Drop Shot

  "I'll be right back," Jessica said.

  Myron sat. Henry Hobman was already in game mode. Myron said, "Hi, Henry."

  "Stop messing with his head," Henry said. "Your job is to keep him happy."

  Myron didn't bother responding.

  Win finally showed up. He wore a pink shirt from some golf club, bright green pants, white bucks, and a yellow sweater tied around his neck. "Hello," Win said.

  Myron shook his head. "Who dresses you?"

  "It's the latest in sophisticated wear."

  "You clash with the world."

  "Pardon moi, Monsieur Saint Laurent." Win sat down. "Did you talk to Duane?"

  "Just a little pep talk."

  Jessica returned. She greeted Win with a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered to him.

  Win said nothing.

  They stood for the national anthem. When it was over, the English-accented voice on the loudspeaker asked everyone to lower their heads for a moment of silence to remember the great Pavel Menansi. Heads lowered. The crowd hushed. Someone sniffled. Win rolled his eyes. Two minutes later the match began.

  The play was incredible. Both men were power hitters, but no one expected anything like this. The pace was like something from another planet. A far faster planet. The IBM serve speedometer drew constant "Ooo"s from the crowd. Rallies didn't last very long. Mistakes were made, but so were incredible shots. This was serve and volley in the old tradition taken to the tenth power. Duane was unconscious. He whacked at the ball with uncommon fury, as though the ball had personally offended him. Myron had never seen either man play better.

  Win leaned over and whispered, "Must have been some pep talk."

  "Wanda left him."

  "Ah," Win said with a nod. "That explains it. The shackles are off."

  "I don't think that's it, Win."

  "If you say so."

  Myron didn't bother. It was like talking colors with a blind man.

  Duane won the first set 6-2. The second set went into a tiebreaker, which Thomas Craig won. As the third set opened, Win said, "What have you learned?"

  Myron filled him in, trying to keep his voice down. At one point, Ivana Trump shushed him. Win waved a hand in her direction. "She digs me. Big-time."

  "Get real," Myron said.

  During a change of sides in the third set, Win said, "So first we believed that Valerie was eliminated because she knew something harmful about Pavel Menansi. Now we believe that she was eliminated because she saw something the night Alexander Cross was killed."

  "A possibility," Myron said.

  During the next change of sides, Myron felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked down--way down--and was surprised. "Dr. Abramson," he said.

  "Hello, Myron."

  "Nice to see you, Doc."

  "Nice to see you too," she said. "Your client is playing very well. You must be pleased."

  "I'm sorry," Myron said. "I can neither confirm nor deny that Duane Richwood is a client of mine."

  She didn't smile. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

  "Guess not," Myron said "I didn't know you were a tennis fan."

  "I come every year." She spotted Win. "Hello, Mr. Lockwood."

  Win nodded. "Dr. Abramson."

  "This is my friend Jessica Culver," Myron said.

  The two women shook hands and exchanged polite smiles. "A pleasure," Dr. Abramson said. "Well, I don't want to keep you. I just wanted to say a quick hello."

  "Can we talk a little later?" Myron asked.

  "No, I don't think so. Good-bye."

  "Did you know that Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke are here?"

  "Yes. And I also know they just stepped out for a moment."

  Myron looked toward their seats. Empty. He smiled. "You crafty shrink. Coming over to say hello when they weren't looking."

  "And to say good-bye," she said, returning the smile. She turned away and left. The match started up again. During the next change of sides, the Van Slykes returned. Myron leaned over to Win. "How do you know Dr. Abramson?"

  "I visited Valerie," he said.

  "Often?"

  Win didn't answer. He might have shrugged, might not. Either way it told Myron to mind his own business. Myron looked at Jessica. She shrugged too.

  On the court Duane was growing more erratic, but he was still hitting enough winners to maintain the edge. He won the third set 7-5. He was up two sets to one--one set away from the U.S. Open finals. The Nike box was animated. Hands were slapping Ned's back. Even Ned seemed to be perking up now. Hard to keep a good man down.

