The Players (5 page)

The musical din from Caesar’s rolled out across the walk to the street where Mike Wilder and Christy Noone stepped out of their taxi.

“There should be some special punishment for the man who invented the amplified guitar,” Mike said.

“What would you suggest?” Christy asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe flattening his head slowly in a vise. That’s the effect listening to it has on me.”

“How grisly. You come along now, and we’re going to enjoy ourselves, you’ll see.”

“I’ll bet,” Mike grumbled, but he allowed himself to be steered inside by the girl.

Once inside, Christy vanished in the crowd for a moment, then reappeared to announce that she had found them a table. They sat down and Mike ordered drinks—a whisky and water for himself, and a gin and tonic for Christy. The waitress squirmed off between the packed-in customers, and Mike wondered if he would ever see her again.

“I wonder if there’s anybody who isn’t here tonight,” he said, looking around at the crowd.

“This is where the action is,” Christy said. “According to Paula we should see lots and lots of tennis players here, which she thought you’d like. Do you?”

“I’m undecided. What about you, Christy, are you a fan?”

“Me? I wouldn’t know tennis from tiddly-winks.”

“There are similarities,” Mike said, more to himself than to the girl.

“Is that a friend of yours over there?”

“Where?”

“There by the door. Chap seems to be looking at you.”

Mike turned in his chair to look, but several people rose from their table just then and headed for the dance floor, blocking his line of sight. When it was clear again there was no one looking his way.

“I don’t see anybody.”

“He was there a moment ago. At any rate, I thought he was looking over here at you. Blondish chap in an expensive jacket—camel’s hair or vicuña.”

“I thought it might be a sportswriter,” Mike said, “but if he was wearing an expensive coat, forget it.” Something in Christy’s description tickled the edge of his mind, but he could not make a connection. Before he could give it more of his attention the waitress surprised him by returning with their drinks.

Mike paid the girl, and as she left three young men approached the table and stood looking at him with expressions of burlesque astonishment.

“Bless me if I don’t believe you’re right, Denny,” said the smallest of the three. “We actually have the honor of being in the presence of that world-famous sporting writer bloke from America. The one who hates sports.”

“I told you so,” said the large one. “It’s Mike Wilder himself in the flesh. What do you suppose he’s doing in London at this time of year?”

“There must be a golf match somewhere nearby,” the smaller one said.

“Yes, that would explain it. I’m told golf is the only game he can stand to watch without being sick to his stomach.”

The third young man, a shy-seeming blond boy, said nothing, but hung back, keeping his eyes on Christy. Mike, who had done his homework in preparation for the Wimbledon assignment, flipped through his mental card file to place the faces.

“The honor is mine, gentlemen,” he said. “Unless I am mistaken I’m talking to Fred Olney and Denny Urso, the dynamic doubles duo from Down Under.”

The two Aussies were obviously surprised that Mike recognized them, and they could not conceal their pleasure that the American knew their names.

“That’s a point for you, Mr. Wilder,” Fred Olney said. “The truth is we didn’t think you’d know a tennis player if you tripped over one.”

“And you might before the evening is out,” Denny added.

“Don’t get the idea that I’m a fan,” Mike said. “That would destroy my image. Why don’t you sit down and join us? Your friend too. Tim Barrett, isn’t it?”

“Tim Barrett it is,” said Fred, “but you only get half a point for recognizing Timmy. He’s had his picture in the paper too many times. And yes, we’d be delighted to join you and, er, the lady.”

“Forgive my bad manners,” Mike said. “Gentlemen, this is Miss Christy Noone. Christy, these are Olney and Urso from Australia, and Tim Barrett, a countryman of mine.”

“Hi, chums,” said Christy.

“Hullo,” said Denny and Fred in unison.

Tim Barrett cleared his throat. “We don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” said Fred, “of course we do. What’s more fun than intruding?”

“That’s what I always say,” said Christy. “The more the merrier. Right, Mike?”

“Right. We’ve been here five minutes, and I was beginning to get lonesome.” Mike ordered a round for the table—beer for the Aussies and a Coke for Tim.

A new blast of sound spilled out from the archway that led to the dance floor.

“Come on, Mike,” Christy said, “dance with me.”

“To this?”

“Sure, to this. Let it all hang out.”

