Murder is My Racquet

by Otto Penzler

  “Sounds real good to me,” said Duchamps.

  “It’s good for all of us. Members of the Fassberg Sports Management team representing the Duchamps tennis franchise will each be in for one percent of net profits. We’re talking big numbers, gentlemen. Huge.”

  “How big, Darwin?” Duchamps asked. “You never say exactly.”

  Fassberg chuckled. “That’s because there is no way to compute the exact sum in advance. We can project going out the length of your expected career and beyond, but there are so many unknown factors. For instance, if that old lady stops hanging around at courtside all the time, we’ll have to hire an actor to take the role.”

  “About how big, then?” Duchamps persisted.

  Fassberg’s weasel eyes narrowed. “Big enough. Of course anyone who’s not satisfied can bow out any time. No one is irreplaceable, Roy, including you. I’ve got most of the school begging for a piece of the action.”

  There was a rumble of general assent, but then Roy Duchamps got to his feet.

  “This is my hard work you’re talking about, Fassberg. My sweat, my name, my future. I want to know what I end up with. I want to know what piece of the action you fix to take.”

  Fassberg snickered. “Don’t you worry your pointy head about it, Roy. You just keep on swatting that little ball over the net and leave the rest to me.”

  “Hell with that, Darwin. I ain’t some dumb cracker.”

  “Is that so?” Fassberg unlocked the large metal strongbox beside his chair. He extracted stacks of neatly tied stock certificates and ten-dollar bills. Underneath was the ironclad agreement Duchamps had signed on his eighteenth birthday. “Here’s your John Hancock, Duchamps. By signing this, you agreed to pay twenty percent of future gross earnings plus expenses to Fassberg Sports Management, in other words—me.”

  Fassberg chuckled. “Expenses. Such an interesting term. So difficult to define precisely. So in answer to your question, you end up with exactly as much as I decide you get. My advice is to begin sucking up to me and to continue to do so, early and often.”

  “You said that was a standard management agreement I was signing.”

  Fassberg wagged his finger. “I said it was my standard agreement. Anyhow, if you weren’t a dumb cracker, you’d know better than to sign anything you haven’t read. That’s the first law of business. Survival 101. Too bad.”

  “Fassberg’s right, Roy,” Earl Emerson said eagerly. “Tough luck.”

  “I agree,” said Caden, and the others quickly massed on Fassberg’s side.

  “Good show, gentlemen. I say this calls for celebration,” Fassberg declared. He went to the kitchenette and extracted a half-gallon jug of Pagan Pink Ripple from the fridge. Darwin would not touch the rotgut himself, but these Dixie dopes would swallow almost anything.

  While the others clamored around, joking and drinking, sucking up to Fassberg, Roy Duchamps hung back near Darwin’s leather chair. When nobody was looking, he reached down, untied a packet of bills, and pocketed the string.

  Later that night, he passed the string to his longtime friend and mentor, Maman Mechant. After all she had done for him over the years, he hated to be asking for yet another favor. But she listened with a knowing smile and patted his hand before she tucked the string into her tote bag.

  “Maman will see to that bad, greedy boy, my son. Don’t you fret yourself one snip.”

  “You’re so good to me.”

  “Good as you deserve, sweet baby. And you deserve the very best. Come here to Maman.”

  Duchamps yielded to her warm, engulfing hug. The night was rich with jasmine and the soothing beat of cicadas. He shut his eyes and let his anger drift away. No snake-tongued, wrong-headed northern boy was going to tie him up. His career was in the very best of hands.

  A KILLER OVERHEAD

  ROBERT LEUCI

  The reason I said sure, whatever you want, to Lester—he’d always taken good care of me, looked out for me, even when I cracked up, started doing coke, got weird and crazed, blew all my cash, ended up sharing a crash pad with a couple of lesbian cowgirls from the rodeo. Lester pulled me out of all that and gave me work. I mean, when you hit the pit, somebody reaches down and pulls you out, gives you that new lease, you owe him, owe him big-time. So when Lester tells me, “I think my only child, Laura, is being abused, humiliated, by this character she worships.” He says, “I hear that this tennis-playing half-a-hump gets a sadistic thrill out of degrading my little girl.” Lester tells me, he’s lost weight, can’t sleep, the joy has left his life. “I’m asking a favor,” he says, “a little help. Go check this bum out. See what’s happening, then do what you have to do.”

