Mid-way through the match, Brittany stopped Wally on a changeover. “I was wrong. You’re not old, you’re old and out of control.”
Then she smiled for the first time.
All in all, it was hardly a test of tennis and simply looked either violently medieval, or a lot like the serve, point, switch ends Wimbledon finals of the nineties. They stopped by mutual consent at 6–0, 4–0 when the last of Wally’s frames broke and the seventy-two balls Willy had brought either popped or died. As Brittany flinchingly shook hands, she softened her assessment some and gave Wally what could have been considered a vote of confidence.
“Those pricks on tour deserve you. Go squash ‘em!”
Willy quickly explained, “Brittany had a tough relationship with a player.”
“Yeah, he was definitely a ‘player’,” she said. “Anyway, you did pretty well for an old guy with a rare disease.”
Yeah, and a drumming circle jamming in my head, thought Wally.
“Thanks, Brittany,” he said.
Wally and Willy both apologized for the matchup and Willy sent Brittany away semi-happy with six new frames and two boxes of new shoes. Once she’d left, Willy dropped his professional sales rep veneer and hugged Wally, shook his head and exhaled an amazed laugh.
“What the forehand was that? You beat up on a girl!”
“Yeah. Thanks for setting me up.”
“Number one player, as promised.”
“Unh, hunh. You know, that went badly.”
“It sure did. What happened to you, bro? I thought you were a gentleman.”
“I can’t help it.”
“That wasn’t a negative, by the way. Brittany was right. You’re perfect for the tour.”
“That was thug ball,” said Wally.
“Same thing they said about Roddick. Now everyone plays that way.”
“Is that a recommendation?”
“I just mean, it’s okay to play full out.”
“But that’s just it. I’m not. I could hit harder.”
“Shut the Forecourt!”
“I’m serious. Those were second serves.”
“This is so sick. Alright, bro, next time, I’m bringing a radar gun, because those serves were like NASCAR.”
“Next time? Did it look like I was having fun?”
“Fun? Does Andy Murray have fun?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Exactly. Who cares about that?”
“Uh, me?” said Wally.
“Bro, I know you can’t teach when you’re playing like this. And you need the work. This is your answer.”
“Beating up on collegiate coeds?”
“Okay. My mistake. I didn’t have enough faith.”
“And now?”
“We’ve got a dream draw. Let’s kill it.”
“That’s getting a little ahead of things, don’t you think?
“Not at all. You are the next stage of tennis evolution. Homo Slammus. Everyone says the modern game is all about power. They haven’t seen power.”
“What about artistry?” said Wally.
“That’s for Project Runway.”
Willy impulsively hugged his high earning-potential older brother again.
“You could get so sponsored for this.”
“I’m sponsored now.”
“No, not just gear. Money. And not just from tennis, either. Your appeal would be broad and deep.”
“You mean, old and spreading out at the waist.”
“Sure, put it crassly and ruin a feel good moment. But guys in your demographic–”
“It’s your demographic too.”
“Hey, I’m still in my forties, don’t forget.”
“Barely.”
“Barely’s better than almost. Anyway, old guys spend. Especially on sports where old guys like them are winning. Think Connors in ‘91, Watson in ‘09, Norman in ‘10. Whatever those guys were pushing, it was selling.”
“Yeah. Fine. Look, I’m hungry. What do you say, Carlos’s for burritos?”
“No, my brother. Today it’s turkey sandwiches. My treat.”
“No way.”
“You mean no turkey sandwich?”
“No. I mean, you’re treating?”
“Well, at Whole Foods, with your debit card treating.”
“But I’m really hungry. I need a hot lunch.”
“Look around you. The top players today are all about leanness, flexibility and agility.”
“I think I’ve heard this before. Did you talk to Dr. Fleischman?”
“Take del Potro.”
“You did.”
“He’s six-six –”
“I know. Two-fourteen. William, that’s not me.”
“It will be. Starting today. Better diet. No booze. No sugar. No caffeine.”
