The Switch

by Elmore Leonard

  Louis said, “You ever shoot anybody?”

  Richard looked at him and seemed to think about it before saying, “Not yet.”

  “Over here,” Ordell said. “What’s it called, Richard?”

  “That’s your Valtox drug-screening kit,” Richard said. “Runs you fifty-nine ninety-five.” He walked over to the open vinyl case, sitting on a wall shelf, that contained small bottles with eye-dropper tops and what looked like test tubes. “You can test over twenty-five different drugs. Marijuana, hashish, your amphetamines and opium alkaloids, also your LSD, STP and so on.” Richard picked up one of the bottles. “This here is your new cocaine odor test. Put a drop on the material and if it’s cocaine you get a smell like, it’s like a wintergreen mint.”

  “Brush your teeth with it and get high,” Ordell said. “What else you got?”

  Richard’s thick body revolved slowly as he looked around, raising stubby hands to rest on his hips. Like a guard in a concentration camp, Louis thought. Jesus.

  Richard said, “Well—”

  “You notice in the drive?” Ordell said to Louis. “He’s got an AMC Hornet, man, pure black, no shit on the outside at all, your plain unmarked car. But inside—tell him, Richard.”

  Richard said, “Well, I got a rollbar. I got heavy-duty Gabriel Striders. I got a shotgun mount in front.”

  “He’s got one of those flashers,” Ordell said, “Kojak reaches out, puts up on his roof?”

  “Super Fireball with a magnetic bottom. Let’s see,” Richard said, “I got a Federal PA one-seventy electronic siren, you can work it wail, yelp or hi-lo. Well, in the trunk I keep a Schermuly gas grenade gun, some other equipment. Night-chuk riot baton. An M-17 gas mask.” He thought a moment. “I got a Legster leg holster. You ever see one?”

  “He’s gonna see everything,” Ordell said. He took Louis into the hall, squeezing past Richard. He showed Louis the bathroom and opened the door to a small bedroom. “Big enough, huh?” Louis looked in. He saw a vanity made of blond wood and a single bed covered with a decorative chenille spread.

  Downstairs, Ordell said, “Don’t Richard keep a nice house?” He made a sweeping motion with his hand, presenting the lace curtains and furniture to Louis, the fat maroon couch and easychairs with crocheted antimacassars on the arms and headrests. “He’s a good cook, too,” Ordell said. “Fixes noodles with about anything you can name. Don’t you, Richard?”

  “I like noodles,” Richard said.

  Ordell was picking up the Sunday Free Press from the coffee table, looking for a section. He said, “I’m gonna take a piece of this, Richard. Okay?”

  No, Richard was shaking his head. “I haven’t read it yet.”

  “I’ll leave the funnies, man. I just want this part here.”

  Outside, getting into the van, Louis said, “Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it.”

  “I told you he’s beautiful,” Ordell said. “I love Richard. Make a wonderful screw at some maximum security joint.” He dropped the section of newspaper on Louis’ lap and started the engine. “See, what he does, Richard trips on that Nazi shit; makes him feel big. What I like about him, in his mind there ain’t any bullshit. I mean everything’s in order.”

  “His mind,” Louis said. “That guy’s got fucking cement for brains.”

  Ordell glanced at the rear-view mirror pulling away from the house. “Sure he does, but that’s the beauty. I tell him the man’s a big rich Jew, that’s all Richard has to hear. See, it’s for the cause then. It’s like you wind him up—he’d do it even if he didn’t need the money so bad.”

  “What’s he need money for, buy some more guns?” Louis glanced at the newspaper that said, across the top, FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN, and caught the word tennis below it.

  “No, he needs to find his old lady. She ran out on him.”

  “Jesus, I don’t blame her.”

  “Yeah,” Ordell said, “first time in years his old lady is probably happy. Don’t have to get up and salute the swastika.”

  Louis was holding the newspaper open now, looking at the full page of photographs of tennis moms and their kids.

  “Which one is she?”

  Ordell reached over and pointed to one of the pictures. “That one. See over near the end it’s got something about, this man saying how much it cost him for his kid to play?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s the man. Spend six, seven grand a year on tennis balls.”

