As Rod Laver the Dog waited in the lobby, curled up by Fleischman’s thermal bag, Wally, in casual shorts, a Nike t-shirt and flip flops sat on the examining table and recounted the events since Friday morning, starting with his smashed driver’s side window. Once he’d finished, Dr. Fleischman reflected for a few moments and then offered a thought.
“Have you considered going on tour?” he said.
Wally looked at him, hoping he was being rhetorical. But he wasn’t. Wally began to wonder – didn’t anyone understand how frightening immense, uncontrollable on-court power was for him? Without the mid-paced, well-placed feed shot, his profession was just an outdoor lecture with short clothes and sports drinks.
“Modern professional tennis is an arms race,” continued Fleischman, feeling Wally’s throat. “With your height and that serve, I think you could do some real damage out there.”
“Yeah, to my knees and my shoulder. Doc, I’m fifty-three.”
Dr. Fleischman checked Wally’s ears and his eyes. “Me too. And yet there’s no medical reason a man our age can’t compete. Except in my case for my lack of height, skill, agility and pace. The horizon for competitive athletes is getting longer and later. And like Agassi at thirty, you’ve got fresh legs.”
“But what about my racing heart?”
“Let’s be optimistic about that. But just in case, I’m scheduling an EKG and two blood tests. One to rule out a pulmonary embolism and one for hyper thyroid.”
Dr. Fleischman motioned Wally to a scale and weighed him. “But just to look at you, I’d say your basically fit,” said Dr. Fleischman.
Then, measuring Wally’s height. “And tall. Like the new crop of tour players.”
“Basically fit?”
“You’re six-six, two-fifty. Juan Martin del Potro is six-six and two-fourteen.”
“He’s a playing pro.”
“Exactly. And if you want to be one, you need to drop at least fifteen pounds.”
“Who said I wanted to be a playing pro?”
Dr. Fleischman motioned Wally back to the table.
“Remove your shirt. Let’s check your heart.”
Wally removed his shirt. “I like food.”
Dr. Fleischman looked at Wally’s paunch dimensions. “I can tell that.”
He listened to Wally’s heart with a stethoscope. “You know that new kid from Andorra?”
“Retchy Crane?” said Wally.
“He’s six-eight. Built like a distance runner. The prototype of the new tennis man. Or boy. Or whatever he is. Tall and lean.”
“But I’m a teaching pro.”
Fleischman moved the stethoscope around Wally’s chest, listening.
“So my birthday was yesterday and my wife surprised me with a one-hour hitting session with him. Bought it at the school auction. How do I prepare for this?”
“Get your racquet back early.”
“Good tip.”
Dr. Fleischman nodded in agreement and moved the stethoscope to Wally’s back. “Okay, breathe in.”
Wally inhaled.
“Yeah, ranked thirty-five in the world at age sixteen,” said Dr. Fleischman as he listened. “Looks a little like Dolgopolov, but I think he’ll win majors. He can finish a point, too. With one foot and one hand up in the air.”
Dr. Fleischman struck the pose.
“The crane. It’s like Karate Kid. I think he’s got a bright future,” said Dr. Fleischman, removing the stethoscope. “Your heart’s fine. Your lungs are fine.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
Next, he put the blood pressure sleeve on Wally’s arm. “Just relax,” he said.
“Right.”
Dr. Fleischman pumped up the sleeve. “By the way, I read your book. It’s in my top hundred and fifty of all time.”
“I’m flattered,” said Wally.
“And Brain, Set, Match. Good title.”
“It was either that or Your Teaching Pro Sucks.”
Dr. Fleischman smiled. Wally breathed deeply and tried to slow his heart rate.
“But there’s something I have to know.”
Wally braced himself for a probing medical question. “Yes?”
“My first volley is weak. Do you think I should turn more?”
First volley? Wally wondered if this guy was concentrating at all on the exam. “Are you taking lessons from a pro?”
