In the coffee shop Francis X. Kingsbury announced that he was in a hurry because he was leaving town later in the day. The sooner the better, thought Jake Harp.

Standing on the first tee, Kingsbury spotted two of the Ocean Reef board members waiting in a foursome behind them. The men smiled thinly and nodded at him. Kingsbury placidly flipped them the finger. Jake Harp grimaced and reached for his driver.

"Love it," said Kingsbury. "Think they're such hot snots."

Jake Harp knocked the ball two hundred and sixty yards down the left side of the fairway. Kingsbury hit it about half as far and shrugged as if he didn't care. Once he got in the golf cart, he drove like a maniac and cursed bitterly.

"Our club'll make this place look like a buffalo latrine." The cart jounced heedlessly along the asphalt path. "Like fucking Goony Golf – I can't wait."

Jake Harp, who was badly hung over, said: "Let's take it easy, Frank."

"They're dying to know how I did it," Kingsbury went on, full tilt. "This island, it's practically a goddamn nature preserve. I mean, you can't mow your lawn without a permit from the fucking EPA."

He stomped the brake, got out and lined up his second shot. Jake Harp asked: "You gonna use the driver again?"

Kingsbury swung like a canecutter, topping the ball noisily. It skidded maybe eighty yards, cutting a bluish vector through the dew-covered grass.

"Keep your head down," advised Jake Harp.

Kingsbury hopped back in the cart and said: "Grand-fathering, that's how I did it. The guy I bought from, he'd had his permits since '74. I'm talking Army Corps, Fish and Wildlife, even Interior. The state – well, yeah, that was a problem. For that I had to spread a little here and there. And Monroe County, forget it."

He shut up long enough to get out and hit again. This time he switched to a four-wood, which he skied into a liver-shaped bunker. "Fuck me," muttered Francis Kingsbury. He remained silent as Jake Harp casually knocked his second shot thirty feet from the pin.

"What was that, a five-iron? A six?"

"A six," replied Jake Harp, pinching the bridge of his nose. He figured if he could just cut off circulation, it would starve the pain behind his eyeballs and make his hangover go away.

Kingsbury punched the accelerator and they were off again. "You know how I got the county boys? The ones giving me a bad time, I promised 'em units. Not raw lots, no fucking way – town houses is all, the one-bedrooms with no garage."

"Oh," said Jake Harp, feeling privileged. He'd been given a double lot, oceanfront, plus first option on one of the spec homes.

"Townhouses," Kingsbury repeated with a laugh. "And they were happy as clams. All I got to do, it's easy, is sit on the titles until Phase One is built. You know, keep it off the tax rolls for a few months. "Case some damn reporter shows up at the courthouse and starts looking up names."

Jake Harp didn't understand the nuances of Francis Kingsbury's scheme. The man was proud of himself, that much was obvious.

When they pulled up to the sand trap, they saw that Kingsbury's golf ball was practically buried under the lip. It appeared to have landed at the approximate speed and trajectory of a mortar round.

Kingsbury stood over the ball for a long time, as if waiting for it to make a move. Finally he said to Jake Harp: "You're the pro. What the hell now, a wedge? A nine, maybe?"

"Your only prayer," said Jake Harp, forcing a rheumy chuckle, "is a stick of dynamite." Miraculously, Kingsbury needed only three swings to blast out of the bunker, and two putts to get down.

While waiting on the next tee, Jake Harp said he thought it would be better if he didn't do any more speaking engagements on behalf of Falcon Trace.

Kingsbury scowled. "Yeah, I heard what happened, some broad."

"I'm not comfortable in those situations, Frank."

"Well, who the hell is? We got her name, the old bitch." Kingsbury took out a wood and started whisking the air with violent practice swings. Jake Harp could scarcely stand to look.

"One of those damn bunny huggers," Kingsbury was saying. "Anti this and anti that. Got some group, the Mothers of some fucking thing."

"It doesn't really matter," said Jake Harp.

"The hell it doesn't." Francis X. Kingsbury stopped swinging and pointed the polished head of the driver at Jake Harp's chest. "Now that we know who she is, don't you worry. This shit'll stop – it's been taken care of. You'll be fine from now on."

"I'm a golfer is all. I don't do speeches."

Kingsbury wasn't listening. "Maybe these assholes'll let us play through." He hollered down the fairway toward the other golfers, but they seemed not to hear. Kingsbury teed up a ball. He said, "Fine, they want to be snots."

"Don't," pleaded Jake Harp. The slow-playing foursome was well within the limited range of Kingsbury's driver. "Frank, what's the hurry?"

Kingsbury had already coiled into his backswing. "Yuppie snots," he said, following through with a ferocious grunt. The ball took off like a missile, low and true.

Terrific, thought Jake Harp. The one time he keeps his left arm straight.

The other golfers scattered and watched the ball streak past. They reassembled in the middle of the fairway, shook their fists at Kingsbury and began a swift march back toward the tee.

"Shit," said Jake Harp. He didn't have the energy for a fistfight; he didn't even have the energy to watch.

Francis X. Kingsbury put the wood in his bag, and sat down behind the steering wheel of the golf cart. The angry players were advancing in an infantry line that was the color of lollipops. Where Kingsbury came from, it would be hard to regard such men as dangerous.

"Aw, let's go," said Jake Harp.

Kingsbury nodded and turned the golf cart around. "Trying to make a point is all," he said. "Etiquette, am I right? Have some fucking common courtesy for other players."

Jake Harp said, "I think they got the message." He could hear the golfers shouting and cursing as they drove away. He hoped none of them had recognized him.

On the drive back to the clubhouse, Francis Kingsbury asked Jake Harp for the name of the restaurant manager at Ocean Reef.

"I've got no idea," Jake Harp said.

"But you're a member here."

"Frank, I'm a member of seventy-four country clubs all over the damn country. Some I've never even played."

Kingsbury went on: "The reason I asked, I got a line on a big shipment of fish. Maybe they'd want to buy some."

I'll ask around. What kind of fish?"

"Tuna, I think. Maybe king mackerel."

"You don't know?"

"Hell, Jake, I'm a real-estate man, not a goddamn chef. It's a trailer full of fish is all I know. Maybe six thousand pounds."

Jake Harp said, "Holy Jesus."

Francis Kingsbury wasn't about to get into the whole messy story. He'd been having a devil of a time penetrating the Sudanese bureaucracy; UNICEF was no better. Yes, of course we'd welcome any famine relief, but first you'll have to fill out some forms and answer some questions....Meanwhile, no one at the Amazing Kingdom seemed to know how long whale meat would stay fresh.

From the back of the golf cart came a high-pitched electronic beeping. Kingsbury quickly pulled off the path and parked in a stand of Australian pines. He unzipped his golf bag and removed a cellular telephone.

When he heard who was on the other end, he lowered his voice and turned away. Jake Harp took the hint; he slipped into the trees to get rid of the two Bloody Marys he'd had for breakfast. It was several seconds before he realized he was pissing all over somebody's brand-new Titleist. He carefully wiped it dry with a handkerchief and dropped it in his pocket.

Francis X. Kingsbury was punching a new number into the phone when Jake Harp returned to the golf cart.