The Players (17 page)

Yuri glanced over at Geneva. The big blonde was standing a few feet away, watching him without expression. Damn, he wanted to get into that. The old biddy had him by the short hair this time, though. No piece of ass in the world was worth losing his chance to get next to Lyle Coombes.

“I’ll be there,” he said, and hung up the phone immediately so he wouldn’t have to talk to the old bitch any longer.

“Is something wrong?” Geneva asked.

“I have to leave.”

“Oh?”

Yuri could not be sure whether the tone of her voice reflected disappointment or relief. To hell with her. The woman’s feelings were not important.

He said, “We won’t be doing any business this time. Next time we’ll start all over. And take the telephone off the hook.”

“Do you want to take the contract with you?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know what it takes to get my name on that contract.”

“I was just asking.”

With a snort of annoyance Yuri stalked over and yanked open the door. “I’ll be back,” he snapped, and marched into the hallway.

• • •

J. J. Kaiser read for the third or fourth time the same paragraph in a paperback novel he had purchased in the lobby. It was no use, he could not get his mind to focus on the written words.

He flipped the book aside and got up from the chair. He walked into the bathroom, poured a glass of water, took a swallow, and dumped the rest into the sink. He blew his nose in a Kleenex and flushed the tissue down the toilet.

A funny-looking little fink peered out at him from the mirror. “What are you moping around like this for?” the little fink said. “Everything’s going just the way you planned, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah, only …” J. J. began.

“What do you mean,
only?
Yuri Zenger’s getting his ashes hauled, you’re getting his name on a contract, and Gilfillan is getting their first bona fide tennis star. Everybody’s happy, right?”

“Aren’t you forgetting somebody?”

“The big broad?”

“Sure, Geneva. She’s the one who’s doing the most for this whole deal.”

“So what? She’s getting paid for it. And it’s not like you’re sacrificing a virgin or something. The broad may be dumb, but she’s been around the block.”

“Shut up!” J. J. hit the little fink in the face with a damp towel and walked back to stare out the window at a brick wall a few feet away.

He picked up the paperback novel, riffled the pages, dropped it again. Maybe he should go get a magazine. Something with a lot of pictures that would more readily distract him. No, Geneva might call when he was out, and he didn’t want to miss her.

A soft knock at the door sent J. J. straight up in the air. Jeez, he was getting goosey about sudden noises. It was probably a maid or something. He walked over and opened the door.

“Hello, J. J.”

Geneva Sundstrum stood in the doorway looking so painfully beautiful at that moment that J. J. wanted to wrap his arms around her and sob.

He said, “What are you doing here?”

“He’s gone.”

“Zenger? Gone? Already?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Did he … Did you …?”

“He didn’t. I didn’t. We didn’t.”

J. J. moved aside to let the big girl enter the room. He closed the door behind her. “What went wrong?”

“He got a phone call. I think it was from that old lady he’s living with. I don’t know what she said, but it made him hustle out of there in a hurry.”

“That idiot at the desk must have put the call through to your room. What about the contract?”

“He wouldn’t even look at the contract until after, and we never even got started.”

J. J. raised and dropped his arms in a dramatic gesture of defeat. “Well, that’s that. I guess we can kiss Yuri Zenger goodbye.”

“We don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said he’d be back to finish the business.”

“Did he say when?”

“No. I got the feeling that I’m supposed to stay ready for him.”

J. J. frowned thoughtfully, chewing on his moustache. “Well, that’s something,” he said. “At least we haven’t lost him altogether.”

“I did the best I could.”

“You did fine, babe, just fine. Look, are you hungry? We could go out for a bite. Maybe take in a flick. What the hell, the afternoon’s shot anyway, we might as well relax.”

“I’m not hungry, J. J. And I don’t want to go to a movie. Listen, honey, you don’t have to feel guilty or anything. I understand.”

“Guilty? What guilty? Who’s got anything to feel guilty about?”

“I just thought maybe—”

“Well, think again, babe. I’ve been hustling too many years to start getting the guilts now. Jeez!”

