by Roger Herst
The officers immediately rose, snatching what remained of their meals for later consumption, and scrambled for the door. The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio again: “Two suspects now in a gray Ford. Unit 53 pursuing east on Potomac Avenue…”
The intersection of Water and T Streets was no more than three blocks away, and patrons in the restaurant could already hear the whine of a police siren. As the officers exited, additional sirens could be heard. Conversations had ceased as people observed the officers; their proximity to the event clearly left them uneasy.
“What do you suppose this is all about?” Chuck asked Ersilene North who was shaking her head.
“Eighteen, forty-three is a street mugging,” she replied.
“You follow the police radio, I see,” he answered. “Impressive. I wouldn’t have had a clue what that meant.”
“To survive in this place you have to understand it,” she said.
The sudden departure of the officers triggered a similar reaction in other patrons, who quickly gathered up their possessions and headed for the door. There were even more sirens now, echoing between buildings. Gabby saw that the MAG ladies were uneasy as well. Daphne Styles reached under the table for a carpetbag embroidered with West African figures in bright colors. Reverend Henderson and Ersiline North also gathered their belongings. Gabby tried to persuade them to remain in the safety of the restaurant and continue the conversation, but they apologized for having to leave and promised to reconvene at another time. Reverend Henderson recommended that that Gabby and Chuck leave as well. With the departure of the three ladies, they were the only remaining diners.
Chuck saw no reason to leave his dinner and returned to his chicken wings, but Reverend Henderson’s warning had unnerved Gabby. By the time she herded Chuck into the parking lot, a full police dragnet was in progress. To the north, a squadron of cruisers flashed red lights. A police van, its overhead spot revolving, sped past the Burger King headed in the direction of the sirens.
“A quiet, serene neighborhood,” Chuck commented as Gabby started the Jeep. “Just the kind of place to bring up kids.”
“Let’s go to Maine Avenue,” she said, trying to avoid the epicenter of activity. But a wrong turn forced her to drive by a cluster of police vehicles. As they crept past the commotion, Chuck saw two officers with drawn weapons run past them into the darkness.
Later, as Gabby and Chuck left Southeast and merged into traffic on P Street, Chuck observed, “Our friends didn’t sound encouraging about finding Bart’s killer. You think these women are organized enough to receive a grant?” he asked.
This stirred Gabby from her thoughts. “Well, they’re not exactly the Red Cross, but they can’t be. They have a tough field to hoe.”
“If you want my opinion, they have things put together quite well. They’ve learned how to cope in a cruel world.”
“You can’t say they’re passive spectators, can you?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
Lydia wasn’t exactly passionate about the cause of tennis in Anacostia, but she did have a soft spot for young players serious about improving their game. And Gabby had convinced her that there would be no team in Anacostia if something weren’t done immediately to train Bart’s boys. So she reluctantly agreed to coach them, on the condition that Gabby accompany her to each lesson and drill with the team. As long as Lydia understood that her responsibilities at Ohav Shalom took priority, Gabby accepted.
Gabby sat in her jeep waiting for Lydia and checking the sky anxiously. Dark storm clouds, heavy with rain, threatened to cut the practice short. Her cell phone vibrated, interrupting her thoughts, and she picked it up, half expecting that it would be Noah Zentner calling to cancel his plan to bring Pyramid Development designers to evaluate the tennis facilities.
But it was Joel’s energetic voice she heard; she’d almost forgotten that she’d left a message for him at his dental office. “Hey, Gabby. You all right? How’s your leg?”
“Improving, but not yet fully healed,” she said. She hoped Lydia would not arrive while she was on the phone with Joel. “I called earlier to impose upon you. In L.A., you agreed to visit Norbeck Detention Center with me. The police commissioner has arranged for me to visit Daryl Bender this coming Sunday. If you can make it, I’d appreciate your company.”
The invitation caught him unprepared. “What time are you due at Norbeck?”
“At noon.”
“How much time do you think it will take?”
