Sudden Death (12 page)

“He’s been running Tomahawk for about twelve years now. Clark & Clark is subject to a shake-up the same as any other corporation, and you know if a new man comes in, he’ll remove all the old division heads and put in his own men. Corporate politics is like the days of Andrew Jackson, the spoils system.”

She finished her drink and fixed herself another. “Are you hearing anything in the wind?”

“Rumors, but there are always rumors.”

“Jensen Bainbridge is getting old.” Jensen was president of Tomahawk’s parent company, Clark & Clark. “When he goes, there goes our sponsor.” Lavinia paused thoughtfully. “Siggy, I’m glad you brought this to my attention. I’ll snoot around to see who might replace him. I still have some good friends at all the best country clubs. Wives know everything. I just might give Betty Bainbridge a call next week for old times’ sake.”

The two smiled.

“If the bubble ever bursts,” Siggy said as he hunched over his drink, “do you think it will come from Carmen Semana or Susan Reilly? They are not our only lesbians, but they’re the most volatile.”

“Carmen.” Lavinia’s reply was immediate.

“Why?”

“Carmen’s like a child sometimes. She leaps first and looks later.”

Siggy rubbed the stubble on his chin. The night was getting longer along with his beard. “I don’t know, Lavinia. Susan has a perfect cover, but she’s hurt a battalion of people. Sooner or later someone will get her.”

Lavinia said nothing. What she thought about and what she revealed were two different things. Even when drunk, Lavinia could babble on and still keep a watch on herself. That
reserve had won her Wimbledon. But she sensed on some deeper level many things. She knew her varicose veins looked like lapis lazuli. She knew the players looked at her as a living reliquary. She knew they laughed behind her back as the young ever do at the old. She sensed that as she got older, all the events of her past became equally accessible. Her mind could call them up with as much freshness as the moment they happened twenty, thirty, forty years ago. But the events themselves ebbed away like shipwrecks sliding off the continental shelf to break up in the depths of the sea. The event was gone forever. There was only memory and the present, the eternal, chaotic, painful, pleasurable present.

Lavinia fixed herself another vodka gimlet.

The finals were indeed final for Hilda Stambach. Her game deserted her, and Carmen waltzed off with the Chicago title. It was the kind of victory that made her giddy, for she had hardly worked up a sweat.

Harriet packed up Carmen’s bags in the locker room so they could catch an earlier flight to Detroit. She liked to get in and settle in.

A burly youngster who’d just joined the tour that year was also packing her bags after winning the doubles. As she left the locker room, Harriet whispered to Carmen, “No more ugly dykes. We’ve got to petition straight people to stop breeding them.”

Miguel smoothed his black moustache, then straightened his $150 tie. He didn’t own a suit under $1000. If Carmen cared little about how she appeared, Miguel more than made up for both of them. He proved the peacock principle.

Siggy Wayne eyed him with fascination. “I’m not a promoter.”

“Not in America, Mr. Wayne. Outside of America, why can’t you do as you please?” Miguel’s eyes danced.

“I never thought about it.” Siggy really had not thought about it. He received a hefty commission from the contracts he brought in. Although the sponsors on one end and the demands of the players on the other gave him ulcers, his base salary before commissions was $50,000 so he considered himself fortunate. A few times he allowed himself a special present under the table but nothing outrageous—no cars or girls or trips to Hawaii. The last thing Siggy wanted to do on his own time was travel. Cold cash, however, was different. Yes, he could take that, and Lavinia would be none the wiser for it. But promote a tournament?

“The terms of your contract with Lavinia’s organization do not prevent you from free enterprise?” Miguel’s soft voice carried the question.

“No.” Siggy watched.

“My country does not enjoy a world-class women’s tournament. The only great player we ever see is my sister.” He chuckled. “Great as she is, she needs some competition.”

“Carmen’s the best, the best.” Siggy waved his hand. The gesture would have been more complete if he was smoking a cigar.

“You are only as good as your opponent allows you to be. No?” Miguel said, repeating Hazel Wightman’s famous line.

“Right.”

“We have great interest in tennis at home but we do not have your great organizing capability.” His dark eyes fluttered. Siggy blinked back, and Miguel continued. “You have so much influence with the girls and with Lavinia.”

Ha, Siggy thought to himself. No one has influence with Lavinia.

Miguel lightly tapped the back of Siggy’s hand with his forefinger. “Four big stars, the other girls will follow the
leaders, and we’ll get a nice draw. I’d like thirty-two players. We put up a $150,000 purse. The winner takes twenty percent, the standard agreement. You and I split the proceeds down the middle. You deliver the players. I deliver the stadium and the sponsors.”

“There’s no profit with prize money. Who will put up the money for operating costs?” Siggy trolled his bait.

“I assumed that was understood. We take a modest percent of the operating costs as salary, and then we split the profits from the gate.”

Siggy found Miguel charming. Even if the gate was a total bust, all would not be lost. “What about the political situation?”

