The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (41 page)

Brad hated having Betty-Jo play in The Big
Apple, a place where guns were everywhere. Everyone seemed to pack
a handgun, and sleep with a back-up under his pillow. City boy that
Brad was, he loved New York. There was no city like her—Saks Fifth
Avenue, Le Relais, the street vendors—but he didn't trust her. The
City could be a dangerous place, even without the threat from Venus
and Mercury.

Tawny has jumped into a pool full of Great
Whites, ravenous because some insane do-gooder's put them on a
diet. She's probably the first morsel of food they've seen in
months that isn't low cal.

On the sides of Stadium Court, the spectators
sat one row back behind the press and photographer boxes, while in
the end-court stands, they sat right next to the court, but there
they faced a seven-foot drop to reach it. Those with access to
Stadium Court were given security clearance, and wore a security
badge with photo identification. Different badge colors indicated
the clearance of the wearer: security, official, ball person or
player.

Thirteen security personnel—Brad, six
rent-a-cops, and six on-duty police officers—had been assigned to
Stadium Court. And Brad had hired a personal bodyguard for B-J. But
he continued to see himself as her best security. He watched over
and protected her.

Betty-Jo had told Brad to relax, and let the
professionals worry about her safety, now that her security had
been beefed-up, and she had her own bodyguard.

"It's my love for you that keeps you safe,"
had been his terse reply. And he knew that Betty-Jo believed him.
She'd told him that when he was with her, she felt safe, and when
he left, her security seemed to leave with him.

At one time he'd believed that his love for
Tawny would keep her safe, but no longer. PussCat's death had
changed him. Someone who loved him, and relied on him, had been
slain, and he'd been unable to prevent it. He had no doubts about
his own invincibility, but his failure to protect PussCat haunted
him.

I could never again endure the heartache that
comes from failing someone who loves me, and depends on me.

He had taken the security course for WPA Tour
security personnel, and was classified as a security officer.
Security personnel did not carry guns—with the exception of Martin
Obourn, the head of Tour security. The prohibition on guns for
security personnel reflected the problem with large numbers of
people in a confined area. There was the risk that a patron might
be wounded if shots were fired. Like the other security personnel,
Brad carried pepper spray.

Obourn had been disgruntled with Brad's
demand for security clearance, but he understood that Betty-Jo
would not play if he failed to do everything possible to ensure her
safety. A former police detective and a security veteran, he was
well aware of the dangers she faced, given the urges she so
obviously aroused in the nation's males. And Brad's security status
had precedent; special arrangements were often made for the Tour's
stars.

"My security is good," Obourn had told Brad,
"but the odds of success are on the side of a determined assailant.
My men and I can only react to an attack—its prevention is nearly
impossible."

Brad understood that. Nevertheless, he did
everything he could think of to keep his Tawny Cat safe. He made
certain that she understood the danger she faced. If she was
approached by anyone out of the ordinary, she was to sprint to
where he was sitting, but if she was unable to reach him, she was
to run to any security person, or to whatever cover she could
spot.

Prior to every match, he insisted that she
look for people and places that could offer her protection. He also
impressed upon her that it didn't matter how harmless somebody
might appear. "Expect the unexpected," he told her, "and never
underestimate the cleverness or resourcefulness of whoever might be
attempting to harm you. A pregnant nun, or an official in the wrong
place, could be out to get you."

It was sound advice, but as Betty-Jo said,
"It's difficult enough for me to win my matches without having to
bear the crosses of pregnant nuns as well."

* * *

Brad had another worry. The previous day, the
Tooth Fairy had called.

"Grasshopper, I'm in New York. I've broken
off my engagement to Ralph. It took a while for me to realize that
we belong together. We want the same things from life."

He had grinned into the phone. "You want a
gerbil?"

"What I want is you! It doesn't matter that
you can't tell Ibsen from Proust, or lemurs from lemmings. I love
you!"

"What makes you think that?"

"'Cause 'I sit and sulk where you are
not.'"

"Then don't sit. Stand up and be happy."

