by Otto Penzler
“You don’t have to call me Mr. Masterson,” he said as he gripped his racquet. “Call me Chief.”
“Okay, Chief.”
“How’s zat?” Masterson brandished his racquet like a happy schoolkid, and Tom couldn’t help but smile.
“Nice grip, Chief. Let’s hit a few.”
“Great! Great!” Masterson said, elated. “Whaddo I do?”
So Tom sent his boss down to the baseline to practice a few swings, Keep your racquet face perpendicular to the ground, don’t break your wrist, and in no time Masterson was returning a few shots. The Chief did surprisingly well, hustling to meet the ball on the first bounce, his black topcoat and tie flying behind him, silhouetted in the squad car headlights. The ball cops scrambled constantly, since Tom had only three balls to work with instead of the usual basketful, and the Chief kept hitting them out of the crummy court, which required an assist from the entire Third District. Other than that, Tom began having fun.
Suddenly one of the police sirens screamed to life, and a uniformed cop from the Fifth sprinted onto the court, waving his arms. “Chief, it’s Action News! Hartwell picked up the newsvan on the Drive!”
Masterson blanched, as Tom’s volley whizzed past him. “Ticket him, for Christ’s sake! He hadda be speeding! They speed all the time! They’re Action effin’ News!”
“He did that already, that’s how he knows. Somehow they found out what’s going on up here. They’re on the way! They got cameramen!”
Tom halted, stricken, at the net. Oh, no. The press was on the way. They’d find out. It would be all over the papers. The TV. What would Masterson do? How would it make him look? And what would happen to Tom? Would he lose his job? No! Tom heard his tennis racquet clatter to the ground.
“Moran! Let’s go!” Masterson shouted, dropping his racquet, and they both sprinted for the court exit, which was when all hell broke loose. Steinmetz and the other ball police sprinted for their cars. All of the squad cars around the court were reversing out of line and taking off. It was every municipal employee for himself. Masterson and Tom reached the cyclone fence, panting raggedly.
“Chief, they’re leaving!” Tom said, panicky. “Can they leave?”
“They’re outta district. They don’t want to get caught.”
Tom looked at his boss in dismay. “But where are your people? Don’t you have people?”
“They’re at the governor’s party, stalling for me.” Masterson squinted over his shoulder in the darkness, and Tom followed his gaze. Wistar Plateau was an exodus of squad cars. At the bottom of the hill, Tom could see a bright white newsvan, and on top was a tall microwave transmitter. The newsvan! It was blocked by the squad cars, but after a minute, it bounded onto the grass and headed straight for the tennis court.
“They got us!” Tom said, hearing the fear in his voice.
“Screw ’em! We’ll make a run for it!” Masterson shot back, and took off into the darkness. The district attorney’s topcoat flew behind him like Superman’s cape.
“Run for it?” Tom said, running after Masterson in disbelief He couldn’t believe this was happening. Was he really running for it? “Run for it, Chief? Is that the plan? Is that the best we can do for a plan?”
“You got another idea?” Masterson snorted, as he puffed ahead. They left the gravel path, Tom sprinting right behind his boss, and plunged into the woods of the park, where Tom felt a craziness rising in his chest.
“I sure do, Chief.” Tom’s breath came in ragged bursts. “How about run faster?”
He started laughing, and the Chief laughed, too, but it vanished when they picked up the pace over a rocky ridge. It grew pitch black as the woods filled in, and the lawyers ran downhill, powered by momentum and fear. As they ran they raised their arms to shield their faces from the low branches. Their wingtips churned through the underbrush. Behind them came the slamming of the van’s doors, one, two, three, four.
“Uh-oh,” Tom said as he ran, and Masterson put on the afterburners impressively. Tom remembered the boss had played Big Five ball. Maybe they really could run away. He felt suddenly free. “We’re movin’, Chief!”
“DISTRICT ATTORNEY MASTERSON!” boomed a megaphone behind the lawyers. “ARE YOU THERE? WE KNOW YOU’RE THERE!”
“Holy shit!” Tom said, but Masterson only chuckled.
“Must be the big game!”
“DISTRICT ATTORNEY MASTERSON!” Another flashlight came on, then a third. “WE KNOW YOU’RE HERE! HAVING A TENNIS LESSON!”