  Louis was still looking at the picture of Mickey Dawson.

  “I was expecting her to be older,” he said. “An older woman. You know, she’s not bad looking in the picture.”

  “You’re gonna see her for real,” Ordell said, “if we can work it, get up close to the place.”

  “It says her name’s Mickey.”

  “You hear what I said?”

  “What place? This is some tour, you know it?”

  “Out where the rich folks live,” Ordell said. “Call the Deep Run Country Club.”

  “I been there,” Louis said. “I played golf there once.”

  6

  * * *

  LOUIS HAD BEEN HERE ABOUT THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, right after he got out of the Navy and was going to Wayne and the guy in his Introduction to Psychology class asked him if he ever played golf. He’d forgotten the guy’s name—a first name that was like a last name, Stewart—that was it.

  The place looked different now. The fairways on the right, driving in the winding road through the trees, that was the same; but he didn’t remember all the tennis courts on the other side—about eight or ten of them, over there behind a wall of bright green windscreens. There seemed to be a lot of people over there. They heard a quick cheer and some clapping, not very loud.

  Louis remembered he had shot about 120 and lost 13 of Stewart’s golf balls, some he couldn’t even find on the fairway. Stewart never invited him back. The prick. No, Stewart was all right. He wondered if he’d recognize Stewart if he saw him.

  The clubhouse looked different too. Louis remembered a big white frame colonial looking building. He didn’t remember the pillars by the entrance or the ivy growing all over the sides. Ordell made a circle around the entrance, past the young guys who parked cars—the young guys giving the van a look—and drove into the parking area along the side of the clubhouse away from the tennis courts. They could hear kids yelling, sounding as though they were playing in a swimming pool. Louis didn’t remember a pool.

  “How do you know?” Louis said.

  “It was in the paper,” Ordell said.

  “I didn’t see anything about it.” Louis held up the women’s section.

  “Saturday paper. Tell about the different tournaments and the kid’s name was in it.” Ordell crept the van, looking for a parking place. “Everybody out at the club,” he said. “Nice sunny day.” He came to a stop at the end of the aisle, giving up. Louis looked at him.

  “You can’t park here.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.”

  They looked out past a chain-link fence at sailboats on the lake. There was the sound of an outboard, off somewhere. A Cadillac crept up behind them, then swung over to the next aisle.

  Louis said, “You don’t want to walk around over there, huh. People think you’re the shoeshine boy come out for some air.”

  “I don’t need to go,” Ordell said, “I’ve seen her.”

  “Yeah,” Louis said. “Let me borrow your sunglasses.” He got out and walked through the lot and past the clubhouse toward the tennis courts.

  The big fifteen-year-old kid had won the first set 7­5 and was on top of Bo Dawson 4­1 in the second, standing back and returning everything Bo hit at him, making Bo play the big kid’s slow, steady game. Bo would run out of patience and jump on a shot to put it away and that’s why he was losing.

  That’s what the people in the stands said who were watching the match in their tennis and golf outfits. They said somebody should talk to Bo, slow him down before he blew the match. Bo was
n’t playing his usual game; he was off stride. Someone said Mickey was probably dying. Looks would pass between the people in the stands, eyes raised, a slow head-shake. Comments were made quietly because Bo’s mother was sitting on the bottom row of the stands that were built along one side of the court. On the other side, beyond a second court, another crowd watched from a line of umbrella tables.

  Someone said Bo wasn’t stroking; he was too anxious and his timing was off.

  Louis wanted to say the kid was concentrating on his acting instead of the match, going through a lot of tragic motions. He’d blow a shot and then strike a dramatic pose: look up at the sun—Why me, Lord?—or closely study the strings of his racket. A couple of times, when people were moving in and out of the stands, Bo looked over and glared and waited until the people were seated.