Geneva was silent for a moment, then she said, “J. J.”

“What?”

“There’s a fresh-made bed in my room, all turned back and ready. It’s a shame not to use it.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. I’d really like to, you know I would, babe, but there are some phone calls I ought to make. It may take quite a while. Why don’t you go on back to the room and watch TV or something. I’ll be up later.”

“Couldn’t you make your calls from the room? I’d be quiet as a mouse.”

“There’s, uh, some people I’ve got to go see too. I’ll get back to you later, okay?”

“Sure, J. J. Okay.”

The big girl couldn’t hide the hurt in her eyes as she turned and walked out of the room. J. J. kicked the door when she was gone, sending a stab of pain up his leg. He kicked it again.

This was really too much, he thought. Turning down a romp in the hay with the most magnificent piece of womanflesh he’d ever had. Jeez!

When he was sure that Geneva had enough time to get back to room 812, J. J. left the smaller room and headed for the elevator. He would go down to the bar and start belting down the booze. J. J. well knew that he was no drinker, and it shouldn’t take many to put him in a stupor. Then he could stagger up to Geneva’s room, give her some story about getting drunk with an old buddy, and pass out. It would save a lot of explaining. Both to Geneva and to himself.

Yuri could feel the beginnings of an ache in his crotch when the taxi dropped him off in front of Mrs. Keith’s town house in the super-fashionable residential section of Belgravia. He had gotten just close enough to Geneva to stir his blood, and being called away had left him badly frustrated.

When the maid ushered him into the sitting room, Mrs. Keith was already having tea. Seated next to her on the sofa was a languid young man with glossy hair and soft, pouty lips. He sat with his knees pressed together as he carried on an animated conversation.

As Yuri entered the room Mrs. Keith looked up and smiled. “Ah, Yuri, there you are. Lyle dear, this is the young man I told you about.”

Lyle Coombes turned from his conversation, and for a moment his eyes stabbed intently into Yuri’s. Yuri knew the look. He had seen it in the hungry faces of the men who waited hopefully outside the locker rooms, peering into the eyes of one player after another, looking for the special answer.

Apparently Coombes did not find the answer he wanted, for his eyes grew vague and guarded again. He extended his hand, allowing Yuri a brief grasp of four fingers. “Charmed,” he said.

“Do take a seat and join us, Yuri,” said Mrs. Keith. “Lyle has just been telling me the most deliciously funny story about some of our mutual acquaintances.”

Yuri piled several of the dainty sandwiches onto a plate and took a cup of tea. He sat down glumly in a chair across from Mrs. Keith and the movie director, keeping a politely interested expression on his face as Coombes continued his anecdote, accompanying himself with gestures and flourishes. Yuri pleaded silently for him to get to the point.

“And
so
, my dear,” Coombes finally wound up, “if you can i
mag
ine, the poor woman was left
standing
there without a
word
to say. Let me tell you, it was simply
mar
velous.”

“Oh, Lyle,” gushed Mrs. Keith, “you do have the most delightful way of telling a story. It must be your cinematic background.”

Yuri cleared his throat loudly, and the other two looked over at him.

“I’ve always enjoyed your films, Mr. Coombes,” he said, thinking even as the words left his mouth how inane they sounded.

“Really?” said the director. “Which one of them did you like the best?”

Yuri squirmed in his chair. He had never seen a one of Coombes’ pictures. Didn’t even know any of the titles. He was desperately afraid of offending this man who had the power to make him a star.

He said, “It’s difficult to pick one, I enjoyed them all so much.” Inwardly Yuri cringed at the words, which sounded as though they were spoken by somebody else.

“How nice,” the director said coolly. He turned away once more and resumed his conversation with Mrs. Keith. “Dorothy dear, have you seen the show at the Hayward Gallery? It’s that new Spanish boy … oh, dear, what
is
his name? Anyway, his work is absolutely
charm
ing. Far more subtlety than one usually finds in the Spaniards.”

“I haven’t seen it,” said Mrs. Keith, “but I shall by all means make it a point to go if you really recommend it.”