Tom glanced over his shoulder as he ran. A circle of flashlight jitterbugged through the bare branches, casting around for the lawyers. “Chief, they’re right behind us!”
“Moran! Keep up!” Masterson tore down the slope, his breath labored. “Those pansy-asses haven’t got a chance! I’m a city boy! I necked on Wistar Plateau! I know this park like the back of my effin’ hand!” Masterson leaped into the air, expertly hurdling a fallen log, but Tom didn’t see it in the dark.
“Oh, no!” Tom wailed. He tripped on the obstacle, lost his balance, and flew face first onto the wooded path, hitting the ground with his chest. His nose landed in a pile of scratchy leaves. His ankle felt sprained. No! “My ankle! Shit!”
“Moran?” Masterson stopped on the path and came rushing though the underbrush back up the hill. “You okay? Moran!”
“My ankle is killing me! You’d better go ahead! I’ll slow you up!”
“No! Get up, Moran!” Masterson commanded. He grabbed Tom by his shoulders and tried to drag him to his feet, but Tom’s ankle throbbed.
“Go, Chief! They’ll hang you!” Tom felt in the darkness to see if his ankle was broken. He reached the log and his hand fell on something soft, like cloth. It wasn’t rough like wood, and Tom bent over, squinting in the darkness. He blinked twice. It wasn’t a fallen log on the path. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Tom found himself eye level with the wide-open eyes of another man.
“DISTRICT ATTORNEY MASTERSON!” boomed the reporter, the sound closer. The megaphone and the flashlights hurried down the ravine. “GIVE IT UP! WE KNOW ALL ABOUT IT! IT’S OVER!”
“Get up, Moran!” Masterson pulled at Tom. “What’s the matter with you?”
Tom’s breath remained lodged in his throat. He was too horrified to speak. The whites of the man’s eyes bugged out and they stared at Tom in the darkness. Unmoving, as if they were dead. Were they, dead? Dead! “Chief!” Tom squeaked. “Chief!”
“MASTERSON!” Suddenly a set of TV klieg lights came on, whisking the woods with hot white light, searching for the lawyers. “ALL WE WANT IS A COMMENT! WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THE VOTERS ABOUT THIS FLAGRANT ABUSE OF POWER?”
“Moran, let’s go!” Masterson said, finally yanking him upright, but Tom’s knees had gone weak from shock. Between Jell-O knees and a swollen ankle, he almost fell down again.
“Chief, it’s a… a… stiff!” Tom blurted out. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He had never seen a freshly dead body before. “Right here!”
Masterson yanked again. “What’s a stiff?”
“A dead body!” Tom whispered, horrified. He could see the corpse clearly now The man, a large man, was dressed in a heavy coat. A hunting knife protruded from his chest. His pallor was chalk. “It’s a dead man! Right here! In the woods! I tripped over the body!”
“A body?” Masterson grabbed Tom’s shoulders. “Did you say, a body?”
“Yes. A murdered body.”
“You’re shittin’ me!” Masterson said, and leaned over. Tom couldn’t place the sudden note of glee in his boss’s voice, but he almost fainted as Masterson straightened up and slapped him five. “All right!”
“MR. DISTRICT ATTORNEY!” the megaphone blared. Suddenly the TV klieg light found Bill Masterson and the body with its spotlight, and Tom watched in amazement as the scene unfolded before him.
Masterson stood protectively over the corpse, raising his arms. “No cameras!” he boomed, almost as loud as the megaphone.
“OH,
MY GOD!” The reporter was a stunned shadow in front of the klieg light. He lowered the megaphone. “Is there a body there?”
“Of course! What do you think we’re doing here?” Masterson scowled for effect. “I said, no cameras! Next of kin haven’t been notified! I don’t permit cameras on a murder victim before next of kin have been notified! And kill those lights!”
The TV lights went suddenly black. But not so black that Tom couldn’t see his boss’s smile. Tom felt a mixture of admiration and revulsion for the man. He whistled softly. “Jeez, Chief.”
“Lemme do the talking, altar boy,” Masterson said, with a chuckle that vanished as soon as the reporter approached.