"That won't work. I'll just end up standing
and sulking."

"I don't understand. A month ago you were in
love with Ralph."

"I know. But I now realize that it's 'with
you I'd fondly stray, over the hills and far away.'"

"There. You see, it's not me you love. I
prefer quiet evenings in front of a fire. I don't like straying
over hills."

"How much was your signing bonus with the
Florida Panthers?"

"A mill."

"Leave your tennis playing friend, marry me,
and I'll double that."

"I'm only worth two million to you?" He
smiled into the phone when he said it, but Sandy never missed a
beat.

"Okay, five mill," she said.

"I appreciate the raise. Really I do, but
this is no good."

"I have to see you." Sandy sounded as if she
was losing it.

"A meeting would be pointless. Please, Sandy,
go home!"

But Sandy was having none of it. "It can't be
over. I won't let it be!" she yelled. "If you won't meet with me,
I'll come to you. I'll come to B-J's match."

At least, Brad thought, one wonderful thing
has happened. Birth Parent Locators had found his birth mother, and
given him her name and phone number. They'd also given him a
picture of her. Of course, Tawny had been thrilled. She'd hugged
him, and then squeezed his hand, while he'd called Felicity Ready,
and left a message on her voice mail.

* * *

Brad never saw much of Betty-Jo's matches. He
was too busy scanning the faces of the spectators, looking for
something. He wasn't sure what. Something unusual—a peculiar
intensity in a stare, perhaps. Anything that would give him an
edge, or a split second more to react to an attack that seemed ever
more likely, as Betty-Jo's fame grew.

He stretched out the chain that held the key
to Betty-Jo's chastity belt, formed a loop, and then hung the key
back around his neck, but he let it dangle outside his shirt where
he could see it. At least part of my Tawny Cat can be protected, he
thought, as he glanced around. He couldn't see any sign of the
Tooth Fairy, but sitting in the player's box was Misery
Chezkovitch. It was unlikely that she was a real threat to Tawny,
but he couldn't be certain. He knew she believed that Betty-Jo had
intentionally humiliated her. And sitting directly across the court
from him was Tony Vaccaro. He was well aware that the abc man had
the hots for his princess. Vaccaro hung around her whenever he
could.

My mind's wandering. I'm at Flushing Meadow
protecting Tawny Cat. I have to stay alert and focused. Damn you
Venus! Damn you Mercury! What have I failed to do to stop you?

Return
of The Dung Beetle

Tony Vacaro had gone with the traditional
tennis white for Betty-Jo's round of sixteen match, but the white
chiffon that was supposed to cover her, didn't. Prominent in the
creation of Vacaro's Bouncer fantasy was a gorgeous three-strand
collar with 160 high-luster, cultured pearls. She also wore two
large, silver-white, natural-pearl earrings, set in an
eighteen-karat gold base that was surrounded by emeralds. Vacaro
had torn a page from the figure-skating costume manual in creating
a Bouncer that was classy and elegant, yet provocative and sexy.
White chiffon flowed around and behind Betty-Jo when she moved, and
hung invitingly from her when she was stationary. The subtle use of
skin colored undergarments, gave those watching her the impression
that they were seeing a great deal more of her than they actually
were.

Anna Maria had also stepped out. The former
reigning beauty of women's tennis had decided to be in the match
from the beginning. Nancy Kerrigan's costume designer had
transformed her. And while Anna Maria couldn't replace Betty-Jo as
number one in the visual appeal category, she was an engaging place
to rest one's eyes when contemplating Betty-Jo became too much.

The match started off poorly for Betty-Jo. On
the first point Anna Maria hit a shot that was clearly out. She
waited for the call that didn't come. Annoyed, she turned to
confront a line judge who had the temerity to give her the hint of
a wave.

Betty-Jo was stupefied. The line judge was
Dungie. The gods, instead of turning Richard into a dung beetle,
had turned him into a line judge, with Mercury at the controls. How
can this be? she asked herself. Then she remembered that Richard
spent his summers playing tennis at his father's club in Queens.
She walked over to Dungie and glowered at him.