“I can’t imagine it taking more than a half hour. My list of questions for Daryl Bender is short. Why?”
“Because my hunting club has an outing at Quantico Marine Base at 2:00 p.m. The NRA enjoys a special relationship with the Marines. Once a year they allow us onto the base for a practice hunt. We reckon there must be fifty deer per square mile there.”
“I thought you guys take only one shot a year.”
“Right, and this isn’t deer season. Sunday is an exercise in stalking, not shooting. We carry rifles, but no ammunition. You’d have to be out of your mind to fire a rifle with several thousand armed recruits training in the underbrush. Starting a gunfight isn’t our idea of fun.”
“That means I’ll have to visit Norbeck alone.”
“Not necessarily. Norbeck and Quantico are twenty miles apart. If I leave the prison by 1:00, I can still make it to Quantico. Say, how about joining me? We can eat dinner afterward at Mount Vernon. I know a great pizza place.”
“You’ve got to be out of your mind, my friend. President Johnson was specifically referring to me when he said, and I quote, ‘That dog won’t hunt.’ You should know, I don’t hunt. And I don’t do windows.”
“We’re stalking, not hunting, silly. Think of this as a religious experience. To stalk is to unite with the living forest. There’s no closer bonding between man and his environment. You might find it exhilarating.”
“We’ll see about that. But in the meantime, I appreciate your coming to Norbeck. The place scares me, and it will be easier with you around.”
Gabby was weighing her uneasiness about stalking deer at Quantico when Lydia, in a white workout suit and ponytail tied with a bright orange ribbon, threw her tennis bag into the back seat and flung herself into the front. A race down the four flights of stairs in her apartment building had winded her, something Gabby had never seen happen during a match. She felt Lydia’s eyes upon her as she maneuvered the Jeep into traffic and headed south toward Connecticut Avenue. Intuition told her Lydia had something on her mind but was reluctant to bring it up.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Lydia finally declared.
“I might, if I knew what it was.”
“You know I’m on the Planning Committee for the Washington Pro-Am Tournament.”
“No, I didn’t know. I have a hard time imagining you at a conference table bantering with people who love the game but can’t hit a ball. Somehow, my vision of you is limited to the courts.”
“I didn’t want this, but what can you say when a US Senator twists your arm—even if it’s the right-wing, sonovabitch senator from Nevada? How Rudy Thornborg got into the Senate is a mystery.”
Gabby glanced sideways and said with a sarcastic grin, “The way most people get to Congress, by parlaying their fame in another field. The electorate votes for candidates it knows from TV. Congress is filled with former tap dancers, movie stars, TV anchormen, courtroom celebrities, and generals. Why not a Wimbledon and Australian Open champion?”
“He’s charged by the Pro-Am organizers with raising two million dollars from corporate sponsors. Drew Espinosa, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, is already on board. And the Secretary has put the squeeze on a half a dozen other government luminaries to play in the tournament. The only thing Thornborg has done right since he became chairman is to change the rules. Now that professional players can donate the prize money to their favorite charities, it’s easier to sign them up. Everybody wants to sh
owcase his favorite.”
“Enjoying the meetings?” Gabby asked.
“No, because I haven’t been to any, and, the way things are going, they may retire me before the tournament. Rudy Thornborg and I have already crossed swords.”
Gabby brought the Jeep to a hard stop behind traffic blocked by a car turning left through oncoming traffic. “What about?” she asked.
“Women players, what else? Thornborg views us as nothing more than an amusing sideshow—filler when men’s teams are not playing. We’re cheerleaders expected to wave pompoms at half time. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what he thinks, but I wasn’t about to let him award 80% of the prize money to winners in the men’s competition. So I went to see his Highness, and told him that we women refuse to compete for anything less than equal prize money. Unless we get the same as the men, we’re not coming to his party.”
“And you were authorized to represent the women players?” Gabby asked in astonishment. “You never asked me!”
