The Players (4 page)

It took Mike Wilder five full seconds to recover part of his composure while the smiling blonde girl stood in the doorway and let her eyes dance over his towel-wrapped body. When he finally found his voice it came out embarrassingly hoarse.

“Come in. I, uh, just took a shower.”

“So I see.” The girl’s bright smile conceded him nothing. She walked past him into the room, her eyes mischievously flicking between his face and the towel around his middle.

“Have a seat somewhere,” Mike said. “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

Christy Noone dropped onto the settee and stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. She clasped her hands behind her head, pulling the blouse taut across the small, uptilted breasts. “I do hope you’re going to let me watch,” she said.

“Watch?”

“Watch you dress. A man reveals a lot about himself by the way he puts on his clothes. For instance, which part of your body do you cover up first? Four men out of five simply don’t feel easy until they get something on over the family jewels. The old fig leaf complex, I call it. There are exceptions, though, men who are so proud of the old pump handle that they hate to put it out of sight for even a short time. One man I knew liked to walk about in his shoes, socks, shirt, tie and bare ass. One time he forgot himself and walked me out to the street in front of his house to hail a cab dressed like that. Luckily it was quite late and there were not many people on the street. One passing lorry driver saw him, though, and bloody near ran through a shop window on the other side before he got himself righted.”

Halfway through Christy’s monologue Mike relaxed. Then he began to laugh. When she came to the end of the story he threw back his head and roared, almost dislodging the towel.

When he recovered the power of speech he said, “I’m afraid I am going to be a disappointment to you. I plan to take my clothes into the bathroom, close the door, and dress myself in privacy.”

“I was afraid you might,” Christy said, not at all abashed. “So many of you Americans have this thing about modesty. It has to do with your Puritan ancestry, I dare say. I’m certainly glad we got them out of England.”

“It happens that my personal ancestors were potato eaters from Kilkenny, but I still like to put on my pants in private. How about a drink while you’re waiting?”

“I’d love one. Have you got any gin?”

“Sorry, whisky only.”

“Lovely.”

Mike poured a generous shot into a glass. “There’s no soda or anything to mix with it, except water.”

“Why on earth should I want to mix it with anything?” Christy asked seriously.

“Darned if I know,” Mike said, grinning. He handed the glass of straight Scotch to Christy and poured a second for himself, which he carried with his clothes into the bathroom.

He dropped the towel and pulled on his shorts, chuckling as he realized he had just put himself in Christy’s four-out-of-five majority that covers up the lower half first. He wondered how she had arrived at her statistics.

“Have you known Paula long?” he called out to her.

“I simply cannot carry on a conversation through a closed door,” came her petulant answer.

“Oh, what the hell,” Mike muttered, and pushed the door open. The girl, still smiling with mischief, moved across the room to a chair where she could see into the bathroom better.

“I see you have the jewels tucked out of sight already,” she said.

“You’re damn right. I don’t want any trucks going through shop windows because of me.”

Christy laughed, a tinkling arpeggio. “I think I like you. About a year.”

“About a year what?”

“That’s how long I’ve known Paula. That was the question, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten.”

“How long have
you
known her?”

“Also about a year, but we were only together two days and I haven’t seen her since.”

“From the way she talks I thought she knew you quite well.”

“We wrote some letters.”

“Are you in love with Paula?”

“How could I be? I told you we were only together two days.”

“Did you have sex?”

“God, you’re inquisitive.”

“How is one to learn things if one doesn’t ask questions?”

“Doesn’t one ever think that maybe it’s none of one’s business?”

“Nonsense, of course it’s my business. If you and I go to bed together I’ll want to know if I should explain anything to Paula.”

“What put that into your head?”

“You mean explaining to Paula?”

“No, I mean about you and I going to bed together.”

“I always wonder about that when I meet an attractive man. Doesn’t every woman?”

“I don’t know, maybe they do,” Mike admitted. “But wondering about it and saying it aloud are two different things.”

“I don’t see why. It’s really quite a natural reaction. I mean as long as both parties are capable physically and psychologically. You are capable, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not one of those—”

“No, I’m not one of those,” Mike said quickly.

“That’s good news, anyway. These days you can never be sure. If you’re capable, then what’s the problem?”

“I’m inhibited.”

“Oh, well then. That can be overcome.”