“Oh, I
do
. I do in
deed.”

Yuri clattered his teacup and saucer down on the antique table beside him.

“Yuri, dear boy, you simply must forgive us for ignoring you,” said Mrs. Keith. “It’s just that whenever Lyle and I get together we fly off into our own special world.” To Coombes she said, “Yuri is a tennis player.”

“Is that so? Do you know Kurt von Rotke? I believe he was involved with tennis for a time. De
light
ful boy.”

“I don’t know him,” Yuri said.

“Pity.”

“I don’t intend always to be a tennis player,” Yuri blurted.

“Oh? You have ambitions along another line?”

“People have often told me I should be in the movies.”

“Have
they?”

“I have a good face for photographing, people say.”

“I see.”

“But I hear that getting into movies is very difficult.”

“Yes, it is. Perhaps we might talk about that.”

“I would like to very much.”

“It will have to be some other time, I’m afraid,” Coombes said, rising. “I really must be going now. Dorothy, it was just super seeing you again. Let’s be in touch soon.”

“The pleasure was mine, Lyle,” said Mrs. Keith. “And next time you hear about a special showing at the Hayward, be sure and tell me first, you naughty boy, or I’ll be furious with you.”

“Ta ta, then. Nice to meet you, Zenger.” The director tossed a cashmere coat over his shoulders and sailed out the door.

Yuri could feel the anger rising inside him like black smoke. He held himself in check until the maid had left the room, then he stalked over to face Mrs. Keith.

“What the hell was the idea of that?”

“Yuri darling, I don’t understand.”

“I was supposed to meet Coombes so we could talk about him getting me into pictures. Instead, I have to sit here and listen to a lot of fag talk about people I never heard of and somebody’s crappy paintings.”

“But, Yuri, Lyle did say he would talk to you about a possible film career. He’s an extremely busy man, you know.”

“So am I a busy man. Talk to me when? Two weeks from now I’m supposed to be in Belgium for the clay court championships.”

Mrs. Keith smoothed the front of her black taffeta dress. She said, “He’ll be back from Paris in a few days. I’m sure I can arrange to bring you two together again.”

“I hope to hell you can. I come all the way back here and only get to say half a dozen words to the sonofabitch before he is giving me ‘Ta ta, Zenger, I must be off.’ ”

“Poor dear,” said Mrs. Keith. “Were you able to complete your business with Mr. Kaiser?”

“No.”

“I’m awfully sorry about that, but then, if you become a film star you won’t have to deal with people like that, will you. Was that the huge blonde woman who answered the phone when I called?”

“What? Oh, yes, I think that was her.”

“What was the woman doing there? I thought your business was with Mr. Kaiser.”

“She works for the guy, for God’s sake. Why shouldn’t she be there?”

“Quite right. Well, I don’t suppose there’s time for you to go back there now. Not before the dinner party.”

Yuri ground his teeth. The old hag had him dancing on strings like a puppet. He would have loved to smash his fist into her smug, twice-lifted face, but as long as she held out Lyle Coombes as a possible reward, he could not afford to displease her.

He said, “It’s all right. I’ll go back and finish the business another time.”

“There’s a good boy.” Then looping a finger around one of the buttons on his shirt, she said in a low, seductive tone, “As long as there is still some time before we have to start preparing for the guests, why don’t you and I tiptoe upstairs?”

For a moment he considered turning her down. It would be fair payment for the dirty trick she had played on him. But as long as she could still be useful he would have to pay his dues. Besides, he was feeling horny from his close call with Geneva, and doing it with the old lady was still better than jacking off.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not.”

Hazel Doughty sat in the doctor’s waiting room feeling vaguely ashamed for being in good health while the other people who sat there in the plastic chairs and leafed through copies of old magazines surely had serious things wrong with them.

It also bothered Hazel that she had lied to Alan about coming here. He had slept late this morning, it being Wednesday, and no Wimbledon action in the men’s singles. After luncheon she had left him reading the sporting papers and gone out, saying she wanted to do a spot of shopping. She would find ways to make it up to him, if only the doctor would put her fears to rest.

