Although Patrick qualified for the club professionally and financially—at least on paper—he hadn’t been able to squeak past the membership committee. The blackball rule was alive and well here, and he was pretty sure Holmes Carter had used it to keep him out. Probably couldn’t tolerate the idea of a former caddy hobnobbing with the members.

“Talking to yourself again, Sullivan?” he said, baring his teeth in what passed for a smile.

“You might not believe this, Holmes, but Tome and I were just…” Patrick noticed a sudden fearful widening of the sim’s eyes “…having a little chitchat.”

Carter swung on Tome. “You know the rules! No talking to people—even if it’s a nonmember. You are to be barely seen andnever heard!”

“Yessir,” Tome said. He turned away and hung his head.

Patrick spotted the ID number and bar code tattooed on the nape of the sim’s neck.

“Lighten up, Holmesy,” he said, then eyed the man’s gut. “In more ways than one. What’s he supposed to do when I talk to him? Ignore me?”

Carter bellied up to the urinal. “If it’s you, yes. What’s the matter? Can’t get any people to listen to you?”

“I guess I like sims better than some people I know—present company included.”

Carter had that shark grin again as he returned from the urinal and began rinsing his hands. “You never learn, do you, Sullivan. Why do I keep seeing you around here? When are you going to quit cadging rounds of golf from our members and bamboozling them into sponsoring you? Didn’t you get the message when the committee turned you down? You’re not wanted around here.”

That stung. But Patrick hid the hurt and said nothing, simply stared at him.

“What’s the matter?” Carter said as he dried his hands. “Cat gotcher tongue?”

“No,” Patrick said. “Just wondering why you sprang for a hair splice and passed up one for a personality.” Figuring he didn’t have to worry about burning nonexistent bridges, he added: “Also wondering why I’m standing here listening to a used car salesman—”