Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (14 page)

To keep the conversation going, I said, "Wasn't
Laver the dominant one in those days?"

"Yeah, but most of the Aussies were good. Laver,
Newcombe, Rosewall, Roche. We were all using sixteen-gauge string by
then, and some of us even went to double stringing. We called it
'spaghetti,' winding another string around the basic one? Put
tremendous spin on the ball before it got banned by WCT and then by
individual tournaments too."

Hebert shook his head and laughed inwardly. "Yeah,
a great sport, one of the few you can stay with no matter how old you
get. And it surely does beat stumbling on gopher holes around
eighteen greens just to have an excuse for getting drunk on the
nineteenth."

He scoffed a little more Scotch, apparently not
feeling the need for an excuse but not really showing any effect from
the booze either.

I said, "How long since you retired?"

"Retired? 'Retired,' now, that's a kind word,
John, and I thank you for using it. I had to hang up the serious game
at thirty-one, which if you're counting was seven years back. But
it's not like you work for a corporation and build up a pension and
stock plans and all. Nossir, it's get some backers, get in, and get
what you can, because the show's over awful fast. Hey, now, I can't
really complain, you understand? I had the brass ring for a while
there."

Hebert set down the drink to count on his fingers.
"One French Open, finalist at Wimbledon, semis three years
running at Forest Hills. But what I had was the serve and the
crosscourts, like you saw on that tape there. When the old rotator
cuff went . . ."

He moved his shoulder in a very slow-motion serve. I
could hear a crickling noise that had nothing to do with the
starching of his shirt.

Hebert shrugged. "That was all she wrote."

"Can you still play?"

"Lordy, no. That is, not play play. You know the
difference between, say, a Corvette and a Prelude?"

I didn't know if he was aware I drove a Honda and was
toying with me, so I said, "No."

"Well, your Corvette, now, that's a sports car.
But your Prelude, now, that's just a sporty car, get me?"

"The difference between an athlete and somebody
who's just athletic."

"There you go. Well, I'm a Prelude that knows it
used to be a Corvette. Oh, I'm happy to go out and shuck my way
through a celebrity tournament for charity and all, but I can't
really play no more, no more."

"And this has just what to do with the threats
to your wife?"

Hebert finished his drink and got up immediately.
"Another?"

I'd barely touched the Miller's. "Not just yet,
thanks."

Fridge, rattle of fresh cubes, the neck of bottle
clinking against rim of glass. I took in his trophies. Platters,
cups, occasionally the racquet and player in metal outlined against a
ceramic background. Hebert returned to his chair. "This all has
to do with Maisy like this: I'm her husband. She used to have some
doctor from Europe who died, but I'm it now. She's quite a woman,
Maisy, but she gets an idea in her head, and it's Katy-Bar-the-Door,
you think you're gonna change her mind. Like the players on the tour
today."

"I'm sorry?"

"The players today. They verbalize everything.
Take 'first serve percentage.' John, do you know I never, ever heard
anybody say that all the time I played? Nossir, all you'd say to
yourself then was 'I hope to Christ I can get this next one in.' Now
they actually plan their matches around percentage and tendency and
all. I suppose it does make sense. We plan everything else, why not
'first serve percentage'?"

"Or death."

Taking a slug, Hebert said, "Right, right.
That's my point. Maisy's got this idea she can save the world by
encouraging people to help each other die peaceable. Fine by me. I'm
not about to go threatening her about it. I'm happy as can be. You
know why?"

"No."

"Take any professional athlete — tennis,
football, you name it. Once you've seen Paree, it's tough to give
that up. Tougher than kicking drugs, I'm told by those who've known
both pretty well. But your body, this thing that's made your fortune,
sooner or later it lets you down, John. It goes and gets old on you.

"Now, I never held on to a dime longer than it
took to order another round for the house. But it turns out I'm one
of the lucky ones. Wasn't a year I was out of the tournaments, with
not too many options staring me in the face, when I met up with
Maisy. Boy, I was just plain dazzled by her. Don't know what she saw
in me other than the usual stuff that the gossips'll spread, and
there'd sure be some truth to that."

Hebert grinned. "I learned two things on the
tour, John. How to serve and how to bed a woman. You've got to
practice both every day, and I can still do the one to beat the band.
But Maisy also provides for me."

He waved his hand around the room. "This used to
be some kind of library. Well, she let me turn it into a shrine. A
place I feel comfortable, like old St. Francis enjoying his sainthood
before the pope declared it for him. I get everything I want out of
this relationship, and I don't have to speak nice with old fogies
that couldn't hit a dead hog with the sweet spot on a windless day.
Nossir, I don't have to worry about tips or the IRS or club ladies
getting fussy because I haven't made a move to lift their skirts. A
lot of players I knew — good ones, too, John. Tough,
chew-your-leg-off competitors — they've got to worry about those
things. Not me. And if you think I'd piss in the well by threatening
Maisy, you've got another think coming."

"Why would I think that?"

Hebert put his drink on the table, nearly sloshing
it. "Because I was here when Inés found the threat note in the
mailbox."

I thought about it. "You hear or see anything
unusual that day?"

"Nothing. Sound asleep for a good part of it.
Friend of mine from the old old days, he was in town, and we tied one
the night before."

"You were sleeping off a drunk."

"Dead to the world till I heard all the
commotion downstairs over the note."

"And tonight?"

"What about tonight?"

