Murder Is My Racquet (18 page)

Webber dearly wanted to believe him. But as soon as he joined the cafeteria line at dinner, Earl Emerson turned up, jumpy as a flea.

“Jeez, Bobby. You okay? I couldn’t make it to practice today. Heard you took sick.”

“It was nothing. Doc said I probably just had too much sun.”

“Got to be more to it than that,” Earl whispered. “First you, then Caden.”

“What happened to Alex?”

“Hush. Not here.” Earl drew him out of the bustling hall and around back between the trash Dumpsters. The air was thick with honeysuckle and the rhythmic thrum of cicadas. “After they took you off the court, Caden hit the showers,” Earl said. “He’s washing up like always, minding his own business, and real suddenlike, his hair comes falling out in clumps. Kid got flat-out hysterical, screaming so hard and crazy the coach had to slap his face to calm him down. Way I hear it he’s bald as a light bulb now. Won’t leave his room, he’s so ashamed.”

“That’s crap, Earl. You’re just making it up to try and get my goat.”

Earl huffed. “Go see for yourself. Coach asked me to bring Alex some dinner. You can do it just the same.”

Webber’s hands shook as he balanced the tray on his hip to knock on Alex Caden’s door. “Hey, Caden. It’s room service. Open up.”

“Leave it outside,” came a tremulous voice.

“No can do. The dean’s dog will be all over it in a heartbeat. If I let Sparky eat this poison junk and he croaks, I’ll get in big trouble. Now, open the damned door.”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“I promise. Now come on. The slop gets any colder, it’ll stiffen up.”

Webber didn’t laugh, he gasped. Caden’s dark eyes sat like coal lumps in his pale, naked face. Not only was Alex bald, but he had also lost his eyebrows, lashes, even the faint line of whiskers that ran like a dirty smudge above his lip.

“My god, Caden. What the hell happened?”

“You can see. First you passed out on the court, then this. It’s got to be that old witch who’s always hanging around. She does voodoo you know.”

“I heard. Could she have gotten something of yours, Caden? Some kind of string?” Webber asked.

Frowning, Caden resembled a bowling ball in pain. “The string is missing from the hood of my sweatshirt, why?”

“I heard she needs strings to do her spells. You have to lock up anything that has a string in it: tennis racquets, yo-yos, clothing, shoes, even dental floss. I’m pretty sure that’s how she got to me. Duchamps must have fished my used dental floss out of the bathroom trashcan and given it to her.”

“I heard something about strings, but I didn’t pay attention. Honestly, it never occurred to me that all that voodoo talk could be true.” Poor bald Alex stroked his gleaming skull. “What am I going to do, Bobby? You think it’ll grow back?”

Webber forced a smile. “Sure. It’s bound to.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Don’t think like that, Alex. You just go ahead and lock up those strings and everything will be fine.”

The next day, Webber drew a bye on the practice ladder. Grateful for the break, he settled in the stands to watch Tommy Madison play Roy Duchamps. Madison was a wiry, high-strung kid with a serious consistency problem, but when he managed to rein in his nerves, he could be a fierce competitor.

Strangely, Tommy seemed in cool command this afternoon. Talk about poor bald Alex had run like wildfire through the locker room, spreading a pox of jitters that infected the entire Beaumont tennis team. Everyone was wary of Duchamps and terrified of the voodoo lady, wondering who might next incur her vengeful wrath, imagining what horrific form her boundless malevolence might take. Word had also spread about Maman Mechant needing strings to work her spells. All the boys had locked away anything they thought she might use against them.

Still, Tommy Madison’s game was strong and clean. He matched Duchamps stroke for stroke, serve for serve, and point for point. The lead bounced from court to court in the tightest set Webber could remember. His gaze kept darting down the row toward the voodoo lady. Her expression never changed, but each time Madison pulled ahead of Roy, the needles clicked more sharply in her cruel, determined hands.

Webber couldn’t believe Madison’s nerve. What could he be thinking? Crazy kid had to be suicidal.

In the end the match was tied and Hardeman called for sudden death overtime. Webber went woozy with sympathetic fear as Madison took the first point. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Maman Mechant hunched lower over the tote bag, pulling up a ragged white strand.

He wanted to warn Madison, but the words caught like a bone in Webber’s throat. Tommy was asking for it, arranging his own funeral, and Webber would be nuts to risk his own neck by getting involved. He bit his tongue as Duchamps served the next point, driving home a stunning ace.

