Vanishing Act

by John Feinstein

  “For a story?”

  “Sort of.”

  She looked at him quizzically, but nodded. “I need to shower. Do you want to meet in the players’ lounge?”

  That was a bad idea. Too many people around. The same would be true of the pressroom and certainly out on the plaza now that Rubin had suddenly become a star. But where? Why hadn’t he thought this through before?

  “What were you planning to do this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Go back to the hotel and rest.”

  “How about if I go with you?”

  Now she was really looking at him with question marks in her eyes. They were approaching the entrance to the stadium. “This must be important,” she said.

  “It is. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

  They had reached the doors leading inside. “You’re okay from here,” the security guard said. He eyed Stevie’s credential for a moment. “I guess it’s okay for your friend to go with you.”

  Stevie was getting very tired of security people questioning him. He thought about saying something, then swallowed it. There were more important things to do. Evelyn stopped once they were inside the doors. “Okay, if it’s really important, why don’t you meet me at the transportation trailer in an hour.” She looked at her watch. “That would be two-thirty. You can ride back into the city with me. We can talk in the car.”

  He shook his head. “No, we can’t. I can’t talk about this in front of anyone. But I’ll ride with you anyway.”

  Now the look in her eyes was a bit fearful. “I can’t imagine what this is about,” she said. “Make it forty-five minutes. Now you have me curious and nervous all at once.”

  He nodded. Then, trying to sound casual, he said, “So Brendan won’t be riding back with you?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Makarova’s playing tonight. He has to stay out here to watch. He’s about to sign her.”

  Wow, he thought. Gibson had told her about Makarova. He wondered when he had fessed up. “Okay. See you at two-fifteen.”

  She turned and walked down the hall, racquet bag slung over her shoulder. Stevie couldn’t decide who was prettier, Evelyn or Susan Carol. It occurred to him that he no longer even thought about Nadia Symanova that way. She was involved in something dirty—or at least her family was—and there was no way for Stevie to see her as attractive anymore. He wondered if that would change when—if—they figured out what had actually happened to her.

  He circled the stadium to get back to the pressroom, hoping some of his companions would be back. There was no one in sight. He called Kelleher’s cell phone and got voice mail. The same thing happened with Susan Carol. That meant they were probably watching matches. He sat at Kelleher’s desk, glancing at his watch every minute or two. He wondered for a moment what it was like for Rubin to be thrust into all of this all by herself. Brendan Gibson had mentioned that her parents both worked but might fly in for the weekend if she was still playing. Well, she would certainly be playing—on a stage none of them could have even dreamed about when the tournament began.

  At 2:05, he figured he had better get going so he could find the transportation trailer. He walked out the gate where he had seen players entering and exiting, turned left, and saw it at the end of a row of trailers. Several players were standing outside as cars pulled up. Evelyn walked out of the trailer with a slip of paper in her hands just as he walked up.

  She waved at him, put an arm on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Take your credential off. They don’t let media in the courtesy cars.”

  “I have another one that says ‘player family,’” he said.

  She gave him a funny look. “You do?” she said. “You really are full of surprises. Okay, put it on. Here comes the car.”

  The driver, a middle-aged woman, popped the trunk as she pulled up, and Evelyn threw her racquet bag in there.

  “I’m Evelyn,” she said, putting out her hand as the driver got out of the car to help. “And this is my brother Steve.”

  “I know just who you are,” the driver said. “Congratulations on your win.” She smiled politely at Stevie. “Are you proud of your big sister?”

  “Oh yeah,” Stevie said. “She’s pretty cool for a sister.”

  They slid into the backseat and drove away in silence. Stevie hoped the traffic wouldn’t be too bad. He had a lot of questions and very little patience.

