Back Spin
Page 33
Once at the Court Manor Inn, something went awry. Stu Lipwitz’s denials notwithstanding, the Court Manor is a sleazy joint patronized by sleazy people. It wouldn’t be hard to get in trouble there. Maybe Chad Coldren tried to buy drugs from Crusty. Maybe he witnessed a crime. Maybe the kid just talked too much and some nasty people realized that he came from money. Whatever. The life orbits of Chad Coldren and the Crusty Nazi’s crew dovetailed. The end result was a kidnapping.
It kinda fit.
The key word here: kinda.
On the road toward Merion, Myron helped deflate his own scenario with several well-placed puncture holes. First of all, the timing. Myron had been convinced that the kidnapping had something to do with Jack’s return to playing the U.S. Open at Merion. But in his Crusty-orbit scenario, the nagging timing question had to be written off as mere coincidence. Okay, maybe Myron could live with that. But then how, for example, had the Crusty Nazi—stationed at a mall pay phone—known that Esme Fong was in the Coldren house? How did the man who climbed out the window and disappeared on Green Acres Road—a person Myron had been sure was either Matthew Squires or Chad Coldren—fit into all this? Was the well-shielded Matthew Squires in cahoots with the Crusties? Or was it just a coincidence that the window man disappeared down Green Acres Road?
The scenario balloon was going ssssss in a very big way.
By the time Myron got to Merion, Jack Coldren was on the fourteenth hole. His partner for today’s round was none other than Tad Crispin. No surprise there. First place and second place were normally the final twosome of the day.
Jack was still playing well, though not spectacularly. He’d lost only one stroke off his lead, remaining a very comfortable eight strokes ahead of Tad Crispin. Myron trudged toward the fourteenth green. Green—that word again. Everything was so dang green. The grass and trees, naturally, but also tents, overhangs, scoreboards, the many television towers and scaffolds—everything was lush green to blend in with the picturesque natural surroundings, except, of course, for the sponsors’ boards, which drew the eye with all the subtlety of Vegas hotel signs. But hey, the sponsors paid Myron’s salary. Be kinda hypocritical to complain.
“Myron, sweetheart, get your wiggly ass over here.”
Norm Zuckerman beckoned Myron forward with a big wave. Esme Fong stood next to him. “Over here,” he said.
“Hey, Norm,” Myron said. “Hi, Esme.”
“Hi, Myron,” Esme said. She was dressed a bit more casual today, but she still clutched at her briefcase like it was a favorite stuffed animal.
Norm threw his arm around Myron’s back, draping the hand over the sore shoulder. “Myron, tell me the truth here. The absolute truth. I want the truth, okay?”
“The truth?”
“Very funny. Just tell me this. Nothing more, just this. Am I not a fair man? The truth, now. Am I a fair man?”
“Fair,” Myron said.
“Very fair, am I right? I am a very fair man.”
“Let’s not push it, Norm.”
Norm put up both hands, palms out. “Fine, be that way. I’m fair. Good enough, I’ll take it.” He looked over toward Esme Fong. “Keep in mind, Myron is my adversary. My worst enemy. We’re always on opposite sides. Yet he is willing to admit that I’m a fair man. We straight on that?”
Esme rolled her eyes. “Yes, Norm, but you’re preaching to the converted. I already told you that I agreed with you on this—”
“Whoa,” Norm said, as though reining in a frisky pony. “Just hold the phone a sec, because I want Myron’s opinion too. Myron, here’s the deal. I bought a golf bag. Just one. I wanted to test it out. Cost me fifteen grand for the year.”
Buying a golf bag meant pretty much what it said. Norm Zuckerman had bought the rights to advertise on a golf bag. In other words, he put a Zoom logo on it. Most of the golf bags were bought by the big golf companies—Ping, Titleist, Golden Bear, that kind of thing. But more and more often, companies that had nothing to do with golf advertised on the bags. McDonald’s, for example. Spring-Air mattresses. Even Pennzoil oil. Pennzoil. Like someone goes to a golf tournament, sees the Pennzoil logo, and buys a can of oil.
“So?” Myron said.
“So, look at it!” Norm pointed at a caddie. “I mean, just look at it!”
“Okay, I’m looking.”
“Tell me, Myron, do you see a Zoom logo?”
The caddie held the golf bag. Like on every golf bag, there were towels draped over the top in order to clean off the clubs.
Norm Zuckerman spoke in a first-grade-teacher singsong. “You can answer orally, Myron, by uttering the syllable ‘no.’ Or if that’s too taxing on your limited vocabulary, you can merely shake your head from side to side like this.” Norm demonstrated.
“It’s under the towel,” Myron said.
Norm dramatically put his hand to his ear. “Pardon?”
“The logo is under the towel.”
“No shit it’s under the towel!” Norm railed. Spectators turned and glared at the crazy man with the long hair and heavy beard. “What good does that do me, huh? When I film an advertisement for TV, what good would it do me if they stick a towel in front of the camera? When I pay all those schmucks a zillion dollars to wear my sneakers, what good would it do me if they wrapped their feet in towels? If every billboard I had was covered with a great big towel—”
“I get the picture, Norm.”
