Betty-Jo was stupefied. The line judge was Dungie. The gods, instead of turning Richard into a dung beetle, had turned him into a line judge, with Mercury at the controls. How can this be? she asked herself. Then she remembered that Richard spent his summers playing tennis at his father's club in Queens. She walked over to Dungie and glowered at him.
"You're overdue for a visit to your optician," she said.
A smirk crossed Dungie's ugly face. "The ball's out, and your cat's dead," he said. "Things just ain't goin' your way, Stud Plaything."
What a way to start the match. She tried to forget about Richard, but found that she couldn't. She lost the first game, and the Dung Beetle remained on his line, a harbinger of doom in the guise of a line judge.
-66-
FELICITY READY
A Blow for the Cause
Felicity Ready was a Libra, one of the two signs of the Zodiac that Venus ruled. That was no coincidence. Perhaps it was also no coincidence that, on the day Betty-Jo was to play Anna Maria, the moon was in the eighth house—the death house.
It was overcast, and seasonally cool at Flushing Meadow. Felicity arrived there an hour before the Chance/Maria, round of sixteen, match was to begin. She easily exchanged her two tickets for a second row seat. A front row seat was what she wanted, but a front row seat could not be had at a price she could afford.
Felicity was dressed in a line judge's stylish orange, navy-blue and white FILA tennis shirt, and beige shorts. She'd purchased them at Macy's. A loose navy-blue, cotton jacket concealed her distinctive shirt, fake security badge, and her Walther PPK, which was held in place in the pocket of her shorts by a lightweight, black, Widow 2 holster. Her arm would hide the slight bulge that her gun made—when her jacket was removed—until the time came to use it.
Almost immediately, Felicity discovered a glitch in her plan. Her seat was in the second spectator's row, but she had failed to notice that, in the Stadium Court, an entire row of seating, along the sidelines, was reserved for the press and photographers. Felicity experienced a moment of panic, and a temporary loss of nerve, when she noticed her error. But upon reflection and closer examination, she realized that the problem posed by the press row was manageable. It did, however, decrease her chances for success. It would take her longer than anticipated to move from her seat to the court. A more serious consideration was, that if someone noticed her, they might wonder why an official was stepping over the press box instead of entering the court via one of the entrances.
The obvious time for Felicity's attack was during the break between sets, or after the match, when the players were seated, but that was when security around the players was tightest. Felicity believed that her best opportunity to dispatch Betty-Jo, would come before Betty-Jo served, from the side of the court closest to her seat. That was when she would have the least distance to cover to reach Betty-Jo.
* * *
Felicity was pleased. A blow for the cause was at hand. As she watched Betty-Jo warm up, her thoughts drifted to Jason. Had her son been given the ducky she'd left for him, and did he—because of the ducky—know how much she loved him? Then her thoughts turned to her former lover: her as-good-as-dead, former lover. Before she had gone over to Drapers' to get friendly with him for the last time, she'd visited Jody Chamberlain, a friend from her Vassar days. Jody, a research technician in the toxicology unit at Manhattan General, had borrowed some sodium cyanide from the hospital to kill a rat in her ground floor apartment. Her friend's rat killing prowess had begun one Sunday afternoon when she had gone to the bathroom, and found the mother of all rats swimming in her toilet. Jody had screamed, slammed the door, and called an exterminator. The exterminator had wanted $150 to do a Pied Piper number on her rat, and Jody had been happy to pay.
The rat killer, when he'd finally arrived, had looked even less appealing than the rat."
"Sorry I'm late, lady," he'd said. "The cops pulled me over because I was DWB."
"DWB?"
"Driving while black."
The DWB exterminator had opened the bathroom door, taken one look at Jody's rat, and retreated. "Jesus lady, that's a big rat. I can't handle this. I'm the insect and small vermin guy."
"The CWB insect and small vermin person," Jody had told him.
"CWB?"
"Chicken while black."
"Whatever."
"Forget it. I'll take care of the rat myself."