“Will I still be allowed a conjugal visit?”
“And movement drills.”
“I’m not going to be a navy SEAL.”
“Those pussies. Of course not. No, you’re going to be an ATP pro. Maybe this’ll help. I read that Pete Sampras had the same turkey sandwich every day.”
“Okay, let’s say I want to do that. We still can’t make every change at once. Let’s work into it. How about starting with one burrito and one turkey sandwich and I’ll gradually cut back.”
“I guess, but don’t you have to get back to the court in any case?”
“I’ve got time. My one and two cancelled. I think they heard I’m using a ball machine.”
“Carlos’ it is. Let’s get this party started.”
ELEVEN
A quiet May afternoon in Atherton usually meant only one thing. Wally Woodrow Wilson wasn’t making any money. And this afternoon, it was quiet in Atherton. After lunch, Wally had unthinkingly driven the window-challenged Mustang straight to the Margincalls’ court. He didn’t need to be there, but with nowhere else billable to go, he stayed and swept up every leaf, checked each ball for bounce, felt density and sphericity, and dusted and shined the ball machine. Then he sat his chunky fundament on a courtside bench, waited for his late afternoon lessons and fretted about everything.
Dr. Fleischman had warned him not to worry, but how do you stop worrying when things were worrisome?
His younger, thinner brother, Willy wasn’t worried. He was back on Cloud Avenue, happily making calls about his and Wally’s joint and several futures. Willy believed in making the call before someone else did, even if he didn’t always have a plan for the call when he called.
Willy’s younger, thinner girlfriend, Sophie wasn’t worried either. She was getting a much-needed spray tan re-boot at a local applicator and then she was off to the gym for some employment-critical body sculpting. Like Gary Player, Sophie was convinced that luck did equal preparation plus opportunity and wanted to be ready for her Schwab’s moment, when it came. She also firmly believed that the move from “actress” to actress was only a mall-sighting away.
But Wally believed that it was time to worry. And he was worried – about money, among other things. Earlier that day, his budget-salvaging jumbo cashout re-fi ex machina had stalled like Congress at an air show.
Ken the mortgage broker had called promptly that morning as promised and enthusiastically and politely took Wally through the impressive array of reasons he and Danielle couldn’t take advantage of the historically low interest rates and restart their mortgage. Looming above all the other pertinent and pressing reasons was The Reason. Because they were self-employed, Wally and Danielle were stated income, paperless borrowers. More simply, loan lepers. They had never submitted tax returns or most of the other forensic evidence for their various home loans over the years. They had in fact just put down whatever income figure their mortgage broker told them to. He ginned up the forms, they got the loan and never missed a payment. But now, suddenly, lenders wanted honesty. And disclosure. And substantiation. In short, impossible standards for the self-employed. In the current climate, Ken helpfully went on to explain, unless Wally and
Danielle could ditch all of their debt and whip out some convincing paperwork, they wouldn’t qualify to re-fi their tool shed, if they could afford one or the tools to put in it.
Ken then thanked Wally sincerely for his interest and reminded him that he was always there to help them and their friends, should any of them with jobs, W-2’s, vested 401K’s, perfect credit and no debt since the dawn of the Open Era need a broker.
Wally met with this same gracious intractability from five other brokers. And this was indeed a difficulty and an obstacle. It was the kind of thing that made reasonable people worry on a sunny afternoon. Wally and Danielle needed money for tuition, money to hold them over while UThere.com started up and money to tamp down their monthly burn rate. If they didn’t grade and level their unruly financial landscape, they were going to have to sell the house on Cloud. Which was fine in a way; homes in Menlo Park had stayed above the bailout waterline. But if they did sell, where could they go? They couldn’t qualify for another mortgage. Ken had magnanimously said so. A few different times and ways.
The financial industry was saying to the Wilsons, bail yourselves out, you reckless, risky gamblers, you. We won’t float the fish when your chips go cold.
What advice did Dr. Fleischman have for this?
