'Ah, fuck him, Herman. This asshole wants to fuck me over. He wants to steal food off my fucking table. Not just this Landreaux nigger. That's just the start. We got dozens of prospects signed like this. We lose one, we lose them all. I say we let the other agents know we ain't to be messed with. I say we waste Bolitar right now.'
Myron said, 'I don't like that idea.'
'Who the fuck asked you?'
'Just giving my opinion.'
'Please, Frank, this isn't helping. You promised to let me handle this.'
'Handle what? Kill the son of a bitch. End of story.'
'Wait in the other room. I'll take care of it, I promise.'
Frank glared at Myron. Myron did not bother glaring back. He knew this was part of the act. He knew that they were trying to intimidate him in much the same way Otto Burke and Larry Hanson had. But for some odd reason, the air of death gave the Mutt and Jeff routine a whole new dynamic.
Win, however, remained pensive.
'Come on, Aaron,' Frank growled. 'Let's get the fuck out of here.' He stood. 'But the contract is still on.'
'Fine,' Herman said. 'If you want to kill him, I won't get in the way.'
'He's as good as dead.'
Frank and Aaron left. Frank slammed the door. Overacting, Myron thought, but an effective cameo appearance.
Myron said, 'He's fun.'
Herman moved to the corner of the room. He took a slow practice swing with the club. 'I wouldn't mess with him, Myron. Frank is really angry. Me, I've always liked you. From the early days. But I'm not sure I can help you on this one.'
The 'early days' had begun Myron's sophomore year at Duke. It was not something he liked to remember. His father had been gambling. And losing.
On the day before a game against Georgia State, Myron returned to his dorm to find his father and two of Herman Ache's hoods. The two hoods told Myron that if Georgia State did not cover the twelve-point spread, his father would lose a finger. His father was crying, the first time Myron had ever seen his father cry. Myron made three turnovers in the last forty seconds to make sure Duke won by only ten.
Father and son never talked about it.
'Why is this kid, this Chaz Landreaux, so important to you, Myron?'
'I think he's worth saving.'
'Saving from what?'
'He's just a kid, Herman. Frank is putting the screws to him. I want it to stop.'
Herman smiled, changed clubs, took a few more swings. Then he picked up his putter. 'Still a crusader, eh, Myron?'
'Hardly. I'm just trying to help the kid.'
'And yourself.'
'Fine. And myself.'
Myron realized that Herman Ache was wearing golf cleats. Jesus. To most people golf is an idiotic excuse for a sport. For others it's a life-consuming obsession. There is no in between.
'I don't think,' Herman said, reading the break in his carpet, 'I can stop Frank. He's very determined.'
'You run the show,' Myron said. 'Everyone knows that.'
'But Frank is my brother. I don't step on his toes unless it's absolutely necessary. I don't think that's the case here.'
'What did Frank do to him?'
'Pardon?'
'How did he scare the kid?'
'Oh,' Herman said. Another club changed. This time he exchanged the putter for a wood. 'He kidnapped his sister. Twin sister, I think.'
Myron felt his stomach dive anew. They'd been right. Not much satisfaction in that. 'Is she okay?'
'Oh, I wouldn't worry,' Herman said, as if that were a truly foolish question. 'They won't hurt her. Long as Landreaux continues to cooperate.'
'When are they going to let her go?'
'Two more days. Something about making sure the contract is official and Landreaux doesn't have second thoughts.'
'What do you want, Herman? What's it going to cost to get Frank off?'
He put on a golf glove and took a very deliberate swing, watching his hands. 'I'm an old man, Myron. A rich old man. What could you possibly give me?'
Win sat forward, moving for the first time. 'Your club is too far open on your swing, Mr Ache. Try turning your wrists a little more. Shift your grip to the right a little.'
The sudden change in subject caught everyone by surprise. Herman looked at Win. I'm sorry. I never caught the name.'
'Windsor Home Lockwood III.'
Ah, so you are the immortal Win. Not exactly what I expected.' He tested the new grip. 'Feels odd.'
'Give it a few weeks,' Win said. 'Do you play often?'
As often as I can. It's more than just a game to me. It's…'
'Sacred,' Win finished for him.
His eyes livened. 'Exactly. You play, Mr Lockwood?'
'Yes.'
'Nothing like it, is there?'
'Nothing,' Win agreed. 'Where do you play?'
'Not easy for my kind to find good courses. I joined a club in Westchester. St Anthony's. You know it?'
'No.'
'It's not much of a course. Eighteen holes, of course. Very rocky. You have to be half mountain goat.'
Golf stories. Myron loved them. Didn't everyone? 'I don't understand something,' Myron said, playing along. 'With all your, uh, influence, why don't you play anywhere you want?'
