Vanishing Act

by John Feinstein

  She was right. The afternoon crowd was leaving and the evening crowd hadn’t been let in yet since there were still afternoon matches being completed. As soon as they sat down, Stevie was almost overwhelmed by the smell of hamburgers being grilled a few yards away from them. “I’m starving,” he said. “I’m getting a hamburger.”

  “You just ate one a couple of hours ago.”

  “I know. My mother says it’s a thirteen-year-old-boy thing. I get hungry very quickly. You want anything?”

  “Bottle of water?” she said.

  He walked over to a counter and asked for a hamburger and two bottles of water. All around him were other counters offering food. Stevie noticed a sushi bar, a place selling lobster and shrimp sandwiches, and another counter offering cookies and ice cream. The man he had ordered from nodded at him and said, “That’ll be eighteen dollars.”

  Stevie was stunned. “Eighteen dollars for a hamburger and two waters?” he asked.

  The man shrugged. “Yup,” he said. “That’s all it is. Nine dollars for the burger and four-fifty a pop for the waters.”

  “Hang on,” Stevie said. “I had a hamburger in the media dining room a while ago and it was only eight-fifty.” He realized as soon as he said it how ridiculous it sounded to say that a hamburger was “only eight-fifty.”

  “I guess they give the media a discount,” the guy said. “You want the food or not?”

  “I want it,” Stevie said, digging into his pocket for the money. The man gave him a tray to carry everything on for no extra charge. Stevie walked back to Susan Carol, who was intently studying the draw sheet, and handed her her water. “Drink it all,” he said. “It costs about fifty cents a sip.”

  “Welcome to New York,” she said with a laugh.

  “You find anything?” he asked, sitting down and digging in to the hamburger, which, regardless of price, was delicious.

  “Don’t know,” she said. “She’s supposed to play the winner of a match between two nonranked players in the second round, and then if your new girlfriend Evelyn Rubin wins her next match, she could play Symanova in the third round.”

  “You think your uncle Brendan kidnapped Symanova?” Stevie said.

  “Oh sure, very likely. She’s probably back at Uncle Brendan’s apartment right now. It gets more interesting later in the tournament. She could play Serena Williams in the fourth round. I doubt the Williamses are all that concerned with Symanova since they’re already making millions in endorsements and are about as famous as you can get.”

  “Yeah,” Stevie said. “Once you’ve got your own reality show, what’s left to accomplish in life?”

  She gave him a look but nodded in agreement. “Have you ever seen it?” she asked.

  “If a reality show ever appeared on a TV in our house, I think my father would blow up the set,” Stevie said. “He says reality shows are proof that our country is in deep trouble.”

  “There’s more proof than that,” Susan Carol said. “Back to the draw. She’s a long way from it, but she could play Elena Makarova in the quarters.”

  Stevie knew the name. “Another Russian,” he said. “Another young Russian.”

  Susan Carol nodded. “She’s two years older than Symanova, but she was a late bloomer. I remember reading that some people think she’s a better player but not as pretty, so Nadia gets all the magazine covers. Makarova made the final in Paris this year.”

  “Hmmm.” Stevie was looking at the side of the draw sheet where the seedings were listed. Makarova was the number three seed on the women’s side. “Makarova’s seeded higher than Symanova.”

  “And yet receives only a fraction of the attention. And, unlike Symanova, she and her family still live in Russia. Of course, if that’s a factor, it could bring the SVR back into play. It makes sense they would want to see Makarova do better than Symanova, even if she wasn’t filing for citizenship.”

  “How old was Symanova when her family moved to California?”

  “I think eleven. Might have been ten. It was young enough that she speaks English with almost no accent.”

  “How’s Makarova’s English?”

  “Good question. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her talk. I think we need to find out more about her.”

  “More about who?” a voice said from behind Stevie.

  He turned and saw Evelyn Rubin standing behind him with that spectacular smile on her face. He certainly wasn’t unhappy to see her, but he was surprised that she kept turning up.

