by Roger Herst
“We’ll fight back, won’t we? Won’t we?” Pendergas continued. She’d changed her grasp and the muzzle of the revolver now pointed forward. It rose to a high point over her head before cutting a line across the entire audience.
“Don’t point that gun, lady!” a man cried, out-shouting the microphone. “You could hurt somebody!” Gabby could not see the challenger from where she was situated and did not recognize the bellowing voice.
“We’ll fight back, won’t we? We won’t let this pass with a murmur.” Pendergas ignored the interruption and continued to elicit reaction from the audience. The pistol’s muzzle cut across the crowd once again.
The crowd parted and Gabby saw Joel. “I’m telling you, lady,” he shouted, “don’t point that gun! You may think this is some kind of NRA joke, but I can assure you that it isn’t. The NRA takes handguns seriously and never, never jokes with them. Whoever planted this isn’t a member of the NRA. That I can promise.”
“Who’s that heckler?” Pendergas asked, pointing the weapon in Joel’s direction.
“You’re a goddamn fool, lady,” Joel persisted. “Don’t point that thing at anybody.”
“She can do what she damn well pleases,” said a slender man in a scarlet vest and matching bowtie, planting himself protectively between Joel and the speaker.
“She’s going to get somebody shot,” Joel Fox snapped at him.
“Shut up so we can get to the bottom of this!” A tall man in a three-button tuxedo stabbed a menacing finger at him. “You sound like an NRA spy.”
Joel’s powerful hands grabbed the man’s arm to manhandle him aside. His adversary staggered and a covey of sympathizers came to his aid. Others established a cordon separating him from the platform. In the melee his cummerbund snapped open and dangled from his waist.
He tried to separate himself to attend to more urgent business, crying out to Helen Pendergas. “That revolver could be loaded!”
“It isn’t,” she insisted,” displaying the .38 so others might confirm her judgment. “It’s old and rusty and hasn’t been fired in years.”
Joel’s elbowed a space around him until new defenders formed a breastwork of bodies. Knees pounded his thighs. Several fingers pulled his wing-collar open. A suspender snapped from his trousers and trailed below his jacket.
“Don’t you understand? Every firearm is potentially loaded.”
A second handgun, encrusted in potted soil from the floral arrangement in which it had been discovered, was now moving from hand to hand, over the heads of the audience, toward the platform. Gabby could follow the line of its progress — crooked since many, from fear or disgust, refused to touch the gun. No one was paying attention to where its muzzle was pointed.
A moment later, G. Gershom Green, the dapper, cordial, silver-haired committee chairman, climbed onto the platform, holding a .32 caliber revolver with a 1-inch snub-nosed barrel, the type commonly used by detectives in bad B-movies. He, too, aimed the muzzle at potential human targets.
“For God’s sake, don’t point those things. You’ll shoot somebody!” Joel continued to badger. “Put down those revolvers, then we’ll talk.”
A babble of voices accused him of disrupting the gala and speculated that he was responsible for planting the handguns in the first place.”
“These are only rusty symbols,” Green shouted above the din, brandishing the snub-nosed weapon.
Joel’s opponents became more numerous by the minute. “Help me, Rabbi,” he called out to Gabby whose eyes were now fixed upon him. “You gotta stop your friends. These guns haven’t been checked.”
Her eyes darted back to the platform where Helen Pendergas and G. Gershom Green, astute politicians, were milking the discoveries for all their emotional impact. She looked again at Joel Fox. He might be an NRA board member and a member of the enemy camp, but she had little doubt he knew far more about firearms than Pendergas and Green. Her eyes telegraphed support. A moment later she was weaving through the bodies clustered before the platform. Once within hearing range of the two officers, she said in an artificially calm voice, “Gershom, please do us all a favor and point that gun at the floor.” She climbed onto the platform. Because it was unlikely Pendergas would relinquish the microphone, Gabby used the voice she employed when projecting to large groups in the synagogue. “Many of you know me. I’m Rabbi Gabby Lewyn. Those of you in the rear, please release the man you are holding. He’s Dr. Fox, a dentist in our community. I give you my personal pledge he won’t move from the spot. Isn’t that right, Dr. Fox?”