  16: A STAR IS BORN

  THE RIDE into the city felt as if it took forever to Stevie. Naturally, traffic was backed up at the tolls going into the tunnel, and the driver was clearly a tennis groupie—why else would you volunteer to drive tennis players back and forth for two weeks?—who seemed to know every match Evelyn had ever played. “When you won fourteen-and-under at Kalamazoo last year, I told people, ‘Watch out for that girl, she’s going to be a player,’” said the driver, whose name was Molly Weiss. It took nearly an hour to get to the U.N. Plaza. By the time they arrived, Stevie knew most of the details of Molly Weiss’s life and he knew that Evelyn had switched from a two-handed backhand to a one-handed backhand a year ago, a decision Molly Weiss fully supported.

  “Chrissie”—she was apparently referring to Chris Evert—“perfected the two-hander,” she said. “But against these six-footers today like Sharapova and the Williams sisters and Symanova, you have to be able to stand in there and slug and you need to get to the ball with one hand.”

  Evelyn agreed. Molly then launched into a speech about what had happened to that “sweet girl Nadia,” and detailed the three times in the last two years she had driven her. “I wanted to tell her not to wear so much makeup,” she said. “But I figured that would be impolite. Now you, Evelyn, you’ve got that girl-next-door look. Boys like that.”

  Stevie couldn’t resist. “You mean boys are going to like my sister?” he said.

  Evelyn gave him a look. “Young man, boys already like your sister,” Molly said. “Which reminds me, why aren’t your parents here?”

  “Well, for one thing, they both have to work,” Evelyn said. “For another, they’re very superstitious. They get nervous watching me.”

  “Oh, just like Pete Sampras’s parents,” Molly said. “When he won his first U.S. Open in 1990, his parents were wandering around a shopping mall in California trying to kill time when they saw an awards ceremony on a television in an electronics store. They walked over and saw their son being handed the Open trophy.”

  “My parents are just like that,” Evelyn said. “They check the Internet every thirty minutes to see how I’m doing, but they can’t stand to watch.”

  Stevie was stunned hearing this. He was about to ask if that meant the Rubins wouldn’t even fly in to see their daughter play Symanova when it occurred to him that Evelyn’s brother would already know the answer to that question. Fortunately, Molly helped him out.

  “So you mean to tell me if you play Nadia on Sunday in the match of the century, your parents won’t be here?”

  “We already talked about it after the match today,” Evelyn said. “They’re going to go to a concert. My dad will take his BlackBerry with him.”

  “Match of the century?” Stevie said, unable to resist.

  “Believe it,” Molly said. “Young man, you better face up to the fact that your sister is about to become a big star.”

  Mercifully, they pulled up to the front door of the hotel before Molly could finish telling the story about her first meeting with Mary Carillo. Stevie jumped out and headed for the door. “Steve!” Molly Weiss was shouting at him, standing at the trunk. “Come over here and carry these racquets for your sister.”

  Whoops. He had flunked Molly Weiss’s chivalry class. He started back, but Evelyn waved her off. “It’s okay, Molly,” she said. “Steve knows I like to carry my own racquets.” Molly gave her a motherly hug and climbed back into the car with a wave at both of them.

  “Longest hour of my life,” Stevie said as they walked through the doors, the doormen offering congratulat
ions to Evelyn.

  Evelyn shook her head. “Molly makes that trip six or seven times a day just so she can say she talked to me or Symanova or Mary Carillo or Andre Agassi,” she said. “I keep reading all the time about how tennis has gone down in popularity in the last ten years. If we don’t appreciate people like her, who will we have left?”

  She was right, of course. Stevie was becoming a hardened cynic—which he hoped at least qualified him to be a reporter. He remembered something Dick Jerardi had said to him once: “Never take anything or anyone at face value. If you do, then why should anyone bother giving you credentials to anything? Always question. Anyone can just sit there and listen.”

  Evelyn was leading him toward the lobby restaurant, which was completely empty. They walked into the room and were greeted by a man in a tuxedo. “We don’t reopen until five o’clock,” he said.

  Evelyn gave him a smile that reminded him of Susan Carol. “I understand completely,” she said. “But we aren’t old enough to go into the bar. Is it okay if we sit in a corner and just have a Coke or something?”