“Of course. Cindy at the club. All the guys our age do. But I’ve got to be honest. With her looks, it’s hard to concentrate on a thing she says.”
Wally laughed.
“Come on, just a quick pointer. I won’t tell her you told me.”
Wally decided to just go with it and then find another doctor soon.
“Okay. You probably actually want to turn less. Keep your chest square to your target as you move forward and swing level from out in front of your feet.”
“That’s great. Don’t turn. And no high to low. I’m sure she’s said it a hundred times. Thanks.”
“Sure,” said Wally.
Dr. Fleischman deflated the blood pressure sleeve. “One-twenty over eighty. You’re as healthy as a college player. You can put your shirt on and get back out there.”
Wally dressed, but his mysterious gorilla strength affliction still nagged at him.
“So, Dr. Fleischman, if I really am healthy, why do I have these surges of power on the tennis court?”
“I don’t really know. The blood work may tell us something. The truth is, nothing seems physically out of the ordinary. Besides your serve, I mean. Maybe the pressure in your life is causing it. So, if you can, stay away from conflict and stress.”
“Yeah. Good advice.” Wally’s cell phone rang. A euro number. The Swiss kidnappers. Wally mumbled to himself, “This is not going to help.” Then he turned to Dr. Fleischman, “Excuse me.”
“Of course. We’re almost done.” Dr. Fleischman noticed Wally’s grip on the edge of the examining table had gone ogre. “I just have one more question when you’re finished.”
Dr. Fleischman walked out to his waiting room.
“Sure,” said Wally. Then he hesitantly answered his iPhone, “Hello? Yes. Half an hour? I see. The time difference and your bedtime? May I talk–”
And they were gone.
Wally shut off his cell phone. Dr. Fleischman came back from the waiting room with his racquet.
“Everything okay?’ he asked Wally.
“I should go. Thanks for seeing me today.”
“My pleasure. My nurse will call you with the blood results.” Fleischman held his racquet out to Wally. “So before you go, I just have to ask you, I’ve got this really traditional flat forehand. Can you show me the right grip for topspin? I just can’t seem to get it.”
More teaching questions. Wally’s mental notes on Fleischman weren’t positive. Next time, he’d wait for Dr. Simmons. Wally took the racquet, positioned his hand on it halfway between Eastern and Semi-Western and turned it so Fleischman could see the grip better. Then, holding the racquet out to him, “This should work.”
“Thanks,” said Dr. Fleischman.
He tried to take the racquet, but he could barely pry it out of Wally’s steel clutch. When he finally did, the grip was indented with a deep impression of Wally’s hand and ridge detail.
“Well, I can see exactly where the fingers go now. Thanks.”
Wally looked at the grip and his clenched racquet hand, more than a little shaken.
Dr. Fleischman looked at Wally, concerned. “So, do you have few more minutes?”
“You already knew the grip, didn’t you?” said Wally.
Fleischman nodded. “Mmm hmm. I think we should run some more tests.”
Maybe Dr. Fleischman was more tuned in than he seemed.
NINE
Dr. Fleischman had not only been tuned in, he’d also been turned up. He ran three more tests, asked two more volley questions and wouldn’t let Wally go without a lively poly v. nylon debate. Wally got back to his house on
Cloud Avenue with two minutes to spare before the kidnapper’s appointed call.
His GT 500 was gone from the driveway, which disturbed him a little. He’d told Addie to stay home. Not only that, but the house and yard were rigged out and ready for his annual Memorial Day barbeque, his guests would be there in about an hour and he still had to get the hooch.
The four black, government Suburbans were parked out in front and the earpiece sentries were in their places guarding against the kidnapping that had already happened. His neighbors were now out in force to watch the spectacle. Some had brought lawn chairs. As Wally opened the front door, he saw Flint and Steel standing expectantly by a computer set up on his dining room table. Flint obviously knew about the call. What else in Wally’s private life did he know about?