“That’s a relief,” Mike said drily. He walked over to the suitcase lying open on the wooden rack and selected a necktie. He stood before the dresser mirror and worked the tie under the collar of his pale blue shirt.

“Are you married?” Christy asked.

“No. Well, almost no. My divorce will be final in a couple of weeks.”

“What went wrong? With your marriage, I mean.”

“We just got to the point where we didn’t like each other very much, and I’m damned if I know why I’m answering your impertinent questions.”

“Do you want me to shut up?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I’m kind of enjoying your impertinence.”

“See, you’ve lost some of your inhibitions already.”

Mike laughed and shrugged into his jacket. “We’d better get out of here before I lose the rest of them and attack you, ignoring your pleas for mercy.”

“Who’s pleading?”

“Have you no shame, young woman?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Tell me about this place we’re going, this Caesar’s.”

“Paula chose it mostly because it’s so handy, just a few blocks from here, actually. They always get a lot of sporting types in there. Tonight it should be full of tennis players here for Wimbledon.”

“It’s a discotheque sort of thing, I understand.”

“Sort of. Part of it’s for dancing, but there’s a second bar that’s quieter if you’d rather talk than dance.”

“Swinging London, eh?”

“What’s left of it. A few years ago it was really exciting, but it’s tamed down a lot.”

“Nostalgia time,” Mike said. “How old are you, Christy?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Uh-huh. And already your best years are behind you.”

“If you talk mean to me you may never get me into bed.”

“Come on,” he growled, holding the door open for her. “Let’s go.”

Christy walked past him into the hall, letting one of her round little hips brush against the front of his pants. Just in case he had missed it, she turned around and giggled.

Mike couldn’t hold the stern expression any longer. He shook his head, grinning, and steered the girl toward the elevator.

• • •

The man with the knife made little circles on the bar with the wet bottom of his glass. The others in the pub, working men mostly, took no notice of him. The man’s mind seethed with fragmented pictures of Mike Wilder doing ugly, obscene things to a woman who did not belong to him. The man pushed the damp yellow hair off his forehead and tried to cleanse his mind of the foul images, but he could not do it. Somewhere right this minute the American might be putting his hands on the woman, reaching up under her skirt, fingering her up there
.

He shuddered, and a strangled sound escaped his lips. The other men standing at the bar looked at him curiously. He stared down into his glass
.

It was a mistake to have left the hotel, he could see that now. The boy had seen him in the hallway, but he could still have waited down in the lobby until Wilder went out, and then followed him. Perhaps it still was not too late
.

He spun away from the bar and ran out the door, leaving his glass still half full of dark beer. Down Bedford Street he ran—one block, two—heedless of the startled looks from passersby. Turn the corner onto the Strand now. God, what luck, there was Wilder just coming out of the hotel. A woman was with him. Was it …? Damn, too far away to tell. The couple got into a taxi and drove off in the other direction. The man stepped from the shadows and ran out into the street to flag down a cab of his own. He told his driver to follow the other one, and leaned forward to watch the amber taillights ahead of them. Inside the camel’s hair jacket his hand stroked the hilt of the hunting knife
.

The Australian players moved around so much, leaving the group and coming back, spreading out and reforming, all the time laughing and capering like school children, that it was difficult to tell just how many of them there were. Actually, there were only three of them in the group Tim Barrett had joined, but they seemed twice that number. It was the first time Tim had come along on one of their fabled nights on the town, and the Aussies were making much of the occasion.

“Tim, my lad, I can’t tell you how relieved you’ve made us all by coming out tonight,” said dapper Neal Farady. “There has been talk going round that you were not a real person at all. The opinion was that your coach, Vic Goukas, winds you up with a key in the morning and sets you out on the tennis court. Then at night he puts you away in a box lined with cotton wool.”

Tim laughed. “Maybe that idea isn’t so far wrong.”

Denny Urso clamped a huge paw on Tim’s shoulder. “Once you’ve poured a pint or two of the best down your throat, my lad, you’ll be surprised at how human you become.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Tim said, still laughing. “I’ll have enough to answer to Vic for without coming in with beer on my breath. I know you boys can handle the stuff, but just the thought of it gives me the staggers.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” moaned little Fred Olney in mock distress. “What a dreadful curse for a man to carry through life—being unable to drink beer.”

“I’ll have to take it up some day,” Tim said, “but I guarantee it won’t be during Wimbledon.”

