Sudden Death (17 page)

“All that colored plastic reminds me of the candy counter in the movies. Those cards are adult Jujubes.”

“Saturday morning at the Ritz.” Jane twirled through the Tiffany’s doors. Harriet spun around twice. Jane pulled her out. “I bet you I can remember more candies than you can.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“What’s the bet, then?” Jane’s mood improved immediately.

“A Tiffany stickpin.”

“You’re on, Rawls. There’s a golden knot that I’m dying to have.”

“I want the golden cube, and don’t count your chickens.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Jane recited her childhood sugar binges. “Almond Cluster, Almond Joy, Baby Ruth, Malted Milk Balls, Butterfinger, Butternut, um-m-m-m. Charleston Chew, loved that one. Hershey’s Kisses. Fifth Avenue Bar, Clark Bar, Big Ben Jellies, Mary Jane, Milky Way, Payday.” She slowed down. “Raisinets!”

“It occurs to me that you have the advantage by going first. It’s like first serve.”

“You should have said that in the beginning. You’ve got a mouth.”

“Jane Fulton, you’re a horse trader. Now let me try. How many did you get? I counted fifteen. You count for me.”

Harriet closed her eyes by the stationery counter and pictured the glass counter next to the greasy popcorn machine at her childhood theater, The Southern. “Here goes. Tootsie Roll.”

“How could I forget that one!”

“Jane, you’ll break my train of thought.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay. Three Musketeers.”

Jane moaned.

“Will you stop? I’ve only got two. Now, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Babies, Sugar Mama.”

“Harriet, that’s cheating.”

“Oh, no, it’s not. Each one of these was a separate candy.”

Jane rested her elbow on the stationery counter and frowned. “You know, I’ve always respected you, Harriet.”

“Shut up, Jane. I refuse to have you interrupt me one more time. Keep counting! Snickers, Red Hot Dollars.”

Jane began to yelp.

Harriet put her hand over Jane’s mouth and kept on, “North Pole, Nutty Crunch, Necco Wafers, Mr. Goodbar.”

Jane bit Harriet’s hand to make her let go. “That’s literature.” Jane wiped her mouth.

“That’s a candy bar, and you know it. Baffle Bars and Bit-O-Honey, Black Crows, Pearson’s Coffee Nips, Diamond Drops, Whirligigs, and Jube Jels. How many’s that?”

“Eighteen.” Jane jumped up. “Milk Maid. Sixteen. Eagle Bar and Poppycock. We’re even! I’ve got to think of one more. Got it! M&M’s.”

“So I need two to win.”

“Unless I think of more.”

Harriet rested her chin in her hand. “Liberty Mints, Sour Balls, and Horehound Drops.”

“Horehound Drops. Really.” Jane thought hard. “Okay. Virginia Nut Roll.”

“Chunky.”

“You already said that one.”

“Jane, I did not.”

“You did, too.”

“Goddammit, no wonder Ricky got pissed. Okay, smartmouth. Krackel Bar.” She drew out her breath. “Orange Slices.”

“Safe-T-Pops!” Jane shouted. People in the store pretended
not to notice. The man behind the stationery counte tied down by an elderly customer hovering between pale blue paper and hot pink, snobbishly ignored the two women.

“Fruit n’ Nut Bar and Starlight Mints.”

“Jujubes.” Jane smiled.

“No fair. I said that to start us off.”

“You didn’t say it once we got under way.”

“You’re a sneaking fart.”

“Do you eat with that mouth?”

“We all know whom.”

“Oh, Harriet, must we lower ourselves to sexual banter? Either you know of more candies or you don’t.”

“What’s the score?”

Jane innocently rolled her eyes. “I forgot.”

“I didn’t.” Harriet tallied the marks on her little address book. “You’ve got twenty-two, and I’ve got twenty-six.”

“You’re so smug.” Jane concentrated. “Pom-Poms, wait, don’t rush me. Merrimints.”

“York Peppermint Patties.” Harriet resembled Ming the Merciless.

Jane thought. She thought some more. She walked once around the stationery counter. “You win.”

“Good! I’ll take that stickpin right now. Thank you very much.”

Jane grumbled as the lady behind the counter handed the coveted stickpin to Harriet. “A moment of silence, please, as I honor my vanished income.”

A tide of feathers and tulips washed over the downstairs room of the expensive restaurant. Howard Dominick was introducing a new Tomahawk line: Pocahontas. Talcum powder in boxes shaped like tepees rose out of the center of the tulips
and feathers. Tiny samples of Pocahontas perfume floated overhead; each sample was tied to a yellow balloon. The douche powder of identical fragrance was tastefully displayed in a corner. Not content with his new line, Howard lined one entire wall with other Tomahawk products. Autumn Plum nail polish vied with Mocha Maid lipstick.

Lavinia wore yellow. Until she moved, she might have passed for a very large tulip. The ice sculpture, a large tomahawk, was melting slowly.

Howard threw a huge party every year during the New York championships. Although the Washington, D.C., tournament was the culmination of the circuit in terms of player points, it was small potatoes in terms of business. In New York Howard made his deals, ran his division, and impressed or depressed his competition. Naturally he invited them to every party.