Deuce was with them, shuffling cards with one hand and rolling coins in the other. It was nervousness. But skillful, useful nervousness. Not like Wally’s heart palpitations. And to Wally’s surprise, Addie actually was home. She poked her head out of her room, quickly mouthed ‘hi’, and before he could ask her about the car, she returned to her anti-social-media exile.
Flint motioned to him.
“You’re just in time. Have a seat.”
Wally sat down and faced the blank computer screen.
Deuce stopped his dexterous sublimation for a moment. “Did the doctor find out anything?”
“How to hit his volley better. Other than that, no.”
“That ralphs.”
Flint broke in, “I’m no hairy little M.D., but I’d say it’s stress. You know, guys in your situation. It can make the body act in extreme ways.”
“But only on the tennis court?”
“Who’s to say exactly how the emotions work. The court’s a familiar place. Maybe your body only lets go there.”
Flint checked his watch.
“They should be linking up now.”
“I’ll bet it’s just some rare disease,” said Deuce, helpfully, returning to his cards and coins.
And like sinister Swiss clockwork, the dark screen lighted up and faded in to an overhead establishing shot of Court Phillippe Chartier at Roland Garros. In crisp, hi-definition 1080p, the lone aerial exterior shot was overtaken by a quick-cut highlights-segment of Roger Federer’s three-set, first-round win over Feliciano Lopez. As before, the polite, precise Swiss voice came on and narrated the action.
“Roger played well today. Lopez is a tricky lefty. And though Roger has a tough draw, we believe he has a chance to win this year.”
Deuce slapped the cards down in agreement. “Thank you!”
“However, these are not the only highlights we want to show you.”
“Cool. You think they’ll show Djokovic?” said Deuce.
They didn’t. The French Open highlights froze and the Federer package slam cut to an exterior view of the mansion where Danielle and the others were being held.
“A tranquil scene, yes?” said the voice. “Watch now, please.”
The hi-def video rolled again. In a blur of motion and fury, ARD 10, the Swiss Special Forces, stormed the estate from the ground and fast-roped from helicopters. After a comprehensive search of the property, filmed from multiple, changing camera angles and including some thrilling Steadicam shots, the Swiss team smashed through the front door, but found no one and nothing there. The screen image froze on the hapless Swiss rescuers in their green camo assault gear, regrettably without the red square and Greek cross everyone knew from the pocketknife, staring into an empty house.
“Oops. No one home,” the Swiss voice commiserated. “It appears the Special Forces have received false GPS coordinates from our cell phones. Then again, what do you expect from an ‘elite’ team that only needs to do sixty push-ups to pass its training? You see, not only can we predict every law enforcement agency’s every law enforcement move, but we will film it in the highest quality stock and with the best lighting available. You can keep chasing us and monitoring us and profiling us, but we will not be caught in Switzerland. And we will expect our demands to be met before we let the hostages go. Any questions?”
“Are we live?” said Wally.
“Yes. You may Skype with us,” said the voice.
“Okay, but we usually see who we’re Skyping with,” said Wally.
“Usually, yes. However, my face must remain hidden. I am unnaturally shy, due to a childhood fondue incident.”
Wally and Flint exchanged a look.
Flint spoke first. “We need proof of life.”
“I’m right here,” said the voice.
“Of his wife’s life,” said Flint.
“Yes. I want to see her,” said Wally.
“Of course you do. She is a beautiful woman. As a gesture of good faith and good breeding, we will not only give you proof of life, we will give you proof of fitness.”
On-screen there was a smooth wipe to a tableau of two men in Nike warm-ups, wearing Roger Federer masks, standing at the net by Danielle. She was dressed in the Sharapova French Open Nike ensemble, on a picturesque, sunken clay tennis court, bathed in mid-day sunlight. Wally’s heart jumped.
“Danielle?”
One of the fake Federers held a computer up for Danielle to look at.
“Wally? Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You sound good.”
“I’m alright.”
“Hi, mom,” said Deuce.
“Deucie. How are you?”
