By John D. MacDonald
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In the darkness he could see the gleam of lights in the Mather house, shining through the leaves. He felt a recurrence of the anger, wondered if he had let Toby down by not charging over there and demanding apologies. He shrugged and went to bed. Chapter Three He parked just beyond the range of the floodlights of the Sandwind Motel. The Ace had been waiting and he came out quickly, walking with his heavy, plunging stride, his big shadow long in the white lights. He looked into the gray Buick and grunted in affirmation.
But that money! Isn't that enough? " "There's no law that says you have to keep money in a bank. There's no law that says you can't turn your home into a vault and guard it. He lost money twenty years ago when the bank closed. He decided he wouldn't lose it that way again. And remember, Lennie, there's a lot of people around here who were treated by him when he was still practicing. He has quite a backlog of good will. Suppose you did get him put away. There'd be talk. " "It's realistic. What good is it to him?
But there had been enough needle so that his drive on the ninth put him 'way over in the rough behind some cabbage palms. He could see the green through a two-foot gap between the palm trunks. He tried a two iron and nearly decapitated himself when the ball came back off a palm trunk like a bullet. It put him far enough back and gave him a better lie. So he gambled on getting enough of a slice with a number four wood. It sliced all right and left him in the deepest trap on the course. He didn't get enough sand and left himself with a thirty-foot putt.