It was a sunny Tuesday in late September, and more than a little breezy in northeast Ohio. A chill hung in the shade, notifying wage
earners to look to their weather stripping, and prompting men of substance to put on pretty sweaters for their rounds of golf.
Five men sat at a table for six in the club’s formal dining room. Cyril Keaton—husky, graying, lion maned, important, self-important—glanced at the empty chair, laid the club’s luncheon menu flat, and folded his hands over it. “What in hell’s keeping Crump, I wonder? Know you that, young Reed,” and here he sighed mightily as if displeased, which he was not, “demon golfer and all-around thorn in our sides today?” The other three men chuckled duly, and Reed smiled in his easy way.
