Sudden Death (14 page)

Wearing enough gold to qualify as the legendary El Dorado, Lavinia Sibley Archer in a crescendo of bad taste held court in Los Angeles. Although she fancied herself to be above such tripe, she adored mingling with movie stars. Movie stars liked to be seen at sporting events. Movie stars liked to be seen, period. Everybody got what they wanted: attention. Lavinia fluttered over an aging male star with barely a body part left to call his own. He’d just completed another spy movie. He reposed in the box of honor, and soon Lavinia dumped herself down next to him and listened with exaggerated fascination to tales of his meager tennis ability. Her false eyelashes bowed as before a king.

The star graciously asked about the upcoming match. Was it really true that Carmen Semana and Susan Reilly hated one another?

“Hate? Let’s say they have no love lost.”

“Weren’t they doubles partners? I know I’ve been on location for every major tournament for the last ten years, deary, but I seem to remember them being doubles partners a couple of years back.”

“All the girls are like a set of junior high school kids. There’s cliques, friendships, broken friendships. A tempest in a teapot.”

“We live in the same teapot over at Warner Brothers.”

“Saw your last film.” She registered proper enthusiasm. “Very heaven.”

“Thank you, but it takes more than one person to make a film, Mrs. Archer.”

“Please, call me Lavinia. While it may take more than one person to make a film, it takes a star to bring in the public.”

He shrugged in manly nonchalance over what he believed to be a total truth. The conversation was cut short by the usual parade of officials, ball boys, and ball girls in the required forest green.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ridgeback, I’ve got to be on court for a few moments.”

“I shall eagerly await your return.” He rose and guided her out of the box.

Once in front of the microphone, Lavinia displayed her loquaciousness. During this monologue, Harriet and Miguel positioned themselves in a local sponsor’s box. Again, Miguel was asked to stand by a seemingly overjoyed Carmen. Miguel was getting into being a star-once-removed. After that touch of manufactured family love, Lavinia returned to her theme of the old days.

Finally the match began. Miranda Mexata steadied herself in the chair. Which way would the wind blow today?

Susan served deep and followed the serve into the net. Her strokes were fluid and solid. Susan was never a graceful player, but she was exciting. She moved well.

Carmen was far more graceful. She hurried only on those occasions when she was pulled wide or caught wrong-footed. Susan could destroy an opponent’s rhythm, but today Carmen was loose. She’d eaten her usual breakfast and teased Harriet about another cat novel from the inexhaustible pen of Baby Jesus:
Catnip
, Great Catnappings in the Feline World. Both women ignored Miguel, the prematch tension, and their feelings about Susan.

Carmen had moments where she went into what Harriet called The Zone. Carmen, the Ozone Cookie, could float off into her own world. She did this when things really bothered her or when she was tired. Oftentimes, the higher Carmen’s spirits, the more worried she was at a subconscious level.

Today, the escape worked. She was playing out of her head. Susan played well, but Carmen literally was in another world. Every shot felt like a hot knife through butter. Every serve left a shimmer down her forearm, a shot of coordination. She could feel the ball even when it was on her opponent’s side of the court. Tight as the match was—Susan never gave away anything—Carmen possessed magic. Moving like a ballerina in time with beautiful music, Carmen hit winner after winner.

Susan clung on with her fingernails. She chased down each ball like a wild woman. She lunged, leapt, and lashed at the ball. She made returns that were impossible. Yet Carmen flicked her godlike wrist, and batted the ball away like an irritating gnat. It was an awesome display of talent.

Carmen put Susan down at six-four, six-four. The crowd was dazzled by Carmen’s lyrical athleticism and amazed by Susan’s concentrated will. As they walked to the net to shake hands, there was a collective intake of breath. Susan reached across and shook her opponent’s hand. Relieved, Carmen genuinely shook her hand in return. Susan smiled a penetrating, unsettling gaze.

Susan sat in her room and drank a Perrier with lime. Alicia sat silently on the sofa. It was not a good idea to talk to Susan after a loss. Susan played and replayed each point. She could recall points she’d played in high school. Had she ever shown any intellectual discipline, Susan Reilly would have forged a first-class mind. Now she forged her weapon.

“What are you thinking?” Susan asked Alicia.

“Nothing.”

“What’d you think of the match?”

“No one could have beaten Carmen today.”

“Every dog has its day?” Susan asked rhetorically.

“I guess so.”

“It’s the wheel of fortune. Did you ever see a tarot deck?”

“No.” Alicia stuck close to the Bible. The occult was tainted with paganism.

