Harlan Coben - Live Wire

Win Golf Credo #12: It is perfectly acceptable to stink at golf. It is not perfectly acceptable to stink slowly.

Herman finally took his shot-another duck hook to the left. The ball smacked a tree and came down into play. The caddies looked relieved. Win and Ache made it through the first two holes, talking about utter nonsense. Golf, by nature, is a wonderfully self-involved game. You care about your score and pretty much nothing else. That was a good thing in many ways, but made for anything but stimulating conversation.

On the third-hole tee, the famed par-five mounds hole, they both looked out over the sight, the quiet, the green, the hush. It was breathtaking. For a moment no one moved or spoke. Win breathed evenly, almost closed his eyes. A course is a sanctuary. It was easy to poke fun and yes, golf was the most baffling of endeavors, screwing with the minds of even the most seasoned participants, but when Win was outside on a day like today, when he looked out over the calming spread of green, these were the moments when he, a full-fledged agnostic, felt almost blessed.

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Herman Ache said. There was a tear in his eye. “Thank you for this.”

Win looked at the man. The spell broke. This was not the man with whom he wanted to share this moment. Still, Win thought, there was an opening. “About this club sponsorship thing.”

Herman Ache looked up at Win with zealotlike hope. “Yes?”

“What would I tell the membership board about your, uh, business interests?”

“I told you. I’m totally legit now.”

“Ah, but they will know about your past.”

“First of all, that is the past. And that wasn’t me anyway. Let me ask you something, Win: What’s the difference between Herman Ache now and Herman Ache five years ago?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Oh, I will. The difference is that there is no Frank Ache out there anymore.”

“I see.”

“All the criminal stuff, all the violence-that wasn’t me. It was my brother Frank. You know him, Win. Frank is coarse. He is loud and violent. I did my best to rein him in. He’s the one who caused all the trouble. You can tell the board that.”

Selling his brother out for membership in a golf club. Quite the prince.

“I’m not sure trashing your own brother will sit well with the membership board either,” Win said. “They are very big here on family values.”

Eye shift, gear shift. “Oh, I’m not trashing him. Look, I love Frank. He’s my baby brother. He’ll always be that. I take good care of him. You know he’s serving a prison sentence, right?”

“I’ve heard, yes,” Win said. “Do you visit him?”

“Sure, all the time. Funny thing is, Frank loves it there.”

“In prison?”

“You know Frank. He practically runs the place. I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t want him to take the fall alone, but Frank, well, he insisted on it. He wanted to take one for the whole family, so really, the least I can do is make sure he’s well taken care of.”

Win studied the old man’s face and body language. Nothing. Most people assume that somehow you can tell when a man is lying to you-that there are clear-cut signs of deceit and that if you learn those signs, you can discern when someone is telling a lie or the truth. Those who believe such nonsense are just fooled all the more. Herman Ache was a sociopath. He had probably murdered-or more precisely, ordered the murder of-more people than Frank ever could. Frank Ache was obvious-a frontal assault easily spotted and thus taken down. Herman Ache worked more like a snake in the grass, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and thus was far more dangerous.

The tees on the seventh hole were up closer today, so Win passed on the driver in favor of his three-wood. “May I ask you a question about one of your business interests?”

Herman Ache gave Win the eye, and now, yes, the snake was not so hidden.

“Tell me about your relationship with Gabriel Wire.”

Even a sociopath can look surprised. “Why the hell would you want to know about that?”

“Myron represents his partner.”

“So?”

“I know in the past that you handled his gambling debts.”

“And you think that should be illegal? It’s fine if the government sells lottery tickets. It’s fine if Las Vegas or Atlantic City or a bunch of Indians take bets, but if an honest businessman does it, somehow that’s a crime?”

Win tried very hard not to yawn. “So, do you still handle Gabriel Wire’s gambling?”

“I can’t see how any of this is your business. Wire and I have legitimate business arrangements. That’s all you have to know.”

“Legitimate business arrangements?”

“That’s right.”

“But I’m confused,” Win said.

“About?”

“What possible legitimate business arrangements involve Evan Crisp guarding Wire’s house on Adiona Island?”

Still holding his driver, Ache froze. He handed it back to the caddie and snapped the white glove off his left hand. He moved closer to Win. “Listen to me,” he said softly. “This is not a place you and Myron want to interfere. Trust me here. Do you know Crisp?”

“Only by reputation.”

Ache nodded. “Then you know it won’t be worth it.”

Herman gave Win one more hard glare and returned to his caddie. He put his glove back on and asked for his driver. The caddy handed it to him and then headed toward the woods on the left because that was the real estate Herman Ache’s golf balls seemed to favor.

“I have no interest in hurting your business,” Win said. “I have no interest in Gabriel Wire, for that matter.”

“So what do you want here?”

“I want to know about Suzze T. I want to know about Alista Snow. I want to know about Kitty Bolitar.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Would you like to hear my theory?”

“About?”

“Let’s go back sixteen years,” Win said. “Gabriel Wire owes you a substantial sum of money for gambling debts. He’s a drug addict, a pleated-skirt chaser-”

“Pleated?”

“He likes them young,” Win explained.

“Oh. Now I get it. Pleated.”

“So glad. Gabriel Wire is also-more important to you-a compulsive gambler. In short, he’s a mess, albeit a profitable one. He has money and tremendous earning potential, ergo the interest owed keeps compounding. Are you with me?”

Herman Ache said nothing.

“Then Wire goes too far. After a concert at Madison Square Garden, he invites Alista Snow, a naïve sixteen-year-old girl, back to his suite. Wire slips her Rohypnol and cocaine and whatever other drugs he has lying around, and the girl ends up leaping off a balcony. He panics. Or perhaps, being that he is such an important asset, you already have a man on the scene. Perhaps Crisp. You clean up the mess. You intimidate the witnesses and even buy off the Snow family-whatever it takes to protect your boy. He owes you even bigger now. I don’t know what ‘legitimate business arrangement’ you made, but I imagine Wire has to pay you, what, half his earnings? That would be several million dollars per year minimum.”

Herman Ache just looked at him, trying very hard not to fume. “Win?”

“Yes?”

“I know you and Myron like to think you’re tough guys,” Ache said, “but neither one of you is bulletproof.”

“Tsk-tsk.” Win spread his arms. “What happened to Mr. Legal? Mr. Legitimate Businessman?”

“You’ve been warned.”

“By the way, I visited your brother in prison.”

Herman’s face fell.

“He sends his regards.”

Back at the office, Big Cyndi was at the ready.