Gentlemen,
It has obviously been quite some time, but my recollection is Uncle George and I both suspected The Links Club in Manhattan (I think it is on 62nd or 63rd) had all sorts of memorabilia - even C.B.'s original routings - stored in their archives. George had lunch there and took a picture of C.B.'s portrait, hanging on the wall.
Apparently, many of the members had no idea who their founder was - or only had a vague memory of some golf course affiliated with their "Gentleman's Club."
Some years later, I tried to arrange a visit in advance, but ran into a brick wall. Even having a large number of well-connected friends all over the MET Area got me nowhere . One early evening, Redhead and I were wandering around after dinner - where we ate with Daniel Boulud oddly enough - and being a brazen fuck from California, I just decided to ring the bell, under the pretense of inquiring whether The Links Club had the same reciprocal agreement with Olympic as the NYAC.
Since we were both dressed in our Sunday best (for you Brits, that means a suit, tie and fancy-ass designer dress), the door was actually opened - by Alfred Pennyworth's doppelganger, with a mix of icy politeness, but also a hint of amusement. Her Redness was resplendent, but I'm afraid my scuffy saddle shoes and crooked 1/4 Windsor tie job (known as a "half ass") shrieked hick from the planet hippy.
When I asked if there was any sort of reciprocal agreements with other clubs, the look on his face said I may as well have come from the Ravenite with John Gotti's crew. The answer was "The Links Club is strictly private, with no agreements with anybody."
One last shot: "Did he happen to know how one might reach the club historian?" No dice . . . . "Our memberships roles are strictly confidential, I hope that answers your question . . . good night."
Click.
Deadbolt click.
Anybody in the Treehouse have a relationship with one of the members? Even years after finishing the book, I'd still be fascinated to comb through their archives. Arranging lunch would seem doable, but letting some obscure former golf scribe rummage through their attic would probably be a tough sell . . . .