The Players (25 page)

In another, much smaller hotel room across the city, Milo Vasquez lay tense and sweaty on his narrow bed, trying in vain to go to sleep. He had chosen this anonymous hotel east of the Tower of London because it would be quiet, and no one would intrude when he needed to be alone. Now the quiet screamed in his ears like souls on fire.

With an angry motion Milo threw off the bedclothes and got up. He snapped on the battered lamp at his bedside and pulled on a pair of jeans and a loosely knit black sweater.

He left the room and went down the narrow flight of stairs to the street. When he had moved in, the man at the hotel had told him it was dangerous to walk the streets at night in this part of London. It was not far from here, the man said, that Jack the Ripper bad done his bloody work. Milo was not impressed. He had walked dangerous streets before.

The night mist formed pale balloons of light around the street lamps. Milo wondered if you ever got to see the stars in this town. It was like they hung a wet gray canvas across the sky at night.

He walked the damp deserted streets without reading their names. To occupy his mind he replayed, shot by shot, yesterday’s match with Denny Urso. The Australian was, as everybody knew, a doubles player, and had no business getting as far as the quarter-finals in singles. Back in his glory days Milo would have disposed of Denny as easily as swatting a fly. But in winning yesterday he had burned up the last of his body’s reserves. Every time his racket hit the ball it had sent a jolt of pain through his body. The straight-set victory had wrung him dry.

Tomorrow he had to play the Englishman, Alan Doughty, in the semi-finals. Milo had watched a little of Doughty’s match with the Russian yesterday. He had seen enough to know it would take more than bluff and a scowl to beat the man. If Milo was to have any chance at all, he had to borrow strength from somewhere. But where?

The pub had no sign out in front. Only a dim electric bulb marked the entrance. Milo walked in without hesitating. It was as though he had an appointment there.

He ordered a beer and stood at the bar sipping it slowly, staring into the cracked mirror on the wall.

A brittle voice spoke close to his ear. “Hello, dearie. Lonely tonight?”

Milo turned and looked into the face of a bony woman with faded brown hair and dark eye-makeup. She smiled an invitation at him.

“No,” he said shortly. A woman was not what he needed.

“I could give you a good time. You’ll not be sorry, I promise you.”

“Go away,” Milo said. He turned away from her and took another sip from his beer. The woman hesitated for a moment, then shrugged to show it made no difference to her, and wandered away.

In the mirror Milo let his eyes move over the faces of the people in the pub. Some smiled too much and talked too loud, their eyes unnaturally bright. Others nodded in shadowy booths, muttering secrets to themselves. And there were the haunted ones who sweated and sniffled. Milo knew them all. He knew this place, though he’d not been here before. He’d seen it in Los Angeles, New York, Cleveland, and Houston.

“Chill in the air tonight, ain’t there.”

The man who spoke had been at the far end of the bar when Milo walked in. Now he was standing alongside. He was thin as a stick, and his eyes never stopped blinking.

Milo did not answer him.

“On a night like this a man wants something to fight off the chill,” the stranger continued. “Sometimes it gets right down into your bones. Believe me, I know how bad it can be.”

“That’s right,” Milo said. “It can be bad.” He did not want to talk to this man, but he could not seem to help himself. It had been a long time since he had talked to someone who really knew what the chill was like. And the cramps. And the bloody retching when your guts turn over trying to vomit but nothing comes out because you haven’t eaten for a couple of days. Nobody who hadn’t been down that road could know what it was like.

“You’re a South American, ain’t you?” the man said.

“Mexican.”

“Same thing, almost.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I meant no offense, mate.”

“Forget it.”

The man with the blink moved a little closer. “I hope you’ll pardon my sayin’ so, but you’re lookin’ a mite strung out tonight, as they say. Is there anythin’ I could do to help?”

“I don’t need anything,” Milo told him.

