Two reporters are calling. Mancini wants to have a drink. Why, I have no idea.

And there is a voice mail from Arch Swanger. Condolences on the big loss. How in hell?

I need to leave town. At midnight, I load the van with some clothes, the golf clubs, and half a case of small-batch bourbon. I flip a coin, head north, and last for two hours before I almost fall asleep. I stop at a budget motel and pay forty bucks for one night. I’ll be on a golf course, somewhere, by noon, all alone.

This time I’m not sure I’m going back.

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