  The man looked at her, looked at Stevie, and then glanced down at the player credential dangling from her neck and up at the racquet bag on her shoulder. “Sure, that’s okay,” he said. “Did you play today?”

  He was now leading them to a booth in the corner of the room. “Yes, I did,” she said. “I got lucky and won.”

  “Good for you. Do you know who you play next?”

  “Well,” Evelyn said, sliding into the booth, “if she wins two matches, Nadia Symanova.”

  The man did an actual double take. “Seriously? Look, if you want to order something now, I can take care of it. Wow! What’s your name?”

  “Evelyn Rubin.”

  He shook her hand eagerly, clearly dazzled now. “Well, good luck to you, Evelyn. As pretty as you are, I’ll bet a lot of people will know your name before that match is over.”

  “I just hope I play well enough that she doesn’t embarrass me,” she said. “She’s awfully good.”

  He had taken out an order pad. “What can I get you two?” he asked.

  “A Coke would be fine,” Evelyn said. “I just ate a little while ago.”

  Stevie hadn’t. He was starving. “Can I get something to eat?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” the man said. “Steak, hamburger, chicken, fish? You name it.” Stevie decided on a chicken sandwich and a Coke. The man turned to head for the kitchen, where, Stevie suspected, he would make the chicken sandwich himself if that would make Evelyn happy.

  “Okay,” she said. “Now that you’ve lived through the car ride, what’s so secret?”

  He took a deep breath. This would not be easy.

  “Something really weird is going on at this tournament,” he said. “Still going on—even with Symanova back. I want to know anything you might have seen or heard that seemed suspicious or unusual. And mostly, I need to know when Mr. Gibson told you about signing Makarova, and if he said anything to you at all about Symanova’s disappearance.”

  She knitted her brows for a moment, then shrugged. “Brendan told me about Makarova at dinner last night,” she said. “He said she was too good a player to turn down but he would still work very hard for me. I understand. He’s trying to build a business.”

  “What about Symanova?”

  She paused. “Stevie, I want to trust you. Why are you asking me about this?”

  “Because I want to know what really happened to Symanova.”

  The guy in the tux came back with their Cokes. “Sandwich will be another couple minutes,” he said.

  They waited for him to leave. “You don’t think the SVR kidnapped her?” Evelyn said when he was out of earshot.

  “Do you?”

  “No. Well, put it this way, Brendan doesn’t think they did.”

  That surprised Stevie a little. If Brendan Gibson was involved in Symanova’s disappearance in some way, it would make sense for him to point the finger at the SVR.

  “Who does he think did it?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t know. But he’s convinced Hughes Norwood knew she was safe long before today.”

  “How long?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe yesterday. Maybe even Monday night.”

  “And he thinks this why?”

  “All he told me was that Norwood was even more evil than he had thought agents were. He also told me that you accused him of somehow being involved.”

  “He told you that? Was he angry about it?”

  “He said he was at first, but he figured out that you put two and two together and got five. And it helped that Susan Carol stood up for you.”

  “And do you believe him? That he’s not involved somehow?”

  “Yes. But I also understand why you thought he was. He told me what happened with the Makarovs. Brendan is a good man, Stevie. I trust him. He’s been a lot more than an agent to me—and this was before all these people wanted to talk to me.”

  Clearly, Evelyn trusted him and believed he was innocent. Stevie wasn’t so sure. It actually made sense for him to come clean to her about the Makarovs just in case Stevie or Susan Carol said something about them being in the apartment. And he might tell Evelyn he thought Norwood was evil, but he was still meeting with him and the Symanovs and some Hollywood director….

  Stevie’s chicken sandwich—which appeared to contain a whole chicken—arrived, along with a note. “The front desk found out you were in here, Ms. Rubin,” Tux Man said. “They thought you would want this.”

  She looked at the note. “What is it?” Stevie asked.

