Drop Shot

Chapter 44

Stadium Court was packed by the time Myron sat down. Duane and Thomas Craig were still warming up, each taking turns lofting easy lobs for the other to slam way. The fans floated and mingled and socialized and made sure they were seen. The usual celebs were there: Johnny Carson, Alan King, David Dinkins, Renee Richards, Barbra Streisand, Ivana Trump.

Jake and his son Gerard came down to the box.

"I see you got the tickets okay," Myron said.

Jake nodded. "Great seats."

"Nothing's too good for my friends."

"No," Jake said, "I meant yours."

Ever the wiseass.

Jake and Gerard chatted a moment with Jessica before moving up to their seats, which were by any stretch of me imagination excellently situated. Myron scanned the crowd. A lot of familiar faces. Senator Bradley Cross was there with his entourage, including his son's old chum Gregory Caufield. Frank Ache had shown up wearing the same sweat suit Myron had seen him in yesterday. Frank nodded toward Myron. Myron did not nod back. Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke were there too – surprise, surprise. They were sitting a few boxes over. Myron tried to catch Helen's eye, but she was trying very hard to pretend she didn't see him. Ned Tunwell and Friends (not to be confused with Barney and Friends, though the confusion would be understandable) were in their usual box. Ned too was doing his utmost not to see Myron. He seemed less animated today.

"I'll be right back," Jessica said.

Myron sat. Henry Hobman was already in game mode. Myron said, "Hi, Henry."

"Stop messing with his head," Henry said. "Your job is to keep him happy."

Myron didn't bother responding.

Win finally showed up. He wore a pink shirt from some golf club, bright green pants, white bucks, and a yellow sweater tied around his neck. "Hello," Win said.

Myron shook his head. "Who dresses you?"

"It's the latest in sophisticated wear."

"You clash with the world."

"Pardon moi, Monsieur Saint Laurent." Win sat down. "Did you talk to Duane?"

"Just a little pep talk."

Jessica returned. She greeted Win with a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered to him.

Win said nothing.

They stood for the national anthem. When it was over, the English-accented voice on the loudspeaker asked everyone to lower their heads for a moment of silence to remember the great Pavel Menansi. Heads lowered. The crowd hushed. Someone sniffled. Win rolled his eyes. Two minutes later the match began.

The play was incredible. Both men were power hitters, but no one expected anything like this. The pace was like something from another planet. A far faster planet. The IBM serve speedometer drew constant "Ooo"s from the crowd. Rallies didn't last very long. Mistakes were made, but so were incredible shots. This was serve and volley in the old tradition taken to the tenth power. Duane was unconscious. He whacked at the ball with uncommon fury, as though the ball had personally offended him. Myron had never seen either man play better.

Win leaned over and whispered, "Must have been some pep talk."

"Wanda left him."

"Ah," Win said with a nod. "That explains it. The shackles are off."

"I don't think that's it, Win."

"If you say so."

Myron didn't bother. It was like talking colors with a blind man.

Duane won the first set 6-2. The second set went into a tie-breaker, which Thomas Craig won. As the third set opened, Win said, "What have you learned?"

Myron filled him in, trying to keep his voice down. At one point, Ivana Trump shushed him. Win waved a hand in her direction. "She digs me. Big-time."

"Get real," Myron said.

During a change of sides in the third set, Win said, "So first we believed that Valerie was eliminated because she knew something harmful about Pavel Menansi. Now we believe that she was eliminated because she saw something the night Alexander Cross was killed."

"A possibility," Myron said.

During the next change of sides, Myron felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked down – way down – and was surprised. "Dr. Abramson," he said.

"Hello, Myron."

"Nice to see you, Doc."

"Nice to see you too," she said. "Your client is playing very well. You must be pleased."

"I'm sorry," Myron said. "I can neither confirm nor deny that Duane Richwood is a client of mine."

She didn't smile. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

"Guess not," Myron said "I didn't know you were a tennis fan."

"I come every year." She spotted Win. "Hello, Mr. Lockwood."

Win nodded. "Dr. Abramson."

"This is my friend Jessica Culver," Myron said.

The two women shook hands and exchanged polite smiles. "A pleasure," Dr. Abramson said. "Well, I don't want to keep you. I just wanted to say a quick hello."

"Can we talk a little later?" Myron asked.

"No, I don't think so. Good-bye."

"Did you know that Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke are here?"

"Yes. And I also know they just stepped out for a moment."

Myron looked toward their seats. Empty. He smiled. "You crafty shrink. Coming over to say hello when they weren't looking."

"And to say good-bye," she said, returning the smile. She turned away and left. The match started up again. During the next change of sides, the Van Slykes returned. Myron leaned over to Win. "How do you know Dr. Abramson?"

"I visited Valerie," he said.

"Often?"

Win didn't answer. He might have shrugged, might not Either way it told Myron to mind his own business. Myron looked at Jessica. She shrugged too.

On the court Duane was growing more erratic, but he was still hitting enough winners to maintain the edge. He won the third set 7-5. He was up two sets to one – one set away from the U.S. Open finals. The Nike box was animated. Hands were slapping Ned's back. Even Ned seemed to be perking up now. Hard to keep a good man down.

Senator Cross watched in silence. No one talked to him, and he talked to no one. Not even during breaks. He had met Myron's eyes only once. He stared for a long time, but did not move. Helen and Kenneth Van Slyke spoke to the people around them, but they both looked uncomfortable. Frank Ache adjusted his crotch and jabbered with Roy O'Connor, the president of TruPro. Frank looked comfortable. Roy looked like he wanted to puke. Ivana Trump glanced about her surroundings. Every time she looked near Win, he blew her kisses.

It was during a serve in the third set when Myron finally began to see it. It started small, a statement made by Jimmy Blaine that did not compute. Something about the foot chase in Philadelphia. The rest sort of tumbled into place. When the final piece clicked, he sat up.

Win and Jessica traded glances. Myron stared off.

"What is it?" Jessica asked.

Myron turned to Win. "I need to talk to Gregory Caufield."

"When?"

"Right away, next break. Can you get him alone?"

Win nodded. "Done."