Sudden Death (8 page)

When Miguel Semana walked into Amalgamated’s courtside box, he and Dennis struck up a casual conversation. Since the matches hadn’t begun, the two were alone. They bantered pleasantries, talking of rampant inflation and Carmen’s serve.

“Don’t you ever want to compete yourself?” Dennis wondered.

“Sometimes, but I’m glad I became a lawyer. After all, what would happen to our investments if both Semanas were playing? Someone needs to concentrate on business.”

“Carmen’s lucky to have you.”

Miguel chuckled. “I’d say I was lucky to have her.” He paused. “Speaking of business, we’re currently developing a line of clothing for Southeast Asia. The clothing she now endorses covers the U.S., Europe, and South America. You know, quite a market is developing in Japan, Hong Kong, the Philippines, and India. We’re hoping to take advantage of her reputation. After all, she’s world famous.”

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“Not at all.” Miguel beamed. “We’re creating shirts and blouses with her personal logo and selling them overseas. Of course, the prices will be lower abroad, except in Japan. That way Carmen doesn’t have to divide the profits with a middleman. The line will be manufactured in Hong Kong.”

“Zip labor costs.” Dennis’s slender hand convulsively clutched and released his keys inside his jacket pocket.

“Shipping is low, too. And who knows, we can always swim the line across to mainland China. That market is bigger than India.”

“Are you looking for investors?” the banker asked.

“Only one. We’re using about three hundred thousand dollars of our own money. Too many cooks spoil the stew.”

“Yes, yes.” Dennis squeezed his keys. “Why don’t you stop by my office Monday? I’d like to discuss this further.”

Not wanting to appear too eager, Miguel hesitated. “We’ll be off for Chicago.”

“Perhaps you could follow a day later. I think I could find you that investor.”

“Since you put it that way …” Miguel’s moustache twitched upwards.

“Here, let me give you my card.” Dennis rummaged in his pocket. “I know I’ve got one somewhere.” He pulled out a hunk of brown fur. “My lucky rabbit’s foot.”

“Carmen’s got a pair of lucky socks.”

“Is that right? Oh, here it is.” Dennis handed over the card.

Miguel shook his hand and excused himself from the box. The only one who should put faith in the rabbit’s foot, he thought, is the rabbit.

Susan Reilly plopped on the trainer’s table to get her left ankle taped. There wasn’t anything wrong with it or the rest of her body except that she pounded it every day for the last twenty years. The constant slamming of feet on clay and grass and carpet, the quick stops, turns, and leaps for overheads begin to take their toll.

In tennis players, the knees are most vulnerable. Then comes the elbow. Shoulders don’t dislocate, but the muscles rip apart. Bone spurs congregate on joints. Ligaments pop. Piece by piece, under repeated stress, the body unravels itself.

Susan was crossing over the line and she knew it. Injuries didn’t heal as fast. Ice packs helped out but not for long. She took better care of herself at thirty than she did at twenty. Superb conditioning and a sixth sense on the court kept her formidable. She turned her ankle in practice this morning. It didn’t hurt, but she was taking no chances. The trainer, a cheerful woman, expertly wrapped the famous ankle. Susan brooded while Alicia Brinker sat nearby, reading the Bible.

Alicia, a far better tennis wife than Harriet, found comfort in religion. Susan tolerated it because Alicia was so pliable in other ways. Away from Susan, a rare occurrence, Alicia would quietly discuss her religious beliefs. She earnestly wanted to reconcile her homosexuality with St. Paul. As St. Paul expressed nothing but contempt for women, her hopes of winning some approval for lesbians was futile. Still, she read on.

Lavinia stuck her head in the trainer’s room. “Everything all right in here?”

Alicia glanced up from her book.

Susan answered, “Fine. What’s the score out there?”

“Five-four in the first. Carmen’s serve.”

“Thanks.” Susan lay back on the table. Another half hour, forty minutes at most, and she’d be out there unless Hilda Stambach could turn back the tide. Hilda would harden eventually. Now, she could still be undermined by an older player. Carmen was the better player, but Hilda was seventeen with forearms like Virginia hams. Susan would keep her eye on Hilda.

Miranda Mexata passed the trainer’s room and waved. Lavinia, further down the hall, caught sight of the umpire and flagged her down.

“Miranda, I want to talk to you.”

Miranda, acquainted with Lavinia’s vocabulary of self-regard, sighed.

Lavinia spoke in a significant whisper. “She’s been more high-strung of late.” She nodded her head in the direction of the trainer’s room. “That’s why I put you on the second singles. Carmen and Hilda won’t get out of line. Beanie and Susan though, well, the fur may fly. You’ve got to be firm, Miranda, be firm.”

Appearing to absorb this oft-repeated advice, Miranda replied, “Alicia’s had a calming effect, I think.”

Lavinia quickly checked out the area to see if anyone could hear what Miranda said. “We don’t speak of that.”

“M-m-m.” Miranda wondered if Ricky had a player up in the press booth. Occasionally he’d take up a player and give them a chance to provide color commentary. It was great for the players and great for the viewers. Ricky was generous that way. He made everyone look good. Miranda was dying to be asked into the press booth for her version of events. Perched high in the umpire’s chair, she saw the game the way no one else saw it, even the players.

“Miranda, are you listening?”

“What do you want me to say? I’ve handled Susan before, and I don’t think she’ll be troublesome tonight.”

“I’ve been in this business a long, long time and I can tell you, she’s tense. She’s working herself up. How I remember that myself. She still thinks she can win the Slam, you know. She’s already starting to turn the screws tighter. Oh, yes.” Lavinia inhaled.

