The chauffeur handed Haig some rumpled clothes. They were almost the same color as the ones he had on, but there was a vast difference: While they, too, were decidedly handsome, they were also decidedly unpressed. Haig started to undress; he was changing his clothes in the backseat of the car.
"I thought you always did it with style," I said. "You're dressing down for this gig?"
"Why do I want to look fresh for this guy? I've got an image to keep up. I want him thinkin' old Haig here just got out of the love loft with some dame. I want him thinkin' I can't hit my hat. Say, Spec," he said, turning his attention away from me. "Shoot me some of that Scotch back here, will you?
"Got to smell the part, junior."
He was quickly becoming the Haig they tell stories about, the man enshrined in legend. In an instant he-had transformed himself from a member of the landed gentry to a morning-after caricature of a good-time Charley.
The chauffeur was also changing his clothes. The breeches and boots came off and were replaced by baggy pants and an old woolen sweater. The pants were rumpled, and the sweater had more holes in it than a practice putting green.
Spec restarted the engine. It purred in a low hum, and the car started to move slowly. Ever so slowly.
"Pull up behind the putting green. Make it look as if you're lost and have been looking for the place for a while."
Spec Hammond followed Hagen's directives like an actor playing a role. The limousine came to a stop behind the putting green. Haig spied the 1st tee, which was only 30 yards away.
"There's Titanic, all right." Haig was checking him out, measuring him. "He's waiting for us, junior."