Miguel’s white teeth glistened beneath his jet-black moustache. Tatiania Mandelstam, the empress of Tomahawk’s fiercest competition, listened to him with rapt attention.

“Señora, how do you do it? You have discovered the secret of youth.”

The elderly lady tossed her head. She was accustomed to homage. “Not at all, Mr. Semana. I simply practice what I preach—exercise, good food, and religious application of my cosmetics.”

“Then I shall buy your magic potions by the case.”

“I’m coming out with a men’s cosmetics line this fall.” Her dark eyes brightened.

“I was born at the right moment.” He reached for a waiter’s tray, picked up a glass of champagne, and handed it to the empress. “Why let Tomahawk have all the fun?”

She smoothly brought the glass to her lips and smiled. She was interested.

“Tomahawk gets free use of the girls. Youth. Health. Freshness. But not one of them is identified with a special
line. For instance, Rainey Rogers doesn’t represent Pocahontas.”

Tatiania listened. She knew the industry, and more importantly, she knew her customers. “Go on.”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if my sister Carmen represented a new sports fragrance you might be developing?”

Tatiania appeared to consider this, then looked directly into Miguel’s handsome face. “Wonderful for your sister, but not for us.”

Perplexed, Miguel kept smiling.

She continued. “You see, Carmen does not have the right image for us.”

“But she’s young and the picture of health. Little girls and teenagers write her so much fan mail.”

“About tennis, no doubt.” She set her empty goblet down on yet another waiter’s tray. “Tennis and glamor are two contradictory pursuits, my good man. Your accomplished sister may be the picture of health, but she is not the picture of femininity. Tatiania Cosmetics promotes woman as the ultimate mystery. You could paint Carmen’s fingernails, dye her hair, uncurl it or keep it curled. Give her the best makeup artist in New York City and dress her in flattering clothes …” She paused. Miguel hung on every word. “And she’d still look like a dyke.” With that, Tatiania grandly turned away to speak to another peasant, her emeralds and diamonds gleaming in the light. They didn’t call her the empress for nothing.

Gary Shorter was spreading cheer in lieu of VD. Rainey was to take on Susan Reilly within twenty minutes. Susan was a tough match. Rainey listened to his advice: play Susan inside, down the middle, and then unexpectedly pull her wide with
a sharp little crosscourt. Since Susan would expect wide angles from Rainey, Gary figured they could crack her composure. Rainey, who had faced Susan on the court before, knew nothing would crack her composure if Susan was in the right frame of mind. If she was in the wrong frame of mind, line calls would get her before anything. Susan, like all the players, hated to beat her brains out for a point and then have some pudgy toad in a Tomahawk jacket determine the outcome.

“Deep. Keep those service returns deep. She’s lethal even on her second serve.” Gary patted his charge on the back.

“I’ve played her for five years now,” Rainey snapped. Just because she was eighteen, everyone treated her like a kid. On the court she was a veteran; Gary Shorter could stuff it. However, Mother thought he improved her game.

Rainey was admirable but not likeable. She wasn’t arrogant but she expected to get her way. She never gave orders but she’d repeat her request until it was filled. Her mother did the dirty work. Mrs. Rogers wasn’t a venal, exploitative shit. She loved Rainey and, like plenty of other mothers, she lived through her daughter. That she pushed her child into the narrow, competitive tennis world could only mean either she didn’t know a greater world existed or she did know it, but that world disappointed her.

Tomahawk used Rainey more than the other girls because she had recognition and because she was heterosexual. Tatiania Mandelstam was right in her own warped way. Rainey wasn’t a great beauty, but she could be promoted as wholesome. Howard Dominick planned to offer Rainey a contract to be the model for a line of teenage cosmetics still being developed in Clark & Clark laboratories which would hit the market in another year or so.

Rainey would do anything for money, yet she wasn’t greedy. Her family was large, and she remembered vividly the sacrifices her parents, sisters, and brother made on her
behalf. She would pay them all back if it killed her, by becoming the greatest player in the world. She’d win the Grand Slam. Not this year, but soon. She knew she could do it even though only four players ever achieved it before. They couldn’t have her motivation or her guilt.

Rainey had a reputation for being cold and aloof. She was neither. She was driven and had no time for superficial locker room friendships.

She feared the lesbians on the tour. She thought they were mentally unhealthy. She observed their desultory romances, their stark terror that they might be discovered, their eventual breakups. Sometimes the locker rooms stank with sullen emotions. Rainey wanted no part of it. She hated being thought a lesbian by association, and in a secret corner of her soul, she hated the lesbians for lying through their teeth. Why be something you are ashamed of?

As for her own mental health, she was sane enough to go along with Seth Quintard’s publicity campaign to present her as the girl-next-door. Page Bartlett Campbell cornered the market as America’s Sweetheart, so Rainey was the Junior Miss. She hated that, too. Being in
Seventeen
galled her. She would rather have been in
Vogue
.

Her future would be fabulous. Rainey believed her hand was firmly on the stickshift of life.

Harriet, Ricky, and Jane squeezed into the tv booth. In another fifteen minutes the evening’s two singles matches and two doubles matches would begin.

“Howard Dominick is so chintzy. He put all the tulips and feathers from yesterday’s bash upstairs in the guest lounge. You need a machete to get to the bar.” Jane fumed.