Murder Is My Racquet (20 page)

Rudi and I drank Bacardi Superior and tonic and ate a Portuguese dish, Lestert cod and potatoes. Laura drank champagne and ate clams steamed in white wine. He told me he was born in Costa Rica, but his family were Volga Poles and he’d come here at an early age. His parents were doctors, emigrated from Europe in the fifties. He was pleased that I liked tennis, he hated New York but loved Florida (yeah). He went to school at the University of Miami on a soccer and tennis scholarship. He ran five miles a day, loved scuba diving and he could play the guitar like a pro (yawn). And it was like I figured, Laura barely spoke a word, she looked like a woman that was waiting to be rescued, like a woman that couldn’t really hang with the guys. When Rudi left the table I asked Laura if she was happy, nobody’s happy, she said, they may think so, but they’re not. I told her that Rudi talks about himself a whole lot. “He’s a professional athlete. He takes himself very seriously, superstars aren’t known for being selfless. It’s me, me, me. Plus he is an only child, so what do you expect?”

I pay the check, with cash of course, and leave a heavy tip. This guy Rudi looks impressed, and I figure, that he figures, that we hit it off. Things were going so well, in fact, he invites me to sit in the friends box for the finals. On the way back to their hotel he tells me he is the kind of player the ATP is looking for, a player with charisma. I tell him he has an unbelievable serve. His secret, he says, is that before he serves, he
bounces the ball three times. And he has this ritual before each match, he runs a mile while listening to Beatles songs. He tells me that Pete Sampras was a great champion, but that he could beat him.

The thing you should know about me is that I was a pretty good athlete. I played a great game of handball. Or rather, I used to before the knee went, and then the elbow and a touch of the gout ruined my court speed. I finally had to give the game up for good. When I played, I played hard, like Rudi, none of that drop shot, get everything back jazz, hit the ball with all you got, go for the shot, hit winners, screw keeping the ball in, go for it, a big serve and come in, go for the kill. I don’t know that much about tennis, but even I know Pete Sampras would kick Rudi’s ass.

In the finals Rudi played a newcomer from California, a black guy named Bobby Paul. Rudi crushed him, one and one. When it was over, Bobby told Rudi he’d sprained his ankle in the first set. Rudi told him that life was unfair, but that’s the way it was.

Rudi gave me a signed photograph, a tennis racquet and some balls, I gave him and Laura a matching pair of Mont Blanc pens. Standing on Belvue Avenue out in front of the Tennis Casino, Rudi tells an interviewer his goal is to build up computer points with the power of his game, instead of major titles. Since he goes for it in every match, he can’t be consistent, sometimes he’ll lose the major event, but when he does, he goes down swinging. I drive them to the airport, we promise to stay in touch. Laura takes my hand and holds it, her face is pale, she bites her lip, she seems sad and looks much older than her twenty-five years. Rudi tells me she had a bad night, it was probably something she ate.

I drive back to New York, I don’t fly, I hate airplanes.

Lester, my friend and Laura’s father, asks how I’m doing, how’s it going? I tell him, fine. How long, he asks, how long before you straighten this guy out? I tell him that he should know that these things take time. Lester is pissed at me and tells me that it’s his daughter we’re talking about. For twenty-five years he’s treated Laura like a princess, and this character is treating her like a rag doll. Lester tells me I should hurry up, get it over with. I work at my own speed, I tell him.

I lie awake at night and think of Rudi and Laura, how much and how little I know about them. How frightened and sad Laura looked. I think of the Mont Blanc pens I gave them.

I have this fat bastard cousin, Arthur, who, when he was an FBI agent, sold me twenty-five Mont Blancs. The pens cost me five thousand big ones, each one has a transmitter built in. I told Arthur he was a shit for shaking down his own cousin. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, and shows a real lack of gratitude,” is what Arthur told me.

Laura and Rudi rent this Brooklyn Heights brownstone. The back of the building faces out onto the Promenade. A magnificent location, with great views of Manhattan and a ten-minute ride from my apartment in Red Hook.

I live above a Korean grocery store on Court Street off Union. The grocery store is not Korean, just the people who own the store. Lester told me not to shop there. Lester hates Koreans and Chinese, too. He’d been in the Korean War, and he says it was the Chinese and the Koreans that taught him all he needed to know about man’s inhumanity to man.