“Okay, I guess. Mom, you’re in tennis clothes.”
A half laugh. “Yes, I’ve been playing tennis.”
“That’s a little weird. Mom, be careful. Don’t get sucked into some Stockholm thing, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I barely see my captors. I’ve been on court three hours a day.”
“Really?” said Wally.
“And I think I’ve worked out that kink in my forehand.”
“Your forehand’s fine,” said Wally.
“We swim, take yoga classes and the food is excellent.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Wally, sounding not all that glad.
Danielle looked closer into the camera, “It’s not at all what I thought being a hostage in Switzerland would be.”
The other fake Federer whispered something to her.
“I have to go now. It’s Pilattes time and then a facial.”
Deuce leaned close to the screen. “I love you, mom.”
“I love you guys.”
As the picture crossfaded to more Federer/Lopez highlights, the voice resumed. “So, Herr Wilson, as you can see, your wife is being treated extremely well. Probably better than you can treat her on a tennis pro’s salary.”
“We do fine, thank you.”
“Except for your mortgage payment and the school bills.”
“He has a point,” said Flint.
Wally’s look asked Flint which side he was on.
The voice rubbed it in. “It’s true. Your financial situation is precarious. And while your wife is here, she earns nothing. But don’t worry, this forced vacation ends when our demands are met. Until then, your beautiful wife and the others will stay where they are. For as long as it takes. And we have deep pockets.”
Then the screen went black.
Flint closed the agency’s computer.
“Is mom going to be okay?” said Deuce. “She hates playing on clay.”
“I hope so,” answered Wally. Then, directing his gaze at Flint. “You’re the agent in charge. Reassure us.”
“Okay, well first of all, she’s alright. This many days into it, that’s a very good sign. You could see it yourself. And her forehand’s better.”
“Her forehand was fine before. You can’t listen to every resort pro who wants to make a quick fix and lift their leg on your strokes.”
Rod Laver the Dog shifted position.
“And that skirt was pretty short too,” added Deuce.
Wally agreed, but kept quiet about it. Still, he wondered what Donald was doing
while Danielle was playing tennis. Who was she playing with?
Flint moved to take charge and assumed an authoritative, intelligence-briefing stance.
“The simple fact is, we can’t locate them,” said Flint. “They are a very sophisticated crew. Ex-military or ex-spies or ex-something, with very sophisticated cameras and shots cut together like Michael Bay. We will bring whatever pressure we can on the Swiss. But at the end of the day, they’re neutral. Or at least reluctant.”
Deuce and Wally both looked at him, uncertainly.
Wally patted Flint on the shoulder. “You know, that didn’t quite do it.”
“Ya think?” said Deuce.
“We need a game changer,” said Wally,
Flint looked at him hopefully. “Any ideas?”
“Isn’t that your department?” asked Wally.
Just then, Wally’s front door opened and in walked a man who looked like a slightly younger, slightly taller Wally, one arm around a ravishing, distressingly-curvaceous younger woman, the other holding a chilled half-case of Veuve Clicquot.
“William?” blurted out a surprised Wally.
“Wallace, my brother!”
Willy Wilson gently lowered the carton of champagne, let his curvy companion go and bounded in and embraced Wally in a big, true bro-hug.
“Man, it’s great to be here.”
Deuce went up to him and gave him a hug too.
“Uncle Willy!”
“Deuce, my legerdemain man. What up?”
“You got a minute?”
“For you? Always.”
“Okay, well dad’s got some unknown disease that makes him as strong as Shrek, but only on the tennis court. Mom was kidnapped on a dinner cruise in Lake Geneva and is being held captive in Switzerland and Addie got drunk and posted her boobs on Facebook. Now she’s hiding in her room, texting with all the guys who suddenly want to ‘friend’ her. Let’s just say, the family’s been better.”
“Looks like I came just in time.” Then, turning to Wally again. “By the way, did you know that somebody crushed your driver’s side window?”
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