• • •
Tom and Marie sat at the best table in the main dining room, before a roaring fire that wasn’t even gas-powered. Fresh white roses adorned each covered table, and the rack of lamb had been pink and perfectly juicy at the center. When the coffee arrived after dinner, it was just hot enough, and Tom had tasted crème brûlée for the first and last time in his life. His dessert loyalties would stay with apple pie and vanilla ice cream, but this restaurant didn’t offer that. It was a classy restaurant. Much classier than Tom could have afforded before he tripped over a dead body.
He poured Marie another glass of champagne, from a chilled bottle that stood in one of those freestanding ice buckets beside the table, then rewrapped the bottle in its thick cotton napkin and returned it with a flourish. “Pretty good for a kid from East Falls, huh?”
“Very good.”
They were celebrating. Tom had been only an hour late to dinner. He’d bribed the sitter to stay. He’d upgraded the restaurant. Plus he’d been assigned to try the body-in-the-park case by himself, and a promotion to the Homicide Unit was automatic. Even his ankle felt better. Life could be good, when death intervened. Tom watched as Marie’s pretty face disappeared behind her champagne flute, then reappeared when she set it. down. “Happy?” he asked.
“Extremely,” Marie purred. “You?”
“Absolutely.”
“Champagne is fun.”
“So are you.” Marie was smiling at Tom. She hadn’t stopped smiling at him all night. She had balanced his dinner conversation of defensive wounds and fingernail scrapings with chatter of stuffy noses and baby droppers, and somewhere inside it struck Tom that he needed his wife more certainly than he needed oxygen.
“I love you,” he told her, when the thickness in his throat went away.
“I love you, too, and I’m very, very proud of you. I think it’s wonderful that Masterson picked you for this new case. I told you he’d see, in time, how great a prosecutor you were.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Tom managed a modest smile. He didn’t feel great about lying to Marie. He hadn’t lied to her before, except once when she was nine months pregnant and had asked him if she looked fat. She’d been bigger than a courthouse, but of course he wasn’t going to say so.
Tom was an altar boy, but he wasn’t crazy.
A PEACH OF A SHOT
DANIEL STASHOWER
They have to turn back after two blocks because Jane has forgotten to hit the switch for the dog door. This has happened twice in the past three weeks. Franklin wants to keep going. “So he does his business on the linoleum,” he says. “It’s not the end of the world.” In the end she wears him down, as she always does, and he turns the car around.
He stands in the kitchen doorway with his arms folded. “Why do we need a dog door that has to be turned on and off, anyway? They don’t even have the simple decency to call it a dog door. A ‘canine entry system,’ if you please. Jesus. Like he needs a retinal scan or something to do his business in the yard.”
Franklin starts jingling his car keys while Jane freshens the water bowl and arranges the chew toys in a half-circle. “Is sweetums gonna miss Mommy?” she wants to know, straightening the dog’s collar. “Is sweetums gonna miss his mommykins?”
“Enough,” Franklin says, tapping the crystal of his watch. “You treat that mutt as if—”
Her look freezes him. He lets his hands drop. “I just meant that you treat him better than me. Can we get moving, please? Jarrett said eleven.”
Jane takes her leave of the dog and they climb back into the Taurus. Franklin drives hunched forward, with grim purpose. “Remember what I told you,” he says.
“The divorce isn’t final. I know. I’m not supposed to ask questions about the cupcake.”
“Kaylie. She’s a nice girl. Smart.”
“I’m sure she is. I have no doubt. In fact, that’s just what Alice was saying on the phone the other night, you know, when she finished crying her eyes out. Everything’s fine, she said. It’s twenty-three years of my life down the tubes, but it’s all right because the cupcake is a very nice girl.”
Franklin’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Please. These memberships don’t come up every day. You know how often these memberships come up? Never. This is a one-in-a-million chance. A real dipsy-doodle, Jarrett says.”
“No kidding? A dipsy-doodle? That’s so vivid! He’s partner material for sure!”
He doesn’t answer, and neither of them speaks again until they reach the front gates. Franklin, still trying to make up time, takes the first speed bump too fast. He hears something smack on the undercarriage and curses under his breath. Jane’s hands go out to brace herself against the dashboard. “Take it easy,” she says. “We wouldn’t be late in the first place if you hadn’t spent all morning in the bathroom. With that goop.”
