“You just missed the ten-thirty. Next one isn’t until eleven. With traffic, it’ll be noon before you get there. The subway will take you forty-five minutes.”
Stevie had never been on the New York City subway but figured it would be fine during the daytime. Susan Carol wasn’t as sure. “I’ve heard all the stories,” she said as they walked to Lexington Avenue and turned left to walk two blocks down to 42nd Street.
“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be an adventure.”
“Just what we need,” she said. “More adventures.”
He was right about the subway being fine. They didn’t have any trouble finding the number 7 train, but when they got to the platform it was jammed with people clearly headed for the tennis tournament. Stevie knew this because many of them were wearing tennis outfits—especially the women. Still, somehow the train swallowed them all up and there was room to stand even if there were no seats. The train was quiet—Stevie wondered if that was the nature of a tennis crowd, or if perhaps the fans were thinking about Nadia Symanova. After the second stop in Queens, the train came out of the tunnel and became elevated. Stevie liked that. In just under thirty minutes, they were at the station marked SHEA STADIUM/WILLETS POINT and saw the smaller signs pointing to NATIONAL TENNIS CENTER. They spilled out of the train along with just about everyone else and followed the crowds across the street and up onto the boardwalk that led from Shea Stadium to the tennis center. It was teeming with fans and vendors selling everything from T-shirts to caps to tennis bags. There were also the inevitable ticket scalpers, all of them yelling, “Anyone selling tickets?”
Stevie knew from his experience at the Final Four that this was code to let people know they had tickets without taking a chance on being accused of scalping by a passing policeman. As they came down the steps onto the promenade outside the gates, Stevie could see that part of the area had been roped off so that TV crews could set up platforms to do live shots. Stevie saw signs for CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, ESPN, Fox Sports, and E! There were roving crews doing stand-ups in the middle of the crowd without benefit of a platform. “The whole world is here,” he said to Susan Carol.
“And then some,” she said.
They put on their press credentials so they could go in the gate marked PLAYERS/OFFICIALS/MEDIA. Stevie’s shoulder was aching a little bit from carrying his computer bag. They had come in at the opposite end of the grounds from where they had arrived the day before with Kelleher, so they had to trek all the way across the plaza to the media center. Stevie was breathing hard by the time they arrived.
“Let me guess,” Susan Carol said. “You’re hungry?”
“Always,” Stevie said.
That would have to wait. Kelleher and Mearns were waiting to debrief them. Stevie said nothing when Susan Carol reported her uncle’s response to her questions about Evelyn Rubin. Kelleher and Mearns were far more interested in their experience in the SMG suite than anything else.
“Here’s what Arlen told me just a few minutes ago,” Kelleher said. “Norwood called and told him they had been contacted by the SVR. Their demands are very simple: make a public announcement that Nadia will represent Russia in the Fed Cup and the Olympics for the rest of her career and she’ll be returned immediately. Do it by midnight tomorrow or they’ll have her on a plane to Russia.”
“Can they get away with that?” Stevie asked.
Kelleher shrugged. “Arlen seems to think they can.”
“Have they thought about getting our government involved?” Susan Carol asked.
Kelleher shook his head. “That’s what’s interesting,” he said. “I talked to my FBI guy and he said they have no evidence at all that the SVR’s involved.”
“What about the police?” Stevie asked, looking at Mearns.
“Same thing,” Mearns said. “The witnesses they talked to all had different versions. But nothing of any substance. None of their sources seem to have any serious clues.”
Stevie was wondering when the Symanovs had heard from the SVR. Maybe that was what they were going to talk to Norwood about in the SMG suite. But if they were discussing something that serious, why would Norwood have waved them over to make his little recruiting pitch to the brother and sister of Evelyn Rubin? And where, he wondered, did Brendan Gibson and the Makarovs fit in to all this? He felt dazed.
“So what do we do next?” Susan Carol wondered. “Just wait?”
“That’s probably not a good idea,” Bud Collins said, walking up. “It sounds like this kid is in serious trouble.”
The discussion about what to do next continued while Stevie picked up a match schedule for the day. One match caught his eye: the second match on court 3, the Grandstand court. Elena Makarova would play Kristen Stafford. It was about twelve-thirty and the opening matches had started at eleven o’clock. Stevie turned to the computer behind him and saw that the first match on the Grandstand was over. It looked as if Makarova and Stafford had just started.
“I’m going for a walk,” he announced. “I want to watch some tennis. I need to clear my head for a little while.”
Kelleher wanted to stay near the press center in case something broke. Mearns and Collins were going to walk out to court 11 to watch Jonas Björkman play Greg Rusedski. “Played each other in the semis five years ago,” Collins said. “Now they’re playing on an outside court in the first round. In fact, Björkman had to make it through qualifying just to get here.”
“How many matches do you have to win to qualify?” Stevie asked.
“Three,” Collins said. “They start with sixty-four players and sixteen get into the tournament. That tournament is probably a better story than the real one. You lose in the first round this week, you still make ten thousand dollars. The real pressure is to get into the first round.”
“I can see why a wild card is a big deal,” Stevie said. “How many are there here?”