“Thanks, Rabbi. Okay. Okay, I’ll stay here,” he called back.
“And you won’t budge an inch, will you?”
“No. But for God’s sake, have your friends point those weapons to the floor. Nobody should trust a weapon until he’s inspected it.”
“So what’s next?” She lowered the volume of her voice to speak through the microphone Green handed her.
Joel spoke as though he were alone in the room with Gabby. “All right. Let me lead you through an inspection. Take the first revolver, the big one, by the grip and keep the barrel pointed down, away from your feet.”
Both officers were skeptical, but they had begun to realize the heckler knew what he was talking about. The last thing they wanted was to be charged with ignoring a danger. Gabby fixed an intimidating glare on Helen Pendergas until the woman lifted her chin and, with both hands, transferred the weapon her.
She took special care not to touch anything near the trigger. The mayonnaise on the revolver stock soiled her fingers. The gun was heavier than she had anticipated and she wondered how anyone could possibly aim it.
Joel called to her, “Now look for a small lever on the left side, just below the firing hammer. Press it down. The revolving cylinder that holds the cartridges should snap open. Don’t worry, when this is open the pistol can’t fire.”
The firing hammer was obvious, but the lever Joel mentioned was not on the left. A lever on the right looked like what he described. But when she depressed it, nothing happened.
“Okay, then with your finger, nudge the cylinder to the left,” he instructed. “If it won’t move, try the opposite direction. Every handgun's a little different.”
Corrosion partially sealed the cylinder shut, but, after a little coaxing, it separated from the firing mechanism. Once it was open, Gabby began to feel a little more comfortable. “Okay, it’s open.”
“Good, now look at the back of the cylinder. If the gun’s not loaded, all six circular slots should be empty.”
Gabby leaned toward G. Gershom Green to let him share her observation. Five of the slots were empty. The sixth was blocked.
“What do you see?” Joel called out. “You can spin the cylinder with your fingers for a better look.”
“There’s a brass cap inside one slot,” she answered, looking over to Gershom, whose face had blanched.
“That’s what I was afraid of. You’ve got yourself a loaded weapon, Rabbi. Now we’ve got to unload it. There’s bound to be an extractor rod in the middle of the cylinder. It should push back. Push that rod slowly. The cartridge should ease out and you can remove it with your fingers. Don’t let it drop to the floor.”
Gershom Green recovered sufficiently to point out the extractor rod. A moment later, Gabby had in her fingers a brass cartridge with a black lead nose.
“Thanks, Dr. Fox,” Gabby proclaimed, ignoring Helen Pendergas, who had come alongside to take possession of the evidence.
Joel Fox’s captors allowed him to step sideways for an unobstructed view of the platform. “We’re not finished yet,” he said. “There’s still the other handgun, Rabbi. The one with the short barrel. Repeat what you just did. Let’s look for any other guns and collect them. Nobody point them at anything but the ground. Everybody, take your time. One gun was loaded. The others probably are, too.”
Gershom Green had begun to inspect the snub nosed revolver but decided to rely upon Gabby’s newly learned expertise. Whispers replaced
excited voices while she worked with the second firearm. Her experience with the Police Special transferred easily. She’d been shocked to find the first gun loaded, but was now unsurprised that the second was. It produced not one but two cartridges, smaller than the bullets from the .38 Police Special, but equally deadly.
The guests remained ambivalent about Joel Fox. On the one hand, they were forced to acknowledge that he had provided an invaluable warning. But on the other, he was far too familiar with firearms to be trusted. A few grateful hands reached forward to express gratitude, but no one helped him pull together his ripped tuxedo. Helen Pendergas and G. Gershom Green, who made a public show of instructing aides to call the police, offered neither apologies nor gratitude.
The band tried to bring the dance floor to life, experimenting with old-fashioned fox trots and waltzes before switching to rock. But the celebrants were in no mood to dance and stood in small groups speculating about how close they had come to a terrible accident. The bandleader attempted to enlist singers to fill in for the absence of dancers, but was unable to recruit a critical mass of voices.