“I’m afraid it would fall out by itself if I tried to dance what they’re doing out there now. When I was a kid they told us too much of that could make a person go blind.”

“What an old fuddy duddy.”

“That’s me.”

Christy turned her bright blue gaze on Tim Barrett. “How about you?” she said. “Things have come to a pretty pass when a girl has to ask all over the room for somebody to dance with her.”

“I’m not very good at it,” Tim said.

“Hey, I’m available,” said Denny Urso.

“Me too,” said Fred.

Christy gave the two of them a playful look. “You chaps are
too
available, that’s the trouble with you. Come along, Tim, I’ll teach you what to do. There’s nothing to it.”

“Well …” Tim looked uncertainly at Mike.

“Go ahead, Tim,” Mike said, “but watch yourself in the clinches.”

As the young couple stood up and started toward the pulsating sounds of the music Mike caught the look on the tennis player’s face and shook his head. The only word to describe Tim Barrett at that moment was
smitten
.

“Your girlfriend?” Fred Olney asked carefully.

Mike gave him a long look, then delivered a theatrical sigh. “The first real love of my life. And what happens? Some jock steps in and takes her away from me. Not even a real athlete, mind you, but a
tennis
player.”

The Australians laughed along with Mike, obviously relieved.

“Seriously,” Denny said, “are you going to write about Wimbledon?”

“That’s the plan.”

“What are you going to say?”

“That depends on what happens.”

“You’re here a bit early, aren’t you?” Fred Olney said. “Most of the foreign press people don’t show up until the second week when the field is narrowed down to the real money players.”

“I don’t operate the way most of the press people do,” Mike said. “I don’t pretend to know the game as well as most tennis writers, for one thing. My story will be the players.”

“No kidding. Are you going to write something about Denny and me?”

“Maybe. Do you think you’ll do something newsworthy?”

“How about if we played our first match on Centre Court in the nude?”

Mike laughed. “You might be able to pull it off at the Los Angeles Tennis Club, but don’t you think it’s a little avant-garde for Wimbledon?”

The Aussies pretended to consider the idea, then nodded sagely. Denny said, “I suppose you’re right. It would have been a good show, though.”

“In fact,” Mike said, “doesn’t Wimbledon still insist that the players dress all in white?”

“That they do,” said Fred. “It’s a tough job here for a bloke to get in a plug for his sponsors.”

“How do you mean?”

“In some tournaments there are no restrictions at all. If we wanted to we could wear shirts with
MacGregor Raquettes
stitched on the back. Nobody has actually gone that far, but we’re getting closer. Here at Wimbledon they’ll let you wear a tiny monogram over the pocket, but that’s all. There are ways to get around it, though. Take the monogram on Ron Hopper’s shirt. If you look closely, or if the television cameras zoom in on him, you’ll see it reads ‘BP.’ That doesn’t mean Ron’s changed his name, it means he has a deal working with British Petroleum.”

“Fascinating,” Mike said.

“Or you can carry a racket cover that spells out Dunlop in big, easy-to-read letters,” Denny said. “It’s not part of your clothing, so the rules don’t cover it.”

“And watch how the players take a drink when they change sides of the court,” said Fred. “A bloke may not care whether he drinks Pepsi-Cola or sea water, but if he’s got a deal with Pepsi he’ll be bloody sure he holds the label so the gallery and the cameras can’t miss it.”

“So you guys are paid to slip in product plugs like that,” Mike said.

“Sure. There’s nothing illegal about it, and it’s a nice little added income for those of us who don’t make a whole lot in prize money.”

“Of course, the higher you’re ranked the more they pay you,” said Denny. “Freddie and I are not in what you’d call your big money class.”

Mike looked up to see Christy and Tim returning from the dance floor. The girl chattered away gaily while the boy gazed at her like a puppy dog.

“You should try it, Mike,” Christy said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” he said. Mike found himself a little concerned about Tim Barrett’s obvious infatuation with Christy, and not quite sure why he should be. The girl could certainly take care of herself, and as for the boy, maybe he would learn something. Still, Mike could not shake an uneasy feeling that he was responsible for something that shouldn’t happen.

• • •

The man with the knife stood outside Caesar’s and bit down hard on the knuckle of his right hand. It had been a shock, getting a good look at the girl who was with Mike Wilder. Was it possible he was mistaken about the man? No, that could not be. There was the picture, the letters
.

