Sudden Death (19 page)

A white tin of Balkan Sobranie cigarettes, made from the finest Yenidje tobacco, rested on Miguel Semana’s lap. The cigarettes were so strong, a smoker could chew the taillights off a dump truck after one week. He’d puffed through five. Miguel bet $20,000 on this match. Of course, his sister knew nothing of it.

Carmen split sets with Rainey Rogers and just had her service broken. The score was now four-three, favor of Rogers. Carpet was Carmen’s surface, but Rainey’s backhand was lashing. Her determination didn’t waver. When Carmen followed a strong first serve, Rainey zinged the ball down the line.

Carmen was stronger. She was faster. Today she wasn’t too flexible in her game plan. Carmen didn’t like to change her tactics although she could if she had to. Rainey jerked her from side to side in the backcourt. Carmen stayed back to avoid the unerringly accurate passing shots, but staying in the backcourt was Rainey’s game. Carmen grew up on red clay courts. She could stay back and win physically; temperamentally, she dried up behind the baseline. The trouble with Carmen today was in her head not on the court. Given her temperament, one reflected the other quite often.

Rogers grew more confident with each shot. Carmen wasn’t giving up, but she wasn’t having fun. Carmen was a woman who constantly read the temperature of her own pleasure. Living through discomfort or pain to reach a great goal was alien to her, especially emotionally. She could sometimes
put off her immediate wants on the tennis court, but off the tennis court, if she wanted something, she wanted it now. She didn’t care how much it cost, she didn’t care whose boat she rocked. Not that she intended to disrupt anybody, but Carmen would leap and then look. To date she landed on her feet.

Susan Reilly was in the process of changing all that even as Carmen uncorked another shattering serve, a serve that rocketed off Rainey’s racquet. The eighteen-year-old had drilled for six hours a day in order to handle Carmen’s serve. She used Carmen’s power against her like a judo expert felling a larger man. Increasingly frustrated, Carmen wavered between knocking the shit out of the ball and hanging back, trying to outbore the bore. This was not the way to win a tennis match.

Rainey punched her lights out, six-four in the third set. Harriet politely applauded. Miguel lit another cigarette and smiled wanly. What was $20,000? The clothing line would make him millions! Lavinia, Howard, and umpteen photographers milled on the court. Carmen, head wrapped in a towel, registered her private thoughts and pulled herself together.

When Carmen finally got into the shower alone, she cried. Why get to the finals to lose? “I’ll win the Slam,” she vowed. “I’ll work on my first serve. I’ll work on my second serve. I’ll work on everything. I will win that Slam. No one can write me off after that!” She started to hit the wall and then thought better of it. No injuries. Not now.

The French Open would be the last week of May through the first week of June. It was played on clay, grueling red clay, a surface so punishing it could wear down even an iron man like Guillermo Vilas. A four-hour match was common on a clay surface. Cramps occurred like mayflies. Players had to abandon matches as they abandoned lovers: stay until it hurts so much you have to go. The French Open, the turf of Page
Bartlett Campbell, would be the hardest tournament to win. Rainey was waiting in the wings. If Page faltered, hard to imagine on clay, Rainey would be right there, a barracuda circling the blood. Somehow, some way, Carmen would have to harden her patience and prepare for the slower pace, the endless points, and the French themselves. Given the Parisian habit of insult, why weren’t more of them murdered in their beds by angry Americans? wondered Carmen.

“I must win it! I will win it! I shall win it!” Carmen whispered to herself. If she won the French, she knew no one could stop her from the other three. Grass was her best surface. As for the U.S. Open, they slowed the surface down to get longer rallies out of the men’s games. This was a disaster for the women, but if Carmen won the French, the Open was still faster than that molasses clay. She’d take the U.S. Open, Wimbledon, and the Australian Open on grass. She would win the Grand Slam.

Relishing a cold glass of white wine, Susan conferred with Martin Kuzirian, a reporter and longtime acquaintance. She gave him special interviews over the years, put him in touch with other sports figures, and generally went out of her way to nurse him. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship to those who liked them, parasitic to those who did not.

Martin, a gluttonous smile across his face, said, “Beautiful view.”

“Yes, the Simpsons know how to live.”

“Where are they?”

“Tortola. They won’t return until April.”

“Can’t blame them. After a while the weather wears you down, and if that doesn’t get you, the people will.”

“You look none the worse for wear.”

“Life’s treating me right.” He smiled.

“I have a story for you.”

“Susan, you are a continual source of inspiration. Maybe I’ll get another promotion, although I’d rather have a raise.”

“They don’t go hand in hand?”

“Not these days. Haven’t you heard? We’ve got a buoyant economy. It’s kept afloat by inflation.”

Susan draped her arm over the back of the freeform sofa; the Simpsons were very au courant. “The story is that Carmen Semana and Harriet Thorn Rawls are getting married next month.”

“What?” He looked incredulous.

“Yes, they’re getting married. I heard it from Carmen herself. She invited me to the wedding.”