Ten minutes before midnight, waiters distributed confetti, streamers, and toy horns, and filled fluted champagne glasses. One minute before midnight, the traditional New Year’s countdown began. The last seconds of the year ticked off and the band struck up Auld Lang Syne. A few streamers were tossed unenthusiastically, followed by a little confetti. The celebrants embraced each other with particular firmness, acknowledging their sobering experience.
In the first moments of the New Year, Gabby stood beside Dov and Sheila, her eyes moist, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Dov reached in front of his wife to shake Gabby’s hand and offer his wishes for health and prosperity. His smile turned into an expression of disdain as Joel Fox came up to stand beside Gabby. Without greeting him, Dov turned Sheila away. Ignoring the insult, Joel said to Gabby. “You were great tonight. May it be a very happy new year for you, Rabbi.”
She tried to hide her sadness. “You weren’t so bad yourself, Dr. Fox. A happy new year to you, too.”
“Joel. Call me Joel.”
“Well then, Joel, if we’re going to be on a first name basis, I have a personal favor to ask. This has been a hard year for me and, somehow, I don’t want to enter the new one without kissing somebody. Can I give you a kiss?”
Surprise caused him to hesitate. “Why yes. Of course. Absolutely. Sure,” he stammered.
She planted a brief kiss on his cheek and saluted him with her untouched champagne.
CHAPTER THREE
ST. ALBANS TENNIS COURTS
January
Most women tennis players in Class B competition are in their twenties or early thirties. At thirty-four, Gabby had doubts about a successful season—an excuse that triggered a visceral response from her coach. Why, Lydia trumpeted in disgust, would one concede anything to youth it hadn’t earned? It had no magical qualities that experience couldn’t overcome. A good player simply had to put herself into a discomfort zone and push beyond endurance to excel. If that meant physical and mental punishment, then so be it.
Lydia had agreed to team up with Gabby for the upcoming pro-am doubles season and she made it clear she expected her partner to carry her own weight. No excuses about being a rabbi and not being able to mow down the competition. A doubles team was only as good as its weakest member and she had no intention of compensating for Gabby. She wanted a partner willing to crowd the center of the court and dominate the net. They would move from side to side, not as individuals but as a team, always forcing balls at their opponents’ feet.
When Gabby entered the indoor bubble of St. Albans Tennis Club for her morning drill, Lydia was teaching a stout, powerful black woman who possessed a strong groundstroke, but refused to remain on her toes for more than two consecutive shots. Unlike many coaches who encourage adult players with positive re-enforcement, Lydia chided her student’s mistakes. Her pupil, a senior officer in the Department of Justice, was one of many distinguished Washington women who preferred to be tyrannized by a coach who knew what she was doing rather than mollycoddled by someone who didn’t.
Watching her, Gabby observed that Lydia mirrored her brother, who habitually probed for the flaws in others and put them on the defensive. Gabby’s way of coping with the Browners was not to take their criticism personally. Unfortunately, few of Lydia’s other students knew the softer personality their teacher readily exhibited off the court. Even fewer of Chuck’s associates at the synagogue were close enough to him to experience his warmth and empathy.
There were those—mostly male—inclined to pardon Lydia’s excesses for an opportunity to admire her beauty. Her body met just about everybody’s standard for statuesque perfection. The color of her hair, routinely pulled back into a short ponytail and often fastened with a bright orange ribbon, set off her suntanned skin. Her tennis top, usually drenched in perspiration, revealed the full form of her breasts beneath. In summer, when the sun was strongest, she wore a white baseball cap with her ponytail pulled through the hole in the rear. For winter play, she abandoned the cap but rarely bothered to cover her legs with long sweat pants. In all seasons, men congregated about her, attracted by both her beauty and her game.
“Ready to drill, Gabby?” Lydia called, as she left her teaching position on the opposite side of the net and followed her student to the exit. “Let’s see what your Davis Cupper from Italy taught you in the Caribbean.” She exchanged a few farewell words with her student and headed back toward the net, snatching six relatively fresh balls from a wire basket. She stuffed four of them into the large pockets of her shorts.
