“Yeah. I did that.”
“Okay, well then, maybe I came a little late.”
Wally knew that his brother usually brought with him more commotion than calm, and usually a new girlfriend, but he said, “You’re fine. It’s great you’re here. You in town for a sales call?”
“No, I’m here to help you.”
“Really?” said Wally, doubtfully.
“Really?” echoed Deuce, delighted.
“As long as it takes. Yeah. Got Brett’s call and flew in this afternoon. Took a cab, but then I thought I’d get some suds for the Q. No one was around so I took your car. Hope you don’t mind.”
“My GT 500 is your GT 500.”
“I love to hear that. Also used your house account at Beltramo’s. I know you always buy the booze last.”
“It’s all good. At least you didn’t buy Salon.”
“You know me too well. I would’ve, but they were out. So I added three great Sauternes.”
Then, putting his arm around the young woman he came with and changing to a non-monetary topic.
“This is Sophie, the May day to my December evening.”
“That’s beautiful,” she countered. “But I am twenty-five.”
“Hi, Sophie,” said Wally.
“Hi. Nice to meet you all.”
“Sophie was on tour for a year. Now she’s an actress.”
“Free, please,” said Sophie. “They don’t need to know all about that.”
“She’s too modest. She’s very popular.”
“Great. So, anything I would have seen?” said Wally.
“You’re happily married, right?” said Sophie.
“Yes.”
“Then probably not.”
“An actress.” Wally emphasized the word. “Got it.”
Deuce looked to his dad for clarification. Wally winked. Deuce’s eyes widened. “Oh, an actress.” But he still didn’t know exactly what his dad meant.
“It pays better than the tour,” explained Sophie. “The guys are way nicer and I still get free tanning.”
Willy gestured to the impassive Flint and Steel. “So, bro, are you going to introduce me to Jack Bauer and Tony Almeida? I saw the rest of CTU out in front.”
“Willy, this is agent Flint and agent Steel.”
“Hey guys, nice to meet you. I’m Willy, Wally’s younger and much better looking brother. Everyone except family calls me ‘Free’.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Stony Flint and this is my partner, Roald Steel.”
“Are those your real names?”
“That unfortunately is classified.”
“Well, anyway, I hope you’re both staying. I know you guys can party. Wheels up, rings off, right, guys?”
“That’s the Secret Service.”
“So who are you guys?”
“That’s classified too.”
“Fine. Got it. Live and let spy. Stay for the festivities?”
“Sure,” said Agent Flint.
Steel remained silent.
As an invitation afterthought, Willy looked to Wally, “But, Bro, your house.”
“Sure,” said Wally. “It’s a government holiday after all.”
“Okay, but put us to work,” said Flint. “I’ll stuff the foie gras into those Kobe burgers.”
“You know about our menu?” said Wally, not really expecting an answer.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, dad,” admonished Deuce.
“I can tell you I used to be a chef,” said Agent Flint.
“Where?”
Flint just smiled.
The eating and imbibing coiled on late into the evening. At its height, the guest count threatened to overwhelm Wally’s modest, over-leveraged West Menlo Park square footage. Wally and his family were joined by Flint and Steel, the Posse Comitatus and a number of snooping neighbors who saw the black SUV’s and thought the President or an Egyptian was in town.
Dinner was Wally’s menu expertly realized by the surprisingly grill-adept Agents Flint and Steel. Thirty or so guests, dropbys and federal agents ate foie gras engorged Kobe burgers, a wedge salad with Neal’s Yard Colston Bassett Stilton, dry-farmed Early Girl tomatoes, and Prather Ranch bacon, hand cut fries and a Blenheim apricot crostata with vanilla ice cream for dessert, all accompanied by a Syrah, the Veuve Clicquot and a Rieussec Sauternes.
Wally really knew how to dinner.
