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Michigan T-shirt, and a pair of well-worn running shoes. He left his sunglasses on to hide at least part of the shiner that had darkened around his left eye. When he was a member, walking around the grounds in this outfit would have brought a reprimand and some penalty points from the membership committee. It felt good not to have to deal with the petty aspects of the club anymore.
    He stood at the edge of the patio, hands in his pockets, trying unsuccessfully to look inconspicuous while scanning the tables for Ellen. Charlie Burden had the muscular build of a defensive back and the kind of rugged, permanently weathered face that women were universally attracted to. His nose, broken more times than he could remember, had a slender S-curve shape. At forty-eight, Charlie was actually ten pounds lighter and in better physical condition than when he played hockey at Michigan. It was difficult for him to be inconspicuous anywhere, and he could feel the eyes upon him.
    As he was about to wade into the murmuring crowd, a familiar sight caught his eye, off to his right at a small table against the garden wall. He immediately recognized the wide grin, the trademark black beret, horn-rimmed glasses, and the long dark cigar. He hadn’t seen Mal Berman in months, and he instantly regretted it. If there was one person at the club he truly missed spending time with, it was Mal. Charlie postponed his search for Ellen and went over to see his old friend.
    â€œWell, hellooo, Charlie,” Berman cooed, as he half-rose and extended his hand. “Come sit with me and have a beer, like the old days.”
    â€œI’d love to, Malcolm, since it’ll have to be on your number now, not like the old days. So, how have you been? Break one-fifty today?”
    â€œHa! Oh, I miss you, Burden. Golf isn’t as much fun without you, and, yes, I damn near broke a hundred today, wiseass!” Charlie took a chair next to Berman at the small round table, his back to the garden wall, looking out at the crowded patio. He would enjoy a few minutes with his old friend.
    Berman was a senior partner in a small but extremely prestigious and profitable law firm specializing in international banking and finance. Dietrich Delahunt & Mackey was his oldest and most important client. There were few big-league bankers in London, Zurich, Paris, Hong Kong, or Tokyo whom Berman didn’t know on a first-name basis, and no American lawyer was more respected or feared in contract negotiations.
    Semiretired, Mal loved golf and loved playing it with his friend Charlie. He had been disappointed when Charlie told him he was leaving the club, but, unlike Ellen, Malcolm could empathize with his friend’s decision. Malcolm wasn’t a country club kind of guy, either, but he did love to play golf.
    Berman folded up his New York Times and stuffed it into a canvas tote bag by his chair, coming back up with a long silver cigar case. “I know this is what you’re really after, Burden. It’s the only reason you ever played golf with me.”
    Charlie laughed and accepted the twenty-dollar cigar. He’d taken plenty of Malcolm’s cigars over the years while playing golf. It had become a ritual of their friendship, and he would enjoy this one. He slid the long cigar out of its silver sleeve. “I’m here to pick up Ellen. Have you seen her? She’s playing tennis.”
    â€œWhat else would the lovely Mrs. Burden be doing but playing tennis?” Berman beckoned over a young waitress, one of the attractive college girls the club was known to hire in the summer. “Bring us two Heinekens, and run down to the tennis courts and inquire as to the score of Mrs. Burden’s tennis match. And very quietly, at an appropriate moment, you may inform Mrs. Burden that her husband is on the patio, enjoying the stimulating company of Mr. Berman and Mr. Castro, and she needn’t hurry through the next set.”
    The girl flashed a