Ever since his checkup two weeks ago Alan had been acting queerly. Hazel waited for her husband to tell her about it, and when he didn’t she began to suspect something serious was wrong. Last night she had seen him taking medicine that she knew had not been in the house before. When she asked about it Alan put her off with a quick answer about the medicine being something the doctor had given him to quiet his nerves. You can’t stay married to a man seventeen years and not know when he’s keeping something from you. Alan Doughty had never had a nervous day in his life. It was then Hazel had made the decision to come down here and speak to Alan’s doctor.

The brisk receptionist slid open the glass panel that separated her from the people in the waiting room. “Mrs. Doughty?”

“Yes?” Hazel rose from her chair uncertainly. “Doctor will see you now.”

Hazel made her way past the waiting people, all of whom, she felt, could tell there was nothing wrong with her and probably resented her taking up the doctor’s time. She passed through a door and walked down a hallway that smelled sharply of medicine. The doctor sat at a desk in an office-like room at the end of the hall.

“Yes, Mrs. Doughty,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“My husband was in to see you not long ago.”

“Yes, he was.”

“I–I wonder if you might tell me whatever it was you told Alan then?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“And you have tried to speak to him about it?”

“Yes, that is, not really. Alan’s not keen on talking about it.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m not certain it would be proper for me to give you any information about my examination. These things are, after all, confidential between doctor and patient.”

“He may be your patient, doctor, but he’s my husband.”

“Yes, I see. I suppose that does alter the situation somewhat. How much, exactly, has Mr. Doughty told you?”

“Nothing, actually, just that he saw you for a checkup and that all was well.”

“And you have reason to believe otherwise?”

“It’s the way he acts, mostly. He won’t look me straight in the eye when I ask him how he feels. Then last night I saw him taking some medicine that he said was for his nerves, but I’m sure that’s not true.”

The doctor walked over and closed the office door, then sat down again. He stared thoughtfully down at the floor for a long moment before answering.

“I see in the papers your husband won his second match at Wimbledon yesterday.”

“Yes, he did. Alan seems to be playing better than ever, yet I’m sure there’s something amiss.”

“Yes, Mrs. Doughty, you’re right. It would have been far better had your husband lost in the first round.”

Hazel’s breath caught in her throat. “Why do you say that?”

“Actually, my advice to him was not to play at Wimbledon at all.”

“But he’s made up his mind this is to be his last tournament.”

“Yes,” the doctor said grimly, “one way or another.”

“Please tell me what it is.”

“Your husband is suffering from an aneurysm, Mrs. Doughty. That is a weakening of the wall in one of the major arteries.”

“Is that quite serious?”

“Quite serious. He needs surgery to correct the condition, the sooner the better.”

“And what about playing tennis?”

“In his condition it is as dangerous as playing Russian roulette. If the arterial wall should rupture due to the increased amount of blood pumped by the heart during exercise …” The doctor shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“You told Alan all this?”

“I did.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the importance of playing at Wimbledon this year outweighed the danger.”

“You’ve got to stop him,” Hazel said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Doughty, all I can do is give your husband my professional opinion and my advice. This I did in the strongest of terms. I cannot otherwise prevent him from taking chances with his life, if that is what he wants to do.”

“You did your best, I’m sure,” Hazel said, “but there must be some way.”

“If you have any influence with your husband, I’d suggest you use it now to get him off the tennis court. His life may very well depend on it.”

Hazel nodded her understanding. “Thank you, doctor.” She clutched her bag tightly to her, and walked straight out through the waiting room, not looking at the people sitting there.

Once out on the street she took a hanky from her bag and blew her nose. I am not going to cry, she told herself. I will not be seen weeping on the public streets. She straightened her posture and walked a block to the bus stop where she took her place at the end of the queue.

Back at the flat in Lambeth Hazel blew her nose again and examined her face in a tiny mirror before she walked in. She found Alan sitting in the kitchen with a pot of tea on the table before him and a stack of new tennis rackets on the floor beside his chair. He had unwrapped the grip from one of the rackets and was shaving wood from the handle with a kitchen knife.