“Eight,” Collins said. “And you’re right. That’s why the agents beg for them.”
Stevie started for the door.
“You mind if I go with you?” Susan Carol said.
That was a dicey question. She just now seemed to be getting over being angry with him. If he took her with him, she was going to be angry all over again. “I was sort of going to just go watch the match on the Grandstand court a little,” Stevie fumbled. “I haven’t been in there yet. But I’m going to get a hamburger first.”
She had been looking at him suspiciously until he brought up the hamburger. Now she rolled her eyes.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said.
Maybe. But she did seem to believe him.
Stevie walked briskly across the plaza and back under Louis Armstrong Stadium. He remembered seeing signs the day before that said GRANDSTAND COURT, so he knew he was going in the right direction. He could hear the sounds of the match being played on Louis Armstrong as he walked and noticed there were long lines of people waiting to get into the court. He glanced at the schedule he had put into his back pocket and saw why: Roger Federer, the number one player in the world, was playing his first match. He now understood why the people who ran the French Open and Wimbledon would stick Americans on outside courts. How could Federer, the defending champion, not play his first match on the biggest court on the grounds?
Maybe he would write about that later in the day. For the moment, he followed the signs that took him around the Armstrong hallways until he saw a sign that told him that if he went up a flight of steps and turned right he would reach the Grandstand. When he got to the top of the steps, he could see that the Grandstand court was actually attached to the side of Armstrong and there were walkways that allowed people to go back and forth between the two courts.
He turned right and walked to the corner of the court, where he was stopped by ushers and told to wait for the changeover. He looked at the scoreboard and saw that Makarova was already leading 3–1 in the first set. She was serving at his end of the court. Stevie studied her as she tossed the ball and served
with a twisting topspin so that it high-hopped Stafford, forcing her to lunge and hit her return awkwardly into the net.
“Thirty–love,” he heard the umpire say.
Makarova wasn’t, as far as Stevie could tell, nearly as tall or as attractive as Symanova. She was probably five foot seven and, if truth be told, a tad on the chunky side for a tennis player. But Stevie could see she had great power and was surprisingly quick as she sprang to the net to put away a volley that made it 40–love.
The changeover could come on the next point. Stevie turned his attention from the court to the stands, which were no more than half-full—a fact that would no doubt annoy the Makarovs. There was a small media section only a few feet from where he was standing but there was no one there whom he recognized. He searched the stands, hoping he would get lucky—and he did. Sitting directly across from where he was standing, about three-quarters of the way up, all by himself, was Brendan Gibson. He was easy to pick out because there was no one around him and he was wearing the agent’s uniform. Stevie knew there had to be a family-seating section someplace close to the court, but he figured Gibson wouldn’t be seen with the Makarovs in public just yet.
“Okay, kid, you can go now.”
It was the usher. He looked up and saw the two players walking to their chairs. Makarova had held serve to lead 4–1. He walked quickly behind the court and began climbing up the stairs to where Gibson sat. When Gibson saw him, his face registered surprise. Then he gave him a big smile. “Hey, Stevie, what brings you out here?” he said, waving him to come join him. “What have you done with my niece?”
Stevie tried to make sure he returned the smile. He was remembering the old reporting adage about asking the easy questions first. “I just went out to get a hamburger and she wasn’t hungry,” he said. “And I wanted to see Makarova play a little.”
“Well, you better watch fast,” he said. “I don’t think this match will take very long.” He pointed at a clock on the scoreboard that showed how long the match had been going on. It was just flipping to :20, meaning Makarova was on her way to winning the match in under an hour if this continued.
Stevie sat down in the empty area near Gibson. The upper part of the stands was just plastic benches without chair backs. The view was very good, though—the Grandstand probably didn’t seat more than four thousand, so their angle looking down from twenty rows up was just about perfect. He heard the umpire call “Time,” so he dropped his voice as Stafford lined up her first serve. She hit what looked to Stevie like a pretty good serve, only to watch as Makarova stepped into it and slugged a crosscourt backhand winner that Stafford didn’t even bother trying to chase down.
“Love–15,” the umpire said.
“So what brings you out to this match?” Stevie said quietly.
Brendan Gibson was staring at the court. “Huh? Oh. Just a little scouting mission.”
Since he knew Susan Carol had already asked him about the Makarova rumors, there was no sense playing completely dumb. “You mean because Makarova’s available?”
“Uh-huh. But don’t believe the rumors I know you and Susan Carol have heard. We’re a small agency. She’s a very big fish. One of the giants will reel her in.”
“Really? Sounded like you had a pretty good hook in last night.”
What the hell, Stevie figured as he watched Makarova crush another forehand. Might as well go for it.
Gibson’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Stevie. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“I was still awake when you got home last night.”
Brendan Gibson looked at him as if trying to decide what to say or do next.
“Game Makarova. She leads 5–1.”
“I know that. I got you a Coke. So what?”
“So I heard you talking to the Makarovs. I heard you toasting your new relationship.”
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you it’s wrong to eavesdrop?”
“Didn’t your parents tell you it’s wrong to lie—especially to a niece who worships you!”