"You're overdue for a visit to your
optician," she said.

A smirk crossed Dungie's ugly face. "The
ball's out, and your cat's dead," he said. "Things just ain't goin'
your way, Stud Plaything."

What a way to start the match. She tried to
forget about Richard, but found that she couldn't. She lost the
first game, and the Dung Beetle remained on his line, a harbinger
of doom in the guise of a line judge.

A Blow
for the Cause

Felicity Ready was a Libra, one of the two
signs of the Zodiac that Venus ruled. That was no coincidence.
Perhaps it was also no coincidence that, on the day Betty-Jo was to
play Anna Maria, the moon was in the eighth house—the death
house.

It was overcast, and seasonally cool at
Flushing Meadow. Felicity arrived there an hour before the
Chance/Maria, round of sixteen, match was to begin. She easily
exchanged her two tickets for a second row seat. A front row seat
was what she wanted, but a front row seat could not be had at a
price she could afford.

Felicity was dressed in a line judge's
stylish orange, navy-blue and white FILA tennis shirt, and beige
shorts. She'd purchased them at Macy's. A loose navy-blue, cotton
jacket concealed her distinctive shirt, fake security badge, and
her Walther PPK, which was held in place in the pocket of her
shorts by a lightweight, black, Widow 2 holster. Her arm would hide
the slight bulge that her gun made—when her jacket was
removed—until the time came to use it.

Almost immediately, Felicity discovered a
glitch in her plan. Her seat was in the second spectator's row, but
she had failed to notice that, in the Stadium Court, an entire row
of seating, along the sidelines, was reserved for the press and
photographers. Felicity experienced a moment of panic, and a
temporary loss of nerve, when she noticed her error. But upon
reflection and closer examination, she realized that the problem
posed by the press row was manageable. It did, however, decrease
her chances for success. It would take her longer than anticipated
to move from her seat to the court. A more serious consideration
was, that if someone noticed her, they might wonder why an official
was stepping over the press box instead of entering the court via
one of the entrances.

The obvious time for Felicity's attack was
during the break between sets, or after the match, when the players
were seated, but that was when security around the players was
tightest. Felicity believed that her best opportunity to dispatch
Betty-Jo, would come before Betty-Jo served, from the side of the
court closest to her seat. That was when she would have the least
distance to cover to reach Betty-Jo.

* * *

Felicity was pleased. A blow for the cause
was at hand. As she watched Betty-Jo warm up, her thoughts drifted
to Jason. Had her son been given the ducky she'd left for him, and
did he—because of the ducky—know how much she loved him? Then her
thoughts turned to her former lover: her as-good-as-dead, former
lover. Before she had gone over to Drapers' to get friendly with
him for the last time, she'd visited Jody Chamberlain, a friend
from her Vassar days. Jody, a research technician in the toxicology
unit at Manhattan General, had borrowed some sodium cyanide from
the hospital to kill a rat in her ground floor apartment. Her
friend's rat killing prowess had begun one Sunday afternoon when
she had gone to the bathroom, and found the mother of all rats
swimming in her toilet. Jody had screamed, slammed the door, and
called an exterminator. The exterminator had wanted $150 to do a
Pied Piper number on her rat, and Jody had been happy to pay.

The rat killer, when he'd finally arrived,
had looked even less appealing than the rat."

"Sorry I'm late, lady," he'd said. "The cops
pulled me over because I was DWB."

"DWB?"

"Driving while black."

The DWB exterminator had opened the bathroom
door, taken one look at Jody's rat, and retreated. "Jesus lady,
that's a big rat. I can't handle this. I'm the insect and small
vermin guy."

"The CWB insect and small vermin person,"
Jody had told him.

"CWB?"

"Chicken while black."

"Whatever."

"Forget it. I'll take care of the rat
myself."

"Fine by me. But lady, don't use the
facilities until the rat's history. He might be a Greek rat."

"A Greek rat?"

"They attack from the back."

The next day, Jody had made her rat a tasty
treat of sodium cyanide, inside a Tater Dog. Adios rat.