Lester lost two toes to frostbite, one from each foot, and now he plays hell trying to find a pair of loafers that fit correctly. I didn’t tell Lester that I figured he hated the Koreans
and the Chinese because he couldn’t wear Bruno Maglis. Him being a major clotheshorse and shoe freak.

It’s dark when I get to the Promenade, this Rudi has put the flow back in my step, I feel loose, right on my game. A perfect night, with a light, cool breeze coming in off the harbor, the sky lit with about a billion stars. I really luck out and find a bench directly behind Laura and Rudi’s building. My heart’s leaping with the pure pleasure of what it is that I do. The service I render. Then that ol’ doubt creeps in, I have this unconscious thought, well, not unconscious enough. Lester could be dead wrong. A pair of Koreans walk by with earphones listening to Walkmans. I can almost make out the music and wonder if it’s the Piano Man.

Look, look, I tell myself, Lester wants you to check this guy out, see if Rudi really is abusing his daughter, then you gotta do what you gotta do. Maybe, just maybe, the tennis player is all mouth. If that’s what it is, just mouth, then you have a talk with Lester and a talk with the kid, pull Rudi’s coat, tell him to cool his role.

These guys, these bigshots like Lester, they’re always running off half-cocked. Their imagination making it worse than it is. Most times when you check it out, you say to yourself, it’s not so bad as they thought. Your partner’s not robbing you, and although it may seem that way, your wife’s not putting her feet in the air for the insurance man. And, no, your mistress ain’t an undercover cop. I worry that I’ll make a mistake, do something that will give me nightmares. So I take my time, pay attention, something in me takes over. Listen, you’re either good at what you do or you’re not. You either take your time and do the right thing or you don’t. You’re either a professional or some lump off the street. Knowing is what makes the difference. Taking somebody out is a very personal thing. I
wouldn’t do work for some Colombian drug dealer, those guys blow holes in people because they don’t like their ties. I’m one of a kind. You come to me, present your problem. I make the final decision. That’s how I work. I make the decision if it’s a go or no go. I watch the mark, I follow him, know his routine, try to speak to him, get in a conversation and try to get to know him. Give him a Mont Blanc if I can.

When I’m into my work, I’m there, my whole world comes down to that mark. I blank out everything else, and the mark becomes the essence of my life. It’s like having sex, to do it right requires complete and total concentration. And, when I’m done, when it’s over, I never talk about it like some people do, wanting to go over it, wanting to hear some applause. For me when it’s over, it’s done, it’s history. Next.

I turned my back to the brownstone, looking across the river to Manhattan. I put on my own earphones and tuned my Walkman. There was the sound of cars from the Gowanus Expressway bouncing up under my feet. The Promenade was like the deck of a ship, couples strolling arm in arm. From my Walkman, the sound of Mozart. My first reaction was to take off my earphones, more confused than angry, I examined them, then put them back on. I played with the Walkman tuner, more Mozart. I could identify classical music like nobody’s business. Eighteen months at Greenhaven Prison, my cellmate, a classical music nut. Mozart, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Liszt, Beethoven’s
Fur Elise
, my favorite. You name it, I heard it, over and over, my cellmate always talking his ass off about it. Talk, talk, talk, the little nut was doing a seven-and-a-half-to-fifteen-year bit for manslaughter. The guy was a music teacher, he took out his ol’ lady for banging one of his students. Crazy little bastard used a tomahawk.

See, my Walkman’s a receiver for the Mont Blanc transmitter. The FM stations cleared between 98.7 and 110, you tune right in there and pick up all the conversation within ten feet of those pens. I thought of Rudi and Laura sitting in their apartment, staring out across the harbor, listening to a Mozart sonata for violins. Nice. I breathe out and relax a bit, listening to the earphones.

I sat waiting.

“Eating again,” said Rudi, “do you ever stop feeding your face?” Then: “For Chrissake, don’t you care at all?”

“I haven’t eaten since lunch,” said Laura, in her shy voice. “I’m not you, I can’t go without eating, I get a headache.”

“It’s not how often you eat, it’s what you eat,” Rudi saying in his needling voice. The background music died, I heard footsteps. The transmitter doing its job. Then I heard a crash, another exhalation. Rudi had thrown a dish into the sink. Then Laura again: “Why are you so angry? It was only a turkey sandwich.”