"Fine by me. But lady, don't use the facilities until the rat's history. He might be a Greek rat."
"A Greek rat?"
"They attack from the back."
The next day, Jody had made her rat a tasty treat of sodium cyanide, inside a Tater Dog. Adios rat.
Felicity had known where her friend kept her rat poison, and had surreptitiously removed some—she had her own rat to exterminate.
It's a shame that cyanide is such an efficient killer, she thought. The amount of cyanide in the one vitamin C capsule she'd left with Draper was two or three times a lethal dose. Cyanide weighing no more than a postage stamp could be fatal. Within a few minutes of the poison's release, Draper Greely would die of internal asphyxiation, as the cyanide prevented oxygen from reaching his red blood cells. The bastard would die without the suffering he deserved.
* * *
In the first game of Betty-Jo's match against Anna, Betty-Jo served from the side of the court where Felicity was seated, but there was no opportunity for her to move onto the court. In the second and third games, Betty-Jo was on the far side of the net, and in the fourth game she was receiving, so the timing for an attack was difficult. But before the fifth game began, one of the spectators in the front row—four seats over from Felicity—left her seat.
As Betty-Jo prepared to serve, Felicity shifted four seats over, and stepped onto the vacated seat in front of her. Then she placed her foot on the partition, discarded her jacket, stepped across the press box, and dropped onto the court. Concealing her gun in her pocket, she strode toward Betty-Jo.
-67-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN
A Love Worth Dying For
Across the court, Brad noticed a spectator working her way down the second row of seats. It was unusual for spectators to be moving when play was about to resume, although less so at Flushing Meadow than at other tournaments. New Yorkers believed that, having paid their admission, they were entitled to come and go as they pleased. Brad was watching the spectator step over the back of a first row seat when he heard his name called, and turned around. Sandy was leaning over the railing behind him.
"Grasshopper, I must talk to you."
"Not now Sandy. After the match." He turned back as the spectator, who, having suddenly become an official, was dropping from the press box onto the court.
"Shit!" He sprang from his seat, leapt over the press-box partition, and hit the court running. He had further to go to get to Betty-Jo than the official, and the official had a head start.
Brad probably would have reacted more slowly, had he not previously considered the possibility that an assailant might be wearing a disguise, that of an official being the most obvious, but even more fortuitously, Felicity had mistimed her attack. By the time she reached the court, Betty-Jo had completed her serve, and was moving in Brad's direction.
Running desperately toward Betty-Jo, he yelled, "Tawny! Get down! Get down!"
She stopped chasing the ball, and looked at him dumbfounded, unaware that a woman, gun drawn, was closing quickly from behind her.
He reached Betty-Jo before the gun-toting official, threw Betty-Jo to the ground, and positioned himself in front of the official. Felicity tried to step around him for a clear shot at Betty-Jo, but was unable to.
"Please don't!" he yelled. "You don't want to do this!" His eyes locked onto the brown eyes of the assailant: eyes that for a moment seemed to be a reflection of his own, eyes that in another moment he knew—from the Birth Parent Locators picture—belonged to his mother. "Felicity?" he said.
T
he eyes that glared back at him were fierce and determined.
He reached for his pepper spray, and pointed it at his mother.
"Drop the gun! Do it now!" someone yelled. He glanced to his right. Some ten yards away stood Martin Obourn—his gun drawn, and aimed at Felicity.
Thank God, Brad thought, but only for a moment, because a moment later a line judge slammed into Obourn, and knocked him to the court.
* * *
Events were not unfolding according to Felicity's plan. But one lesson was etched in her memory from her gun club training. Indecision can kill you. In a crisis situation, it's better to do something rather than nothing—even if the something you do is wrong.
What a handsome young man, Felicity thought, and he knows my name.
She squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Felicity's shot hit Brad in the chest, driving him back. Although stunned and in pain, Brad managed to keep the pepper spray's nozzle pointed at his mother. He pressed the release. Miraculously, the spray hit her. Then he slumped to the court, and lay there.
