"You couldn't pick him out? Junior, you must've played something by him. Criminy, the man's designed or remodeled a couple of hundred tracks at least. Ever drop your peg at Cypress Point? That was a new one in my time, but it has sure grown into something, hasn't it?"
"Wait a minute," I replied. "You mean to tell me that the greenskeeper here is Alister MacKenzie?"
"You got it, junior." Haig laughed. "This is really something, ain't it?"
"If he's heading up Greens and Grounds, which course do you to play? One of his?"
"Nah. We play just about anywhere, 'cause everything's reciprocal. If I want to knock on Jones for some cash, he comes with me down to Florida—you know, Sarasota and St. Pete. The game's on at Whitefield Estates and Pasadena country club, the same joints where we duked it out in '26. I own him down there, junior." The Haig was glowing like a lightbulb. "And he wants to hit on me, he takes me to his place across the water."
"Right on the noggin', kid. And Old Tom Morris's got Prestwick. We've got a regular rotation working here. But you've gotta be invited."
"By whoever has privileges?" I asked.
Haig winked and pointed his finger at me. There was a gleam in his eye as he explained how things worked around here. "I still don't get it, Haig. How can a man be frozen into a moment?"
"It's not just a second or a moment. It's a time of life, a period, maybe a run of two, three, four days. Maybe it's a week, a year, a decade. You ask a man what was best for him, he's apt to say just about anything. Me, I got those couple of weeks down in suntan land. Getting ready for some Jones hunting, then going out for the kill."