"You were there, at the auditorium and the
bookstore. You see anything?"

"Just what everybody else did. Bunch of
neurotics talking to themselves, except for my Maisy. But I was
smiling, John. I was smiling because that's my job, and I'm happy to
be doing it."

"And you're not taking the threats that
seriously."

Hebert retrieved his drink. "You have any notion
how many threats Maisy receives in a week?"

"You have any notion who's behind this batch?"

"Sure don't."

"You ever meet the first husband's son?"

"Who?"

"The doctor had a son. You ever meet him?"

"Oh, yeah. Not at the wedding though, I can tell
you that. No, there was some kind of business for the estate in
Spain. Couple of years ago, still dragging on all that time. Name of
. . . just a second . . . Ramone was what Maisy called him."

"What was your impression of him?"

A sip. "You ever traveled through Europe, John?"

"No."

"Well, you do, and you get certain vibes from
people. Like they know you're richer, maybe more powerful than they
are, but they still think they're better?"

"Go on."

"Well, this guy wasn't like that. All-American
and pleased as punch about being in the States. Even changed his name
to just Ray, I think."

"Anything else?"

Another sip. "Not that I remember. Seems to me
Ray signed all the papers he had to, no muss or bother. I don't
believe he's been around since."

"So you wouldn't think the son was behind this?"

"No. I'll tell you something, though."

"What's that?"

"I find the feller's
been sending these things . . ." Hebert tossed the rest of his
drink at the back of his throat and started to get up, then paused
halfway. "I'll crush the sumbitch, John. I will, messing with my
life support system like he is."

* * *

I closed the doors on Hebert and was halfway around
the landing when Maisy Andrus stuck her head through the other
threshold on the floor.

I said, "How are you doing?"

"All right, I suppose. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure."

I followed her into the study, also lined with
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, these actually containing books. There
were law titles, but many seemed to be from other disciplines such as
philosophy, sociology, medicine, and history. Andrus settled into a
desk chair. Off to one side, computer components ranged over a
trilevel table. The monitor was still glowing above one of those
backless chairs that resemble a disoriented Catholic kneeler.

I said, "Kind of late to be working, isn't it?"

A tired smile aimed at the computer table. "I
sometimes find it easier to write at night. And you're still working,
aren't you?"

"Your husband's an interesting man."

Reclining in the chair, Andrus closed her eyes. "Tell
me, John. Do you use the word 'interesting' when you're fishing for
information about a person?"

"Sometimes."

A laugh with an edge of superiority in it. "Actually,
I agree with you about Tuck being interesting. Most people don't
adjust well to a fading of the limelight. But Tuck seems to be an
exception."

I thought about other people, including me, who'd
"adjusted" with alcohol, but I didn't interrupt her.

"You see, John, Tuck truly lived in the fast
lane. Money, cars, women. Real glitz, if that's not an oxymoron. But
when it was over, he acknowledged the fact, and he's entered a new
phase of his life."

"Which is?"

"Being thought of as a 'trophy husband'."

I remembered the phrase as "trophy wife"
from a magazine article on successful male executives. "Meaning
you sport Tuck as a trophy husband to show you've made it as a female
professional?"

A brighter smile, the eyes opening. "No pun
intended?"

"No pun intended."

"My point is, that's how others think of Tuck,
as an object of Maisy's overcompensating. But it's not how Maisy
thinks of him."

"I see."

"What do you see?"

"I see that you and Wade Boggs are the only
people in Boston who refer to themselves in the third person."

Another laugh, but hearty, not superior. "That's
what I mean."

"What?"

"My first husband was considerably older than I
was. Tuck is somewhat younger than I am. But while that does have its
advantages, Tuck is really very smart. Not in a book-learning sense,
but like your observation just now. The needle that deflates the
balloon, that makes you rethink your own position. From class this
morning, I recall my insistence that the students use 'he or she'
when referring to an unidentified person such as a client or a
judge?"

"Yes."

"Well, Tuck once heard me do that, and he
remarked that saying it that way took more time. I said that I wanted
the students to be comprehensive as well as inoffensive, and he asked
me what I did if the client were a corporation or governmental body.
I replied that 'he, she, or it' might be appropriate. At that point
Tuck gave me that good-ol'-boy grin of his and took out a piece of
paper. He wrote 'S/HE/IT' and said 'How about having your students
just say it like this?' Well, I pronounced what he'd written, him
grinning wider, and it struck me that I had to do a little more
justifying with the class on why my approach was important. Tuck
wasn't being disrespectful to women. He simply used his wit to make
me reexamine my position."

"Can I do the same?"

The tired smile this time. "Go ahead."

"You think your husband is above suspicion?"

Her features distorted. "Certain of it."

"How does he benefit if you die?"

"You call that using your wit'?"

"I call that getting you to reexamine your
position. How about it?"

Andrus squared her shoulders and sat a little
straighter. "He would receive the bulk of my estate, the residue
after some charities and public service organizations."

I inclined my head toward the center of the mansion.
"Quite a residue. You have everything here but a two-car
garage."

She didn't get it. "We keep the Benz around the
corner, in the Brimmer Street garage."

A Mercedes in a condo parking space. Add another
hundred and a half to the estate. "My point is — "

"I can see your point, John. I just don't think
it has any merit. Tuck is many things, but not a killer. Or somebody
who'd threaten it by note. He's an in-your-face sort of man. Besides,
trite as it may sound, he loves me and we're happy together."