“Precisely.”
“But I don’t get something. The Cross murder was on the news every day for weeks. How come I never heard Valerie’s name mentioned?”
“That,” Win said, nailing another putt, “is why I find the circumstances disturbing.”
Silence.
“We need to talk to Valerie’s family,” Myron said. “Maybe the senator’s as well.”
“Yes.”
“You live in that world. You’re one of them. They’d be more apt to talk to you.”
Win shook his head. “They’ll never talk to me. Being ‘one of them,’ as you put it, is a severe handicap. Their guard will be up with someone like me. But with you they won’t be so concerned about facades. They’ll perceive you as someone who doesn’t matter, as someone inferior, as someone beneath them. A nobody.”
“Gee, that’s flattering.”
Win smiled. “The way of the world, my friend. Many things change, but these people still consider themselves the true, original Americans. You and your kind are just hired help, shipped in from Russia or Eastern Europe or from whatever gulag or ghetto your people originated.”
“I hope they don’t hurt my feelings,” Myron said.
“I’ll arrange a meeting for you with Valerie’s mother for tomorrow morning.”
“You think she’ll see me?”
“If I request it, yes.”
“Groovy.”
“Indeed.” Win put down his putter. “In the meantime what do you suggest we do?”
Myron checked his watch. “One of Pavel Menansi’s protégées is playing on Stadium Court in about an hour. I figured I’d pay him a visit.”
“And pour moi?”
“Valerie spent the past week at the Plaza Hotel,” Myron said. “I’d like you to look around, see if anybody remembers anything. Check her phone calls.”
“See if she did indeed call Duane Richwood?”
“Yes.”
“And if she did?”
“Then we have to look into that too,” Myron said.
5
The U.S.T.A. National Tennis Center is neatly snuggled into the bosom of Queens’ top attractions: Shea Stadium (home of the New York Mets), Flushing Meadows Park (home of the 1964–65 World’s Fair) and La Guardia Airport (home of, uh, delays).
Players used to complain about the La Guardia planes flying overhead, for the very simple reason that it made Stadium Court sound like a launch pad during an Apollo liftoff. Then-mayor David Dinkins, never one to let a terrible injustice go unheeded, immediately sprang into action. Using all his political might, the former mayor of New York City—who in a fascinating and almost eerie coincidence was also an enormous tennis fan—had La Guardia’s offending runway halt operations for the duration of the Open. Tennis millionaires were grateful. In a show of mutual respect and admiration Mayor David Dinkins returned their gratitude by showing up at the matches every day for the two weeks of play, except—in yet another eerie coincidence—during election years.
Only two courts were used for the night sessions: Stadium Court and the adjacent Grandstand Court. The day sessions, Myron thought, were much more fun. Fifteen or sixteen matches might be going on at the same time. You could cruise around, catch a great five-set match on some obscure court, discover an up-and-coming player, see singles, doubles, and mixed doubles matches all in the glorious sunshine. But at night you basically sat in one seat and watched a match under lights. During the Open’s first couple of days this match usually featured a top-seed mercilessly decapitating a qualifier.
Myron parked in the Shea Stadium lot and crossed the walking bridge over the No. 7 train. Someone had set up a booth with a radar gun where spectators could measure the speed of their own serve. Business was brisk. Ticket scalpers were also busy. So were the guys selling knockoff U.S. Open T-shirts. The knockoff T-shirts sold for five dollars, as opposed to the ones inside the gates that went for twenty-five dollars. Not a bad deal on the surface. Of course, after one wash the knockoff T-shirt could only be worn by a Barbie doll. But still.
Pavel Menansi was in one of the players’ boxes, the same one Myron and Win had sat in earlier in the day. It was 6:45 P.M. The final day match was over. The first night match, featuring Pavel’s latest protégée, fourteen-year old Janet Koffman, would not begin until 7:15 P.M. People were milling around during the day-to-night cusp. Myron spotted the usher from the day session.
“How ya doing, Mr. Bolitar?” the usher said.
“Fine, Bill. Just wanted to say a quick hello to a friend.”
“Sure, no prob, go right ahead.”
Myron headed down the steps. Without warning a man wearing a blue blazer and aviator sunglasses stepped in front of him. He was a big guy—six-four, two-twenty—just about Myron’s size. His neatly combed hair sat above a pleasant though unyielding face. He expanded his chest into a paddleball wall, blocking Myron’s path.
His voice said, “Can I help you, sir?” But his tone said, Take a hike, bub.
Myron looked at him. “Anyone ever tell you you look like Jack Lord?”
No reaction.
“You know,” Myron said. “Jack Lord? Hawaii Five-O?”
“I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“It’s not an insult. Many people find Jack Lord very attractive.”
“Sir, this is the last time I’m going to ask nicely.”
Myron studied his face. “You even have that Jack Lord surly grin. Remember it?” Myron imitated the grin for him, in case he’d never seen the show.
The face twitched. “Okay, buddy, you’re out of here.”
“I just want to speak to Mr. Menansi for a moment.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time.”
“Oh, okay.” He spoke a little louder. “Just tell Mr. Menansi that Duane Richwood’s agent wanted to discuss something very important with him. But if he’s not interested I’ll go elsewhere.”
Pavel Menansi’s head jerked around as though pulled by a string. His smile flicked on like a cigarette lighter. He rose, his eyes half open, his whole persona oozing that foreign charm that some women find irresistible and others find nauseating beyond words. Pavel was Romanian, one of tennis’s original Bad Boys, the former doubles partner of Ilie “Nasty” Nastase. He was nearing fifty, his face tanned to the point of leathery. When he smiled, the leather cracked almost audibly.