  You see, I believe in the philosophy of looking out for your friends. You know, “Like a bridge over troubled waters, I will ease your mind.” I mean, you cannot pick your family, we all know that. It’s your friends that you choose. Anybody with a half a brain knows that. So, I’m thinking, what’s there to think about. You owe this man your life.

  See, for thirty years I’m a half-assed connected guy out of South Brooklyn. I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I’m not saying that this is necessarily a good life, just that it was my life. Ey, we do what we do. Anyway, time goes by and the next thing you know, you’re a highly regarded guy with all that baggage. It’s no longer a thing you do, it’s who you are. You get a tremendous rep and you play that, work at it. Give the people around you a little Robert DeNiro action and before you know it, they all want to hand you a bit of work, everybody’s your pal. It’s not very tough, it’s a matter of style. Don’t believe me? go rent Godfather Two and Goodfellas, you’ll see what I mean.

  I had a good year, made two or three major scores and packed it in. I’d been throwing rocks for years, enough already. I’m hanging out and enjoying myself, some Atlantic City, some Vegas, Saratoga in August, Florida in the winter. I’d earned it, I was happy. Every once in a while I’d get bored, then I’d run into some of the fellas, they’d moan and groan about the new breed, the young ones, the fresh ones out in the street. I’m thinking, I’m glad I’m out of it, glad I’m done. Then, ba-bing, Lester calls and I’m off to Newport, Rhode Island.

  Talk about being out of my element; I’m sitting on a folding chair, on the grass, at the home to the legends of tennis, the International Tennis Hall of Fame.

  A cozy stadium, I mean, you’re literally yards from the players. They call it the Tennis Casino, I’m checking the joint out, thinking casino, looking for a crap game, maybe a little blackjack. Nothing happening, is how I would describe this place. It’s strange: lots of old-timers in wide straw hats, a few good-looking broads that run the gamut from old as baseball to young as yesterday. I’m sitting next to some gap-toothed New England patriarch who’s wearing a cream-colored suit, red bow tie and a pair of white tennis shoes. He’s eating a tomato and lettuce on white bread sandwich, watching the tennis match, his mouth sagging in delight. I’m in my blue on blue Adidas sporting outfit. So you understand, I have four or five Armanis, but I wear this outfit to sporting events and see no reason to make an exception for Newport. Being by nature and profession a tight-lipped person, me and mister bow tie have no conversation.

  Playing right out in front of me is Lester’s future son-in-law, Rudi Bass. A tall guy, nice build, long hair, looks about twenty-nine, thirty. He’s good. I’m no expert, but the guy’s winning, easy. Any time his opponent makes a point, Rudi groans and smashes his racquet off the grass. I’m watching the kid play, and man, this guy can go in the air like a soul brother and he crushes these killer overheads.

  Coming up, I had handball, stickball, slapball, stoopball, no tennis. You kidding, in my neighborhood you walk around with a tennis racquet, people figure it’s a weapon and stay away from you.

  So, I got my head down like I’m reading the program but I’m really checking Laura out through a pair of sunglasses. She’s sitting a row in front of me, wearing a kind of sundress, a blue one, expensive, a big hat and sa
ndals. An expression on her face like the Madonna on Valium, adjusting and readjusting her hat.

  Suddenly, it was over and the crowd’s applauding.

  Rudi comes off the grass court, strutting his stuff like he’d just copped the middleweight crown. He waves to the crowd, strips off his shirt, then drops heavily into his chair while his trainer quickly goes to work massaging his legs, his thighs. The trainer, a young and strong-looking guy, worked quickly, never said a word, and he had this funny look on his face, like he wasn’t very happy. Rudi took a plastic bottle of water and drained it, then crushed the bottle in his right hand. Right away I pick up on the fact that this is a strong kid. He grabs another bottle and drinks that, too; I figured he’d been out on the court a good two hours, he looked exhausted and sore. He’s maybe ten feet from me and I could hear him complain that Alex, his Spanish opponent, lived on the baseline and would not challenge him at the net. He says the little sneak hit moon balls and looping, bullshit women’s shots trying to keep him out there, running him sideline to sideline, causing him to cramp and nearly stole the match from him. Not only that, he said, a group of “Spanish creeps” kept shouting “Olé!” whenever he lost a point and I can hear him bitch to his trainer about the grass here, how it can’t compare to Wimbledon, and that Alex loved the clay, and couldn’t serve and volley to save his ass.