“Well…not in so many words. But the senator didn’t have to know that, did he? You know what he said?”
“No, but I can guess…”
“He said that the CEOs of the sponsoring corporations don’t believe that women play the same game as men and are, therefore, not entitled to the same prize money. Without their corporate underwriting, the Pro-Am is toast.”
As the traffic began to move again, Gabby eased forward, looking to change lanes but not finding an opening. She drew in a deep breath before saying. “So, that’s the end of our match, I suppose.”
“Not quite,” Lydia replied. “I couldn’t get Thornborg to budge, so I proposed letting women complete directly against the men. If we lose, we’re out. We leave the tournament in defeat. No complaints. No whining to the media. But if we win, we insist upon the full purse.”
“You’ve got to be joking!” Gabby was incredulous. “The men will blow us off the court in the first round. This tournament might sound like a Professional-Amateur contest to you, but to me, it’s far more Pro verses Pro. You may be able to take on male champions, but I can’t. They’ll clobber me.”
“We won’t give them the satisfaction. That’s exactly why we have to practice hard. There will be cameras. This is an opportunity for women to show what they can do on the men’s turf. I’m goddamn sick and tired of females being relegated to playing each other. The only reason we haven’t beaten men until now is because we haven’t trained to beat them. And, when we do, we’ll take our share of the winnings.”
“You’re overstating our physiology, I think. How can you match a 115-pound woman against a 185-pound man; a 65 mile-an-hour serve with a 115 mile-an-hour serve?”
“Determination makes champions. I’ve seen it over and over again.”
“I’ll remember that when those big serves whiz past me.”
By the time Lydia started her tennis clinic, dark clouds blotted out the afternoon sun, and a stiff wind swept diagonally across the courts, playing havoc with the balls. It made no difference; to Lydia the weather was just one more thing a dedicated player needed to take into account.
Marcel Clipper and his teammates practiced on Courts 1 through 4 in new T-shirts, monogrammed with crossed tennis racquets and the school name, that Gabby had procured for them. Four of the boys wore basketball shoes—white tennis shoes being an extravagance they couldn’t justify when other shoes served. All of them wore baggy gym shorts.
Gabby’s gastrocnemius muscle had nearly healed, though an occasional stab of pain reminded her of the need for caution. Daily exercises strengthened the torn tissue, and she avoided precipitous moves. Lydia though refused to ease up, and drove her with the same intensity as she drove all of her students.
After a formal drill on ground strokes, Lydia sent the boys to practice what they’d just learned. Then, armed with two baskets of balls, she marched Gabby onto Court 5 and planted herself at mid-court to work on Gabby’s return-of-service. Since she stood only twenty feet from the net, her serves traveled at a sharp angle and bounced high. The first came in so fast that Gabby could not get her racquet head positioned. Recalling a tip from Titus Cesera, she slowly inched to her right, which drew Lydia’s serve against her backhand and gave her a better chance. The blocking stroke she learned on Martinique worked miracles. The first return sailed past Lydia who, in a rare moment, was caught flat-footed. She quickly discovered Gabby’s ruse though and angled her next serve to the forehand.
Soon, Horace Sklar and Diamond Moore stopped batting balls on an adjacent court and came over to observe. Starved for instruction, they were eager to hear every word Lydia said. Gradually, players from more distant courts joined them. Lydia, adept at heightening interest, ignored them for a few minutes. Then she turned suddenly to address her high school spectators. “Okay, guys. Think you can field a team to beat two girls like us?”
It was a challenge calculated to arouse male pride. Normally, in their estimation, any pair of them could beat any two girls, but they’d seen Lydia play. So they took no chances and volunteered their best—Marcel Clipper and, second on the team ladder, Zeekie, a short, stocky player with a shaved head who distributed his weight so efficiently that his shots traveled with ferocious speed. Large white teeth, flashed in a perennial smile, dominated his cheerful face.