Siggy Wayne, fat as a toad and on a search-and-annoy mission, sauntered over to the women. “Anyone seen Chuck?” Chuck Lowry was the Tomahawk representative in Kansas City.

Lavinia supplied the obvious information. “He’s probably watching the match or hanging around the hospitality lounge.”

Miranda escaped. “I’ll see you later. I want to observe how Danielle’s doing in the chair.” Miranda supervised the local umpires. Locals could be intimidated by the players.

Lavinia yearned for a vodka gimlet, and she knew it wouldn’t take much coaxing to steer Siggy Wayne to the bar. Siggy wooed sponsors to women’s tennis. Originally, Lavinia performed that function, but as the sport mushroomed, her job had to be broken into component parts. Siggy turned out to be perfect, so on the payroll he went. He flew from city to city, a pied piper of women’s tennis. No one was sure if the rats were driven out or in, but at any rate, he did bring in the loot and that made him indispensable. He and Seth Quintard of Athletes Unlimited were kindred spirits. Seth grabbed goodies for his players; Siggy grabbed it for the entire sport. He thought of women’s tennis as his burlesque show with clothes. As far as Siggy was concerned, women’s tennis couldn’t compete with men’s tennis. The men’s game was faster, stronger, and longer. All the women had to sell was tits and ass. Plenty of them had neither, but the few that did, the Page Bartlett Campbells, the Rainey Rogerses, they were his aces. Since Navratilova was out because of an on-court accident
and Austin still had back trouble, Sissy shepherded his healthy stars … especially his healthy heterosexual stars. The president of a local bank would love to rub shoulders with Terry Bradshaw, but Susan Reilly? Possibly not. It would take the men running corporations a long time to appreciate women as athletes.

Siggy gave Lavinia his arm, for she lapped up courtliness, and they strolled toward the bar. Lavinia thought Siggy’s methods were questionable, but he did bring in the money. All the girls had to do was stand around at a few parties and try to look attractive on the court. She had a great passion for women’s tennis, but that passion didn’t blind her to the fact that for today, Siggy Wayne was right. The next generation would have to find their own way to sell themselves and tennis. For now, it was selling women as women. Nothing wrong with that.

Lavinia was often angry about the regard in which women tennis players were held. Their scores were reported after the men’s scores. At the giant tournaments like the U.S. Open, there wasn’t even an attempt at equal television coverage. Every year that was supposed to be changed. Promises, promises. She knew the game wasn’t behind the eight ball, but it wasn’t in the pocket either. Why would a corporation pour money into women’s tennis if that money could more profitably be spent elsewhere? The image of women’s tennis had to lure them. As for emphasizing sexuality—in a subtle way, of course—she thought that was fine. Vive la différence. Except the difference for most women meant a difference in salary. The women were catching up until one looked under the table and at endorsements. Tennis remained a man’s world, subject to change and changing, but a man’s world nonetheless. Since Lavinia prided herself on her looks and her femininity, it didn’t seem all that bad … until she thought of a lesbian scandal and her blood ran cold.

She was once told she resembled Marlene Dietrich and
she never fully recovered from the compliment. Each morning she religiously painted on her eyebrows. The arch depended on how much she’d drunk the night before. From the look of it as she chatted with Siggy, those eyebrows would be inverted V’s for tomorrow’s finals.

The morning of the Kansas City final, Carmen ordered her usual breakfast of steak, pasta, and coffee. She ordered a cold Coca-Cola for Harriet.

“Where’s the goddamned food? I ordered half an hour ago!” She tossed the Sunday paper across the room.

In the beginning of their relationship, Carmen’s irritability upset Harriet. Now she knew that before a final, Carmen would either sizzle like a firecracker or withdraw into the remoter recesses of her being. At least with a sizzle there was contact. Harriet also learned never to criticize Carmen about anything, even the color of her shoelaces, before a final.

Harriet picked up the phone.

“Are you dialing Room Service?”

“No,” Harriet answered.

Carmen grabbed the phone out of her lover’s hand, stabbed the number, and let fly. “Room Service, this is Semana in three-two-six. Semana!”

The voice on the other end of the line displayed the famous inability to understand or pronounce non-English names. “S-E-M-A—goddammit, forget my name. The room number is three-two-six, and where’s the food?” She slammed the receiver on the hook where it rocked in its cradle.

Harriet again picked up the telephone and dialed. After a suitable interval, she spoke with cheerfulness. “Baby Jesus, how are you? This is Mother. Yes, Carmen is here, too. What
kind of tub do we have? A pink one with wallpaper to match.” Harriet listened intently.

At first Carmen paid no attention as she retrieved the sports page from the other side of the room.

“I don’t care if you don’t like Friskies tuna; eat it anyway.” Pause. “We’ll be home tonight. Carmen has a week off before Chicago. You want to come to Chicago?” Pause. “What do you mean you need a new coat? Your gray tabby will do just fine. You want to wish her luck?” Harriet cupped her hand over the receiver. “Honey, Baby Jesus wants to wish you luck.”

Carmen looked up from the paper. “Loco.”

“She says, ‘Thank you.’ You’re writing a new novel?
Catalogue
, a book about feline lumberjacks. Well, good luck with it. Bye, bye. We love you.”

The bell rang. Food, at last. Carmen sat down and started eating while Harriet signed for it. She sat down and picked up her Coke.

“What book did you say Baby Jesus was writing?” Carmen asked.

“Catalogue.”

“Hmm.” She attacked her steak and then brightened. “I think she’d make more money if she wrote one called
Category.”

“Oh, why is that?”