  Susan Carol seemed to read his mind. “Hey, Evelyn, how are you?” she said. “Stevie said he ran into you in the players’ lounge and that you and Uncle Brendan were getting ready to head out. Are you stalking my friend?”

  Evelyn Rubin laughed. “Well, he is awfully cute,” she said. “Do you guys mind if I join you?”

  Stevie knew his face had turned bright red. He could tell both girls were getting quite a kick out of his obvious embarrassment.

  Evelyn sat down next to Stevie. “Brendan didn’t realize I have to play doubles tonight,” she said. “I never left. But if I spent one more minute in that players’ lounge, I thought I’d lose my mind. So I decided to go for a walk.”

  “What’s so bad about the players’ lounge?” Susan Carol said.

  “Too crowded. Too many people who look bored out of their minds. Too noisy to read a book.” She held up a copy of Wuthering Heights. “Summer reading for school. I’ve been traveling so much, I never got a chance to read this and school starts next week. I thought I’d sit out here and read, until I saw you guys.”

  “Why does everyone look so bored in there?” Stevie said, remembering all the blank looks he had encountered.

  “They are bored. They have to show up way before their matches start in case there’s a short match or a default or”—she paused and smiled—“a kidnapping.” She made sure that got a laugh before continuing. “Most of them are high school dropouts who don’t know about anything but tennis. So if they aren’t playing or practicing, there’s really not anything for them to do except watch television or play a video game. But the tournament’s always on in the lounge and tennis players almost never watch tennis—it makes them nervous—so they just sit around looking bored.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a life, does it?” Susan Carol said.

  “It isn’t. I remember reading in a book about the tour one time that out of all the players in the French Open one year, two had visited the Louvre—ever. Can you imagine going to Paris once and not going to the Louvre? These guys see three things when they travel: airports, hotels, and a tennis court. Maybe an occasional restaurant. That’s it. If I ever play in the French, the first place I’m going is the Louvre.”

  Stevie wasn’t exactly a museum aficionado, the forced trips to the New York museums aside. But he did know what the Louvre was, if only because he knew the Mona Lisa was there.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I love tennis,” Rubin continued.

  “But I don’t want it to be the only thing I love. Anyway, enough about me—what were you guys talking about before I interrupted?”

  “Elena Makarova,” Susan Carol said. “Do you know her at all?”

  Rubin rolled her eyes. “You might say that. I played her in San Diego a few weeks ago. She drilled me, one and one.”

  Stevie knew in tennis lingo that meant Makarova had won the match 6–1, 6–1—which was a drilling.

  “Did you talk to her at all?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Not really. She doesn’t speak much English. She was nice, though. After the match, she said, ‘You were just on lucky today.’ Which I think meant I was unlucky. I was unlucky—that I had to play her. She’s really good. My ground strokes are pretty good, but hers are better. And her serve is almost impossible to break—I think she served a ball one hundred thirty-eight miles per hour this summer. She’s strong. Why do you want to know about her?”

  “We were just looking over the draw,” Susan Carol said. “You could play her
in the quarters.”

  Stevie knew from the answer that Susan Carol didn’t want to share too much with Rubin, whose eyes went wide when Susan Carol mentioned the quarters.

  “I’m a long way from the quarters,” she said. “Lisa Raymond next round is no walkover and then, assuming she’s okay, I’d play Symanova. And even if something does happen with Symanova or if I somehow beat her, there’d be the little matter of Serena Williams.”

  If nothing else, she knew what her draw was off the top of her head. Stevie guessed most players would. “You hear anything new about Symanova?” Susan Carol asked.

  Rubin shook her head. “No, not really. Just the same SVR rumor. Someone did say that the USTA told Joanne Walsh’s people they would wait until Thursday if they had to, which I guess made them go crazy again.”

  “Thursday?” Stevie said. “Isn’t the first round supposed to be over by Wednesday?”

  “Yeah. But they could play Thursday morning and then the winner would play a second-round match at night on Friday. That would give her plenty of rest. They want her in this tournament by hook or by crook.”

