Sudden Death (18 page)

“I can’t get over seeing Tatiania Mandelstam. A living
legend.” Ricky fiddled with yesterday afternoon’s party favor, a tomahawk on a key chain.

“A living lizard. She’s two years older than God,” Harriet observed.

“Wonder what she said to Miguel. Did you see his face?” inquired Jane.

Harriet shook her head. “No, Miguel never talks about who says what to whom or himself, come to think of it.”

“Carmen used your old suicide tactic last night: Lob short and rush the net. Trixie Wescott was so ruffled she blew the return.” Ricky tossed the key chain to Jane.

“How old is Trixie?”

“Thirteen. Harriet, I thought these facts were engraved on your heart.”

Ricky noticed the golden cube stickpin on Harriet’s coat lapel. “Very handsome. I heard all about the movie candy contest.”

“Tiffany’s hasn’t gotten over it.” Jane rubbed her temples. “Goddamned headache. I can’t get rid of it.”

“Want a B.C.?” Harriet dove into her purse for the magic powder.

“No. First of all, that stuff looks like cocaine, and secondly, it tastes rotten.”

“It works.”

Jane grumbled and then left to find tablet aspirin.

“Who do you think will win?”

Ricky leaned back in his chair. “Rainey should win. Of course, Susan can get rough out there, but Rogers is so methodical. She’s the hardest kind of opponent for Mrs. Reilly.”

Harriet peered down into the cavernous stadium. Seth Quintard snaked through the crowd. Miguel, already in the box, followed his progress with an ill-concealed look of contempt. “Seth doesn’t care who wins, does he?”

“No,” Ricky answered.

Since Athletes Unlimited represented both Rainey Rogers and Susan Reilly, Seth couldn’t lose.

“Has it ever crossed your mind that some future day, say with a horrendously large contract pending for player X, and Athletes Unlimited represents player X and player Y, they might ask Y to throw the match just that once?”

“It’s crossed my mind.” Ricky sighed. “But I hope it hasn’t happened yet, and I guess I hope it never will.”

“ ‘Tomorrow, the Players Guild will hold their election of officers.’ ” Ricky read aloud from his schedule sheet.

Harriet giggled, “That ought to be rich.”

Jane breezed back into the booth. “I never thought I’d live to see douche powder liberally sprinkled throughout the halls of Madison Square Garden. Howard’s been a busy boy, Pocahontas piles are everywhere!” She grabbed the coffee out of Ricky’s hand, knocked back two aspirin, and swallowed.

Ricky, a concerned look on his face, took the coffee cup from Jane. He put his hand on her forehead.

“My temperature’s normal. It’s just a bloody long headache, honey.”

Lavinia blossomed to her full glory during the annual guild meeting. She sat before the assembled players. Siggy Wayne, last year’s president, was on her right. Rainey Rogers was on her left. Rainey was not elected because she was liked. She was elected because Lavinia wanted it that way.

The Players Guild was a puppet show, strings pulled courtesy of Lavinia Sibley Archer. The last thing she wanted was a union, so once a year management listened to complaints and suggestions. A slate of officers was presented to the players, although nominations could be made from the floor if one dared.

Siggy delivered the state-of-the-game address. Naturally the Guild’s insurance plan was the best. The Guild, meaning Siggy in this case, was working on a pension plan. He also announced that because of their requests, another masseuse was being added to the roster. This met with applause. These girls were so easy, Siggy thought. We pay the masseuse a pittance and give her free transportation. Each player still has to pay $25 for a full body massage.

The Guild collected dues and paid for expenses from those dues. Siggy reported their finances were in good shape.

The Guild, supported by hundreds of hopeful pros, existed more for the benefit of the top players than for the rank and file. Although the top forty players were the heart and soul of the game, they got short shrift. Lavinia felt that stars were what tennis was all about. If a player couldn’t climb that high, then she should be grateful to follow in their jetstream.

Polite applause greeted Lavinia. She walked to the rostrum, arranged her notes, and began. While her speeches differed from year to year, her theme was the same: Listen to Me.

“Last year forty-five million Americans paid their money and walked into the baseball park. The yearly total for all tennis tournaments, women’s and men’s, is a mere one and a half million. Even Wimbledon draws only three hundred and eighteen thousand for two weeks. Tennis is not a good bet for a promoter. That is why we rely heavily on local sponsors, and of course Tomahawk, for the prize money.

