“The note at the Open? I figured I owed you two that one.”
“We'll miss you from the tour. But you've got guts. I don't know if I could have done it.”
“Thank you. Wow, positive feedback. Sounds good.”
“Getting a lot of flack?”
“Everybody who ever made a dime off me. They figure I owe it to them to keep playing till I drop. And some of the players, some tour people. CMI. Jeff said they‘re hassling him for letting me get away. Supposed to have me on a leash.”
“CMI will get over it—management companies don't like to lose successful clients. That's business.”
“Not for Jeff, though.”
MacPhie grunted, started to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
“I'm not so sure,” said Delaney. “Jeff is your manager and your brother. He's bound to have conflicting reactions.”
Kitt nodded.
“I've been thinking things out—he hasn't. Never took me seriously.”
“Giving you a hard time?” inquired MacPhie.
“Oh, he'll cool off. He worries about me too much.” After a moment he added, “It's not that I won't miss tennis. It's been my life for a long time. But it's not enough.”
Delaney laid his hand on Kitt's shoulder.
“Make decisions as you go. Mind if we keep in touch? Off the record?”
“I'd like that.”
The two men rose. MacPhie hesitated, fumbled in his pockets, and brought out a crumpled package.
“I'm too cheap for a gold watch. But I thought you might like a souvenir.”
Puzzled, Kitt looked at the torn, deflated tennis ball. MacPhie affectionately punched his shoulder.
“You ripped it pretty good in your last match at the Open. Got my hands on it later. A symbol of your power.”
Kitt looked at the ball, weighed it tentatively in his hand and fingered the torn edges. He grinned.
“Some people might say it's a symbol of me.”
“Oh no,” Jack shook his head emphatically. “When you look at this, I want you to remember what you do to opposition. Rip'em.”
On the way home he stopped at the supermarket. By the exit sat a boy with a large dog and a box.
“Want a pup, mister?”
Kitt smiled and shook his head. He'd narrowed his choices down, and the American Kennel Club had directed him to a couple of breeders. One had a litter nearly ready to go, and he had an appointment to see them later in the week.
“They're real good dogs. This is the mother,” the boy said hopefully. The big dog gazed at him with a glimmer of interest in her large, soft brown eyes. Her tail quivered tentatively as he patted her head. She was a handsome, well-muscled dog, and Kitt could see the good temperament.
Against his better judgment, he reached in the box and stroked the pups.
“How old?”
“Almost eight weeks. There's two females and one male.”
“What's the father?”
The boy shrugged.
“It's our neighbor's dog. Don't know what he is—some funny name. He's real big. Friendly, though.”
One of the puppies stood, resting his paws on the edge of the carton. It was the male, and he was tired of life in a box. Making a lunge for adventure, he tumbled out of the box and chased a paper bag blown by the wind.
“No!”
Kitt snatched him up as brakes screeched and an angry driver shouted at him. He carried the pup back to the box. A second pup had climbed out, but was hauled back by the mother.
“This box is not safe. They can get out.”
“It's because he climbs on top of the other two,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “That one just copies him. I ought to get him good for running.”
“Don't hit him,” Kitt said sharply.
“My dad says they're going to the pound if I can't get rid of them today.”
Kitt looked at the big brown eyes and the giant paws. The pup wagged its tail and rubbed its nose against him, then put a persuasive paw on his arm. Kitt sighed. He'd looked forward to his visit to the kennels. Next week he expected to bring home a well-bred puppy with excellent bloodlines.
The pup yelped at him, and tilted his head sideways, pawing his hand. He was huge for eight weeks, which made him seem clumsier than average.
“I'm taking this one.”
“I think he's worth twenty bucks.”
“What will the pound give you for him?”
The boy shrugged.
“He's a real good dog.”
Kitt pulled out his wallet, gave the boy a fifty.
“Where do you live? I may want to come take a look at the father if you can find him.”
During the ride home the pup on the seat beside him showed an absorbing interest in the sights that passed him by.
“I'll call you Thor. That okay?”
The pup barked at him and tried to lick his face. Kitt laughed and restrained him with one hand, then petted his head.
“Good dog, Thor, good dog.”
Kitt suspected that his appetite would match his size. His paws were gigantic, his legs long, and his head fairly broad, with the beginnings of a dark blaze up the middle of his face. The veterinarian, who had been consulted about the different breeds, suppressed a smile when he brought Thor in, and pronounced him healthy.
“He looks good. Bright, alert, smart. Friendly, but obviously bonding with you.”
“I'll say he's bonding with me. He wants to go where I go and sleep where I sleep. How big do you think he'll get?”
“He's not much over seven weeks and he weighs thirty pounds. He's going to be a bruiser.”
The first few days Thor moved around the house with all the delicacy of a wrecking ball, but Kitt was confident that as the pup grew into his paws he'd gain in coordination. Thor could make Kitt melt with eyes that followed his every move, and stole his heart with clumsy, excited leaps after an old tennis ball.
