“But?” Myron repeated.

“But you may be on to something.”

“Oh?”

Win steepled his fingers. “You see, fighting is life-and-death to me. That’s how I treat it. But the athletes we’ve been talking about take it a step further. Every competition, even the most banal, is viewed by them as life-and-death—and losing is death.”

Myron nodded. He didn’t buy it, but what the hell. Keep him talking. “I don’t get something,” he said. “If Jack has this special ‘wanting,’ why hasn’t he ever won a professional tournament?”

“He lost it.”

“The wanting?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Twenty-three years ago.”

“During the Open?”

“Yes,” Win said again. “Most athletes lose it in a slow burnout. They grow weary or they win enough to quench whatever inferno rages in their bellies. But that was not the case with Jack. His fire was extinguished in one crisp, cold gust. You could almost see it. Twenty-three years ago. The sixteenth hole. The ball landing in the stone quarry. His eyes have never been the same.”

“Until now,” Myron added.

“Until now,” Win agreed. “It took him twenty-three years, but he stoked the flames back to life.”

They both drank. Win sipped. Myron guzzled. The chocolaty coldness felt wonderful sliding down his throat. “How long have you known Jack?” Myron asked.

“I met him when I was six years old. He was fifteen.”

“Did he have the ‘wanting’ back then?”

Win smiled at the ceiling. “He would sooner carve out his own kidney with a grapefruit spoon than lose to someone on the golf course.” He lowered his gaze to Myron. “Did Jack Coldren have the ‘wanting’? He was the pure definition.”

“Sounds like you admired him.”

“I did.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“No.”

“What made you change?”

“I grew up.”

“Wow.” Myron took another swig of Yoo-Hoo. “That’s heavy.”

Win chuckled. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Win put down the brandy snifter. He leaned forward very slowly. “What is so great about winning?”

“Pardon?”

“People love a winner. They look up to him. They admire—nay, revere—him. They use terms like hero and courage and perseverance to describe him. They want to be near him and touch him. They want to be like him.”

Win spread his hands. “But why? What about the winner do we want to emulate? His ability to blind himself to anything but the pursuit of empty aggrandizement? His ego-inflating obsession with wearing a hunk of metal around his neck? His willingness to sacrifice anything, including people, in order to best another human being on a lump of AstroTurf for a cheesy statuette?” He looked up at Myron, his always serene face suddenly lost. “Why do we applaud this selfishness, this self-love?”

“Competitive drive isn’t a bad thing, Win. You’re talking about extremes.”

“But it is the extremists we admire most. By its nature, what you call ‘competitive drive’ leads to extremism and destroys all in its path.”

“You’re being simplistic, Win.”

“It is simple, my friend.”

They both settled back. Myron stared up at the exposed beams. After some time, he said, “You have it wrong.”

“How so?”

Myron wondered how to explain it. “When I played basketball,” he began, “I mean, when I really got into it and reached these levels you’re talking about—I barely thought about the score. I barely thought about my opponent or about beating somebody. I was alone. I was in the zone. This is going to sound stupid, but playing at the top of my game was almost Zen-like.”

Win nodded. “And when did you feel this way?”

“Pardon?”

“When did you feel your most—to use your word—Zen?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Was it at practice? No. Was it during an unimportant game or when your team was up by thirty points? No. What brought you to this sweat-drenched state of Nirvana, my friend, was competition. The desire—the naked need—to defeat a top-level opponent.”

Myron opened his mouth to counter. Then he stopped. Exhaustion was starting to take over. “I’m not sure I have an answer to that,” he said. “At the end of the day, I like to win. I don’t know why. I like ice cream too. I don’t know why either.”

Win frowned. “Impressive simile,” he said flatly.

“Hey, it’s late.”

Myron heard a car pull up front. A young blonde entered the room and smiled. Win smiled back. She bent down and kissed him. Win had no problem with that. Win was never outwardly rude to his dates. He was not the type to rush them out. He had no problem with them staying the night, if it made them happier. Some might mistake this for kindness or a tender spot in the soul. They’d be wrong. Win let them stay because they meant so little to him. They could never reach him. They could never touch him. So why not let them stay?

“That’s my taxi,” the blonde said.

Win’s smile was blank.

“I had fun,” she said.

Not even a blink.

“You can reach me through Amanda if you want”—she looked at Myron, then back at Win—“well, you know.”

“Yes,” Win said. “I know.”

The young woman offered up an uncomfortable smile and left.

Myron watched, trying to keep his face from registering shock. A prostitute! Christ, she was a prostitute! He knew that Win had used them in the past—in the mid-eighties, he used to order in Chinese food from Hunan Grill and Asian prostitutes from the Noble House bordello for what he called “Chinese Night”—but to still partake, in this day and age?

Then Myron remembered the Chevy Nova and his whole body went cold.

He turned to his friend. They looked at each other. Neither one of them said anything.

“Moralizing,” Win said. “How nice.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Indeed.” Win stood.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Myron felt his heart pound. “Mind if I go with you?”

“Yes.”

“What car are you taking?”