Stevie knew his voice, even though he was speaking in a loud whisper, was too loud. He could feel his heart pounding. He had never called a grown-up a liar before.
Much to his surprise, Gibson smiled. “Look, Stevie, you don’t understand my business. Nothing has been signed yet. If it gets out that the Makarovs are going to go with me before they actually sign the contract, the other agencies will come in and try to blow me out of the water. They’ll offer to cut their fees and they’ll tell the Makarovs that I’m not experienced enough to get them the kind of deals and publicity they’re looking for.”
“So that means it’s okay to lie to Susan Carol? Why didn’t you just ask her to keep it quiet? She thinks you’re the coolest guy going. She’d do anything for you.”
“Does she know you’re here cross-examining me as if I committed a crime?”
“No. She’s angry with me for even questioning you.”
“Game and first set Makarova.”
The applause rose as the players started to change ends again. It had taken Makarova twenty-seven minutes to win the first set.
“Maybe you’re right, Stevie,” Gibson said, picking up as soon as the umpire stopped talking. “Maybe I should have confided in Susan Carol. But what’s the big deal? I’m just starting in this business, and getting Makarova would be a huge hit for me. Why does that matter so much to you?”
“Because I’d like to know just how huge a hit it would be,” he said, feeling himself start to sweat profusely. “And just what you would do to get the Makarovs to sign with you.”
Brendan Gibson’s eyes opened wide. He had figured out where Stevie was going with this. “Are you actually accusing me of kidnapping?” he said. “Susan Carol said something about people thinking me being involved with the Makarovs might somehow be tied to Symanova’s disappearance. Now I know where she got it, from the wild and overheated imagination of her rude—not to mention completely out of his mind—friend!”
He stood up just as the umpire called “Time” again. “I’m going to sit someplace else,” he said. “I’d recommend you find someplace else to stay. You’re really not welcome in my home. I’m sure you can stay with your boy Kelleher or someone else.”
He was gone before Stevie could get another word out of his mouth. He sat and stared at Gibson’s back as he walked down the stairs. What had he just done? Had he flushed a guilty conscience? Or had he genuinely angered an innocent man?
He was sure of only two things: he needed to find a place to sleep tonight, and he needed to talk to Susan Carol before her uncle did. Because if he didn’t, she might not speak to him.
Ever.
12: OLD FRIENDS…AND NEW
STEVIE WAS relieved when he saw that Brendan Gibson wasn’t leaving the match, merely changing seats to get away from him. He watched him pick out another empty spot at the far end of the court. That meant he had a chance to find Susan Carol and talk to her before her uncle did.
He waited impatiently until the next changeover so he could leave. Naturally, leading 2–0, Makarova struggled in the next game. She played through three deuces before finally hitting a gorgeous drop shot to make it 3–0, allowing Stevie to get up and leave. He glanced in the direction of Gibson as he walked out, wondering if he was watching him. He couldn’t tell—he was talking on a cell phone, which was technically against the rules. Whoo boy, Stevie thought, if he’s on the phone with Susan Carol, I’m a dead man.
He practically sprinted back across the plaza, almost knocking people over on several occasions and eliciting commentary that would not have been allowed on network TV. He thought about calling Susan Carol on his cell phone but then remembered it was tucked safely—and uselessly—inside his computer bag. Breathing hard, he charged into the media center and found it almost empty. It was the middle of the day and most people were out watching matches. If there was anything new on Symanova, there was no sign of it anywhere. He walked over to Kelleh
er’s desk and found no one around. Then he saw the note with his name on it: “Stevie, Mary Carillo took me down to the CBS studio to look around. Come meet me if you’re back by 2. Follow the signs in the hallway that say TV studios—Susan Carol.”
Stevie looked at his watch. It was one-forty-five. He wondered if the note had been written before or after he’d seen her uncle talking on his cell phone. There was only one way to find out. He was walking back out the door when he saw Bud and Anita Collins walking in. “Stefano!” Collins said, greeting him with a hug. “Where have you been? Björkman pulled up lame in the second set, poor fellow. Probably worn out from the qualifiers. We went to lunch in the corporate village. I’d have liked to have taken you and Susan Carol.”
That reminded Stevie that he was hungry again. “Oh, I went to watch Makarova play a little. I’d never seen her.”
“Well, judging by the scores, you didn’t see much of her,” Collins said. “But she is impressive. So strong. Reminds me of a young Navratilova.”
“Has anyone heard anything new on Symanova?” Stevie asked.
“The USTA has announced a press conference at three o’clock,” he said. “That gives me seventy-two minutes to write my column and then I’ll do a news story after the press conference.”
“Can you believe they’re making a seventy-five-year-old man work this hard?” Anita said.
“It’s no big deal,” Collins said.
“Only because you love it,” his wife answered.
“Well, I’m going to go find Susan Carol,” Stevie said. “I guess she’s down in the CBS studio with Mary Carillo.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Collins said. “They’re nice people.”
He left the two of them and started down the hall, figuring Kelleher was right when he said there wasn’t anyone Collins didn’t like. It concerned him a little that here he was, not quite fourteen, and already more cynical about people than Bud Collins was at seventy-five.
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