“Why on earth would they want to do that?”

“That’s what I say. Living together for three years seems good enough to me. What’s all this mumbo jumbo in front of a man with a smock?”

“I seem to recall that you did it.” Martin resembled a badger.

“I was young.”

“Not that young.”

“Martin, at least I picked a man to marry.”

He smiled, then said, “Still happily married to Craig, I take it?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you giving me this story? I thought you and Carmen were friends.”

“We haven’t been friends since she met Harriet. Actually, she tagged after me. I think she had a crush on me when she was sixteen, poor thing.”

Martin tried not to choke. Did Susan think he was that stupid? “Kids go through phases.”

“I’m telling you this because I know you’ll handle the story in a manner that places events in perspective. If those
two dodo birds let it leak out and the gossip rags get it, it could hurt us all.”

“Don’t you think an isolated story about two women can hurt women’s tennis?”

“It’ll cause some feathers to be ruffled, but women’s tennis is too big to be hurt.”

“Yes.” He rubbed his chin.

“Carmen’s a fool. I told her not to get married, but then I told her never to become lovers with that teacher, too.”

“People learn the hard way.”

“If you ask Carmen if she’s getting married, she’ll lie, of course. That’s no story unless you can catch them in the act.” Susan had thought this out. The marriage ceremony was a complete fabrication to inflame Kuzirian’s ambitions for a big story. “The person to attack is Harriet. Oh, I wouldn’t ask her if she’s getting married. That’s too farfetched. I’d just ask her if she’s a lesbian.”

“Why?”

“She’s an even bigger fool than Carmen.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean Harriet couldn’t tell a lie if her life depended on it.”

Martin snickered nervously. This story could mean a big career boost. Too bad people had to get hurt, but that’s life. “Any ideas about how to pin her down?”

“Pull her aside at a press conference. She hangs around Ricky Cooper and Jane Fulton a lot. They’re the only people who will have anything to do with her.”

“Why do you hate her? I’m curious.”

“I don’t hate her.”

Martin knew better than to push. “When’s a good time for me to hit her?”

“Hilton Head. There’s a tournament there starting April sixth. The atmosphere is relaxed, easygoing, people milling about. By the way, the best way to bring Harriet out is to catch
her with Carmen and attack Carmen in some way. Harriet hasn’t a brain in her head when it comes to her lover.”

“M-m-m.”

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“Love?”

She snapped, “I wouldn’t call it that. I don’t think women really love one another. I don’t understand lesbians. I don’t condemn them; I just don’t understand them, that’s all.”

“Of course.” Martin got up to leave.

As Susan closed the door, she smiled. So what if she made up the story of a marriage ceremony. Kuzirian didn’t need to know that. All he needed to do was be motivated enough to provoke Carmen and Harriet.

Susan couldn’t face the real reason she was hell-bent on obliterating Carmen Semana. Carmen was the one player who could overshadow her achievements. Carmen was the one player who just might win the Grand Slam. With her green card placed in jeopardy and the world in an uproar over her lesbianism, try, just try to concentrate on tennis!

Susan wasn’t proud of herself. She didn’t think of it in those terms. She acted in terms of survival. She was fighting for herself, for her achievements. She’d given her entire being to tennis, and she couldn’t bear the thought that it might be over, that she might be getting older, that she might be soon forgotten. She only knew who she was when she heard the applause. How could she give it up? How could she step aside in favor of someone who only a few years ago was a kid who spoke broken English? As Susan saw it, Carmen was erratic, overemotional, and simple when Susan took her under her wing. She helped this young player reach her greatness. As for being lovers, well, Carmen was a mistake.

T
he plane lifted off. LaGuardia diminished below and soon resembled a toy set. Lavinia Sibley Archer and Siggy Wayne sat together in economy class. Siggy wore a spotted tie with his expensive navy pinstripe. The man was hopeless. Seth Quintard, his briefcase open, waited for a J&B on the rocks. The day was clear. The Tomahawk Circuit was over, but Lavinia, head of the Women’s Tennis Guild, could attend any tournament she chose. Hilton Head was one of her brainstorms. April and May were slow times between the Tomahawk Circuit and the French Open. For the last three years Siggy and Lavinia lured sponsors for one-shot deals. Hilton Head was sponsored by a foundation garment manufacturer.

The two of them also cooked up the Futures Circuit which played midsize towns and developed the next generation of tennis stars. The Futures Circuit was good training for everyone, young players, umpires, and linesmen.

Lavinia and Siggy had good reason to be proud of their accomplishments, but at the moment, they were haggling over the Futures Circuit.

“This blonde girl—she’s worthy of buildup.” Siggy thought the kid was cute.

“She’d be a lot more worthy of buildup if she had a net game,” Lavinia, ever the pro, countered.

“That will come in time. She looks great. The press will love her. She’s fourteen.”

“Trixie Wescott is thirteen.”

“Trixie Wescott is a dog,” Siggy said bluntly. “We need more pretty girls, Lavinia.”