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 companiesPing, 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. Pemizoil. 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.'
'Who told you that?'
'Word gets around. I'm a 'man with tremendous sources. So what's the deal? Why the sudden interest in golf?'
'I'm a sports agent, Norm. I try to represent athletes.
Golfers are athletes. Sort of'
'Okay, but what's up with the Coldrens?'
'What do you mean?'
'Look, Jack and Linda are lovely people. Connected, if you know what I mean.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'LBA represents Linda Coldren. Nobody leaves LBA.
You know that. 'I`hey're too big. Jack, well, Jack hasn't done anything in so long, he hasn't even bothered with an agent. So what I'm trying to figure out is, why are the Coldrens suddenly hot to trot with you?'
'Why do you want to figure that out?'
Norm put his hand on his chest. 'Why?'
'Yeah, why would you care?'
'Why?' Norm repeated, incredulous now. 'I'll tell you why. Because of you, Myron. I love you, you know that. We're brothers. Tribe members. I want nothing but the best for you. Hand to God, I mean that. You ever need a recommendation, I'll give it to you, you know that.'
'Uh-huh.' Myron was less than convinced. 'So what's the problem?'
Norm threw up both hands. 'Who said there's a problem? Did I say there was a problem? Did I even use the word problem? I'm just curious, that's all. It's part of my nature. I'm a curious guy. A modem-day yenta. I ask a lot of questions. I stick my nose in where it doesn't belong.
It's part of my makeup.'
'Uh-huh,' Myron said again. He looked over at Esme Fong, who was now comfortably out of earshot. She shrugged at him. Working for Norm Zuckerman probably meant you did a lot of slnugging. But that was part of Norm's technique, his own version of good-cop, bad-cop.
He came across as erratic, if not totally irrational, while his assistant always young, bright, attractive was the calming influence you grabbed on to like a life preserver.
Norm elbowed him and nodded toward Esme. 'She's a looker, huh? Especially for a broad from Yale. You ever see what that school matriculates? No wonder they're known as the BuIldogs.'
'You're so progressive, Norm.'
'Ah, screw progressive. I'm an old man, Myron. I'm allowed to be insensitive. On an old man, insensitive is cute. A cute curmudgeon, that's what they call it. By the way, I think Esme is only half.'
'Half?'
'Chinese,' Norm said. 'Or Japanese. Or whatever. I
think she's half white too. What do you think?'
'Good-bye, Norm.'
'Fine, be that way. See if I care. So tell me, Myron, how did you hook up with the Coldrens? Win introduce you?'
'Good-bye, Norm.'
Myron walked off a bit, stopping for a moment to watch a golfer hit a drive. He tried to follow the ball's route. No go. He lost sight of it almost immediately. This shouldn't be a surprise really it is, after all, a tiny white sphere traveling at a rate of over one hundred miles per hour for a distance of several hundred yards except that Myron was the only person in attendance who couldn't achieve this ophthalmic feat of hawklike proportions.
Golfers. Most of them can't read an exit sign on an interstate, but they can follow the trajectory of a golf ball through several solar systems.
No question about it. Golf is a weird sport.
The course was packed with silent fans, though fans didn't exactly feel like the right word to Myron. Parishicners was a hell of a lot closer. There was a constant reverie on a golf course, a hushed, wide-eyed respect.
Every time the ball was hit, the crowd release was nearly orgasmic. People cried sweet bliss and urged the ball with the ardor of Price Is Right contestants: Run! Sit! Bite!
Grab! Grow teeth! Roll! Hurry! Get down! Get up!
almost like an aggressive mambo instructor. They lamented over a snap hook and a wicked slice and a babied putt and goofy greens and soft greens and waxed greens and the rub of the green and the pursuit of a snowman and being stymied and when the ball traveled off the fairway and on the fringe and in the rough and deep lies and rough lies and bad lies and good lies. They showed admiration when a player got all of that one or ripped a drive or
