“When?” Myron asked. The question was stupid and irrelevant, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.
“This morning. What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard she came to you,” Duane said.
Myron said nothing.
“Did you tell her about seeing me at the hotel?”
“No.”
Duane changed tapes in the Walkman. “Get out of here,” he said.
“She cares about you, Duane.”
“Funny way of showing it.”
“She just wants to know what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
The sunglasses were disconcerting. He looked straight up at Myron; it appeared as though they were making eye contact, but who knew? “This match is important,” Myron said, “but not like Wanda.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped.
“Then tell her the truth.”
Duane’s chiseled face smiled slowly. “You don’t understand,” he said.
“Make me understand.”
He fiddled with the Walkman, popping the tape out, pushing it back in. “You think telling the truth will make it better, but you don’t know what the truth is. You talking like ‘The truth will set you free’ when you don’t even know the truth. The truth don’t always set you free, Myron. Sometimes the truth can kill.”
“Hiding the truth isn’t working,” Myron said.
“It would if you’d let it lie.”
“Someone was murdered. That’s not something you can just let lie.”
Duane put the Walkman’s headphones back on his ears. “Maybe it should be,” he said.
Silence.
The two men stared dares. Myron could hear the faint din coming from the Walkman. Then he said to Duane, “You were there the night Alexander Cross was murdered. You were at the club with Yeller and Swade.”
The stares continued. Behind them, Thomas Craig lined up by the door. He carried several tennis rackets and what looked like an overnight bag. Security was there too with walkie-talkies and earplugs. They nodded toward Duane. “Show time, Mr. Richwood.”
Duane stood. “Excuse me,” he said to Myron. “I have a match to play.”
He walked behind Thomas Craig. Thomas Craig smiled politely. Duane did likewise. Very civil, tennis. Myron watched them leave. He sat there for a few minutes in the abandoned locker room. In the distance he heard the cheers as both men entered the court.
Show time.
Myron found his way to his seat. It was during the match—in the fourth set actually—when he finally figured out who murdered Valerie Simpson.
44
Stadium Court was packed by the time Myron sat down. Duane and Thomas Craig were still warming up, each taking turns lofting easy lobs for the other to slam away. The fans floated and mingled and socialized and made sure they were seen. The usual celebs were there: Johnny Carson, Alan King, David Dinkins, Renee Richards, Barbra Streisand, Ivana Trump.
Jake and his son Gerard came down to the box.
“I see you got the tickets okay,” Myron said.
Jake nodded. “Great seats.”
“Nothing’s too good for my friends.”
“No,” Jake said, “I meant yours.”
Ever the wiseass.
Jake and Gerard chatted a moment with Jessica before moving up to their seats, which were by any stretch of the imagination excellently situated. Myron scanned the crowd. A lot of familiar faces. Senator Bradley Cross was there with his entourage, including his son’s old chum Gregory Caufield. Frank Ache had shown up wearing the same sweat suit Myron had seen him in yesterday. Frank nodded toward Myron. Myron did not nod back. Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke were there too—surprise, surprise. They were sitting a few boxes over. Myron tried to catch Helen’s eye, but she was trying very hard to pretend she didn’t see him. Ned Tunwell and Friends (not to be confused with Barney and Friends, though the confusion would be understandable) were in their usual box. Ned too was doing his utmost not to see Myron. He seemed less animated today.
“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.”
“This morning. What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard she came to you,” Duane said.
Myron said nothing.
“Did you tell her about seeing me at the hotel?”
“No.”
Duane changed tapes in the Walkman. “Get out of here,” he said.
“She cares about you, Duane.”
“Funny way of showing it.”
“She just wants to know what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
The sunglasses were disconcerting. He looked straight up at Myron; it appeared as though they were making eye contact, but who knew? “This match is important,” Myron said, “but not like Wanda.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped.
“Then tell her the truth.”
Duane’s chiseled face smiled slowly. “You don’t understand,” he said.
“Make me understand.”
He fiddled with the Walkman, popping the tape out, pushing it back in. “You think telling the truth will make it better, but you don’t know what the truth is. You talking like ‘The truth will set you free’ when you don’t even know the truth. The truth don’t always set you free, Myron. Sometimes the truth can kill.”
“Hiding the truth isn’t working,” Myron said.
“It would if you’d let it lie.”
“Someone was murdered. That’s not something you can just let lie.”
Duane put the Walkman’s headphones back on his ears. “Maybe it should be,” he said.
Silence.
The two men stared dares. Myron could hear the faint din coming from the Walkman. Then he said to Duane, “You were there the night Alexander Cross was murdered. You were at the club with Yeller and Swade.”
The stares continued. Behind them, Thomas Craig lined up by the door. He carried several tennis rackets and what looked like an overnight bag. Security was there too with walkie-talkies and earplugs. They nodded toward Duane. “Show time, Mr. Richwood.”
Duane stood. “Excuse me,” he said to Myron. “I have a match to play.”
He walked behind Thomas Craig. Thomas Craig smiled politely. Duane did likewise. Very civil, tennis. Myron watched them leave. He sat there for a few minutes in the abandoned locker room. In the distance he heard the cheers as both men entered the court.
Show time.
Myron found his way to his seat. It was during the match—in the fourth set actually—when he finally figured out who murdered Valerie Simpson.
44
Stadium Court was packed by the time Myron sat down. Duane and Thomas Craig were still warming up, each taking turns lofting easy lobs for the other to slam away. The fans floated and mingled and socialized and made sure they were seen. The usual celebs were there: Johnny Carson, Alan King, David Dinkins, Renee Richards, Barbra Streisand, Ivana Trump.
Jake and his son Gerard came down to the box.
“I see you got the tickets okay,” Myron said.
Jake nodded. “Great seats.”
“Nothing’s too good for my friends.”
“No,” Jake said, “I meant yours.”
Ever the wiseass.
Jake and Gerard chatted a moment with Jessica before moving up to their seats, which were by any stretch of the imagination excellently situated. Myron scanned the crowd. A lot of familiar faces. Senator Bradley Cross was there with his entourage, including his son’s old chum Gregory Caufield. Frank Ache had shown up wearing the same sweat suit Myron had seen him in yesterday. Frank nodded toward Myron. Myron did not nod back. Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke were there too—surprise, surprise. They were sitting a few boxes over. Myron tried to catch Helen’s eye, but she was trying very hard to pretend she didn’t see him. Ned Tunwell and Friends (not to be confused with Barney and Friends, though the confusion would be understandable) were in their usual box. Ned too was doing his utmost not to see Myron. He seemed less animated today.
“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.”