“It’s interesting, the tarot deck.” Susan’s eyes blazed like small laser beams. “It’s another way to look at the world. Maybe it’s a form of lost knowledge. Anyway, the wheel of fortune is a card showing a turning wheel. One person is up; another person is down. The wheel never stops turning.”

“You’ll be up.”

“Yeah.”

“If Carmen plays like that tomorrow, Rainey Rogers will get swamped.”

“Maybe. Carmen has a curious habit of underrating her opponents when she’s on top of her form. It’ll catch up.”

“The wheel of fortune?”

“Sometimes you have to give the wheel a push, I think.” Susan swung her legs over the bed. She was back in the present. Alicia could breathe again.

Gary Shorter, Rainey Rogers’s coach, never had an idea above the waist. He fiddled with Rainey’s many racquets; he checked the tension in the strings, the weight, the grip. Mrs. Rogers withdrew into her prematch trance. She fetched whatever her daughter needed, but she was rerouting her energy, preparing for the match the same as Rainey.

Rainey painted Tomahawk’s Hot and Wild Pink on her fingernails. She brushed a thin layer of pearl over that. Her tennis dress was pale pink and edged with bugle beads to catch the lights.

Rainey thought about her game plan. Carmen at her best was unbeatable, but if Rainey could cause a hairline fracture
in that confidence, then Carmen could be beaten. In two more years Carmen would be struggling to get into the finals. Rainey, like a duke defending his castle, withstood the assaults of Carmen. In her mind, it was the warfare of attackers and defenders. She stayed in the backcourt, her castle walls, while Carmen mounted wave after wave of attack. Rainey’s bread-and-butter shot was a sharp, short crosscourt to Carmen’s backhand. The cumulative effect of that shot was like a great boxer’s left jab. Flick, flick, it looks as though it causes no damage. As time wears on, that flick wears down the opponent, kills his spirit, and he’s open to the crushing finish. Rainey never took a match longer than she had to. She’d learned at eighteen if you’ve got your woman on the ropes, finish her off. In the end, it’s a greater mercy.

“How’s your blister?” Mrs. Rogers inquired. The blister was nothing more than a small red rub at her heel, but all athletes are hypochondriacs, so in Rainey’s mind this was serious.

“I’m putting moleskin on it.”

“Good.” Mrs. Rogers picked up the shoe and pressed the back of it with her thumbs. “That shoe company! How many times have we told them exactly what we want? This is a little tight.” She pressed on it some more. “There, that ought to help.”

Carmen hastened one busboy’s nervous breakdown the morning of the LA finals. She snarled at the garageman who brought up the rental car. She glowered at her brother who for once in his life shut up, and she drove like an Indy 500 contestant on her way to the coliseum. Harriet, sitting in the front seat, tried to ignore the blur of buildings whizzing by. For Carmen, speed was a release and a feeling of power.

When they got to the courts, Harriet headed for her seat.
There was little to do for Carmen when she was in a mood, and as far as Harriet was concerned, Carmen had a right to her moods. But Harriet also felt she had a right to clear out. When Carmen fumed in psyching herself up, she spewed her venom on whomever was at hand. Rainey was a tough opponent. Carmen was infuriated by her style of tennis, she hated to play her, and her mounting discontent couldn’t be contained.

The women’s indoor surface was carpet laid over, in most cases, wood. This fast surface favored Carmen. Short of the flu, cramps, or disinterest, Carmen should win on carpet. If her first serve soured, life could be rough because she needed to get her first serve in deep so she could rush the net. Against a backcourt player of Rainey’s caliber, the first serve was crucial. If Carmen couldn’t get to the net, she couldn’t win.

Her serve resembled a rocket. Carmen enjoyed such a good day that she squashed Rainey in two sets flat.

After the match, Rainey, her coach, and her mother dissected the defeat. Mrs. Rogers diagrammed each point for Rainey to study later.

Rainey used every defeat. She’d practice hours to widen the angle on her backhand crosscourt. She’d never own a demolishing serve but she intended to own the most accurate, which in the long run was more deadly anyway. Rainey believed that time was on her side. Her disciplined personality and the nature of her game would wear down the Carmens of this world, if not this year, then the next.

Exultant, Carmen drank a much deserved beer. A portable tape deck blared in the background. She lifted the beer bottle. “On to Dallas.”

“Vulgopolis,” Harriet toasted back.

“I don’t know why, but that reminds me of what you told me once when I wanted to buy that Gucci chair.”

“That awful thing.”

“You said, ‘Money without taste is like sex without love.’ ”

“How clever of me.” Harriet kissed Carmen on the cheek. Someone knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Miguel.”

Carmen grunted and got up to admit her brother.