  Senator Cross watched in silence. No one talked to him, and he talked to no one. Not even during breaks. He had met Myron's eyes only once. He stared for a long time, but did not move. Helen and Kenneth Van Slyke spoke to the people around them, but they both looked uncomfortable. Frank Ache adjusted his crotch and jabbered with Roy O'Connor, the president of TruPro. Frank looked comfortable. Roy looked like he wanted to puke. Ivana Trump glanced about her surroundings. Every time she looked near Win, he blew her kisses.

  It was during a serve in the third set when Myron finally began to see it. It started small, a statement made by Jimmy Blaine that did not compute. Something about the foot chase in Philadelphia. The rest sort of tumbled into place. When the final piece clicked, he sat up.

  Win and Jessica traded glances. Myron stared off.

  "What is it?" Jessica asked.

  Myron turned to Win. "I need to talk to Gregory Caufield."

  "When?"

  "Right away, next break. Can you get him alone?"

  Win nodded. "Done."

  45

  In the tournament's first few rounds it was not uncommon for fifteen or more matches to be going on at the same time. The biggest names usually stayed on Stadium Court or the Grandstand, while other matches took place in smaller venues, some with no seating. Today those courts were so barren, Myron half expected a tumbleweed to blow through. He waited by court sixteen, a semimajor court. It had the most seating next to the Stadium and Grandstand, though less than most high school gyms.

  He sat on an aluminum bench in the front row. The sun had gained strength and was now at its most potent. Every once in a while he heard cheers erupt from the Stadium's crowd a hundred yards or so away. Sometimes tennis fans sounded like they were having an orgasm during particularly brilliant points. It sort of built up slowly with a low oh-oh-oh, and then increased Oh-Oh, and finally the big OH-OH-OH, followed by a loud sigh and clapping.

  Weird thought.

  Distracting thought too.

  He heard Gregory Caufield well before he saw him. That same creepy, money accent that Win possessed said, "Windsor, where on earth are we going?"

  "Just over here, Gregory."

  "Are you sure this couldn't wait, old boy?"

  Old boy. Neither one of them was thirty-five yet and he was using term old boy.

  "No, Gregory, it can't."

  They rounded the corner. Gregory's eyes widened a bit when he saw Myron, but he recovered fast. He smiled and stuck out his hand. "Hello, Myron."

  "Hi, Greg."

  His face flinched for a second. He was Gregory, not Greg.

  "What's this all about, Windsor? I thought you had something private to tell me."

  Win shrugged. "I lied," he said. "Myron needs to speak with you. He needs your cooperation."

  Gregory turned to Myron and waited.

  "I want to talk to you about the night Alexander Cross was murdered."

  "I know nothing about it," Gregory said.

  "You know plenty about it, but I just have one question for you."

  "I'm sorry," Gregory said. "I must be getting back now." He turned to leave. Win blocked his path. Gregory looked puzzled.

  "Just one question," Myron said.

  Gregory ignored him. "Please move out of my way, Windsor."

  Win said, "No."

  Gregory could not believe what he was hearing. He half-smiled and put a hand through his unruly hair.
"Are you prepared to use force to keep me here?"

  "Yes."

  "Please, Windsor, this is no longer amusing."

  "Myron needs your cooperation."

  "And I am not prepared to give it to him. Now I insist you move."

  Win did not move. "Are you telling me you will not cooperate, Gregory?"

  "That is precisely what I am telling you."

  Win's palm shot out and hit the solar plexus. The wind gushed from Gregory. He collapsed to one knee, his face pale and shocked. Myron shook his head at Win, but he understood what he was doing. To people like Gregory--actually, to most people--violence is abstract. They read about it. They see it in movies and in the newspapers. But it never really touches them. It simply doesn't exist in their world. Win had shown Gregory how quickly that can change. Gregory had now experienced physical pain from the hands of a fellow human being. He would be different now. Not just here, not just today.

  Gregory held his chest. He was on the verge of tears.

  "Do not make me strike you again," Win said.

  Myron stepped toward him but did not help him up. "Gregory, we know all about that night," he said. "I have just one question. I don't care what you were doing out there. I don't care if you were snorting or shooting illegal substances. That doesn't interest me in the least. What you say will in no way incriminate you--unless you lie to me."

