Drop Shot
Page 70
“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.”
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 he 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.
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.”
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 he 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.