  Something he learned watching TV, Louis thought. Louis couldn’t understand why tennis spectators were so polite. Why there had to be silence during a match. He’d think of a major league ballplayer in a tough situation: a batter with a three-two count waiting for the ball to come in at him ninety-five-miles-an-hour, and the fans screaming and banging seats. Louis wondered if he’d have to sit here the rest of the match. He didn’t see how he’d get down without disturbing people.

  He had a pretty good view of Mrs. Dawson, on an angle looking down, and could see her face when she turned to look at the right-hand court. When her son was over there she faced that way most of the time. She looked even younger than in the picture, not more than in her late twenties; but she had to be older to have a son Bo’s age. She didn’t look like a girl who got knocked up in second-year high and had to get married. She looked like a girl, a woman, who had money. What was it about a woman like that? Her hair maybe. It wasn’t overdone in some bullshit hairdo like you saw on waitresses. Or the way she sat. She seemed at ease; though Louis could tell she was strung-out inside, nibbling there on her lower lip and smoking one cigarette after another.

  Bo blew another one, an easy putaway. He tried to kill it. The ball cracked hard against the tape along the top edge of the net and dropped back into Bo’s court. People in the stands said, “Awwww,” and made sympathetic sounds as Bo let his racket fall and stood looking at the net with his hands on his hips.

  Right, Louis thought, blame the fucking net. He noticed Bo’s mother wasn’t watching the act; she was lighting another cigarette. People were saying it was a tough break and, awwww, that was too bad, wasn’t it? Louis liked the tall kid on the other side. The kid looked awkward, but he stood very calmly watching Bo. The kid was cool; he was content to let Bo beat himself.

  Match point: Bo slammed one that sailed over the tall kid’s head. The tall kid approached the net with a big grin, wiping his hand on his shirt, getting ready to offer it. Bo turned around and threw his racket at the fence. He stood with his hands on his hips for awhile, people moving around now, crossing the court. Louis watched him. Finally Bo walked up to the net and gave the tall kid a brief handshake, not giving it much or saying anything. Bo’s mother reached him as he was walking away, toward the umbrella tables, and put her hand on his shoulder and said something, no doubt sympathizing.

  Why did everybody sympathize with him? Louis wondered. Why didn’t somebody kick his ass?

  Louis stood up in the stands, looking around. He noticed Bo’s tennis racket still lying a few feet from the windscreen-covered fence, where it had bounced off. People walked past the racket going over to the umbrella tables and the other courts beyond, but nobody seemed to notice the racket lying there. Two couples walked out on the court, one of the men opening a can of balls. Louis stepped down the boards of the stands, walked over to the fence and picked up the racket. It was a Wilson Jack Kramer. He had picked up a Wilson at Palmer Park—it must have been twenty years ago—tried playing tennis, found out it was about a hundred times harder than it looked, and sold the racket to a kid for five bucks. This one was probably a much better racket. The strings were so tight he couldn’t move them at all.

  He’d say to Ordell, “Tennis anyone?” No, he wouldn’t, he’d think of something else or let Ordell say something first. But Ordell would know he had a line ready and wouldn’t ask him where he got it. So he’d throw the racket in the van and not say anything. The racket would stay there, in back by the rear speakers and the ice chest, on the red carpeting. Neither of them would say anything about it, though one or the other would pick it up from time to time and fool with it. See how long they could go, neither of them mentioning it. He liked to do things like that with Ordell.

  Right now he’d like to find a men’s room. He should’ve gone at Richard’s house. Jesus, Richard was a spooky guy. Or wait till they went someplace to eat. Grass always made him hungry, the same as when he drank beer he was taking a leak every fifteen minutes after about the fourth one. He’d tell Ordell he had to go bad and Ordell would say, “What’s the matter, you nervous?”

  That’s why Louis went into the clubhouse—to find a men’s room—in the main entrance past the big colonial pillars. The time before, thirteen years ago, they had gone in a door that led directly to the men’s locker room.

