heading out and was thus filled in on Myron’s meeting with Karl Snow. Win was not sure what to make of it. He cleared his mind and stepped up to the ball. He let loose a breath and split the fairway in half with a two-hundred-ninety-yard drive.

Herman Ache, who had a swing uglier than a monkey’s armpit, was up next. He hooked it way left over the trees and nearly out to Route 17.

Herman frowned. He stared at the club, ready to blame. “You know something? I saw Tiger hit the same shot on this hole during the Barclay Open.”

“Yes,” Win said. “You and Tiger are practically interchangeable off a tee.”