  Gregory looked up at him. His face was completely void of any color.

  "They weren't robbing the club, were they?" Myron asked.

  Gregory did not answer.

  "Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller hadn't broken into the club to rob it," Myron said. "And they weren't there selling drugs either. Am I right? If I am, just nod."

  Gregory looked at Win, then back to Myron. He nodded.

  "Tell me what they were doing," Myron said.

  Gregory didn't say anything.

  "Just say it," Myron continued. "I already know the answer. I just need you to say it. What were they doing there that night?"

  Gregory's breathing was returning to normal now. He reached out his hand. Myron took it. He stood up and looked Myron straight in the eye.

  "What were they doing?" Myron asked. "Tell me."

  And then Gregory Caufield said exactly what Myron had expected. "They were playing tennis."

  46

  Myron ran to his car.

  Duane was ahead two sets to one, 4-2 in the fourth set. He was two games away from reaching the U.S. Open finals, but that no longer seemed like such a big deal. Myron now knew what happened. He knew what happened to Alexander Cross and Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade and Valerie Simpson and maybe even Pavel Menansi.

  He picked up the car phone and began placing calls. His second call was to Esperanza's house. She picked up.

  "I'm with Lucy," she said. Esperanza had been dating a woman named Lucy for a couple months now. They seemed serious. Of course, Myron thought Esperanza was serious with a guy named Max just a few months earlier. Dating a Max, then a Lucy. Never a dull moment.

  "Do you have the appointment book?" Myron asked.

  "I got a copy on my computer here."

  "The last day Valerie Simpson was in our office, who had the appointment right before her?"

  "Give me a second." He heard her clack some keys. "Duane."

  As he thought. "Thanks."

  "You're not at the match?"

  "No."

  "Where are you?"

  "In my car."

  "Is Win with you?" she asked.

  "No."

  "How about the witch?"

  "I'm alone."

  "Swing by and pick me up then. Lucy's leaving anyway."

  "No."

  He hung up and switched on the radio. Duane was up 5-2. One game away. He dialed the home number of Amanda West, M.E. Then he called Jimmy Blaine. It all checked out. Myron felt something very cold caress his spine.

  His hand actually trembled when he called Lucinda Elright. The old teacher answered on the first ring.

  "Can you see me today?" Myron asked.

  "Yes, of course."

  "I should be there in a couple of hours."

  "I'll be here," Lucinda said. She asked no questions, wanted no explanations. She simply said, "Good-bye."

  Duane won the final set 6-2. He was in the finals of the U.S. Open, but the postgame wrap-up was short for several reasons. First, the women's finals came up right on the heels of Duane's impressive win. Second, the colorful Duane Richwood had run out without doing any interviews. The radio broadcasters seemed surprised.

  Myron was not.

  He reached Lucinda Elright's apartment in less than two hours. He stayed less than five minutes, but the visit was the final confirmation Myron needed. There was no longer any doubt. He took the book and got back in his car. Half an hour later he parked in the driveway. Myron rang the doorbell. No smile this time when the door opened. No surprise this time either.

  "I know what happened to Errol Swade," Myron said. "He's dead."

  Deanna Yeller blinked. "I told you that the first time you came by."

  "But," Myron said, "you didn't tell me you killed him."

  47

  Myron didn't wait for an invitation. He pushed past her. Again he was struck by the impersonal feel of this house. Not one picture. Not one remembrance. But now he understood why. The TV was tuned on the tennis match. No surprise there. The women were midway through the first set.

  Deanna Yeller followed him.

  "It must torture you," he said.

  "What?"

  "Watching Duane on TV. Instead of in person."

  "It was just a fling," she said in a monotone. "It didn't mean anything."

  "Duane was just a one-nighter?"

  "Something like that."

  "I don't think so," Myron said. "Duane Richwood is your son."

  "What are you talking about? I only had one son."

  "That's true."

  "And he's dead. They killed him, remember?"