  People are up and moving around, Laura is standing, arms folded across her chest, I move in behind her. “Atta boy, Rudi,” I say, “atta boy.” I tap her shoulder. “Geeze, this guy is good, you wouldn’t know what his ranking is?”

  “He’s number thirteen in the world,” she says, “he’s on the rise.” She was smiling, a sweet sort of smile.

  “He could beat the top guys,” I say, a little too much like a sports announcer. “He’s probably a spoiled brat, these tennis stars, a self-centered bunch.”

  “Not all of them,” she says, ruffled.

  “I mean, all these athletes nowadays. What I mean is, they have it made, even the average ones getting treated like superstars.”

  “Do you have any idea how much training it takes, how much work and commitment, how tough it is?”

  “Got no idea,” I say. “I mean, they gave some baseball player, a shortstop, a hundred and twenty million dollars. What’s more to say, yeah, he’s good, but a hundred and twenty million, nobody’s that good.”

  Her tone softens a little. “When it comes to professional sports, nothing makes much sense anymore,” she says.

  “See that guy out there,” I say. “Don’t think, look; he comes out here and plays a game, they pay him a box full of money, he plays a game for a living. And, I think, you know, teachers, firefighters, even cops. I mean, it don’t make any sense. Look at those two sisters, black girls, they lift weights, got muscles way bigger than mine, they’re an enterprise, a corporation molded by their father, everything is wacky.” I say, “Tell me something, ten rounds, twelve-ounce gloves, Venus Williams and John McEnroe, who’s left standing?”

  She laughed at that.

  I had this peculiar feeling that Laura was looking at me as if she knew me. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “The city.”

  “Your face is so familiar. What city?”

  “New York, Brooklyn, New York. Bath Beach.”

  “I was born and raised on Ocean Parkway,” a real big smile. “It really is a small world.”

  “Sure is.”

  “Do you know the Town and Country Club on Flatbush Avenue?”

  “Famous place, of course I know it.”

  “My father owns it. You know,” she says, “you remind me of my father, you look like him. He hates tennis. As a matter of fact, the only athlete he ever liked was Rocky Marciano.” When she smiled there was this row of strong, white teeth, a good wide smile.

  On the one hand she wasn’t beautiful, on the other hand she had what I’d call, a look. A thin face, round black eyes and one of those Sophia Loren noses, like something off a Roman coin. When she laughed she’d cover her mouth with her hand like she was embarrassed. This was a sweet woman, and I know all about women, I’d had my share of relationships, ten meaningful ones. I could tell, the way she looked at me when she laughed, I’m talking about sweet and vulnerable.

  She turned her head and scanned the stadium, then suddenly looked at me with those black eyes. “Would you like to meet Rudi Bass?”

  “Sure, do you know him?”

  She touched my arm and whispered, “He’s my fiance.”

  “He’s a rising star,” I say. “I’d certainly like to meet a rising star.” That was true.

  Rudi walked over and told her to quit bullshitting and hurry up, he wanted to get going. He said bullshitting and I thought, I don’t like you. He moved his head from side to side, a little exercise, and pretended to study the stadium, looking around like he was going to paint the joint. “Rudi,” she said, “come meet this nice man, he’s from Brooklyn, my old neighborhood.”

  Rudi turned his head sharply and whispered something to her; Laura’s face went red. Oh, yeah, perfect, I thought, just perfect. He looked at me, I mean, he really looked at me, it wasn’t a nice, friendly look. “Pleased to meet you,” Rudi said, and leaning past Laura he shook my hand. “Laura,” he said, “whadaya say?”

  Lester had clued me in, telling me the tennis player didn’t go for spit, wouldn’t spend a dime, and he loved seafood. When I asked him, how is that going to help me? he said, “One never knows. But better to have too much information than less.”

  He was right, Lester is a very smart man.

  “I’m ready,” Laura told Rudi, “all set to go.”

  “You’re terrific,” I say. “Rudi, you’re some tennis player.”

