Drop Shot

Chapter 45

In the tournament's first few rounds it was not uncommon for fifteen or more matches to be going on at the same time. The biggest names usually stayed on Stadium Court or the Grandstand, while other matches took place in smaller venues, some with no seating. Today those courts were so barren, Myron half expected a tumbleweed to blow through. He waited by court sixteen, a semimajor court. It had the most seating next to the Stadium and Grandstand, though less than most high school gyms.

He sat on an aluminum bench in the front row. The sun had gained strength and was now at its most potent. Every once in a while he heard cheers erupt from the Stadium's crowd a hundred yards or so away. Sometimes tennis fans sounded like they were having an orgasm during particularly brilliant points. It sort of built up slowly with a low oh-oh-oh, and then increased Oh-Oh, and finally the big OH-OH-OH, followed by a loud sigh and clapping.

Weird thought.

Distracting thought too.

He heard Gregory Caufield well before he saw him. That same creepy, money accent that Win possessed said, "Windsor, where on earth are we going?"

"Just over here, Gregory."

"Are you sure this couldn't wait, old boy?"

Old boy. Neither one of them was thirty-five yet and he was using term old boy.

"No, Gregory, it can't"

They rounded the corner. Gregory's eyes widened a bit when be saw Myron, but he recovered fast. He smiled and stuck out his hand. "Hello, Myron."

"Hi, Greg."

His face flinched for a second. He was Gregory, not Greg.

"What's this all about, Windsor? I thought you had something private to tell me."

Win shrugged. "I lied," he said. "Myron needs to speak with you. He needs your cooperation."

Gregory turned to Myron and waited.

"I want to talk to you about the night Alexander Cross was murdered."

"I know nothing about it," Gregory said.

"You know plenty about it, but I just have one question for you."

"I'm sorry," Gregory said. "I must be getting back now." He turned to leave. Win blocked his path. Gregory looked puzzled.

"Just one question," Myron said.

Gregory ignored him. "Please move out of my way, Windsor."

Win said, "No."

Gregory could not believe what he was hearing. He half-smiled and put a hand through his unruly hair. "Are you prepared to use force to keep me here?"

"Yes."

"Please, Windsor, this is no longer amusing."

"Myron needs your cooperation."

"And I am not prepared to give it to him. Now I insist you move."

Win did not move. "Are you telling me you will not cooperate, Gregory?"

"That is precisely what I am telling you."

Win's palm shot out and hit the solar plexus. The wind gushed from Gregory. He collapsed to one knee, his face pale and shocked. Myron shook his head at Win, but he understood what he was doing. To people like Gregory – actually, to most people – violence is abstract. They read about it. They see it in movies and in the newspapers. But it never really touches them. It simply doesn't exist in their world. Win had shown Gregory how quickly that can change. Gregory had now experienced physical pain from the hands of a fellow human being. He would be different now. Not just here, not just today.

Gregory held his chest. He was on the verge of tears.

"Do not make me strike you again," Win said.

Myron stepped toward him but did not help him up. "Gregory, we know all about that night," he said. "I have just one question. I don't care what you were doing out there. I don't care if you were snorting or shooting illegal substances. That doesn't interest me in the least. What you say will in no way incriminate you – unless you lie to me."

Gregory looked up at him. His face was completely void of any color.

"They weren't robbing the club, were they?" Myron asked.

Gregory did not answer.

"Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller hadn't broken into the club to rob it," Myron said. "And they weren't there selling drugs either. Am I right? If I am, just nod."

Gregory looked at Win, then back to Myron. He nodded.

"Tell me what they were doing," Myron said.

Gregory didn't say anything.

"Just say it," Myron continued. "I already know the answer. I just need you to say it. What were they doing there that night?"

Gregory's breathing was returning to normal now. He reached out his hand. Myron took it. He stood up and looked Myron straight in the eye.

"What were they doing?" Myron asked. "Tell me."

And then Gregory Caufield said exactly what Myron had expected. "They were playing tennis."