The High-Class Hustle

The High-Class HustleThe air had a fabricated chill, the slight odor of chemistry and compressors. In a couple of hours, the bar's night lights would come on, enhancing every wrinkle, mole, pimple with the merciless cruelty of motel-bathroom lighting. "You can't make money sitting in a place like this," said the Archivist irritably. He was talking of the way he makes money--by hustling golf--not the way the barkeep does it. He was a short man, in his mid-to-late 30s, beginning to lean...