“But I don’t get something. The Cross murder was on the news every day for weeks. How come I never heard Valerie’s name mentioned?”
“That,” Win said, nailing another putt, “is why I find the circumstances disturbing.”
Silence.
“We need to talk to Valerie’s family,” Myron said. “Maybe the senator’s as well.”
“Yes.”
“You live in that world. You’re one of them. They’d be more apt to talk to you.”
Win shook his head. “They’ll never talk to me. Being ‘one of them,’ as you put it, is a severe handicap. Their guard will be up with someone like me. But with you they won’t be so concerned about facades. They’ll perceive you as someone who doesn’t matter, as someone inferior, as someone beneath them. A nobody.”
“Gee, that’s flattering.”
Win smiled. “The way of the world, my friend. Many things change, but these people still consider themselves the true, original Americans. You and your kind are just hired help, shipped in from Russia or Eastern Europe or from whatever gulag or ghetto your people originated.”
“I hope they don’t hurt my feelings,” Myron said.
“I’ll arrange a meeting for you with Valerie’s mother for tomorrow morning.”
“You think she’ll see me?”
“If I request it, yes.”
“Groovy.”
“Indeed.” Win put down his putter. “In the meantime what do you suggest we do?”
Myron checked his watch. “One of Pavel Menansi’s protégées is playing on Stadium Court in about an hour. I figured I’d pay him a visit.”
“And pour moi?”
“Valerie spent the past week at the Plaza Hotel,” Myron said. “I’d like you to look around, see if anybody remembers anything. Check her phone calls.”
“See if she did indeed call Duane Richwood?”
“Yes.”
“And if she did?”
“Then we have to look into that too,” Myron said.
5
The U.S.T.A. National Tennis Center is neatly snuggled into the bosom of Queens’ top attractions: Shea Stadium (home of the New York Mets), Flushing Meadows Park (home of the 1964–65 World’s Fair) and La Guardia Airport (home of, uh, delays).
Players used to complain about the La Guardia planes flying overhead, for the very simple reason that it made Stadium Court sound like a launch pad during an Apollo liftoff. Then-mayor David Dinkins, never one to let a terrible injustice go unheeded, immediately sprang into action. Using all his political might, the former mayor of New York City—who in a fascinating and almost eerie coincidence was also an enormous tennis fan—had La Guardia’s offending runway halt operations for the duration of the Open. Tennis millionaires were grateful. In a show of mutual respect and admiration Mayor David Dinkins returned their gratitude by showing up at the matches every day for the two weeks of play, except—in yet another eerie coincidence—during election years.
Only two courts were used for the night sessions: Stadium Court and the adjacent Grandstand Court. The day sessions, Myron thought, were much more fun. Fifteen or sixteen matches might be going on at the same time. You could cruise around, catch a great five-set match on some obscure court, discover an up-and-coming player, see singles, doubles, and mixed doubles matches all in the glorious sunshine. But at night you basically sat in one seat and watched a match under lights. During the Open’s first couple of days this match usually featured a top-seed mercilessly decapitating a qualifier.
Myron parked in the Shea Stadium lot and crossed the walking bridge over the No. 7 train. Someone had set up a booth with a radar gun where spectators could measure the speed of their own serve. Business was brisk. Ticket scalpers were also busy. So were the guys selling knockoff U.S. Open T-shirts. The knockoff T-shirts sold for five dollars, as opposed to the ones inside the gates that went for twenty-five dollars. Not a bad deal on the surface. Of course, after one wash the knockoff T-shirt could only be worn by a Barbie doll. But still.
Pavel Menansi was in one of the players’ boxes, the same one Myron and Win had sat in earlier in the day. It was 6:45 P.M. The final day match was over. The first night match, featuring Pavel’s latest protégée, fourteen-year old Janet Koffman, would not begin until 7:15 P.M. People were milling around during the day-to-night cusp. Myron spotted the usher from the day session.
“How ya doing, Mr. Bolitar?” the usher said.
“Fine, Bill. Just wanted to say a quick hello to a friend.”
“Sure, no prob, go right ahead.”
Myron headed down the steps. Without warning a man wearing a blue blazer and aviator sunglasses stepped in front of him. He was a big guy—six-four, two-twenty—just about Myron’s size. His neatly combed hair sat above a pleasant though unyielding face. He expanded his chest into a paddleball wall, blocking Myron’s path.
His voice said, “Can I help you, sir?” But his tone said, Take a hike, bub.
Myron looked at him. “Anyone ever tell you you look like Jack Lord?”
No reaction.
“You know,” Myron said. “Jack Lord? Hawaii Five-O?”
“I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“It’s not an insult. Many people find Jack Lord very attractive.”
“Sir, this is the last time I’m going to ask nicely.”
Myron studied his face. “You even have that Jack Lord surly grin. Remember it?” Myron imitated the grin for him, in case he’d never seen the show.
The face twitched. “Okay, buddy, you’re out of here.”
“I just want to speak to Mr. Menansi for a moment.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time.”
“Oh, okay.” He spoke a little louder. “Just tell Mr. Menansi that Duane Richwood’s agent wanted to discuss something very important with him. But if he’s not interested I’ll go elsewhere.”
Pavel Menansi’s head jerked around as though pulled by a string. His smile flicked on like a cigarette lighter. He rose, his eyes half open, his whole persona oozing that foreign charm that some women find irresistible and others find nauseating beyond words. Pavel was Romanian, one of tennis’s original Bad Boys, the former doubles partner of Ilie “Nasty” Nastase. He was nearing fifty, his face tanned to the point of leathery. When he smiled, the leather cracked almost audibly.