* * *
Felicity, almost blind and in pain, aimed her gun, as best she could, at a hapless Betty-Jo. She squeezed the trigger a second time, just as Tony Vaccaro rammed into her shoulder from behind—spinning her left. Her shot ricocheted harmlessly off the surface of the court, and her steely determination crumbled. She broke down in tears as Martin Obourn forced her to the ground.
Tony Vacaro leaned toward Obourn. "Strange," he said.
"What?"
"The way one kiss from a woman like Bouncer, can make a guy do something that's totally insane."
-68-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN
A Love for Eternity
Betty-Jo crawled over to Brad.
"Tawny Cat, please hold me," he said.
She pulled Brad to her, cradled his head against More Fun, and stroked his hair.
"Tawny, I'm sor...sorry."
"I love only you!" she cried.
Brad tried to smile. "I know you do," he whispered. "Your love is my everything. It's my heaven on earth." Tears flooded her eyes, and they would not stop. Then his voice, the satin and leather almost gone, caressed her for the last time. "Wait for me. I'll be back."
"I'll wait. I promise. I'll wait for you forever!" But he didn't hear her. He had died in her arms. "Brad! Brad! she screamed, while gripping him as tightly as she could. She hoped that somehow, if she held him tightly enough, he wouldn't be able to leave her. "You said I'd never be alone. You said you'd always be there for me." She wept as she rocked back and forth, his head pressed against her breast...
Three days later, Brad was laid to rest in Toronto. His death had been televised around the world. His sacrifice to save Bouncer had touched the hearts of millions. Her grief was their grief.
At the service, in St. James Cathedral, Betty-Jo saw Sandy, and walked over to her. She looked into the Tooth Fairy's eyes as the organist began to play, and a lone soprano sang:
Abide with me;
Fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens;
Lord with me abide.
They sobbed in each other's arms.
Swift to its close
Ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim;
Its glories pass away—
Betty-Jo's sorrow was limitless. It had been, ever since Brad had left her. With tears glistening in her eyes, she stood trembling over his casket. Finally, she took the virgin wool bottle from her purse, signed it below the virgin wool symbol, and placed it between Brad and Ben-Gal. She remembered, that he had told her that if they were ever parted, she was to scatter her wool on the wind, and remember when they were together and in love. But she was ignoring his request.
"I want this part of me to be with you always. It belongs to you," she said. "I don't need a memento." But even as she said that, she clutched the gold wafer that hung from her neck, and focused on the flawless diamond and emerald engagement ring he had given her. "I could never forget those wonderful, ridiculous evenings when we were first in love. Those places within me—that only you will ever touch—are a constant reminder of our love."
It was foolish, she knew, to be burying Ben-Gal with Brad, but she had to know that the man she would always love would never be alone.
"It's true," she said, "'Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.'" Her lips brushed his in a final kiss goodbye.
* * *
Betty-Jo regretted not having told Brad everything she knew about PussCat's death, but in fairness, initially she hadn't known for certain who had killed PussCat. Now she did.
Soon Dungie will pay for what he's done. He'll pay in the Wayne Bobbitt tradition, with his most valued possession. She firmed up her plans for revenge.
Just as Betty-Jo hadn't told Brad everything, she learned that he hadn't told her everything either. Following the burial, the Sheik took her aside.
"Brad made me promise to keep this to myself," he said, "but now it may help if you know. It was Brad who saved you, when you were doing that poor imitation of Cat Woman with the fat guy on the balcony of the Strand Princess. Remember? A year and a half ago, at Myrtle Beach."
"Oh my God! That was Brad?"
"Yeah. That was the Grasshopper. But back then he looked like a long-haired hippie."
"I never got a good look at the boy who saved me. All I remember were his eyes. I should have known. He had Brad's eyes. I was down to seconds when he...when Brad grabbed me. He was strong, but that fat pig was all over him. I don't know how he was able to hold onto me, until my father arrived with his bat. Back then, I was on the hefty side," she forced a smile."