  "That's not true. Errol Swade was killed. Not Curtis."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. But there wasn't much conviction in her voice. She sounded tired, like she was going through the motions--or maybe she just realized that Myron was beyond buying the lies.

  "I know now." Myron showed her the book in his hand. "Do you know what this is?"

  She looked at the book, her face blank.

  "It's the yearbook from Curtis's high school. I just got it from Lucinda Elright."

  Deanna Yeller looked so frail, a stiff breeze would send her crashing into the wall. Myron opened the yearbook. "Duane has had a nose job since then. Maybe some other surgery too, I can't be sure. His hair is different. He's gotten a lot more muscular, but then again, he's not a skinny sixteen-year-old anymore. Plus he always wears sunglasses in public. Always. Who would recognize him? Who would even imagine Duane Richwood was a murder suspect killed six years ago?"

  Deanna stumbled over to a table. She sat down. She pointed weakly to the chair across from her. Myron took it.

  "Curtis was a great athlete," Myron continued, fingering through the pages. "He was only a sophomore, but he was already starting varsity football and basketball. The high school he went to didn't have a tennis team, but Lucinda told me that didn't stop him. He played as often as he could. He loved the game."

  Deanna Yeller remained still.

  "You see, from the beginning I never bought the robbery angle," Myron said. "You were quick to call your son a thief, Deanna, but the facts didn't back it up. He was a good kid. He had no record. And he was smart. There was nothing to steal out there. Then I thought maybe it was a drug deal gone bad. That made the most sense. Alexander Cross was a user. Errol Swade was a seller. But that didn't explain why your son was there. I even thought for a while that Curtis and Errol had never gone to the club, that they were just scapegoats. But a fairly reliable witness swears he saw them both. He also said he heard tennis balls being hit at night. He also saw Curti
s and Errol each carrying one tennis racket. Why? If you're robbing the place, you carry as many rackets as you can. If you're doing a drug deal, you don't carry any rackets. The answer was obvious in the end: they were there to play tennis. They jumped the fence not to rob the place, but because Curtis wanted to play tennis."

  Deanna lifted her head up. She was hollow-eyed. Her movements were sparse and slow. "It was a grass court," she said. "He'd watched Wimbledon on TV that week. He just wanted to play on a grass court, that's all."

  "Unfortunately Alexander Cross and his buddies were outside getting high," Myron went on. "They heard Curtis and Errol. What happened next is not exactly clear, but I think we can probably take Senator Cross's word on this one. Alexander, high as a kite, created a conflict. Maybe he didn't like the idea of a couple of black kids playing on his court. Or maybe he really thought they were there to rob the club. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that Errol Swade took out a knife and killed him. It might have been self-defense, but I doubt it."

  "He just reacted," Deanna said. "Stupid kid saw a bunch of white boys, so he stabbed. Errol didn't know any different."

  Myron nodded. "They ran away then, but Curtis got tackled in the bushes by Valerie Simpson. They struggled. Valerie got a good look at Curtis. A very good look. When you are fighting with someone you believed killed your fiance, you don't forget the face. Curtis managed to break away. He and Errol jumped the fence and ran down the block. They found a car in a driveway. Errol had been arrested several times already for stealing cars. Breaking in and hot-wiring one was no problem for him. That's what first gave it to me. I talked to the officer who supposedly shot your son. His name is Jimmy Blaine. Jimmy said he shot the driver of the car, not the passenger. But Curtis wouldn't have been driving. That wouldn't make any sense. The driver was the experienced thief, not the good kid. So then it dawned on me: Jimmy Blaine didn't shoot Curtis Yeller. He shot Errol Swade."

  Deanna Yeller sat still as a stone.

  "The bullet hit Errol in the ribs. With Curtis's help they managed to round the corner and crawl in through the fire escape. They made their way to your apartment. By now sirens were sounding all over the place. They were closing in on all of you. Errol and Curtis were probably in a state of panic. It was pandemonium. They told you what happened. You knew what this meant--a rich white boy shot at a fancy rich white club. Your son was doomed. Even if Curtis had only been standing there--even if Errol told the police that it was all his fault--Curtis was finished."