Wally did some back of the lesson plan computations, and they didn’t compute very pleasingly. With Danielle earning next to nothing even when she wasn’t a hostage, and absolutely nothing now, his slow season about to hit and their checking and savings accounts as dry as a boiled-out Caphalon stockpot, he was going to have to start selling stuff to raise some money. And they didn’t have much stuff. Some stock. A svelte retirement account. A couple heirlooms. Totaled up, only enough for two or three months. If they lived like Susie Ormond.
Insufficient funds indeed.
Wally was getting tired, maybe from the hangover, or maybe from his beta bout with Brittany. But whatever the reason, the negative thoughts piled on and put him in a submission hold. The situation was so bad, it seemed like a sign or a trial. Another of Danielle’s books had said that at times like these our angels were testing us on something we needed to learn. Okay. But was the test, true / false, multiple choice or more likely the dreaded essay question? And what was the test about?
Four days ago, Wally thought he was completely happy and contented with his life. So, what did he need to learn? How to be unhappy and discontented? He wasn’t sure he could manage that. Strangely, or perversely, even with everything that had happened in the last few days, he was still basically happy. So, maybe he just didn’t get it.
Or maybe his angel had some other lesson in mind for him. Come to think about it, once this training regimen and the Willy diet began, Wally was pretty sure he’d be unhappy then. He loved food. He loved wine. He loved dessert and dessert wine. Was this all about that?
Or maybe his angel had two percent body fat and wanted to teach him about forbearance, deferred gratification or targeted body mass index. In short, all the things that made meals and life virtuous, barren and boring. It was like being a Prius.
Still, despite his resistance and utter lack of faith in the concept, there was a part of him, the old, competitor part from his ‘80’s past that welcomed Willy’s idea of playing against the TV pros. A kind of poetic symmetry, or something. Plenty of playing pros had gone on to be snarling, disillusioned, lousy teaching pros. That was a classic story. Look at most any resort or academy, where the preening pedigree gave the lesson with mirrored eyewear and a condescending indifference. But no teaching pro had ever gone the other way. And become a snarling, disillusioned, lousy player. This was different. He was different. Yes, he was. Maybe even different good.
But who was he kidding? No one his age had a chance on Tour, certainly no one with all the exclusions in his policy. Even with the triple XL serve. Willy was rubbing off on him. He was just deluded.
The sun, the burrito and the turkey sandwich, giving up coffee, the lack of receivables, all were pushing his pause button. Rod Laver the Dog was out in doggy dreamland, twitching and breathing happily. With nothing unworrisome to think about and the negative thought-train railroading his initiative, Wally fell into a mid-spring day’s daydream. In it, he was striding out onto a stadium court, shouldering a twenty-two racquet bag and a bland, practiced expression on a hot, sunlit day in a big event against a big opponent. He was feeling the crowd. Feeling the adrenaline. Suppressing his self-consciousness as his every move was scrutinized, detailed and reported. Poetic symmetry was tingeing the whole encounter. Teaching pro turned playing pro. Thug ball smashing back thug ball. The next evolution mugging the previous one. Taking the big stage on a hot, sunlit day.
A hot, sunlit day.
He’d though of that twice. Why?
Well, that’s where tennis was played. On a court, in tennis clothes, with two guys in Nike warm-ups wearing fake Federer masks, on a hot sunlit day.
And then he got it. It wasn’t a dream, it was a deduction. He knew right then that he knew something.
He wiped aside the daydream screen and picked up his cell phone to call Agent Flint. But before he could finish digiting the digits, he heard Flint’s voice. In person. And close.
“Mr. Wilson?” said Flint, sliding out with Agent Steel from behind a large Richard Serra metal sculpture.
Rod hadn’t heard them coming. He was tired.
Wally was really only a little surprised. “Agent Flint?”
“Our tracking system works on your cell phone GPS, I’m happy to report.”
“Good to hear.”
“By the way, I think Michael Stich’s doubles partner is sunbathing bottomless over by the pool.”