He was pleasantly surprised to find that the pup took readily to training. Anxious for any attention Kitt would give him, he responded quickly to commands, and displayed signs of a keen intelligence. To Kitt's relief, he was housebroken almost overnight.
Jeff's obvious efforts to avoid him strained Kitt's patience, but he decided not to push, contenting himself with visits with the kids. Tony, who was nearly four now, and two-year-old Lita did not understand what was going on, and Kari was confused. When he took her out for ice cream, she cautiously broached the subject.
“Why are Mom and Dad mad at you, Uncle Kitt?”
Kitt frowned.
“They're not happy with me for pulling out of the tour, Kari. I didn't think they'd take it that bad, but the fact is it made them pretty mad.”
“But why? You can do what you want, can't you?”
“Sure,” he said gently. “But your dad was my manager, and he spent a lot of time working for me.”
“Are we going to be poor?”
He threw his head back and laughed.
“No way. I wouldn't have quit if I thought it would hurt you.”
She thought about that for a moment, and to his surprise repeated her question.
“But you can do what you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don't have to do what anybody says—you can do what you want to do, right?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet then, staring at Thor as he rolled over the grass. She seemed unaware of Kitt's intent gaze.
“I'll set things straight, Kari,” he reassured her. “You don't need to worry.”
She didn't seem convinced, and was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Kitt was baffled by her mood, which not even Thor with his antics could dispel. Disappointed, the pup gave up and concentrated his efforts on Kitt, who roughhoused with him on the grass. He dropped Kari off at home before dinner, and drove through the expensive neighborhood into the mountains. Soon they left the city's traffic behind and on a dirt road high above the city he parked the je
ep, and opened the back.
Thor bounded out into the blazing colors of early fall. Kitt whistled.
Something in the ecstatic barking and jumping and in the pup's adoring eyes made him feel all tender and sentimental. It had been a blessing to find him. No amount of selective breeding could have produced a more lovable and intelligent companion than Thor with his motley heritage. He obliged the dog by racing him down the trail.
What was going on with Kari? The moodiness that sometimes came with puberty was alien to him. What did he know about adolescence, having missed most of his own? What did he know about children growing into young women, but not quite—hung up somewhere between childhood and young adulthood in a vacuum of uncertainty, maybe even fear? Throw into that mix her parents’ fury—poor kid, he had to spend some extra time with her. Jeff and Laura had yelled at each other before. That's what they did when they were tense. Why the stress—had he done all this with his sudden pull-out? Something else going on? Was the marriage in trouble?
He snapped his fingers at the dog and they broke into a run through the gathering darkness, reaching the parked jeep as the last fiery glow throbbed below the horizon. Thor jumped in and settled happily on his blanket in the back.
At home messages awaited him. Call back? Wynne would do the persuasion routine. Not tonight. Rick? He'd been a good agent, walking a tightrope with his services to Kitt, at times duplicating Jeff's activities. After a while, they'd worked well together in obtaining for Kitt the most lucrative deals and endorsements any tennis player ever had. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the reason for his call.
Still, he owed Rick that much. He punched the numbers with unnecessary force.
Rick's voice was cheerful.
“So you're back! Vacation do you good?”
“Sure. I got your message—”
“Just checking. How about getting together for a drink tonight?”
“Nice of you to ask, but I don't drink.”
“That's right, that's right. Kind of thought that might have been because of training. Maybe a bite of dinner?“
“Can I take a rain check? If you called me next—“
“I'll do that. Tell you what, I'll call you after the weekend.”
Persistent, was old Rick. Might have known he wasn't going to meekly walk out on a good deal. He played a different game, and he played it about as well as Kitt had played his.
Camp Buchanan was testy. Miscalculation there. Les would be all right; he'd have a new job in no time. Having worked with the number one player in the world looked good on a resume. Zack and Dave probably had offers already.
He called Zack the next morning. The voice of his former coach was tired and dejected, and he had trouble carrying on a conversation. He sounded depressed. Talking with Dave should be easier. But his former assistant coach was cool on the phone, as though he was talking with a stranger in some telemarketing scam. Kitt wasted no time in small talk.
“I've been trying to fix things so no one would be hurt. Zack seems to be kind of down. Are you okay?”
His question met with a sullen silence. Kitt frowned.
“You wanna tell me what's bugging you?”
“What do you think? One day I'm a top coach, the next day I'm in the unemployment line. You just get up there and la-de-da, think I'll just pack it in, folks. Nice knowing you, coach.”
Kitt sighed. No reason to assume anyone would suddenly start listening.
“Isn't this a little melodramatic?”
“You think so, do you. I lost a good job. I haven't got a new one. It's as simple as that.”
“Players stand in line to get coaches who've worked with the top guys. But I kind of thought you'd take a little time off. You've had a tough schedule, too.”
“Time off? On what? I can't afford to be taking time off!”
“It's not like you've been on minimum wage. And Jeff will arrange a severance deal.”
“I haven't seen a dime yet, and I doubt that I will.”
“You don't believe me?”
“Oh, stop babbling. You screwed a lot of us.”