  “And the question is,” Susan Carol said, “who are the crooks trying to give her the hook?”

  It was a clever line, Stevie thought. But there wasn’t a hint of a smile on her face when she said it.

  It was after six o’clock when they got back to the media center. Kelleher was frowning when they walked in. “I was just about to call you guys,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Lost track of the time,” Susan Carol said. “You guys hear anything?”

  “A little,” Kelleher said. “Arlen told me they’re not going to default her before Thursday. Tamara heard something about some of the women threatening a boycott or something if they do that.”

  “Very sympathetic of them, huh?” said Bud Collins, who had joined the conversation just as Kelleher started talking.

  “Yeah, well, we know how selfless tennis players are, don’t we?” Kelleher said. “Survival of the fittest out here. Even doubles partners don’t get along half the time. Bud, the SVR story seems to be everywhere. Does that surprise you at all?”

  “It does,” Collins said. “But Misha was so hyper, maybe he’s just telling people.”

  “Or maybe that’s not the real story,” Susan Carol said.

  They both looked at her quizzically. She and Stevie filled Kelleher and Collins in on what Ross had said and what they had gleaned from studying the draw. “That could just be agent talk,” Kelleher said. “But at this point, we probably need to check everything out—which, Susan Carol, means we probably need to check not only on Makarova, but also on your uncle—no offense. Bud, who is Makarova’s agent?”

  “You know, that’s a good question. I have no idea. But I’m sure we can find out.”

  He walked down the aisle, yelling something that sounded like Russian. “He’s going to ask the Russian media guys,” Kelleher said.

  Tamara Mearns walked up. “Bobby, are we still going into town to meet the Mayers for dinner, or are we going to cancel?”

  Kelleher shook his head. “I don’t know about you, but I still have to write.”

  “Oh gosh,” Susan Carol said. “So do I. I completely forgot to check in with the newspaper. I’m not close to done either.”

  “I’ll tell them another night.” Tamara sighed. “This has already been a long tournament.”

  Stevie looked at Kelleher. “Is there anything you want me to write?” he asked.

  “You got any good notes?” he said.

  “I could write about Evelyn Rubin.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Susan Carol said. “She thinks Stevie’s cute.”

  He was turning red again. “Scarlett…,” he said.

  “Okay, okay,” Susan Carol said. “We can fight later. I have to figure out what to write.”

  Collins came back, appearing excited. “I don’t know if this is interesting or not interesting,” he said. “Makarova was represented by SMG.”

  “Was?” Kelleher said.

  He nodded. “Yes, was. Apparently her father decided they weren’t doing a good enough job for her because they were spending too much time making deals for Symanova.”

  “Nothing new there,” Mearns said. “Parents always get into a snit about their kids not getting enough attention from their agents.”

  “Absolutely,” Collins said. “Some other agent comes along, offers them the world, and they jump. Happens all the time.”

  “So who did Makarova jump to?” Kelleher asked.

  Collins glanced at Susan Carol. “It probably means nothing,” he said. “It hasn’t been announced yet, but they say she’s about to jump to Brendan Gibson at ISM.”

  In all the time he had spent with Susan Carol, including a two-hour period when they had been tied to chairs and left alone with an armed thug in a hotel room, Stevie had never seen her so unnerved. “It probably does mean nothing,” she said to Stevie after all the grown-ups had given her the “Don’t worry about a thing” talk and gone off to write. “But isn’t it strange that Evelyn never mentioned it when we were asking her about Makarova?”

  It was strange. “Maybe she doesn’t know yet?” he said.

  “I suppose so. But why wouldn’t my uncle tell us last night when you were asking him how he was doing as an agent? That’s kind of a coup.”

  “Maybe it’s still a secret.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve got a lot of questions for him when we get home. Let’s write and get out of here.”