“That’s right. It’s Tuesday,” said Wally absently.
Flint couldn’t imagine why that made a difference, so he continued. “I think we have a lead.”
“I’ll bet you do,” said Wally.
Wally smiled. He felt so smart. “It was sunny, wasn’t it?” he said to Flint.
“Yes, it was sunny,” said Flint, impressed.
Wally smiled. “But not in Switzerland.”
“Not at eleven pm.”
“So, they’re not there?”
“No. We think they’re here. In the U.S.”
“Close?”
“Very. A tax bracket away, in fact. Want to come with us?”
“I’d love to.”
Wally cancelled his remaining two lessons and woke Rod Laver the Dog. They followed Flint and Steel into the Suburban caravan.
This was much better. One thing made sense. One orb was spinning solidly. His angel was dancing on the head of a pin.
After ten agonizing minutes of legal top speeds, the Suburbans turned left off of Woodside Road at Robert’s Market, where they sold a sweet, tractable marinated flank steak that Wally probably couldn’t eat on his new 300 diet, and then heaved around the winding, expensive curves of Mountain Home Road.
The first section of the drive was shaded by eucalyptus trees and occasionally broke through into views of the brown California foothills, interrupted by broad, green oaks and incongruous pine and redwood groves. The next section was exactly the same, except for the heavily-modded white BMW M3 in the opposite lane, snipping the bends at track speed. Wally was just glad it wasn’t one of Addie’s friends.
Looking at the surroundings, you could understand how if you filmed it right, and photoshopped in a detail here and there, this patch of Woodside could double for parts of Switzerland. The elevation changes. The grand houses. The big, Teutonic conifers. With some competent post-production work, Woodside could even credibly masquerade as Lake Geneva.
As they passed through either the sixth curve or the seventh, past the country manors with their horse barns and tennis courts, they came to the one house everyone in the area knew – Larry Ellison’s Japanese compound. However, no one passing by actually saw the house. Only the guardhouse and the gates were visible from the road. They jutted out iceberg-like, hinting shrewdly and sard
onically at the inexhaustible, feudal glamour hidden behind them. These two data points were the only evidence of the place from the road, but they reinforced the lore of its construction.
The twenty-three acre estate, modeled after the residence of a 16th century Japanese emperor had taken the better part of a decade to complete and only embellished the Ellison mystique and mystery. Not that he needed any topical mystique enhancement. Larry Ellison, CEO of Oracle, was the object of a range of appraisals and emotions – revulsion, admiration and fascination. A keen, impetuous collector of trophy houses, trophy wives and trophy trophies, no one would be surprised if he someday bought a country or an island.
But for Wally, Larry Ellison was the object of gratitude. He was a tennis fan. An avid one. So avid that he had purchased 50% of the BNP Paribas Open tennis tournament in Indian Wells in 2010 and saved it from relocating to China. Every California tennis fan owed him a debt of gratitude, or at least a little slack for his eccentricities. So what if he flew his MIG 29 under the Golden Gate Bridge now and then? He had saved a big event in a country losing tournaments faster than Dinara Safina.
At the moment, though, hard as it might be to believe, no one was interested in Larry. They were interested in Larry’s neighbor. Like Wally, Flint had figured out that the nine-hour time difference made it impossible for Danielle to be Skyping with them during the day from a sunny tennis court in Switzerland. His agency studied the film and concluded that she was actually in the same time zone. From there, Google Maps closed the aperture. Then satellites then pinpointed activity at this house. And now, here they were. At another compound on Mountain Home Road in Woodside.
And Danielle was there.
Wally had fewer Jason Bourne fantasies than most men his age. But that didn’t mean he had none. He preferred the books, missed Carlos the Jackal in the movies, but thought that they did get the third film right. Matt Damon was finally old enough to play the character. And there was something to be said for being an older guy. You had credibility. Or at least you looked weathered. And Wally had that down. He didn’t think he was Bourne, but he was intrigued to find out that he was as smart as a federal agent. From some agency or other.
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