From the outset, their game was weakened by bluster. Both possessed strong top-spin strokes, but not the training to prevent unforced errors. They had the strength for hard balls, but hadn’t learned control them. Their bravado intimidated high school opponents, but completely failed to faze Lydia who tore wide gaps in their defenses for Gabby to exploit. They soon became discouraged. Another coach might have eased up to allow her new students save face, but Lydia believed challenge made stronger players. She gave them absolutely nothing and urged her partner to do the same. Gabby privately thought it was a strategy that could be carried too far, and set about creating a few opportunities for them to rally.
Her attention was so focused on keeping the boys playing that she failed to notice two silver-gray Land Rovers pull into the parking lot. Noah Zentner, his father, Jonathan, and four of his development staff blended into the gallery of spectators who had gathered to watch the play, while a team of engineers from Pyramid Development fanned out to measure the perimeter, taking photos with small digital cameras and speaking to one another on hand-held radios. Noah, a dedicated jogger and a golfer with an eleven handicap, watched the match with an athlete’s eye, sometimes chatting with his father. When the match ended, Gabby paused to give the boys a few words of encouragement. She knew Lydia believed that the sting of defeat would increase their drive, but privately doubted this was the best approach for teenagers. It took more than tennis skills to coach a high school team, a thought that filled her with loss for the gift that Bart had been.
Jonathan Zentner was the first to greet Gabby with a warm smile and handshake. Noah followed soon afterwards.
“I’m thrilled you’re here,” she said warmly. “When young men expend their energy on sports, they don’t fight each other on the streets. I’ve long thought this would be a strategy for the Middle East, too. If Arab boys played more sports, there would be fewer terrorists, I think. Unfortunately, there aren’t many sports opportunities in Arab countries.”
Noah returned her smile. “You always have a novel slant on things. In the blink of an eye, you’ve gone from a tennis center in Anacostia to a program for peace in the Middle East. I can’t keep up with you. Suppose we start by looking around to get feel for what Bart was trying to do. Dad and I brought two land planners, an estimator, and a programmer from Pyramid. Before we can take on a development project, we have to know exactly what we’re dealing with in terms of zoning and building codes. My people will want to ask a lot of questions. Choice of location is paramount, of course, but in a depressed neighborhood there are usually many alternatives. I’ve got a commercial broker who can help. If we pay for the development, maybe the US Park Service or the Distri
ct of Columbia will contribute land in a joint public/ private arrangement. We will also have to address the cost of operating the facility.”
“I’d love for you to meet the kids,” she said, taking his arm and steering him in Marcel’s direction. Jonathan Zentner followed them, Pyramid’s estimator supporting his slower steps.
Noah took the opportunity to address Gabby privately. “Are you sure you want to do this? Tell me now, Gabby, because there are many competing demands on my family’s foundation. We can’t possibly honor all the requests, and some are more in keeping with our family philosophy than a tennis facility.”
“Then why are you even considering this, Noah?” she asked.
“Because you asked me,” he said, with the warmest smile she’d seen from him in a long time. He looked away for a moment and then into her eyes. “Gabby, when I was in big, big trouble, you helped me. I can’t imagine what would have happened had you not stood by me in court. That kind of help one can’t forget. Since then I’ve racked my brain to think of an appropriate repayment. I think a tennis center in Bart’s memory would work. It’s not my preference in philanthropy, but this decision belongs to you, not me. I only need to satisfy myself that this is what Bart would have wanted. In your opinion, is it?”
“Absolutely. Without a doubt. Yes, yes, absolutely,” she replied, touched by his faith in her judgment.
“Okay, that’s the first step. But the second is more difficult. It’s you, Gabby. Do you want this, too? Because if you really do, then I’ll find a way to make it happen.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked, teasing him slightly to lighten the atmosphere.
He smiled and replied in kind. “Just one project, Gabby. Otherwise you’ll find enough worthy causes to bleed the Zentner Foundation dry. I’ll give you whatever project you want. At any reasonable cost. But only one, Gabby. Just one.”