“Good. I’m not paying fifteen grand for some idiot caddie to cover my logo. So I go over to the idiot caddie and I kindly tell him to move the towel away from my logo and the son of a bitch gives me this look. This look, Myron. Like I’m some brown stain he couldn’t rinse out of the toilet. Like I’m this little ghetto Jew who’s gonna take his goy crap.”
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.”
It kinda fit.
The key word here: kinda.
On the road toward Merion, Myron helped deflate his own scenario with several well-placed puncture holes. First of all, the timing. Myron had been convinced that the kidnapping had something to do with Jack’s return to playing the U.S. Open at Merion. But in his Crusty-orbit scenario, the nagging timing question had to be written off as mere coincidence. Okay, maybe Myron could live with that. But then how, for example, had the Crusty Nazi—stationed at a mall pay phone—known that Esme Fong was in the Coldren house? How did the man who climbed out the window and disappeared on Green Acres Road—a person Myron had been sure was either Matthew Squires or Chad Coldren—fit into all this? Was the well-shielded Matthew Squires in cahoots with the Crusties? Or was it just a coincidence that the window man disappeared down Green Acres Road?
The scenario balloon was going ssssss in a very big way.
By the time Myron got to Merion, Jack Coldren was on the fourteenth hole. His partner for today’s round was none other than Tad Crispin. No surprise there. First place and second place were normally the final twosome of the day.
Jack was still playing well, though not spectacularly. He’d lost only one stroke off his lead, remaining a very comfortable eight strokes ahead of Tad Crispin. Myron trudged toward the fourteenth green. Green—that word again. Everything was so dang green. The grass and trees, naturally, but also tents, overhangs, scoreboards, the many television towers and scaffolds—everything was lush green to blend in with the picturesque natural surroundings, except, of course, for the sponsors’ boards, which drew the eye with all the subtlety of Vegas hotel signs. But hey, the sponsors paid Myron’s salary. Be kinda hypocritical to complain.
“Myron, sweetheart, get your wiggly ass over here.”
Norm Zuckerman beckoned Myron forward with a big wave. Esme Fong stood next to him. “Over here,” he said.
“Hey, Norm,” Myron said. “Hi, Esme.”
“Hi, Myron,” Esme said. She was dressed a bit more casual today, but she still clutched at her briefcase like it was a favorite stuffed animal.
Norm threw his arm around Myron’s back, draping the hand over the sore shoulder. “Myron, tell me the truth here. The absolute truth. I want the truth, okay?”
“The truth?”
“Very funny. Just tell me this. Nothing more, just this. Am I not a fair man? The truth, now. Am I a fair man?”
“Fair,” Myron said.
“Very fair, am I right? I am a very fair man.”
“Let’s not push it, Norm.”
Norm put up both hands, palms out. “Fine, be that way. I’m fair. Good enough, I’ll take it.” He looked over toward Esme Fong. “Keep in mind, Myron is my adversary. My worst enemy. We’re always on opposite sides. Yet he is willing to admit that I’m a fair man. We straight on that?”
Esme rolled her eyes. “Yes, Norm, but you’re preaching to the converted. I already told you that I agreed with you on this—”
“Whoa,” Norm said, as though reining in a frisky pony. “Just hold the phone a sec, because I want Myron’s opinion too. Myron, here’s the deal. I bought a golf bag. Just one. I wanted to test it out. Cost me fifteen grand for the year.”
Buying a golf bag meant pretty much what it said. Norm Zuckerman had bought the rights to advertise on a golf bag. In other words, he put a Zoom logo on it. Most of the golf bags were bought by the big golf companies—Ping, Titleist, Golden Bear, that kind of thing. But more and more often, companies that had nothing to do with golf advertised on the bags. McDonald’s, for example. Spring-Air mattresses. Even Pennzoil oil. Pennzoil. Like someone goes to a golf tournament, sees the Pennzoil logo, and buys a can of oil.
“So?” Myron said.
“So, look at it!” Norm pointed at a caddie. “I mean, just look at it!”
“Okay, I’m looking.”
“Tell me, Myron, do you see a Zoom logo?”
The caddie held the golf bag. Like on every golf bag, there were towels draped over the top in order to clean off the clubs.
Norm Zuckerman spoke in a first-grade-teacher singsong. “You can answer orally, Myron, by uttering the syllable ‘no.’ Or if that’s too taxing on your limited vocabulary, you can merely shake your head from side to side like this.” Norm demonstrated.
“It’s under the towel,” Myron said.
Norm dramatically put his hand to his ear. “Pardon?”
“The logo is under the towel.”
“No shit it’s under the towel!” Norm railed. Spectators turned and glared at the crazy man with the long hair and heavy beard. “What good does that do me, huh? When I film an advertisement for TV, what good would it do me if they stick a towel in front of the camera? When I pay all those schmucks a zillion dollars to wear my sneakers, what good would it do me if they wrapped their feet in towels? If every billboard I had was covered with a great big towel—”
“I get the picture, Norm.”
“Good. I’m not paying fifteen grand for some idiot caddie to cover my logo. So I go over to the idiot caddie and I kindly tell him to move the towel away from my logo and the son of a bitch gives me this look. This look, Myron. Like I’m some brown stain he couldn’t rinse out of the toilet. Like I’m this little ghetto Jew who’s gonna take his goy crap.”
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.”