  He hadn’t been in the lobby before. He wondered if he’d see Stewart or recognize him if he did. There was a wide carpeted hallway. He saw people eating in a dining room with the sun on the window. He could hear voices, people laughing. People passed him in the hallway. He felt them looking at him and at the tennis racket, knowing he wasn’t a member. All right, he was a guest. And the tennis racket was like any other Wilson Jack Kramer. He looked fine. No flashy print or colors, but the cap and sunglasses, nice light-blue sportshirt and tan flares were all right. He had almost put on jeans this morning at Ordell’s apartment, but didn’t because it was Sunday.

  That was strange. Something left over. What was the difference, Sunday or any other day? Like Sunday was still the day of rest: get dressed and go to mass, have the big pork roast dinner at noon. That was a long time ago. Louis found a men’s room in the hallway. He came out, recrossed the lobby to the main entrance, opened the door and stepped back as Mrs. Dawson was right in front of him, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry,” hesitating. Louis moved aside, holding the door open with the tennis racket hand. She was really nice looking, right there close, moving past him.

  Louis said, “Mrs. Dawson?” And watched her expression as she turned to look at him, expectant, a little surprised. Dark brown eyes.

  “I think this is your son’s racket. I found it out there, I was gonna hand it in at the desk.”

  It seemed to make sense, but he wasn’t sure. She didn’t question him. She took the racket, looking at it, and said, “Yes, it is. Thank you very much,” still a little surprised. Her eyes raised with a very calm, pleasant look.

  Louis wanted to say something else, hear her voice again, but he couldn’t think of anything. He said, “That’s okay,” pushed through the door and got out of there.

  In the van, sitting in his captain’s chair, Ordell was sipping a can of beer, looking out at the sailboats. He swiveled around as Louis climbed in.

  “You see her?”

  “We had a nice chat,” Louis said. “She said yeah, she’d love to spend some time with us.”

  7

  * * *

  BO’S EXPLANATION FOR LOSING: “That kid, all he did, he kept standing back at the baseline. What was I supposed to do, keep lobbing with him? It’d be like a couple of girls playing.”

  Mickey’s explanation of why Frank was still at the club, drinking at several tables pushed together on the screened porch: “He has customers. He can’t just rush off and leave them.”

  Bo said, “Well, isn’t dad going? I thought he was so anxious.”

  “He said he’d call and get you, both of you, on a later flight.”

  Bo said he didn’t want to take a later flight, get there in the middle of the night. He didn’t even want to go. Why did he have to?

  She wanted to say, “To learn how to play tennis. To learn how to l
ose without making excuses.” She didn’t though.

  Bo said the whole thing, the tennis camp, was dad’s idea. If he thought it was such a red hot idea why didn’t he go to the camp? God, he could use it. Bo said he’d like to meet the kid again when the kid learned some tennis and knew how to play instead of dinking around.

  They got home from the club at 5:15. Frank drove in at a quarter of eight, mad.

  “All I said was”—very patiently, standing at her dresser, holding onto the edge with her elbow as she watched Frank pack—“at a quarter to five I said—”

  “You said in front of everybody you were leaving.”

  “All I said was, I’m taking Bo home. The flight’s at 6:30, you haven’t packed and it takes an hour to get to the airport.”

  “Forty minutes.”

  He was packing now, moving between his dresser and the Gucci-striped suitcase open on the bed. She watched him drop in at least a half dozen dress shirts.

  “All I said was—” He mimicked her, overdoing it. “I have to get Bo home and fix his dinner and clean the house and make some cookies—”

  “I didn’t say anything like that.”

  “Your tone, it’s the same thing,” Frank said. “Goody goody. Oh, isn’t everything nice.” He continued packing, laying resort clothes in the bag now, enough for at least two weeks.

  Maybe she did use it a lot. All I said was—Mickey could hear the words. And maybe it was self-serving, playing nice, a cover-up for what she felt. But what was wrong with keeping the peace? Why antagonize people? Except she did antagonize Frank, without trying too hard.

  Okay, start over and get the tone right. She knew her thinking was fairly straight. It was just that she backed off whenever the chance came to express how she really felt, not wanting to offend. Or, wanting everybody to like her. But why couldn’t she talk to her own husband?

  Keep it harmless. “What time’s the flight, eleven?”

  “Eleven oh five.”