The pistol’s hammer wasn’t thumbed back, which meant a relatively low chance of an accidental discharge. Vincent still had his hands raised, either side of his head, which at that moment also meant either side of the gun. He brought the two palms together, fast—a clap motion, except the two hands actually missed each other—the left slapping the barrel off its aim, and the right assisting from the other end, pushing against the grips, and the gun rotated neatly one hundred and eighty degrees out of Sly’s grasp and into Vincent’s.

The whole thing was over in a second, and the only part of Sly that kept up was his face—an expression of complete shock now—as if Vincent had transgressed some fundamental rule of mechanics, or at least human possession.

Vincent had the revolver in his right hand, but he was still behind the wheel of the cart, effectively hemmed in and at a disadvantage unless he planned to shoot the man. So he reached up and hit Sly in the face left-handed: three quick blows, like working a speedbag, open palm to protect his knuckles.

Sly fell back and went down on one knee, stayed there with the back of his wrist held against his nose.

Vincent stayed behind the wheel of his cart, put the gun on the seat beside him. ‘You heard the news yet?’

Sly didn’t answer. He lowered his wrist and let blood speckle the grass.

‘Eugene’s been murdered. You’re not getting your money back.’

Now he looked up. ‘Huh?’

That actually seemed like genuine surprise.

Vincent said, ‘Which of those sentences was most concerning: the one about murder, or the one about money?’

Sly just looked away, pinched his nose.

Vincent said, ‘Helps if you lie down.’

‘Get lost, pal, honestly. You don’t fucking impress me.’

Vincent said, ‘Let’s say for the sake of argument you had nothing to do with it.’

‘Well, great. ’Cause I didn’t.’

‘All right. So who else wanted him dead?’

‘What do you mean who else? I wanted him alive, so he can pay me.’

Vincent waited.

Sly said, ‘Look, I don’t know. You mean it was a hit? Not just robbery?’

‘A carload of guys came by the house and killed three people.’

He took a moment to absorb that, looked off between the trees. ‘Shit. That’s heavy, isn’t it?’

Vincent watched him.

Sly said, ‘Who’d they get?’

Vincent glanced behind him, back up the fairway, and saw Sly’s three pals on their carts a hundred yards away, maybe deciding whether to come over. He picked up the gun and opened the cylinder, dumped the shells in his palm and tossed the gun on the grass. He said, ‘Thirty million dollars.’

‘Huh?’

‘Someone was after him for thirty million dollars. You know anything about that?’