“Hello, pet,” he said. “You’re back from shopping early. Where are your parcels?”

“I–I couldn’t find just what I wanted.”

“Too bad, dear. Not to worry, though, you can go on a real spree after Wimbledon, eh?”

He set the knife aside and began carefully rewrapping the grip on the racket. When it was fully wound he tested it for feel. He stood up and swung the racket through a slow-motion backhand arc.

“Not quite right,” he said, and sat down to begin unwrapping the grip once more.

“Alan.”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t go shopping today as I told you.”

“Oh?”

“I went to see the doctor.”

“You’re not ill?” he asked quickly. “It was your doctor I went to see.” Alan watched her without saying anything. “He told me you shouldn’t be playing tennis. He told me why.”

Alan put aside the racket he was working on and stood up. He took Hazel into his arms and held her close.

“The doctor’s an old worry bug, love. You mustn’t let him upset you. You’ve seen me play the last two days. Did you see anything wrong?”

“He said you should have an operation.”

“Doctors always say a bloke should have an operation. That’s where they make their money. Anyhow, there’ll be plenty of time for that after Wimbledon. You just leave these things to me, dear.”

Hazel pulled free and stepped back so she could look into his face. “Please don’t treat me like a child, Alan,” she said. “You’re my husband and I love you. What happens to you is quite rightly my concern, and I won’t have you killing yourself on the tennis court.”

For a moment Alan regarded her levelly, then he said, “You’re quite right, Hazel. I was wrong not to tell you about it at once. I’ve never been able to keep anything from you anyway. I should have known better. As the doctor told you, it’s rather a serious thing I’ve got, but once I’ve had the operation and they stick a patch on the old artery I’ll be almost as good as new.”

“You’re doing it again,” Hazel said. “You’re making light of the thing as though it’s something I can’t understand. I was at Southampton with you four years ago when Aubrey Cooper had a heart attack and fell dead on the court. I saw it, Alan, I was close enough to see the look on his face. I don’t want to see you fall out there.”

“Believe me, I don’t want that either,” Alan said in a serious tone. “It may seem to you that I’m being frivolous and foolhardy about this, but you should know me better than that. This is the one chance we’ll ever have, you and me, to live out our lives comfortably. To me it’s worth the gamble.”

“Alan, it’s your
life
you’re risking,” Hazel said, angry with herself because she could not keep her voice from breaking. “Nothing is worth that.”

“What would you have me do, drop out now after having played the first two rounds?”

“Yes,” she said. “If you love me you’ll do it.”

‘That’s not fair, Hazel. I love you more than I could ever put into words, you know that. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy. But you’re asking me to quit. I’ve never quit on anything in my life. You wouldn’t want me to start now, would you?”

“At least you’d be alive,” she cried.

Man and wife stood facing each other for several seconds, and Hazel watched the play of conflicting emotions across Alan’s long, homely face. She ran forward and threw her arms around him, pressing her face against the front of his shirt.

“I’m sorry, Alan,” she said. “You have to do what you think is right. I’m just so afraid of losing you.”

“Nobody’ll be lost, dear, you’ll see. I’ll have five more matches, then it’ll be over.”

‘That’s five matches if you go to the finals.”

“You don’t doubt that I will, do you?”

Hazel used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She looked up at her husband and smiled. “No, Alan, I don’t doubt it. Not for a minute.”

“That’s my girl.” He gave her a last squeeze, then returned to the racket he had been working on. He finished unwrapping the grip and took up the knife to shave a little more off the handle.

“I don’t know why,” he said, “but they never build quite the right feel into these things.”

Hazel watched him bent over his whittling, as intent as a little boy. Her instinct cried out to her to plead with him not to play again. She knew he would do it for her too, but it would be at the cost of his pride. She would have him then, but he would be less than the man he was. She loved him too much to do that to him.

With a sense of betrayal, Hazel gave a silent prayer that tomorrow he would lose.