"I was right behind your dad," Greg said. "It took a while before I noticed that Brad had left the pool, and a while longer to figure out that he might need some help. I'm ashamed to admit that I got caught up in watching you."
"Don't feel too badly. You're not the only guy who's neglected other endeavors to watch me. But what I don't understand is why Brad didn't come to see me back then?"
"He didn't want to make a big deal out of it—hell, he didn't even tell his folks. We were at Myrtle Beach on our spring break, and we were returning to Toronto right after the Grasshopper's fishing excursion—which never did happen."
"He should have told me!"
"He wanted to be sure that you loved him for who he was, not because he'd saved your tush. His words."
"He still should have told me."
"I know. I told him he was being stupid—that you could have any guy you wanted. 'Seriously, Grasshopper', I said, 'how can you expect a woman like B-J to love a dufus like you? You've got leverage. Use it!'"
"Hold me, Sheik." She hid her face on Greg's shoulder, and sobbed.
"He also said something about Cupid and Psyche. Something about Cupid not telling Psyche he was a god, because he wanted her to love him for who he was—not for what he was."
Betty-Jo cried even harder. "He should have told me. It wouldn't have changed what I felt for him."
"I'm sure he knew that, but he told me he had to be certain that you would always be free to fly, if you wanted to."
"Free to fly? Then why did he buy me a chastity belt?"
"He bought you a chastity belt?" Greg started to laugh.
"It was a designer belt."
"Well that makes a difference."
"I shouldn't have told you."
"Did he ever make you wear it...B-J?"
"...No, not really. You know, I don't think he ever intended that I wear it. I think it was just his way of showing me how much he loved and needed me. He didn't have to belt me—he already had our secret kiss."
"Your secret kiss?"
She lowered her voice, even though nobody was near. "If I tell you about it, you have to promise not to tell anyone."
"Trust me."
"This is embarrassing. Only those who know the secret kiss are allowed to...are allowed to...
"Are allowed to what?"
"...Have me. Brad made me take an oath."
"What a guy. And I suppose only he knew the secret kiss?"
She could feel her face heating up. "Yes," she said.
"So teach me the secret kiss. Then I can have you too. This secret kiss thing is great!"
"I can't. Brad made me swear that I wouldn't reveal it to anyone."
"Not even his best friend?"
"I'm sure that if he was going to give it to anyone, he would have given it to you." She put her hand on Greg's shoulder, and grinned at him.
He grinned back. "It doesn't matter. The secret kiss would be wasted on me anyway. Belinda would never let me use it." It was Betty-Jo's turn to laugh. "And you're right. Putting you in a chastity belt does sound like overkill. But did you wear it anyway?"
"Damn you, Sheik! I wanted to wear it. When I couldn't be with him, I'd put it on, and make him wear the key around his neck. I even bought him a silver chain for it. Why am I telling you this?"
"Maybe because we both loved Brad, and need to share our memories of him with someone else who loved him. Gotta admit though, your memories are spicier than mine."
* * *
Two days after Brad's funeral, Betty-Jo was back at Myrtle Beach. The first evening back, she took the twenty-minute drive, south on Route 17, to Pawleys Island. She stopped on the dunes where she and Brad had parked, a year, and more than a thousand memories earlier. Then she stared at the ocean. Had reality forsaken her? So much had happened in that fantasy interlude, yet it seemed as if time had stood still, and that it was only yesterday that she had been there with him.
She had fallen hopelessly in love with her first, her last, and her only lover—a lover who had won her a bear, twice saved her life, made her his fairytale princess, started to build her a golden palace, cried when his pussycat died, convinced her that she was the most beautiful and desirable woman in America, abandoned his dream of playing in the NHL to be with her, given her a secret kiss, made her his blood brother, told her that their love was the best love story ever, and promised to love her—just the way she was—forever.
The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever Page 31