The man’s head began to ache. It was just a tiny prick of pain behind his left eye, but he knew it would not go away. The pain would grow until it screamed inside his head like a living thing trying to get out. He had to get to his bed, take his pills. But he could not leave here until he was sure about the man inside
.

He slipped into a darkened doorway across the street from Caesar’s and huddled there to wait some more
.

J. J. Kaiser paused just inside the entrance to Caesar’s and surveyed the crowd. His attitude was that of a bachelor out on the town looking over the supply of available females. Obviously, however, this was not the case. Geneva Sundstrum, looking her statuesque loveliest, stood beside J. J. with her hand resting lightly on his arm. As they stepped inside, the rhythm of conversations missed a beat as heads turned to look at the big girl, then swiveled back to look again.

J. J. spotted quite a few of the Wimbledon players scattered about the bar and the tables, but they were not the ones who were high on his personal list. Either they were not big enough names, or they were known as perennial losers. Or else they were already sewed up contractually by other companies. Australians seemed to be in the majority at Caesar’s, but aside from Ron Hopper this was not a vintage year for Australian tennis players.

“Listen to the music, honey,” Geneva said. “Doesn’t it make you feel like dancing?”

“No. Anyway, we’re not here to dance, we’re here for business, remember.”

“I know, but one little dance wouldn’t hurt.”

“Forget it.”

J. J. continued to scan the crowded room. His eyes flicked over a table where two unimportant Australians were sitting, then bounced back. That blond kid with the Aussies, J. J. recognized him from photographs as Tim Barrett. Word was that Barrett never left his room during a tournament. People said his coach sat on him like a mother hen on an egg. This might be a good opportunity to score a few points with the kid.

With Geneva in tow J. J. started toward the table. Halfway there he caught himself up for a moment when he recognized the fourth man sitting there. Mike Wilder, one of the biggest sportswriting names in the business. Normally J. J. would be pleased to have a member of the press on hand, but his last meeting with Mike Wilder had left some unpleasant memories.

The occasion had been the formation of a National Bowling League several years before. The idea was that of a millionaire who made his money in the construction business, and wanted to see his favorite sport go big-time. As the self-made millionaire saw it, teams made up of the nation’s best bowlers would represent the major cities, with league schedules and playoffs and championships in various divisions. Inevitably, there would be a World Series of Bowling. The millionaire hired J. J. Kaiser to drum up interest in the league among members of the news media. One of J. J.’s first targets was Mike Wilder, and he made the mistake of having a color television set delivered to the writer’s home the day before he dropped around to lay on the bowling league propaganda.

The result was that the TV set arrived COD back at J. J.’s hotel room, and Wilder wrote an article about the proposed National Bowling League that was so full of caustic ridicule that the millionaire dropped the whole idea and took up golf.

J. J. was not eager to become involved with Mike Wilder again, but it looked as though there was no avoiding it. What the hell, he was willing to let bygones be bygones.

“Come on,” he said to Geneva, taking her arm. “Where are we going?”

“Over to that table. The big guy’s Mike Wilder, a very important sportswriter. He’s an old friend of mine. The good-looking kid is Tim Barrett. He’s the one we want to get close to. The other two are Aussies, I think, but they’re nobody, so don’t bother with them.”

“Who’s the girl?” Geneva asked.

For the first time J. J. noticed there was a petite girl sitting between Wilder and Tim Barrett.

“I don’t know who she is,” he said. “Some broad they picked up, probably.” Noting a sudden stiffening in Geneva’s posture, he added, “Don’t worry, babe, she’ll be as good as invisible when you show up.”

J. J. arranged his face into a genial expression and advanced on the table. “Well well well,” he said, “if it isn’t Mike Wilder. It’s great to see you again. You remember me, don’t you?”

The sportswriter squinted up at him for a moment without any sign of recognition. Then he said, “Yeah, I remember you. J. J. Kaiser, isn’t it? Bowling enthusiast and giver of television sets.”

“Oh, yes, well, ha ha, that was quite a mixup, wasn’t it? No hard feelings I hope?”

“Why should there be?”

“Good, good. Listen, Mike, I want you to meet Geneva Sundstrum.”

Geneva put out her hand and leaned forward, bringing conversations to a standstill at all tables within eyeball range.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilder,” she said. “Is it all right if I call you Mike?”