“Here, I wasn’t meanin’ to suggest that you did, mate. I could tell at a glance you wasn’t sick or anythin’. The thought just come to me that you might like a little some-thin’ to put the roses back in your cheeks, so to speak.”

“No.”

“I’ve got a room just upstairs. It wouldn’t take a minute.”

Milo looked down at the bar, and to his horror he saw his left fist clenching and relaxing rhythmically. The vein stood out like a blue worm. He slammed the fist down on the bar, spun away, and rushed out of the pub.

The insinuating voice of the man with the blink followed him. “If you change your mind, mate, you know where to find me.”

Again Milo was on the streets. He walked with his head down, fists jammed in his pockets. The words of the man in the pub echoed in his mind:
I’ve got a room just upstairs…. You know where to find me
.

Yes, Milo knew where to find him. He always knew where to find that kind. He thought he had rid himself of that demon, but it still lived somewhere inside him. And it was hungry.

Somewhere in the night a siren brayed. A scrawny cat fled out
of a doorway as Milo passed. What the hell, he thought maybe the man in the
pub had the answer. Maybe the strength he needed was waiting in that upstairs
room. White powder in a spoon, held over a flame until it liquefies. Suck it
up into a needle and shoot it into your blood.

Just as no one outside could know the hurt, no one could know the high. It was ten times better than being with a woman. It made you smart and strong and bigger than life. You could do anything. You were like a god. For a while.

Okay, so the feeling didn’t last Nothing lasts. Maybe one jolt now so he could sleep, another tomorrow so he could play. Then he could lay off again. That wouldn’t be enough to make him sick. One jolt tonight, another tomorrow. Easy.

Milo looked up and was surprised to see he was standing again in front of the nameless pub. He must have turned around and walked back in this direction without being aware of it. Whatever it was that had pulled him here in the first place had pulled him back. Milo started toward the door. He was tired of fighting.

Before he could enter, something down the block caught his eye. A blur of color, faint and undefined in the mist. The glow was too soft for it to be an electric sign; besides, there were none on this block. Curious, Milo began walking in that direction.

When he was halfway there Milo recognized what it was. A stained-glass window. A small window in a small church. He walked up to the plain entrance to the gray stone building and read the plaque there. “St. Xavier’s.”

A name from Milo’s childhood came back to him. Tía Louisa. Maybe she was not a real aunt, but he called her that. She used to take him to church on Sunday morning while his father slept off Saturday’s wine. A woman with a great, gross body and arms like huge sausages, Tía Louisa had the most beautiful eyes Milo had ever seen.

“You must go to church, Ismael,” she would tell him. “Pray to the Blessed Virgin for the soul of your dear mother. Pray that you do not end up like your father, that
borracho.”

Dimly Milo remembered the church in downtown Los Angeles with its great vaulted ceiling and the beautiful saints who looked out with compassion from their painted eyes. There was always the smell of varnish and of people freshly bathed. The musical, solemn language of the mass, the rich robes of the priest, the rituals of the altar—the boy Ismael understood none of it. Yet sitting there next to Tía Louisa made him feel loved and protected, at least for a little while.

Milo entered the church. It was the first time since he was a boy. He touched his finger to the holy water and made the sign of the cross.

This church was much smaller than the one where he had gone with Tía Louisa. The wooden pews needed varnish, and the plaster of the saints was chipped. Still, the same feeling was there.

There were only a few scattered worshippers in the church, and none of them looked at him. Milo walked a little way down the aisle, knelt to the altar, and took a seat. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how to pray. It was no good. He had been away too long. A prayer from him now would be empty words.

He let his body relax and opened his mind to all the things he had locked out for so long. How he had been a champion and thrown it away. How he had betrayed the people who had believed in him. How he had spent his talent and quenched his fire in a thousand bars and bedrooms. How he had given himself to the needle.

And always there was Maria. Maria of the sad eyes. Maria crying. Maria pleading with him. Maria in pain.
Madre de Dios
, was there never a happy Maria?