  “It’s from Brendan,” she said. “CBS News wants to interview me for a piece they’ll air over the weekend if I play Nadia. It also says, ‘There will be more of these.’”

  “You’re a star,” Stevie said. “Nadia’s kidnapping might be as big a break for you as it’s turning out to be for her.”

  “I’m just the sideshow,” she said. “It’s all about Nadia.”

  Unless, he thought, she were to beat Nadia. Then, being a young American, she could be the next star.

  “What’re you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m just picturing you beating Nadia.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Did you see Wimbledon? If I lose three and three, I’ll feel pretty good.”

  “This isn’t Wimbledon. Her power isn’t as important on a hard court as on grass. Look, I’ve watched you play—I think you can beat her.”

  She smiled and leaned forward, pushing a wisp of hair off her forehead. “So do I,” she said in a whisper. “She needs pace—the harder you hit it, the more she likes it. So I won’t give her anything hard to hit. I’ll softball her all day, the way Martina Hingis used to do to the Williams sisters.” She looked around. “But please don’t say anything to anyone. I want her to walk on court thinking I’m just another walk in the park on her way to Makarova.”

  “What about Serena Williams in the fourth round?”

  She shook her head. “Even if Serena gets to the fourth round, she’s hurt. She’s not admitting it, but you can see it when she tries to run. She won’t be a problem for either one of us, I don’t think.”

  Stevie was impressed. This girl had a lot more confidence than he had thought.

  “I think you’re right about pace—”

  He stopped in midsentence. Brendan Gibson was walking into the restaurant. He walked to the table and turned to Evelyn as if Stevie wasn’t there. “Did you get my message about CBS News?”

  “Yes, and—”

  “The Letterman show just called. They want you on tonight. They tape at five-thirty. It’s five o’clock now. I have a car waiting outside.”

  “But…I’m not dressed! Letterman? Seriously? Why? I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “I’ll tell you why in the car. You can run up to your room, grab a dress, and change there. Hurry, Evelyn, this is huge!”

  “Okay. Sorry, Stevie.” She stood up to leave. “I’ll be
down in five minutes,” she told Gibson.

  As soon as she was gone, Gibson turned on Stevie. “What’re you doing chasing my player around?”

  Stevie was surprised. Evelyn and Susan Carol had both told him Gibson wasn’t angry with him anymore. “I’m not chasing her,” he said defensively. “If Letterman wants to talk to her, why shouldn’t I?”

  “You came all the way in here to talk to her? You couldn’t do it after the match like everyone else did? The transportation people told me you posed as her brother to get in the car with her.”

  “That was her idea,” he said, then was instantly sorry—why cause Evelyn problems? “Look, something rotten is going on here and you are right in the middle of it. So don’t try to make me into the bad guy here. I’m not the one who was hanging out with Hughes Norwood and the Symanovs and some movie guy. Susan Carol knows you’re involved in this and you’re breaking her heart. And anyone who breaks her heart, I’m going after!”

  He was shouting and he felt his heart pounding. He had never in his life spoken to a grown-up this way. Worse, he had just tipped their hand.

  But he had also hit a nerve. Brendan Gibson’s face was pale. When he answered, it was through gritted teeth. “You know nothing, do you hear me?” he said. “And just how the hell did you get into the Open Club? What lie did you tell to get in there, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor? Get out of here right now. Just go. I don’t want you here when Evelyn comes back down. God knows what thoughts you’re putting in her head.”

  He was tempted to tell Brendan Gibson he couldn’t throw him out of a hotel restaurant, but he needed to get going anyway and he’d already said too much. He stood up and walked out without another word. He walked through the lobby and through the revolving doors to the circular driveway. There were two courtesy cars sitting there, but he wasn’t going to go that route again. He needed to get back to the tournament and report in to Kelleher, Susan Carol, and Tamara. Then he remembered his cell phone was in his pocket, so he pulled it out and dialed Susan Carol.

  “Where have you been?” she screeched as soon as she heard his voice.