By now Miguel was wearily accustomed to American ignorance when it came to any country south of the Rio Grande. “Mr. Wayne, we are putting on a tournament, not a revolution.”

“Yes, of course. I was only thinking of the welfare of the girls.” Siggy rarely thought of their welfare in Cleveland or Detroit.

“Do you think the American market is saturated?”

Miguel was subtle. Siggy appreciated that. What he was really asking Sig was how many more commissions he could look forward to.

Siggy decided to answer directly. “Not only is it saturated, but the big boom is over. We’ll lose ground gradually. To be blunt, Miguel, the women’s game is a bore with few exceptions. And if the economic situation worsens, few people will pay to grow old during a rally between Page Bartlett Campbell and Rainey Rogers. Tennis could lose faster than anyone anticipates.” He breathed deeply. “But I’m an optimist. I’m banking on the fact that men like to look at legs, and, well …”

“Won’t cable tv help?”

“Some. Let’s face it, Miguel, tennis lacks the sheer physical
drama of football, the speed of basketball, the color of baseball. Individual sports aren’t as exciting as team sports. If you don’t like the shortstop on a team, you might like the pitcher. But if you don’t like Susan Reilly, you really don’t like Susan Reilly, and your choices are limited. Anyway, television tennis doesn’t work as well, there isn’t enough motion, and the court area is confining.”

Miguel listened impassively. “Will you ever leave the game?”

Siggy’s eyebrows involuntarily shot upwards. “Game? This is no game to me, Miguel. I’m a businessman.”

Smiling, Miguel replied, “Which is why we should be partners in the Argentina Women’s Invitational.”

“I’ll think about it. It’s tempting.” He then asked nonchalantly, “Can you guarantee your sister’s participation?”

“But, of course.” Miguel expansively stretched out his arms like a pastor giving a benediction.

Walking to his car, Siggy considered Miguel’s plan. It had merit. But Miguel did not. Siggy didn’t trust him although he liked him. Deep down he had the same reaction to Carmen. Charmers but lightweights. There was a piece missing. Miguel couldn’t organize a Tupperware party. Why risk antagonizing Lavinia over what, at most, would be $20,000 profit plus a few extras? And what was that worth when translated into American money? Was Miguel talking Argentinian cash or U.S.? Siggy liked the barter, the strategy of business. It was not a lofty profession, but he liked it. He hadn’t gotten as far as he had without trusting his instincts.

Looking up the side of a brick building, Siggy noticed the painted figure of a man who looked both somber and kind. Davidson Mortuary was printed under the man’s folded hands. Davidson, no doubt. Siggy shook his head and thought to himself, “What are we coming to when funeral parlors advertise?”

The boom was truly over and Siggy knew it. The stars of
the game still held the fans; but women’s tennis needed some fresh players to come on the scene. Fresh and pretty was what Siggy prayed for.

Tennis madness peaked in the mid 1970’s. The average American couldn’t wait to play tennis, until the average American learned it wasn’t easy to play. Novice players found themselves chasing netted balls or sheepishly asking the players on the next court to hit back an errant ball. When it dawned on many that tennis was a sport that took years to learn, they switched to jogging. After all, how hard is it to run? Those people who needed competition as much as fitness discovered racquetball, a game that yields instant pleasure regardless of one’s athletic ability or skill. Exercise workout centers claimed those people who didn’t have the time for a long tennis match; exercising to music claimed even more ex-tennis enthusiasts.

The city of New Orleans served as a warning signal. Siggy didn’t mention negative information to potential sponsors, but for his own planning he took heed. The use of public courts in that beautiful city had dropped by seventy percent. Local teaching pros were struggling to pay their bills as they had lost roughly half of their students. Sales in the pro sports shops nose-dived from twenty percent to forty percent, depending on location.

Men’s pro tournaments never generated the profit New Orleans’ promoters hoped. In fact, they flopped.

Even the oldest tennis club in the United States, The New Orleans Lawn Tennis Club, renamed Stern, felt the decline.

On a national level, Spalding and Wilson, two huge sporting goods companies, are looking into a cesspool of red ink when it comes to their tennis equipment. Bancroft, once an honored racquet in the game, is not seen around much these days.

Maybe New Orleans was an especially bad case. Tennis
was still in good shape in less enticing cities like Lincoln, Nebraska. New Orleans offers such riches of entertainment, tennis has heavy competition.

Still, Siggy worried. And he wondered if Lavinia bothered to acquire such municipal statistics or sales statistics from companies. She so identified with the game that she might ignore bad news. He couldn’t afford to be so blind. If his income dropped below a certain level, he’d have to jump ship.

Happy Straker, enjoying a streak of competence, beat Carmen in the Detroit finals. Carmen could do no right; Happy could do no wrong. Happy, puffed up like a toad, swaggered about. Carmen swallowed her anger and figured Happy wouldn’t swagger long; there was always next week in Oakland, California. There was only one way to face a loss, Carmen reminded herself, and that was to learn what you can from it, then forget the rest. Otherwise you would eat yourself up.