Slowly Milo opened his eyes. He held on to the thought He could not remember one single time when Maria had laughed. Not even in the first years when they were so very much in love. Always she had been sad. It was almost as though her last walk down the pier and into the sea was only the end of a journey she had begun long before.

It was not my fault alone, Milo thought.
I
did not kill Maria!
He waited for the stab of guilt he always felt when he thought about Maria, but this time it did not come. And then he understood. For the part he had played in Maria’s death, he had paid his debt. His penance was done.

Milo rose and walked down the aisle toward the altar. He took a candle from the table and dropped a bank note into the cash box. He placed the candle in front of the Virgin and lighted it.

“For Maria,” he whispered. “And for Tía Louisa. And for me.”

He knelt awkwardly and crossed himself. Then he left the church. He felt bone tired and cleansed, like after a long hard match, then a steam bath. He walked swiftly in the direction of his hotel. Tonight, at last, he would sleep. Forgotten forever was the nameless pub and the man who blinked. Milo Vasquez had found his peace.

On Thursday afternoon the change in Milo Vasquez was quickly apparent to the fans who crowded the stands of Centre Court for the semi-finals. In his previous matches the warmup period had been a grim ritual for the Mexican player, as deadly serious as the game itself. Today he loped about the court with a casual grace most unlike the drum-tight Milo they had come to expect. Even the habitual black scowl had softened.

As play began the crowd marveled at the new, relaxed Milo Vasquez. Not that the old power game had returned, but his strokes were picture smooth, his game steady and controlled. Once, when the crowd applauded a nice return, Milo startled everyone by raising his racket slightly in acknowledgement.

On the other side of the net Alan Doughty had to revise his own game to counter the change in Milo’s. Alan’s plan had been to hang back at the baseline and out-steady him, counting on the Mexican’s nerves to tighten up and force him into errors. However, the new free-stroking Milo could not be handled that way. Alan was forced to go on the attack, rushing the net both on his own serve and on his return of Milo’s.

Playing this slashing, aggressive game, Alan drew steadily ahead. He was leading two sets to one, and was up a service break in the fourth when the pain hit him.

It happened as he dug for the net to retrieve a well-placed drop volley. As he stretched for the ball a searing flame licked along his spine. The racket slipped from his hand, and Alan lurched into the net, grasping it instinctively to keep from falling.

The world went out of focus, and darkness rushed toward his eyes. The sound of the crowd receded like a train down a tunnel. Alan fought to pull air into his lungs.

Dear God, he thought, not now. Not when I’m so close.

The pain eased and went away. The world swam back into view. He saw the brown face of Milo Vasquez close to his own. The coffee-colored eyes were filled with concern.

“Hey, you all right, man?”

‘I’m all right,” Alan said. “Nice shot.”

He trotted back to his position at the baseline. He did not look up to the place in the stands where Hazel sat. There was only a faint ache now where the pain had been. A warning. The awful picture of a ruptured artery spilling blood pushed into his mind. He began to play too carefully, and he lost the set. The match was tied at two-all.

During the short break before the final set, Alan’s eyes were drawn up into the stands. To his surprise, Hazel smiled at him brightly and gave him the familiar thumbs-up. Was it possible she hadn’t seen what happened? No, she would not have missed his faltering step, the flash of pain that must have shown on his face. Yet she made herself smile to show she was with him. Alan saluted his wife and returned to the court.

When the fifth set began the fear left him, and Alan played his own game again. He hit out freely and ran for difficult gets without hesitation. He took charge early and won it 6–2.

When the players met at the net Milo shook Alan’s hand and startled the spectators when he actually smiled.

“Nice going, man,” said the Mexican. “It was a good win. You had me worried for a minute. I thought you were hurt.”

“Thanks,” Alan said. “I was lucky to beat you. And, Milo, it’s good to have you back.”