“Why not?”

While Mike Wilder made introductions all around J. J. produced a couple of chairs and wedged them in at the already crowded table. When he and Geneva were seated he focused his attention on Tim Barrett.

“Listen, Tim, I’ve been following your career, and as a fellow Californian I want you to know we’re all behind you and rooting for you to win the big one.”

“You’re from California, Mr…. er …”

“Kaiser. J. J. Kaiser. But call me J. J. Everybody does. Sure I’m from California. I’ve seen you play there many times.”

“Really? Where?”

Since he had never seen Tim Barrett before in his life, and had no idea where they played tennis in California, J. J. quickly veered away from the subject. “Geneva here is a big fan of yours too. She was saying to me just this afternoon that she sure hoped she’d get to meet Tim Barrett. Weren’t you, Geneva?”

“That’s what I said, J. J., I hoped I’d get to meet him.”

Tim Barrett smiled politely, but it was plain he was anxious to return his attention to the other girl, the one Wilder had introduced as Christy Noone. J. J. couldn’t imagine what the kid saw in her. The broad couldn’t have been any taller than five-two, and had no boobs to speak of. Small ass too, for that matter. Nothing to get ahold of. Definitely not the type to interest J. J. Kaiser, but as they said, different strokes for different folks.

“What are you pushing these days, J. J.?” Wilder said, intruding on his thoughts. “International domino competition?”

“Ha ha, no, I’m out of the sports promotion business. I’m with an athletic equipment firm—Gilfillan. You’ve probably heard of them.”

“Mmm.”

“We’ve got a real top-grade product. Everything is quality with a capital K, ha ha.” He turned back to Tim Barrett. “By the way, what kind of a racket are you using these days, Tim?”

Tim turned reluctantly away from Christy Noone. “Pardon me, what was that?”

“Have you ever tried a Gilfillan racket? A lot of the boys are using them now, and we’re getting some really good reports.”

“Thanks, but I’ve been using a Head for two years, and I’m happy with it.”

“Oh, they’re good too,” J. J. agreed hastily. “Gilfillan makes a complete line of tennis equipment, you know—balls, practice gear, warm-up suits. Like to have you take a look at it if you get the time.”

“I’m sorry, but my coach, Vic Goukas, picks out all my equipment,” Tim said. “You’d have to talk to him about anything like that.”

J. J. made a mental note of the name. “Okay, but you think about it, will you, Tim?” He glanced around conspiratorially. “I’m not really authorized to tell you this, but I know Gilfillan is interested in putting out a Tim Barrett signature racket, and I don’t have to tell you about the royalties that go with something like that.”

“You’ll still have to talk to Vic,” Tim said.

Christy Noone spoke up. “I say, are we going to talk business all night or are we going to have some fun?”

“No more business,” Tim said, grinning like a schoolboy.

“Then let’s dance, shall we?”

J. J. watched gloomily as the young couple headed for the dance floor. He hadn’t scored many points with the Barrett kid, and Geneva certainly hadn’t made much ol an impression either. Oh, well, there were other fish to fry.

The two Australians, who had been quietly sitting baci with their beer, now joined the conversation.

“Say, how about us, Mr. Kaiser?” said Fred Olney.

“We’d dearly love to have our signatures on a racket,’ put in Denny Urso.

“We’d even sign a can of balls,” said Fred.

“Or an athletic supporter,” said Denny.

“Maybe we can talk about it later,” J. J. grumped.

“Say, maybe Mr. Kaiser doesn’t recognize us,” said Fred. “Do you suppose that’s possible?”

“Why, I’ll bet that’s just what happened,” said Denny.

“Allow me to introduce us, Mr. Kaiser, this is my little friend Bobby Riggs, and I am William Tilden, better known as Big Bill.”

The Aussies dissolved into laughter, joined by Mike Wilder. Geneva looked questioningly from face to face while J. J. forced out a weak chuckle.

“Quite the kidders, aren’t you,” he said. Then, gazing across the room he spotted a face he recognized on the far side. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some people to talk to.” He hoisted Geneva out of her chair and started across the floor.

“What people do we have to talk to, J. J.?” she asked.

“Yuri Zenger. He’s at that table by the wall with the old broad.”

“He’s the Rumanian, isn’t he?”