“Thanks to Siggy”—she nodded to him—” the press inflates our attendance figures, but if you stop to think about it, you’ll realize we can never fill a ballpark like a baseball team can. Fifty thousand people can see the Dodgers. We only get that kind of crowd the last week of the U.S. Open when we’re with the men. Besides, individual sports just don’t draw the number of fans that team sports do.

“Without stars, a promoter will lose his shirt. The prize
money is only half of the expense. The promoter must rent the facility, pay the electric and heating bills for that facility, pay telephone costs, advertise, print and sell tickets. He must provide sandwiches and drinks in the locker rooms, as well as a lounge for your family and friends. Aside from the prize money, the promoter needs about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars up front just to put on a midsize tournament, a thirty-two player draw. And even then, if there’s money to be made, it will only be made the night of the semifinals and the finals.” She breathed deeply. “So you see, sponsors are the first priority of women’s tennis. We must consider their needs because without them no one will promote a tournament, and you and I will be out of work. I know sometimes it’s tedious to make small talk with sponsors at tournaments, but it is your responsibility. We can’t assume that Tomahawk will underwrite us forever. We must meet them more than halfway.”

She then thanked everybody, prophesied a good year, and indicated that Rainey Rogers had better be elected. Had she spelled it out, she couldn’t have been more plain: The sponsor calls the tune. You dance.

“Damn, Lavinia would ram Rainey down our throats.” Carmen stewed in her hotel room.

“Rainey’s an American,” Harriet said.

“And straight!”

“That, too.”

“She never gives me a break. I should have more …” Carmen couldn’t find the word.

“Power.”

“Yes!”

“You ought to run the whole Guild, but I think it’s a blessing you don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?” Carmen ran her fingers through her curls.

“Do you really want to be the president of the Guild and listen to everyone’s petty complaints, to say nothing of Lavinia’s opinions on everything. Lavinia does have opinions. This way all you have to worry about is tennis. And since you’ll win the Grand Slam, they can all go jump in the lake. Right?”

“Right.” Carmen brightened considerably. “How’d you like a present?”

“My weakness! Goodies.”

Carmen, impulsively generous, showered her lovers with gifts. She bought one woman a Corvette and another a chocolate brown Mercedes. She also put her lovers on the payroll by inventing job titles for them: secretary, coach, even manager until Athletes Unlimited came along. Now that Miguel won that title, she had to be more creative. Initially Harriet did not want to be an employee. Even after an exhaustive lecture from Carmen’s accountant, Harriet still didn’t want to be an employee. The problem was solved when they started a little real estate company as co-owners. Harriet actually took the company seriously, but Carmen stopped her. She never resented spending money on her lovers, or more accurately, she never resented keeping them until the affair was over. Then she would swear that the recent lover was a gold digger, yet promptly march off and repeat the process.

To have so much money so young is not a blessing. Everybody says yes. Lawyers, accountants, hangers-on, they all say yes because they want the money. But Harriet didn’t always say yes, and while that angered Carmen, it also made her think sometimes.

“Well, what do you want?”

Harriet put her chin in her hand. “I want to go eat at Elephant and Castle.”

“Is that all?” Carmen hugged her.

Later that night when they crawled into bed, Harriet found a beautiful pair of one-carat diamond earrings under her pillow. Carmen could take Harriet’s breath away.

That same night, Ricky and Jane were in bed under less happy circumstances.

“I’ve got to go back for tests.” Jane clicked off the tv with the remote button.

“It may not be anything but sinus, honey.”

“I hope so.”

Ricky put his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll go with you. We can both use an extra week off anyway. No use waiting. We’ll go home right after the finals.”

“Okay.”

Jane didn’t cry. There was nothing to cry over. She hadn’t been given any bad news yet. Two years ago she had cancer in her jaw bone. She endured a new treatment; doctors would shoot a liquid into her jaw, and then she would sit under a localized radiation machine which shot “magic bullets” into her infected jaw. The doctor called the treatment “magic bullets,” not Jane. She experienced very little hair loss and no nausea, but the treatment made her quite tired. She had three sets of twelve treatments. At the end of that period the cancer was declared cured.

Jane told no one except Ricky about the problem. She knew the prejudice and fear against cancer were epidemic. An employer was the last person to tell as far as she was concerned. She didn’t want to be considered a bad note.

She routinely kept her checkup appointments. The last one was all clear. But these constant headaches bothered her. The fear that a cancer will recur is a fear only cancer victims understand. She tried not to worry, but it crept up on her.
Maybe the headaches were nothing but she knew, given her history, she’d have to submit to a battery of distasteful tests. For the second time in her life, she considered her own body an enemy.