After the meal, Deuce performed some parlor effects for the champagne receptive crowd. Starting with some of the standards of the craft like an Anderson newspaper, close-up levitating card and a clear cup and balls that pwned Penn & Teller by hiding the gaff, Deuce closed with an amusing pickpocket routine and removed Willy’s shirt, his sister’s bra and Flint’s badge and gun. After lusty, potted applause, he encored by sawing a mostly willing Rod Laver the Dog into thirds, rearranging him in unnatural ways, then vanishing him and reappearing him in Wally’s Super-Six Thermal Bag.
Everyone agreed that Deuce had a Vegas mainroom in his future and one neighbor who owned a bar offered him a summer gig there three nights a week for five hundred dollars plus tips. They also agreed that it was late for the night before final’s week and so as Deuce and Addie went off to do whatever high school students actually do before finals, Flint and Steel took their leave and the nosy neighbors followed. This left, Wally, his brother, Sophie the film star and the Posse to finish the libation and close the party down.
It was a rare northern California May evening – sultry, warm and still. They sat languidly, contentedly and probably an hour too late on Wally’s back porch, loose-lipped and semi-consciously attending to the last of the Sauternes. Wally kept drinking out of deference to the fine grapes who had given their all to the Rieussec cause, but he really felt a touch too full and too liquidated. He had had a second Kobe burger, when Rod Laver the Dog, who objected to Foie Gras, declined his and he’d tagged on a big, athletic piece of crostata for dessert. Wally thought fleetingly about Dr. Fleischman and being called ‘basically fit’ by him. But he was fit. He was also big, but not fat. Big. Athletic. And powerful. Everyone could see it. And who was Fleischman to talk, anyway? He wasn’t exactly Matt Bomer’s body double. Speaking of which, Body Double was a movie aching for a remake. Maybe Sophie could go semi-legit. Like Sasha Gray in Entourage.
Cindy, a devoted devotee of all champagne, gestured somewhat more than usual after commandeering the business end of a bottle of a vintage Krug someone had pulled out of the wine refrigerator in a drunken, sneaky moment.
“I’m glad the tournament’s only one day now,” she said, swinging her glass.
“No one has time for the full weekend anymore,” Raj added.
“And that’s good. Too many old dudes staring at my physiognomy for three days.”
“Aren’t you a little turned on by it?” said Sophie.
Cindy glared at her with mock indignity. “I can’t be turned on. I’m a professional.”
“Me too,” said Sophie. “But I am.”
Brett put down his glass and looked at Cindy in a new way. “Is that why you always wear a warm-up?”
“I’m tired of the chest out please, bend down please, eyeball physical I’m always getting from the male-pattern, Cayman S jockies in short-rise constructed shorts.”
Brett raised his glass. “Okay, then. To Cindy hiding her physiognomy!”
Raj looked at him in wonder. What a bad idea.
“Hear, hear. I shoulda been a golf pro,” toasted Cindy.
“Or a fencing master,” said Raj.
“Or a ski instructor,” said Brett.
They all drank.
“And to the Cayman, the 911, short shorts and the Zuffenhausen male potency formula!” said Cindy.
Brett was distractedly staring at Sophie, put down his glass and crinkled his face. “Speaking of which. I know you.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Cindy. “Sophie Kushion. You pl
ayed that Challenger in Visalia.”
“I did. Lost in the quarters.”
Brett racked his brain. “No, that wasn’t it.”
“Well that’s where I know her from,” said Cindy.
Sophie smiled at Brett. “I’ll tell you later.”
“I look forward to it,” he said.
Raj raised his glass to Wally. “To the tournament, and to your girl, Ashley. She and Stich won the thing.”
Wally took a sip. “Yeah. I’ll never get her to practice now.”
“And to think, it all started with your default.”
Wally shook his head at Brett. “Thanks, Jaw.”
Willy put his glass down and looked back and forth from Raj to Cindy as he talked.
“You know, you two have a good thing going at the Yacht Club. What’s it going to take to put you both on the Wilson list?”
“The return of Jack Kramer, probably.” said Cindy. “It’s a Prince club, Free.”
“She’s right,” said Raj.