Rudi, loud now, “You’re a meat-eating pig. I swear, you disgust me.”

I could see Laura in my mind’s eye, see her getting up off a chair, hear her rise, hear her say, “What am I doing with you?” Some kind of movement I couldn’t make out. “Cow,” said Rudi. Then I heard a slap. “Bitch,” a Rudi shout, then I heard him hit Laura, listened as she lost her wind in a long, sorry gasp. Heard her collapse onto a chair, a sofa, something. Heard her whimper. “I’m leaving,” she moaned, “I’m going home.”

“Pleze,”
Rudi said. “You… are… not… going… anywhere. I’m going out. When I get back, you f’n a well better be sitting right there.” Silence for a few seconds, then a door slammed.

I could see him zipping up that blue and white jacket with the French Open decals he wears. I see him running his hands through his hair, going down the stairs, moving neatly, quickly, like an athlete. I can see these things very precisely, very exactly. It’s one of the gifts I have. I don’t try to understand these talents; I do sometimes wonder about them. I could hear the traffic building on the expressway, humming like bees.

I spotted him walking along Willow Street, heading for Montague. There’s a tennis club there. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, the kind of bag you and me pay big bucks for. For him, for Rudi, the rising star, it was a gift from Nike. Rudi didn’t pay for anything, Rudi didn’t go for spit.

I stopped the car when I saw him coming to the street corner, opened the window and called to him. He leaned into the window, “Well, look who’s here,” he said smiling.

I drive this black Mercedes ragtop, it has absolutely no room in the backseat. Point of fact: People that own this kind of car could care less about the backseat. I mean, all that money for this car, you’d have to have a brain the size of a pea to worry about a backseat.

Rudi looked at me. It wasn’t that smartass look. It was a look of joy and genuine surprise. He shoved his bag into the backseat, telling me he had some great news. “I want to share it with someone. I guess I can share it with you.”

He looked at me, looked into the backseat and laughed, revealing those perfect teeth. He said, “Wow, what did you pay for this car?” I told him. He said, “Wow, for all that money, you’d think you’d have a backseat.”

I smiled. A trunk, yes, a trunk is important, the size of the trunk counts. At least for me it does, and this car has a huge trunk. In addition to its size and the various nuances of a
top-of-the-line vehicle, it takes little expertise to line that trunk with plastic. I like the good thick kind, you know, industrial grade. See, a guy like me, I don’t need fancy clothes, or expensive shoes, or jewelry, I don’t go to a shrink or a periodontist, I have absolutely no angst. You give me a great car, and a chance to do a little gambling, watch some horses run, toss a little craps, get a little tail once in a while, and every so often straighten out a no-good punk, I’m one happy guy. I don’t get nightmares or stomach pains. It never happens.

“Hey, man,” he said, “you mind if I drive?” I handed him the keys. “Wow, thanks,” he said.

“Have a party,” I said, “enjoy yourself.”

How that sweet thing Laura ever got involved with this snake is a mystery to me. During the two days we spent together, I could see that she had given up completely. For a good-looking guy, to hang around sports stars with the personalities of squid, to be mistreated, insulted and demoralized while on trips to Australia, Italy, France and England. See, I did a little research, I know about “the tour.”

Well, Laura is not the world’s first fool, and she certainly won’t be the last. I spied those groupies in Newport, the way they gathered around Rudi like a bunch of hummingbirds, the way they gawked at his perfect tan and impeccable white teeth. I can understand what must have happened to the little lady, see how she got drawn in. Like a girl, she is a girl. Maybe he was a terrific lover, put the girl in a trance. Ey, I can’t worry about such things. I promised Lester a favor, I owe him. Payback time.

We toss his bag in the back and go for a ride, off to have us a great seafood dinner in Sheepshead Bay. His big hands
around the steering wheel. He drives the Mercedes down Atlantic Avenue, up onto the BQE, through South Brooklyn, past Ocean Parkway, Bay Ridge, Bensonhurst, and finally out toward Coney Island. We had the windows and the top down, I could smell the sea. And suddenly the Verrazano loomed off to the right, the bridge was like an illustration in a guidebook of New York. We passed ballparks and playing fields and public tennis courts without nets.

He lets go of the steering wheel and throws his arms in the air. “This car can drive itself,” he says. His head-full of hair blowing in the breeze.