Tommy blew his first serve, and Webber dared to hope that
the kid had come to his senses. But he burned in a risky full-out second serve that left Duchamps swinging at the breeze.

Roy countered with another ace, sending Madison back to the line. As Tommy prepared to serve again, Webber spotted another white thread snaking up onto Maman Mechant’s needle.

Sweating now, Webber pulled his eyes away as Tommy hit the ball. Swinging through, he lost his balance. His ankle twisted, and he came down hard, howling. Hardeman checked the injury, frowning, and helped Tommy hobble off the court.

“What’s the deal, Coach? We call a forfeit?” asked Duchamps.

“No such thing in my vocabulary,” Hardeman said. “Let’s see which of you lucky ducks gets to finish out this match. Round and round she goes, and where she stops nobody knows.”

Webber’s blood froze as Hardeman’s trailing finger pointed his way.

“You’re it, Webber. Get your butt out here and finish up.”

Webber heard clicking needles, and he felt Maman Mechant’s smoldering gaze. “I can’t, Coach,” he stammered. “Please. I’m—I’m not up to it.”

“Get up to it. Now! No excuses. And don’t let me catch you playing less than all-out.”

“This ain’t fair at all, Coach,” whined Duchamps. “I’m supposed to play Tommy Madison, not him.”

“You play who I tell you to play, Duchamps. I say he’s Tommy Madison until this match is done. Now, get to it.”

Approaching the court, Webber set his mind. All he had to do was lose two points. Two lousy points, and Duchamps would win. He could do this.

Ready, steady
.

He made a good show of going for Duchamps’s first serve. Carefully, he swung through on the return so the ball hit the net with convincing determination.

His own first serve nicked the tape, triggering a let call. The next went wide.

“Serve the damned ball, Webber,” Hardeman demanded. “Don’t you dare let me see another cream puff like that.”

The coach’s eyes were on him, and so were Maman Mechant’s. Webber approached the baseline like a condemned man. He looked across the court at Roy Duchamps, willing him to make a brilliant return.

He tossed the ball and brought his racquet down and watched the serve shoot toward the service box. Duchamps raced for it and caught the shot inches from the ground. He brought his racquet up and the ball looped in a teasing arc toward the net. Turning away, Webber exhaled like a blown tire in relief.

“Point to you, Webber,” Hardeman said.

Heartsick, he saw that Roy’s return had dribbled down the net on his own side of the court. Worse, Duchamps’s first serve went wild and out of bounds. Roy pulled back too far on his second try, and the ball failed to reach Webber’s court.

“That’s a match,” called the coach. “Congratulations, Webber. You have helped Madison uncrown the king. Too bad, Duchamps. This puts Tommy Madison at top seed and makes you number two. Guess you’ll have to try harder.”

“No fair!” cried Duchamps. “You can’t do that, Coach. He took me for a couple of points, not the match.”

“Cry on your own time, number two. Right now, you’d do better to work on that serve.”

Webber stood rooted in terror, expecting some dread malady
to strike. But nothing happened. Then it occurred to him that Maman Mechant had no way to work a spell against him. He had been too careful to lock up all his strings.

Giddy, he left the court and traded high fives with several teammates. Fassberg, the genius, was right. All he had to do was make sure she had no strings.

Webber made it nearly to the dorm before Earl Emerson came running up behind. “Hold up, Bobby. You left your bag.”

Emerson was flame-cheeked, huffing hard. He held Webber’s gym bag in his wormy, scarred hand. The zipper gaped open.

“Thanks for bringing this, Earl, but you didn’t need to snoop in my stuff”

“I did no such thing. It was open like that when I found it.”

“That can’t be. I know I left it shut.” Webber seized the bag and pawed through it wildly, searching for trouble. No strings had been taken from his spare racquet, and the string in his gym shorts was intact. He checked his extra socks and tennis shirt, but he did not spot any telltale pulls in the fabric where Duchamps or his voodoo lady might have stolen a thread.

“What’s up, Bobby? Something wrong?” Emerson asked.

“I don’t think so.” He was at the bottom of the bag now. All that remained was his toiletry kit, which had also been left unzipped. Fortunately, it did not include any dental floss. But with a sick, sinking feeling, Webber remembered that it did contain his hairbrush. He pulled out the brush by its wooden handle and erupted in a hot rash of fear.