  That was fine with Stevie. He pulled his computer out from under Kelleher’s desk and found an empty desk in the back row, which was apparently kept empty for overflow writers who showed up on the last weekend and didn’t have assigned spots. When he had finished his glowing account of Evelyn Rubin’s upset of Maggie Maleeva—including her desire to go to the Louvre and her attempt to finish her summer reading for school—he brought his computer to Kelleher so he could help him file. Kelleher stopped what he was doing long enough to scroll through the story. “It’s good,” he said. “But you’ve written twenty-four inches. We’ll be lucky if they give you sixteen. You want to cut it or let them do it in the office?”

  Stevie decided he’d rather cut his own stuff. It was painful. Every time he cut a sentence or a paragraph, he was convinced he had to be down to sixteen inches. Then he pressed the count key and the computer told him he was still way over the right length. He gave up when he finally got to eighteen inches and presented it to Kelleher again. “There’s not a cuttable sentence in there,” he said.

  “No doubt true,” Kelleher said. “But trust me, they’ll cut it anyway.”

  It was after eight o’clock by the time all four of them were finished. The room was buzzing with people writing, people asking one another questions—every thirty seconds or so someone would shout a question at Collins, who either knew the answer or stopped his work to look it up in the myriad of books he had sitting at his feet. The room began to clear when the night match on the stadium court, featuring Andre Agassi, the ageless wonder, got under way.

  Kelleher, Mearns, Susan Carol, and Stevie convened around Kelleher’s desk to figure out what to do next. “First thing we need to do is get something to eat,” Kelleher said. “Let’s walk over to Slew’s.”

  “What’s Slew’s?” Stevie asked, wondering if he could get another hamburger there.

  “It’s a little restaurant named after Slew Hester. He was the USTA president who came up with the idea of moving here from Forest Hills in 1978. Bud says he was a good guy.”

  “Bud says everyone’s a good guy,” Mearns said, causing Collins to look up from his computer a few yards away.

  “That’s not true,” he said. “I thought Hitler and Mussolini were terrible guys. Of course, Mussolini did get the trains running on time. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.” He went back to writing.

  “Anyway,” Kelleher continued, “you need a badge to get in, so it isn’t so crowded.”

 
They walked across the plaza for what felt like the hundredth time that day, angling left to follow the curve of the stadium. It took them past some glass doors marked U.S. OPEN CLUB to a smaller door that said SLEW’S PLACE.

  It was almost empty. There were only a handful of matches being played at night and almost everyone left on the grounds was watching tennis. When they were handed menus, Stevie’s eyes grew wide when he got to what was called the “Slew-burger.” Here, the price of a hamburger had risen to twelve dollars.

  “Think I should drink a ten-dollar beer?” Kelleher asked Mearns.

  “No. Because you’ll want a second one.”

  “Good point.”

  Once they had ordered, Kelleher said, “So, anyone got any ideas?”

  Stevie wasn’t even a little surprised when Susan Carol said, “I do.”

  Kelleher smiled. “You ready to get your uncle to confess?” he asked.

  “Sort of,” she said. “I think I should ask him directly about what’s going on with Makarova.”

  “I think you ought to just ask him what he knows about her,” Stevie said, jumping in. “See what he says.”

  Susan Carol looked at him angrily. “He won’t lie.”

  “Susan Carol, we can’t be sure of anything,” Mearns said gently. “I don’t think we want to show anyone our cards right now—even your uncle. We need to use what we know to find out what others know. I’m sure you’re right that he won’t lie. But let’s find out.”

  Susan Carol nodded, still looking distressed.

  “What else?” Kelleher said.

  “I think we need to find out more about why SMG is pushing the SVR story so hard,” Susan Carol said.

  “I agree,” Kelleher said.

  “I still have some NYPD sources from my stint at News-day,” Tamara said. “I’ll call them in the morning, see what they’re saying.”

  “Good,” Kelleher said. “I’ll see if I can call in a favor with a friend at the FBI. Stevie, Susan Carol, I think you ought to nose around early at the U.N. Plaza before coming back out here.”