Les was more inclined to live and let live. He'd already been approached by other players, and Kitt was relieved. The conversations with Zack and Dave had left him a little shaken. How could he have worked with these people for so many years and known them so little? Zack was wallowing in depression, and Dave was throwing fits. After all the times he'd talked with his coaches about getting out of tennis after this year—how could they have missed it?
Cool-down time. Meanwhile, Wynne could wait. He'd had enough for one day.
He stretched full length on the carpet and pulled a book out of the middle of the stack on the floor. Thor trampled around a bit and curled up against his back. Soon, Kitt felt nothing but peace.
After his interview with a faculty advisor the following day he wandered around the campus. He was a full six years behind the average freshman. Get a flying start here.
Swarms of students hurried between buildings or stretched out on the grass for a quick nap between classes, or for visual inspection. He followed a sloping walkway to the sports complex. Past the football stadium and the hockey rinks, the baseball diamonds and the field house were six tennis courts. The main court was impressive, a fine surface with lots of space for running, and high-rising bleachers that could accommodate thousands. A few students were playing, and he stopped and watched with a critical eye. The girl had a passable serve, but her volley was erratic and her footwork too slow. Her opponent was a tall young man with a blistering backhand and a clumsy serve. He was trying to fix everything with power. Look at him hitting that sitter five feet past the sideline.
Suddenly his hand ached for the feel of a racket.
A couple of students in tennis shorts and T-shirts, packing athletic bags, walked toward the courts. A girl stopped and stared at him, said something to her friends, and before he could walk away the group cornered him.
“Kitt Buchanan? Are you Kitt Buchanan?”
“Guilty.”
“Can I have your autograph? Here—” she pulled out a notebook, handed him a pen. He shook his head, but she pushed it at him and he relented. Anonymity, he thought. How long would it take around here?
“We saw your U.S. Open matches, the last Slam. You were phenomenal!”
“Thank you.”
“I couldn't believe you quit tennis. I wish I could play like that—you couldn't pay me to quit.”
He shrugged.
“You could take off six months and you'd still be on top.” Funny, thought Kitt, everybody said that. Like it was a paper route. No single-minded devotion to the game, no hours and hours a day of conditioning and practicing, and tournament after tournament to get experience and more practice. They made it sound so trivial. Quit today, come back next month, or next year. Get your ranking back. Nothing to it. Everybody felt qualified to plan his life.
A session in his home gym eased his mood. He'd worked too hard, too long, conditioning himself, learning to put his keen mind in razor-sharp focus, working his body to a lean, rock-hard fitness to just let it all go. After several weeks off the tour he was getting used to life without jet lag, and he'd settled into a routine that included a hard workout. This life he had led for the past twelve years, you didn't just rip it out by the roots overnight.
His plans seemed vague now. Sketchy. It had seemed so clear and rational. Go to school, get an education, build a life. As though just signing up was going to fill in all the details. Details such as what he would study, and what sort of career he would prepare for, and how that added up to anything more significant than a tennis racket. How did you go about something as nebulous as “building a life”?
Before he jogged with Thor that night, he dropped off his car at the garage about a mile from his house for a tune-up. As he walked into the office, he stood, surprised.
“Trace? I didn't expect to see you here! Aren't you supposed to be at school by now?”
> The young man talked over his shoulder as he rolled a tire toward a truck in the far stall.
“I'm not going this semester. Decided to work another year, maybe two.”
“But why? When we talked—when was it—in February? Anyway, you were stoked, remember? What happened?”
The young man leaned the tire against the truck, stared at the ground for a moment and then raised his eyes to Kitt's.
“Okay, I was stoked. But the scholarship I'd been promised didn't come through, so I didn't go.”
Kitt stared at him.
“I don't understand. What are you talking about?”
“You know what I'm talking about. You said you'd pay for everything if I worked and paid for my own food and spending money. So I got a second job. But the money didn't come through.”
“Didn't come through? But how is that possible? Somebody at the university screwed up.”
“I called your office. Five times. Finally a secretary told me they had no application from me on file and it was too late to apply for anything.”
“I took the application in myself. It had to be there.”
He paced back and forth, trying to get a grip on himself.
“What if I straighten this out. Can you still get in?”
“Not this semester. Maybe next.”
Kitt nodded.
“Be in touch.”
He tried to reach Jeff on his cell, but got no farther than Laura. Her voice was icy when she informed him that Jeff was out trying to do damage control, and she didn't know when he'd be back.
“Tell him I absolutely have to talk to him tonight, will you? This is important.”
Laura sounded at the same time suspicious and hopeful and it irritated him.
“You mean you're changing your mind?”
“I mean I want him to do more damage control. Real fast.”
Jeff did not call that night, and Kitt couldn't find him at his office the next morning. It took ten minutes of pressure to obtain from the secretary the information that Jeff would be checking in with her before lunch. He glanced at his watch. Twelve thirty.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. I don't know why my brother's whereabouts are classified information, but I think I'll just hang around here till he calls.”
Break Point Down Page 5