“Prince? Let me let you guys in on something. Their rep jumped the sinking ship about a month ago and paddled fast over to Babolat. Prince is headed into chapter eleven.”
“Still can’t make the move.”
“You club pros. Scared to make a decision.”
“Maybe, but we have health care. We can see a shrink about it.”
Everyone laughed.
Brett put his arm around Willy’s shoulders. “Hey, Free Willy, remember me? I’m a teaching pro without a contract.”
Willy laughed. “Oh, man, that’s funny. Who do you influence over there on your pine tree plantation?”
Brett pointed to Wally. “Who does he influence?”
Willy laughed. “It doesn’t matter. His last name’s Wilson.”
Willy finished his drink and poured another.
To Brett, “Okay, look, hook up with a local shop, send some people in to buy some frames and I’ll think about it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wilson.”
“That’s right, and don’t you forget the name.” Willy held up the Sauternes bottle. “Anyone?”
They all held out their glasses.
“Don’t be shy,” he said, pouring full measures for all. He raised his glass. “And finally, to the man of the hour. My brother, Wally Wilson.”
They all toasted.
Wally looked skeptical. “And what did I do exactly?”
“It’s not what you did, it’s what you’re going to do. Tomorrow.”
“And what’s that?”
“Don’t have to thank me, but tomorrow the new, manly, atomic-serving you is playing the number one player at Stanford.”
“Why?”
“Why? To see if you’re ready for the Tour.”
“Unh, hunh. Look, William, I appreciate the initiative. I think. But I have to teach and earn money tomorrow.”
“I know that. This is on your hour off. Flint gave me your schedule.”
“My hour off is for lunch.”
“Not anymore. Besides if you’re going to lose twenty pounds, we are starting the training diet tomorrow.”
“Willy, go sleep this off. I think you’ve had too much Sauternes.”
“I may be drunk, but I know what I’m talking about. The tennis world is not going to know what hit it.”
“When what happens?”
“When Wally Wilson, sponsored by Wilson, hits the tour.”
“You’re drunk and crazy.”
“Crazy enough to quit my job and manage you?”
“You didn’t!”
“You wish. Not yet. So don’t get all giddy. I’m playing it slow. Let’s see how it goes tomorrow.”
After all the guests had left and he and Willy had cleaned up, Wally, still in his clothes, fell into a foggy, sauternes-addled sleep. Rod Laver the Dog was happily unconscious at the foot of the bed after his exhausting evening of hosting, socializing and being cut into thirds.
Soon after Wally fell asleep, he dreamed he was playing clay court mixed doubles with Ashley against Danielle and Donald. The ARD 10 commandoes served as lines judges and Flint was the chair umpire. The neat, bloodless, improbable thirds of Rod Laver the Dog filled the stands and applauded with their front paws or their back paws or else just sat there, depending on which third it was. And in the dream, it was a sunny day and Danielle’s forehand was just fine.
TEN
The dream went on its way and Wally awoke in his clothes on an overcast Tuesday morning to two houseguests, no spouse and a belligerent hangover. He was moving slowly and running behind, but fortunately, his two boarders bellied up to the bar and acquitted themselves like lawyers. Willy went out for a three-mile run with Rod Laver the Dog and Sophie scored envy and gratitude winners off of Wally for cooking a stealthy, healthy breakfast that the kids liked and never guessed was nutritious. Then again, if Sophie served it, Deuce might have scarfed used grip wraps or even Brussels sprouts. To close the point, Sophie drove Addie and an infatuated Deuce to The Atherton Academy in the Odyssey, and made them promise to be home right after finals.
Arriving at the Margincalls’ just in time to avoid a default, Wally took the court, optimistic that his teaching would be unaffected by his recent fits of uncontrollable strength. However, after knocking the wind out of his first student with a feeder forehand, he apologized, comped the hour, borrowed Brett’s ball machine and didn’t hit another teaching ball that day.
