Harlan Coben - Back Spin (Myron Bolitar Mysteries, Book 4)

When an author is writing about an activity he enjoys about as much as sticking his tongue in a fan (golf), he needs help and lots of it. With that in mind the author wishes to thank the following: James Bradbeer, Jr., Peter Roisman, Maggie Griffin, Craig Coben, Larry Coben, Jacob Hoye, Lisa Erbach Vance, Frank Snyder, the rec sports golf board, Knitwit, Sparkle Hayter, Anita Meyer, the many golfers who regaled me with their scintillating tales (snore), and of course, Dave Bolt. While the U.S. Open is a real golf tournament and Merion is a real golf club, this book is a work of fiction. I took some liberties, combined locales and tournaments, that kind of thing. As always, any errorsfactual or otherwiseare totally the fault of these people. The author is not to blame.

Myron and I tried. But were still not sure we get it.

For the Armstrongs,
The Worlds Greatest In-Laws,
Jack and Nancy
Molly, Jane, Eliza, Sara, John and Kate
Thank you all for Anne

Myron Bolitar used a cardboard periscope to look over the suffocating throngs of ridiculously clad spectators. He tried to recall the last time hed actually used a toy periscope, and an image of sending in proof-of-purchase seals from a box of Capn Crunch cereal flickered in front him like headache-inducing sunspots.

Through the mirrored reflection, Myron watched a man dressed in knickersknickers, for crying out loud stand over a tiny white sphere. The ridiculously clad spectators mumbled excitedly. Myron stifled a yawn. The knickered man crouched. The ridiculously clad spectators jostled and then settled into an eerie silence. Sheer stillness followed, as if even the trees and shrubs and well-coiffed blades of grass were holding their collective breath.

Then the knickered man whacked the white sphere with a stick.

The crowd began to murmur in the indistinguishable syllables of backstage banter. As the ball ascended, so did the volume of the murmurs. Words could be made out. Then phrases. Lovely golf stroke. Super golf shot. Beautiful golf shot. Truly fine golf stroke. They always said golf stroke, like someone might mistake it for a swim stroke, oras Myron was currently contemplating in this blazing heata sun stroke.

Mr. Bolitar?

Myron took the periscope away from his eyes. He was tempted to yell Up periscope, but feared some at stately, snooty Merion Golf Club would view the act as immature. Especially during the U.S. Open. He looked down at a ruddy-faced man of about seventy.

Your pants, Myron said.

Pardon me?

Youre afraid of getting hit by a golf cart, right?

They were orange and yellow in a hue slightly more luminous than a bursting supernova. To be fair, the mans clothing hardly stood out. Most in the crowd seemed to have woken up wondering what apparel they possessed that would clash with, say, the free world. Orange and green tints found exclusively in several of your tackiest neon signs adorned many. Yellow and some strange shades of purple were also quite bigusually together like a color scheme rejected by a Midwest high school cheerleading squad. It was as if being surrounded by all this God-given natural beauty made one want to do all in his power to offset it. Or maybe there was something else at work here. Maybe the ugly clothes had a more functional origin. Maybe in the old days, when animals roamed free, golfers dressed this way to ward off dangerous wildlife.

Good theory.

I need to speak with you, the elderly man whispered. Its urgent.

The rounded, jovial cheeks belied his pleading eyes. He suddenly gripped Myrons forearm. Please, he added.

Whats this about? Myron asked. The man made a movement with his neck, like his collar was on too tight. Youre a sports agent, right? Yes.

Youre here to find clients?

Myron narrowed his eyes. How do you know Im not here to witness the enthralling spectacle of grown men taking a walk?

The old man did not smile, but then again, golfers were not known for their sense of humor. He craned his neck again and moved closer. His whisper was hoarse. Do you know the name Jack Coldren? he asked.

Sure, Myron said.

If the old man had asked the same question yesterday, Myron wouldnt have had a clue. He didnt follow golf that closely (or at all), and Jack Coldren had been little more than a journeyman over the past twenty years or so. But Coldren had been the surprise leader after the U.S. Opens first day, and now, with just a few holes remaining in the second round, Coldren was up by a commanding eight strokes. What about him?

And Linda Coldren? the man asked. Do you know who she is?

This one was easier. Linda Coldren was Jacks wife and far and away the top female golfer of the past decade. Yeah, I know who she is, Myron said.

The man leaned in closer and did the neck thing again. Seriously annoyingnot to mention contagious. Myron found himself fighting off the desire to mimic the movement. Theyre in deep trouble, the old man whispered. If you help them, youll have two new clients.

What sort of trouble?

The old man looked around. Please, he said. There are too many people. Come with me.

Myron shrugged. No reason not to go. The old man was the only lead hed unearthed since his friend and business associate Windsor Horne Lockwood IIIWin, for shorthad dragged his sorry butt down here. Being that the U.S. Open was at Merionhome course of the Lockwood family for something like a billion yearsWin had felt it would be a great opportunity for Myron to land a few choice clients. Myron wasnt quite so sure. As near as he could tell, the major component separating him from the hordes of other locust-like agents swarming the green meadows of Merion Golf Club was his naked aversion for golf. Probably not a key selling point to the faithful.