The players swung up to the front of Caesar’s, where an attempt had been made at Romanizing the entrance with columns of painted plaster and notices in Latin lettering. Tim felt warm and alive in the company of the Aussies, a feeling that was only slightly chilled by the thought that he was breaking one of Vic’s long-standing rules.

Once inside Caesar’s, even the minimal Roman decor was abandoned. The lighting and decorations were strictly psychedelic mod, dating back no further than the 1960s. Just past the entrance was a deep room with a bar running along one wall. Tables no larger than dinner plates covered most of the floor space. Beyond this room was an archway through which could be heard the painfully amplified twang and buzz of electric guitars. Strobe lights in the far room froze the dancers into jerky pantomime. Bodies were everywhere—jammed buttock to buttock at the tables and seemingly molded into a solid mass on the dance floor.

Tim stopped for a moment to recover from the assault on his senses. The Aussies barreled on between tables, heading for the bar. They called out and waved to girls as they passed, blowing kisses and reaching out to pat a bottom here or squeeze a breast there. Tim grinned, envying the assurance with which they moved through the crowd. Although he managed to hide it under the mask of fierce competitor, Tim Barrett the golden boy from California was painfully shy everywhere but on a tennis court. He hurried on after the Australians.

Neal and Denny were already surrounded by a cluster of girls who were not quite sure who these rowdy chaps were, but just knew they had to be
somebody
. In recent years the international tennis stars had attracted their own following of eager young girls. Unlike the groupies who attached themselves to rock musicians, the tennis dolls did not follow their heroes from city to city, but there was always a fresh supply at the next stop on the tour.

Fred Olney beckoned Tim to a narrow standing space at the bar. The smallest player on the tour, Fred seldom lasted beyond the early rounds in singles, but in the men’s doubles he teamed with Denny Urso to form a duo that was well nigh unbeatable. The Bear and the Flea, as they were called, complemented each other’s skills and made up for each other’s flaws exactly as a good doubles team is supposed to.

When Tim reached his side, the small Australian already had a glass of dark beer in his hand. He said, “How do you like it so far, Tim? What’ll you have to drink?”

“It’s a little ovemhelming,” Tim said. “I’ll have a Coke, I guess. I recognize a lot of the players here; does this go on for the whole two weeks?”

“No, this is the last big bash before play starts. Tomorrow everybody goes to Hurlingham, you know, the Sunday afternoon tradition. Then after there’s the dinner party at the Savoy. Not much chance to have fun at either place. A few of the lads go on partying right through the tournament, but most play it pretty straight, at least until they’re knocked out of a chance at the prize money.”

“What about Ron Hopper, does he ever come out with your gang?”

Fred’s manner changed subtly, and his voice took on a tone of respect when he spoke of the defending Wimbledon champion. “No, Ron doesn’t go in much for hell raising. He’s always been something of a loner. A good bloke, mind you, but a family man, after all, with a wife and kid to think about.”

“I hear he’s got a bad leg,” Tim said. “Is there anything to it?”

The little Aussie’s gaze shifted away, and he seemed to withdraw slightly within himself. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said.

Tim understood at once that he had overstepped the bounds. It was one thing for the Australians to take a Yank along with them for a night on the town, but quite another to pass along information that might be used against a countryman. While Tim was embarrassed at having asked the question, he mentally filed away for future reference the knowledge that Ron Hopper very likely
was
hurting. Fred Olney’s very evasiveness had confirmed it.

“Look over there,” said Fred, suddenly friendly again. “There’s the madman.”

Tim followed the other’s eyes and saw the Hungarian Yuri Zenger seated at a table sipping some foamy concoction from a tall glass. Zenger, with his wiry tangle of black hair and thick, downcurving moustache, was a caricaturist’s dream. His eyes peered out like tiny glowing coals from beneath overhanging brows. Zenger was talking, as usual, gesturing expansively with the hand that was not holding the glass. A well-dressed woman in her late forties sat opposite him, hanging on his every word.

“Who’s that Yuri’s with?” Tim asked.

“Blamed if I know, but you can bet it’s not his mum. You can also bet Yuri’s not paying for the drinks, if you know what I mean.”

“No kidding.”

Tim watched as the volatile Hungarian reached out and seized the arm of a passing waitress. He held up his empty glass and jiggled it, talking rapidly and angrily. The waitress took the glass and hurried away.