For a moment Milo gripped Alan’s hand just a little harder. He said, “It’s good to be back.” Then he headed for the dressing room to let the winner take his bows.

• • •

Tim Barrett took the court right on schedule for his semi-final match with Yuri Zenger. Zenger was nowhere to be seen. One of the Aussies came out to help Tim warm up. The crowd, aware of the ten-minute forfeit rule, grew restless.

Vic Goukas beckoned Tim over to the sidelines. “Don’t let Zenger get to you,” he said. “This is just one of his tricks—not showing up until the last minute.”

“He won’t get to me,” Tim said.

“Good. Listen, everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Sure, Vic. Didn’t you notice I was home early last night? I got nine hours sleep and ate a good breakfast Believe me, I’m ready to play.”

The aging coach stared up into the stands where Christy Noone’s seat was empty again. When she didn’t show up Tuesday Tim’s game fell apart and he almost got beat. Today the boy hardly seemed to notice. He must have done some growing up in the last couple of days.

Two minutes before the match would have been forfeited, Yuri Zenger strutted onto Centre Court. When the crowd muttered its disapproval he spread his arms and gave a mock bow. He started for the net with an exaggerated attitude of apology, but found Tim standing at the baseline with his back turned. That was Yuri’s first hint that this time the young American might not be so easy to psyche out.

The Hungarian wasted no time going into his act. As Tim prepared to serve he would cough, shuffle his feet, bat invisible gnats from the air, or suddenly notice an untied shoelace. On his own serve he would bounce the ball ten, fifteen, twenty times while Tim waited in the knees-bent ready position. He argued on line calls, shouted at ball boys, glowered at the crowd, complained about the cameras.

None of it did him any good. Unlike Jean-Pierre Leduc, Tim had seen it all before. When Yuri went into a routine, Tim merely turned his back and waited him out. He never made the mistake of getting into a clowning contest with the master clown. By the time Yuri recognized that he could not rattle Tim, it was too late for him to get his own game together. Tim beat him decisively in four sets.

As the crowd applauded Tim’s victory, hardly anyone noticed that Yuri stalked off the court without waiting for the traditional handshake. Tim only shrugged and continued to the sidelines where Vic Goukas waited, his battered face split in a grin.

“Nice going,” said the coach. “You played like a champion today.”

“Thanks, Vic. Where’s my father?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t come down yet.”

Tim looked to his parents’ box and saw Jack Barrett still sitting there, making no move to come to courtside as he usually did to share in his son’s victory. He smiled at Tim and gave him a brief hands-clasped signal of the winner. Tim grinned back at his father, then turned away to talk to the reporters.

The defeat was a bitter one for Yuri Zenger. It was the first time he had lost to Tim Barrett. Always before Tim had succumbed to Yuri’s psychological ploys. This time nothing worked. Coming on the heels of Yuri’s fiasco with Geneva Sundstrum, the loss was particularly galling.

Yuri showered quickly and hurried out to where Mrs. Keith’s limousine would be waiting for him. To make matters worse, the car was not there. He vowed that the woman would pay for this slight. He would make her pay for a lot of things.

Angrily, he summoned a taxi and seethed inwardly all during the ride to Mrs. Keith’s house in Belgravia. As he started up the walk toward the front door, the butler stepped out to meet him.

“Tell Mrs. Keith I want to see her right now,” Yuri said.

The butler stood in his path. “Mrs. Keith has left the city,” he said.

“Left the city? That’s not possible. She didn’t say anything to me.”

“She instructed me to pack your effects, as you will be wanting to make other arrangements for the balance of your stay in London.”

The butler moved aside then, and in the entrance hall, ready to go, Yuri saw the matched set of calfskin luggage Mrs. Keith had given him when he first moved in.

“Shall I call a cab for you, sir, or will there be friends picking you up?”

Yuri stared at the suitcases, then at the impassive face of the butler.

“No,” he said slowly. “There will be no friends.”