“Hungarian.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“Almost. Remember now, I want you to be nice to him.”

Geneva stopped for a moment between tables. “How nice do you want me to be, J. J.?” Now what the hell, he thought.

He said, “You know, play up to him a little bit. Hint at some goodies to come. Naturally, you deliver nothing before we get him tied to a contract.”

“And after?”

“Look, Geneva, well talk about that when the time comes, okay?”

Geneva let a second go by, then she said, “Okay, J. J. Who’s the lady with him?”

“I don’t know. A lot of these old society babes like to have the players stay at their homes. The higher ranked the player, the better she looks to her friends. It’s a status thing left over from the days when tennis was supposed to be simon-pure amateur.”

“You don’t think there’s anything else going on?”

“Who cares? Let’s go.”

J. J. plowed toward the table with his hand outstretched in greeting. “Yuri, Yuri Zenger, I thought I recognized you from across the room. J. J.’ Kaiser is my name, I’m with Gilfillan Sporting Equipment. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

Zenger glanced up at J. J., his wiry black eyebrows quirked into a who-the-hell-are-you expression. He made no move to take the proffered hand.

“This is my associate, Geneva Sundstrum,”, J. J. went on, shifting gears smoothly. “She’s been dying to meet you. Haven’t you, Geneva?”

“That’s right,” the big girl said. J. J. was pleased to see she moved slightly to give Zenger a good look at the boobs.

The Hungarian looked her up and down with undisguised interest. He smiled, showing small, very white teeth beneath the drooping moustache. “Hello,” he said, with only a trace of an Eastern European accent. “Have you seen me play?”

“Not yet,” Geneva said, “but I’m looking forward to it. I hear you’re very good.”

“Yes I am,” Zenger said. “Where are you staying?”

The woman sitting across from Zenger made a point of clearing her throat. She was a carefully preserved fifty, J. J. estimated, with a high-arched nose and pale eyes that didn’t want you to get too close.

“This is my friend, Mrs. Keith,” Zenger said.

J. J. sized up the situation and saw that Mrs. Keith was somewhat more intimately involved with Yuri Zenger than he had thought. Odd that Geneva had sensed it. J. J. also could easily interpret the way Zenger was looking at Geneva.

“We can only sit down for a few minutes,” he said, whisking a pair of chairs into position. “We’re staying at the Regency House, and we’d be glad to have you come up any time, Yuri. I’ve got some Gilfillan equipment there that I think you’d be interested in seeing, especially our new rackets. I happen to know that the company is considering a Yuri Zenger signature model and I—”

“What room number?” Zenger interrupted. His eyes were still on Geneva.

“I’m in 803,” J. J. answered. “If you know when you can drop by I’ll arrange to—”

“Both? You are both in 803?”

“I’m in 812,” Geneva said.

“Ah.”

J. J. felt an irrational resentment at the way the greasy Hungarian was looking at Geneva. He shook it out of his mind. What the hell, that was the whole idea, wasn’t it?

Mrs. Keith spoke for the first time. “Yuri, we really must be going. I promised the Dennisons we’d at least make an appearance at their party.”

“The Dennisons are a pain in the ass,” Zenger said.

“We shan’t stay long, dear, but we really mustn’t disappoint them.”

J. J. detected an unmistakable tug on the leash in the woman’s tone. Yuri Zenger responded with reluctance.

“I will see you later,” he said, keeping his eyes on Geneva’s breaste.

“Did I do all right, J. J.?” Geneva asked as Mrs. Keith hustled the Hungarian out of the club.

“You did fine, just fine,” J. J. told her. Why, he wondered, wasn’t he more elated about it?

“I don’t like him, J. J., that Rumanian.”

“Hungarian. I know he’s a creep, sweetheart, but if we deal only with nice guys we starve to death.”

“I guess you’re right,” Geneva said. “Is there anybody else here we have to talk to?”

J. J. peered around at the crowd. “I don’t see anybody, I’d like to get with Tim Barrett again, but he’s only got eyes for that skinny broad tonight I wish Milo Vasquez was here, but I’ll have to get to him later.”

“If there’s nobody else, then can you and me dance?”

“Sure, why not. Come on, baby.”

The big girl and the little man walked through the crowd toward the dance floor, and J. J. Kaiser found himself feeling good because there was no more business to do tonight.