It was ironic, Tim thought, how little he really knew about these men with whom he spent so many hours. He knew them only as opponents. Until recently he hardly thought of them as real flesh-and-blood people. He was familiar with their every move and mood when he stood across the net from one of them, but until tonight those others had no existence for Tim outside the tennis court or locker room.

A feminine squeal close behind him spun Tim around in alarm.

A fat girl with a bad complexion was staring at him as though he had just appeared in a puff of smoke. “You’re Tim Barrett!” she exclaimed.

“That’s right,” he said, smiling uncertainly.

Several other girls standing nearby had turned to find the cause of the fat girl’s outburst. When they heard Tim’s name they crowded in close around him.

“Ooh, Timmy, just let me touch you.”

“Isn’t he the cutest thing? I told you he was cute.”

“Are you going to win at Wimbledon, Timmy? I just know you are.”

“Sign your name for me, Timmy. Put it right here on my bra.”

“I’ve got to dance with him. If he dances with me I just know I’ll die!”

“Look at the muscles in this beautiful arm!”

“Feel his skin, it’s just like a baby’s.”

Finding himself closed into a pocket by teenage girls who poked at him and clutched his clothing, Tim began to panic. He had become accustomed to the girl autograph hunters at courtside who screeched at him and waved for his attention at the end of a match. He never minded signing autographs because not far away there was always the sanctuary of the locker room where the public could not follow. Here there was no escape in sight as the shrill little girls pressed suffocatingly close.

“Here now, here now, what’s all this?” boomed Denny Urso, shouldering his way through the giggling girls. “Out of the goodness of our hearts we bring the Yank along one night to show him a few of the sights, and the first thing you know he’s hogging all the girlies for himself. This simply won’t do. This won’t do at all.” He looped one hairy arm around the waist of a bosomy young redhead. “Come along, sweet thing, you’re about to be taught the Australian boogaloo.”

Denny led the redhead toward the dance floor, and Neal Farady grabbed another girl and followed. The shrieking group that had surrounded Tim dissolved.

Fred Olney moved up beside him. “You’ll get used to them,” he said. “The thing is to not let them overpower you. If you let them they’ll nibble you down to a skeleton like a pack of bloody piranhas.”

“They were a little scary,” Tim admitted.

“They mean no harm. You’ve just got to kid ’em along, treat ’em like puppy dogs. Spank them when they get out of line. Every now and then you pick out one who strikes your fancy and take her to your room for a bit of slap and tickle. It’s the thrill of a young life for the girl, it eases the tournament tension for you, and nobody’s committed to anything.”

“It sounds too easy.”

“It is easy, but don’t let them fool you. Don’t start believing you’re the big beautiful star they’ll say you are. Today they’ll roll onto their backs for you in a minute, but lose out in the early rounds of a few tournaments and they won’t know you from a ball boy.”

“You seem to know all about it, Fred,” Tim said, smiling at the little Aussie.

Fred Olney grinned back. “I may not be the star of the tour, but I get my share.”

Denny Urso came lumbering over to join them, waving to the bartender as he approached. “I must have lost five pounds out on that dance floor,” he said.

“Where’s your girl?” Tim asked.

“Red? She’s still out there, as far as I know, dancing solo. I doubt she’ll notice I’m gone for another two or three numbers. If ever.” Denny’s beer arrived, and he took a long, grateful drink, wiping the foam from his upper lip with the back of a hand. “Say, did either of you notice the bloke who walked in a bit ago?”

“Who do you mean?” asked Fred.

“The big one sitting over there now with the little blonde bird.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Know who he is?”

“There is something familiar about him,” said Fred. “I must have seen his picture somewhere.”

“He’s Mike Wilder, the American sportswriter.”

“You don’t say. The one who’s always bitching and complaining in his column about one thing or another?”

“That’s the one. I read in the London papers that he was coming over to cover Wimbledon. What do you say we go have some fun with him?”

“Right you are. Come along, Tim.”

“You guys go ahead,” Tim said. “I’m not very good at that sort of thing.”

“Not to worry,” Fred told him, “all you have to do is watch Denny and me.”

Tim started to decline again when he caught himself looking directly into the intense blue eyes of the girl at the table with Wilder. She smiled, and the sheer female force of her seemed to reach across the room and seize him by the throat.

“All right,” he told the Aussies, but with his eyes still on the girl, “let’s go.”