“Have you seen Charles since your return?” Gabby asked, as she moved to her position at the net for practice volleys.
“We’re having dinner tonight. You should know that my brother deceives you, Gabby. He’s far more depressed about Thomas than he shows and thinks the doctors have bungled his treatment. Chuck’s pissed that they’ve sold him on large doses of drugs, not for his welfare but to collect medical statistics for their research articles. He thinks that too many doctors feed off Thomas’s disease.”
“Thomas Belmont isn’t passive in the matter. Surely this is his choice.”
Lydia stopped to pivot aggressively in Gabby’s direction. “From what I read, these new drugs might win Thomas a week or two more, but he’ll be so debilitated that the extra time won’t matter. So what’s the purpose?”
Gabby ducked the question and shifted from Thomas to Chuck. “Caring for a dying loved one must be horrible.”
A small smile of appreciation softened Lydia’s lips as she said, “Chuck’s actually tougher than I am. I hit hard on the courts. But he hits hard on the street—where it really counts. I know you've given him a lot of slack during Thomas’s illness. He appreciates it.”
As soon as they were in position, Lydia’s tone became stern. “I want you on your toes. You usually start well, but get lazy and ease back onto your heels. Punch down. Always down. Keep your racquet head high when your return is low, and low when your return is high. A good way to accomplish this is to hold the throat of the racquet with your left hand. Fingers touching the strings will give you a constant feel for the surface. I want the racquet back into middle position after each volley. Understood?”
They faced off against each other across the net. Lydia called out, “No powder balls. Snap hard. And let’s hear you exhale, loud and clear.” She dropped a ball over her strings and, with no warning, pounded a fast drive at Gabby’s chest, forcing her to step back and sweep the racquet across her body. In so doing she failed to move the racquet head into position. The ball struck the tape and dribbled to her feet.
“Wake up, Rip van Winkle! Don’t expect nerf balls,” Lydia barked. “On your toes, lady!” Another low and fast volley sailed directly at Gabby, who this time managed to get into position. Lydia stepped into the return, cracking the ball back with additional speed. On her toes, Gabby made a reasonable volley.
Lydia toyed with her backhand, letting her cover three-quarters of the defense zone then, when she became comfortable, crossed over to her forehand, which required a quick adjustment Gabby failed to make.
Lydia jogged to the net. “Keep the face of your racquet open, not down. If your opponents see you close down, they’ll eat you for lunch.”
After sixteen minutes of fast drilling, Gabby’s wrist ached with fatigue. She needed to towel off and take a drink. Lydia followed her to the water cooler reluctantly, refusing a paper cup when offered.
“I want more weight in the balls,” she commanded, correcting a string that had slipped out of position on her racquet. “You need work on your breathing. Expel everything you have in your lungs. I want to hear you grunt. It probably isn’t dignified for a person in your professional position, but grunting helps your breathing and intimidates your adversaries. Never, never let them forget that they’re playing a pit bull they can’t trust for a minute. Now, we’re going to play a few games. I want you to skin me alive. Beat me, Rabbi Lewyn. I don’t care how, just beat me. Because if you don’t, I’m going to make you grovel. Got it?”
Tennis had been Gabby’s pastime for years, but winning or losing had never mattered to her. In the past year, though, Lydia had cultivated within her a passion to win. She enjoyed the exhilaration of victory though she was still a little frightened of the predatory spirit it has awakened. She resolved to make Lydia work for every point.
Lydia’s serves hopped high off the court. Gabby found herself unable to do more than block and hope for square contact. Unlike most ranking women, Lydia did not hold back at the baseline to trade ground strokes after serving. Her speed invariably brought her into volley position at the net. High return shots she cut off with punishing angles; only those drilled at her feet had a chance to put her on the defensive. Gabby quickly decided not to maintain a backcourt position and get battered. She returned with as much speed as she could, though this reduced her accuracy. For her own service, she adopted Lydia’s aggressive net game. Unfortunately, neither her service nor her volleys were comparable.