He sets his jaw and guides the car over a second bump.
“I don’t know why you use that stuff, anyway. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“It’s called making a strong first impression. Putting my best foot forward.”
“What first impression? You see Jarrett every day. The cupcake, too, for that matter.”
He is trying to be reasonable. “Look, this is like an audition. A test drive, if you will. There are certain to be other members hanging around. Jarrett will introduce us. At the next membership council they’ll talk about us. About our suitability.”
“That Franklin Walbert seems to be a decent fellow. If only his temples weren’t so gray.”
His eyes go to the rearview mirror. “It projects a sense of strength and vigor. They want fresh blood.” He glances at her as he swings the Taurus into an empty spot. She is wearing her hair in schoolgirl braids, with bows of red yarn. She asked him once, years ago, if the style was too young on her.
“Just don’t mention the situation,” he says, flipping the door locks. “About the divorce. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“All right,” she says. “You’ve only told me about fifty times.”
Franklin pops the trunk and grabs the racquet bags. He turns and heads for the reception doors in a rolling, forward-canted walk, as if moving across the deck of a wind-blasted ship. Jane has to trot to keep up. “Hey,” she calls after him. “Slow down. You’re killing me with all the strength and vigor.”
Jarrett and Kaylie are waiting in the lobby. Kaylie is seated on a lime-colored banquette with her legs crossed, tugging at a white ankle sock. Jarrett is leaning against the far wall, which is papered in a dark tartan meant to suggest Turnberry or St. Andrew’s. Jarrett’s eyes dart to the clock over the door. The clock’s face shows a whimsical sketch of a drunken swell in a top hat and monocle, tripping over a sign that reads “Tee Many Martoonies.”
“Sorry,” Franklin says, shifting the tennis bags to extend his hand. “A thousand pardons.” He rolls his eyes at Jane, following several paces behind. “Had to check on the dog. I’ve told her a million times—”
“No problem,” Jarrett answers, with a note of forced geniality. “We’d better get right onto the court, though. They won’t hold it for us. Club rules.”
“Right,” Franklin says. “Of course.” He nods at Kaylie. She is cool, slim and elegant in a sleeveless knit dress with navy accents. Her bare arms are tan from a beach holiday. She sm
ells of coconut. Franklin introduces Jane with a detached, apologetic air, as though she is a last-minute replacement for someone more suitable.
“So nice that you could join us,” Kaylie says, as Jarrett leads the way out onto the court. “I hope you’ll have time for a drink afterward. They have one called a Tanqueray Topspin. You really must try it.”
“I have tried it,” Jane says. “Many times.”
“Have you? But I thought you weren’t—”
“With Alice.”
Franklin, walking behind with the bags, narrows his eyes and presses his lips together, the equivalent of a swift kick under the table.
“Oh,” Kaylie says carelessly, “then you know all about it.”
They are less than ten minutes late getting onto the court, but the delay gives a sense of hurry to the first few minutes of play. Jarrett suggests that they skip the warmup volley, though Franklin can tell that he’s already loosened up at the practice wall.
Franklin and Jane drop the first two games without scoring a point. Kaylie is quick at the net and has a long reach; Jarrett has a solid forehand but not much else. Her speed complements his power, but there is a curious formality in their play. They are at pains not to run into each other.
As the set progresses, Franklin and Jane begin to pick up their game. Franklin is a strong player, and made varsity in college. He hasn’t played much since, but he can still send a thunderbolt up the line when he gets his feet planted. Jane is sluggish and heavy-footed; she doesn’t address the ball so much as deflect it, as though trying to swat away a bothersome insect.
Franklin doesn’t mind losing, but he doesn’t want to look bad doing it. He begins coaching Jane from the baseline, in a voice loud enough for the others to hear. He wants to sound cheery and supportive, to show what a good sport he is, even when saddled with an inferior partner. He keeps telling Jane to cover her clay. “Watch it, honey,” he says. “Don’t forget to cover your clay.” He has an idea of how people are supposed to talk at a tennis club, and it seems to involve the use of phrases cribbed from Wimbledon announcers of the Rod Laver era. “Bravo!” he cries at one stage, as Jarrett sends a winner across the forecourt. “Peach of a shot!”