To his nine and his ten, he blamed his new, detached instructional approach on a chest injury and said he was confident he’d be hitting again soon. As a semi-saving grace, his eleven o’clock was Dick the VC, who didn’t notice anything anyway. Knowing that his clientele wouldn’t put up with a pneumatic hitting partner for very long, he made a note to get over whatever was jerking with his adrenal gland. He decided he was going to cure himself with power of the mind. One of Danielle’s older New Age books had recommended it.
Wally was still waiting for power of the mind to kick in, when he and a very well-exercised Rod Laver the Dog, went to meet Willy and the beta test opponent at the Stanford Varsity Courts. Wally thought the idea of actually going on tour was far-fetched and probably impossible, but his brother had been a convincing salesman and he was curious to see how he rated against a top-level college player.
William “Rypp” Strokes was the number one player on the Cardinal team. A crafty lefty with power on tap for the kick lap, Rypp was undefeated over the course of his playing career at LSJU. Now a senior, he had a legitimate chance to be the first player in NCAA history to win the singles title four years in a row, and an even money chance to make some hay on tour after he graduated from the Farm. As a Stanford man himself, Wally was eager to meet Rypp, wish him luck and experience playing against a future pro.
But plans change.
At the height of noon, Willy, gabbing non-stop at a petite young woman in a Stanford team skirt and top popped open the side gate. They stepped onto court one and she put down her bag. Wally’s upset stomach flipped a few more flops as it registered that this lithe, little marathoner was the opponent. She realized the same thing about the middle-aged, tanned linebacker in the Maurice Chevalier hat standing in front of her at about the same time. Confused, she looked him over warily, paused indecisively and then reached down and petted Rod Laver’s tummy.
“Great dog,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Rod Laver,” said Wally.
She looked up. “Like the Rod Laver Arena at the Australian Open?”
“Sort of.”
“You named your dog after a tennis stadium?”
Wally chuckled. “Even before he was a stadium, Rod Laver was a great Australian champion. Won the calendar year slam in sixty-two and sixty-nine.”
“So, he’s really old.”
“He was younger then.”
“Bro, I’d like you to meet Brittany Breeze,” interrupted Willy cheerfully. And then, with special emphasis, “the number one player at Stanford.”
&nbs
p; Wally shook her hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Brittany, I’m Wally,”
“Hi. Excuse me for saying it, but you’re old too,” she said.
“You got me there. Sands of time and all that,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound bad. It’s just, you’re not what I was expecting.”
“I understand. I’m a little hard to describe right now.”
So was this situation.
Though Willy had eagerly arranged this exhibition, Wally knew his younger brother still didn’t really have confidence in him and thought it would be less embarrassing for him to lose to a female player. Would it? Did his brother really think this one through at all?
Brittany tried to save the conversation.
“Free said you played for the team.”
“Yeah. Last century, actually.”
“With Rod Laver?”
“I wish. We might have beaten SC.”
“And he says that now you’re a teaching pro, but you have some disease that makes you a great player.”
“Sort of.”
“Well there is something wrong with you,” added Willy.
“Thanks,” said Wally.
“Brotherly love. That’s sweet. So, let’s get this over with,” said Brittany.
She glanced at Willy for guidance.
“So, how hard should I play?” said Brittany.
“Full out,” said Willy. Then to Wally, “right?”
“Yes. Full out,” said Wally.
Willy opened two cans of Wilson U.S. Open balls from a case he’d brought, and handed them to Brittany. “Alright, you and Bill Tilden want to get started?”
“Who?” said Brittany.
“Another old friend of my brothers’,” said Willy.
The warm-up was rocky like a road, and made the meet-and-greet look smooth and paved. Wally unintentionally hit every ball so hard that Brittany couldn’t return a single shot. And before they had even started, he nuked his strings and needed to change racquets.
So much for power of the mind.
Fearing a further descent into on-court chaos, Willy suggested they begin. Their match games were no more competitive. Wally hit an ace on every serve and a winner on almost every return. The few points Brittany made came from bad guesses or slow movement on Wally’s part. And seeing a potential money-syphoning weakness, Willy made a note to begin movement drills for his brother as soon as possible.
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