  He exhaled noisily, then turned away. I’m thinking, good, good, that’s good.

  I told them I knew of a place, a restaurant where we could have a wonderful dinner. I would like them to be my guests. It wasn’t fancy and wasn’t anything really special but that it had great seafood. That guy, the Piano Man, Billy Joel, he eats there. And let me tell ya, Billy Joel knows seafood.

  Laura held my hand and said that was very kind of me. Then she told me that Rudi usually slept for about three or four hours after a match.

  Rudi only eats fish and vegetables. He says he thinks Agassi is a vegetarian, an entertainer who has captured the imagination of the public, he says Agassi is no mystery. He asks if the seafood around here is really fresh?

  I say that this is the Ocean State, nothing around here but the sea, and in the sea are fish.

  “For whatever it’s worth, you got my word, you’ll never have fresher fish then you’ll get right here.”

  Already I’m annoyed with Rudi’s mealy-mouthed bullshit. I knew I had a grabber here, a tightwad. One of those short-armed guys that never picks up a check. The kinda guy that would steal a stove and go back for the smoke.

  “How about it,” I said, “let me take you two to dinner. I’ll pick you up at seven.” I grabbed his hand while he was still trying to decide.

  “Okay,” he said. “Sure, why not.” Then he asked if I thought the mob killed Marilyn Monroe as a favor for Jack Kennedy. I told him fantasy always had a lot more jazz than truth.

  Rudi and I drank Bacardi Superior and tonic and ate a Portuguese dish, Lestert cod and potatoes. Laura drank champagne and ate clams steamed in white wine. He told me he was born in Costa Rica, but his family were Volga Poles and he’d come here at an early age. His parents were doctors, emigrated from Europe in the fifties. He was pleased that I liked tennis, he hated New York but loved Florida (yeah). He went to school at the University of Miami on a soccer and tennis scholarship. He ran five miles a day, loved scuba diving and he could play the guitar like a pro (yawn). And it was like I figured, Laura barely spoke a word, she looked like a woman that was waiting to be rescued, like a woman that couldn’t really hang with the guys. When Rudi left the table I asked Laura if she was happy, nobody’s happy, she said, they may think
so, but they’re not. I told her that Rudi talks about himself a whole lot. “He’s a professional athlete. He takes himself very seriously, superstars aren’t known for being selfless. It’s me, me, me. Plus he is an only child, so what do you expect?”

  I pay the check, with cash of course, and leave a heavy tip. This guy Rudi looks impressed, and I figure, that he figures, that we hit it off. Things were going so well, in fact, he invites me to sit in the friends box for the finals. On the way back to their hotel he tells me he is the kind of player the ATP is looking for, a player with charisma. I tell him he has an unbelievable serve. His secret, he says, is that before he serves, he bounces the ball three times. And he has this ritual before each match, he runs a mile while listening to Beatles songs. He tells me that Pete Sampras was a great champion, but that he could beat him.

  The thing you should know about me is that I was a pretty good athlete. I played a great game of handball. Or rather, I used to before the knee went, and then the elbow and a touch of the gout ruined my court speed. I finally had to give the game up for good. When I played, I played hard, like Rudi, none of that drop shot, get everything back jazz, hit the ball with all you got, go for the shot, hit winners, screw keeping the ball in, go for it, a big serve and come in, go for the kill. I don’t know that much about tennis, but even I know Pete Sampras would kick Rudi’s ass.

  In the finals Rudi played a newcomer from California, a black guy named Bobby Paul. Rudi crushed him, one and one. When it was over, Bobby told Rudi he’d sprained his ankle in the first set. Rudi told him that life was unfair, but that’s the way it was.

  Rudi gave me a signed photograph, a tennis racquet and some balls, I gave him and Laura a matching pair of Mont Blanc pens. Standing on Belvue Avenue out in front of the Tennis Casino, Rudi tells an interviewer his goal is to build up computer points with the power of his game, instead of major titles. Since he goes for it in every match, he can’t be consistent, sometimes he’ll lose the major event, but when he does, he goes down swinging. I drive them to the airport, we promise to stay in touch. Laura takes my hand and holds it, her face is pale, she bites her lip, she seems sad and looks much older than her twenty-five years. Rudi tells me she had a bad night, it was probably something she ate.