The brush had been picked clean. The dense mass of hair in the bristles was gone. Maman Mechant had enough strands to destroy every organ in his body.

“Did you see her, Earl? The voodoo lady? Was she still at the courts when you picked up the bag?”

“Matter of fact, she was. I heard her talking to Roy, telling him not to worry, that Maman was going to see to everything. Make things right again.” Emerson shuddered. “Gave me the creeps, Bobby. I got to tell you.”

Webber’s head started to throb, and his vision went cloudy. On lead feet, he went to his room, unlocked his closet door, and packed his things.

Hearing the anguish in his voice, his parents asked few questions.

“All that matters is that you be happy, Bobby,” said his dad. “I’ll call the travel agent and arrange to have a ticket for you on the next plane out.”

“But I feel so bad about you losing the tuition money.”

“Forget about it, honey,” his mom said. “We’ll be delighted to have you home again. You just calm down and travel safely. Remember, things happen for the best.”

Fassberg offered a lift to the airport in his BMW. “Sorry to see you go, Webber. You were one of the few kids I could have an actual conversation with in this godforsaken place.”

Webber hauled his overstuffed duffel bags from the trunk. “Thanks for the ride. And thanks for the advice, Darwin. You saved my hide.”

“Here’s another piece of free advice for the road. Keep an eye on the semiconductor sector. There’s going to be a giant pop at the beginning of the next quarter.”

“Thanks, Fassberg. I’ll tell my dad. Maybe he can make back some of the money he’s forfeiting on my tuition.”

“If he plays it right, he can make all of it back. Tell him I said to buy big and take the profits early.”

“I will. Thanks.” Webber slipped inside the cool terminal. Despite his misgivings, he was glad to be headed home. Maybe his mother was right, and everything did happen for the best. Maybe there was a good side to bad things like Maman Mechant’s spells.

• • •

F
assberg watched until Webber disappeared out of sight toward the departure gates. Satisfied, he drove back to the dorm, calling ahead on his cell phone to arrange a meeting.

He found the others awaiting him outside the border checkpoint to Darwinia. Fassberg strode in first and settled comfortably on his throne before admitting each boy in turn and extracting the required fees. Lovingly, he regarded the growing pile of currency on his coffee table.

“Fine work, team. Bobby Webber is in the air by now, winging back toward JFK. Mission accomplished,” Fassberg said.

“Sure do hope that’s the last one we got to handle,” drawled Earl Emerson. “This routine is getting a mite old.”

“I suspect Webber is the last, unless the coach insists on bringing someone in midyear,” Fassberg said.

“If he does, we’ll take care of him like always,” said Tommy Madison.

“Fine. But this time someone else gets to shave his head and all. Plucking those lashes hurts like hell,” said Alex Caden.

“Wearing these fake scars is no picnic either,” Emerson declared. He winced as he tugged at the rubbery mass glued between his thumb and index finger.

Fassberg raised his hands for silence. “Gentlemen, please. Keep in mind that all these little sacrifices will pay off major dividends when Roy Duchamps becomes the hottest name in tennis.
Think six-figure purses. Think seven-figure product endorsements. Think a franchised string of Roy Duchamps tennis academies nationwide. Make that worldwide. Sky’s the limit.”

“Sounds real good to me,” said Duchamps.

“It’s good for all of us. Members of the Fassberg Sports Management team representing the Duchamps tennis franchise will each be in for one percent of net profits. We’re talking big numbers, gentlemen. Huge.”

“How big, Darwin?” Duchamps asked. “You never say exactly.”

Fassberg chuckled. “That’s because there is no way to compute the exact sum in advance. We can project going out the length of your expected career and beyond, but there are so many unknown factors. For instance, if that old lady stops hanging around at courtside all the time, we’ll have to hire an actor to take the role.”

“About how big, then?” Duchamps persisted.

Fassberg’s weasel eyes narrowed. “Big enough. Of course anyone who’s not satisfied can bow out any time. No one is irreplaceable, Roy, including you. I’ve got most of the school begging for a piece of the action.”

There was a rumble of general assent, but then Roy Duchamps got to his feet.

“This is my hard work you’re talking about, Fassberg. My sweat, my name, my future. I want to know what I end up with. I want to know what piece of the action you fix to take.”