Sudden Death (10 page)

Of course, Sunny Days, the company that manufactured Carmen’s endorsed clothing line, would eventually discover that a bogus line was being sold at discount stores. But by the time they would find the parasite company—not an easy task—and then try to prosecute, huge profits would have been made and Miguel and his Hong Kong buddy would have discontinued the line. Sunny Days would be furious but the American legal system being what it is, it would probably cost Sunny Days so many hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees that they’d settle out of court if the false line was removed. Of course, if Sunny Days did prosecute, the entire garment industry would benefit. However, it was unlikely that Sunny Days would set a legal precedent so that their competitors could profit from it. It was still every man for himself in the garment business.

Miguel was sure that there was no way he could lose. Carmen didn’t need to know any of this. Why should she? Her attention span was short; business would only distract her. She needed to concentrate solely on tennis. The more she won, the more clothes Miguel would sell.

As for her signature on the loan agreement, Miguel would merely forge her name.

C
hicago hung on Lake Michigan like a glittering choker. The snow reflected off the buildings and lights gave the city an extra dimension.

Harriet, Carmen, Miguel, Jane, and Ricky were staying at The Tremont, an elegant, small hotel off Michigan Avenue.

Ricky held a light lavender tie next to a pink Oxford-cloth shirt. He was a man unafraid to look dashing. Mustard pants and a navy blazer would complete the outfit. As he stood there in his Jockey shorts, Jane admired his legs. True, she’d seen those legs for years, but she still found them appealing. Ricky Cooper, short of stature, was a man who attracted women. His sophistication, tempered with a genuine affection for people, made him a popular television commentator. Offscreen, he had his moments of irritation and worry, but such moments were few.

Jane frightened many men because she was so strong. In Ricky, she met her match. It didn’t hurt their relationship that she was a knockout. If Ricky was jaded by the availability of his female followers, he had only to look at the constant trail of men hunting down Jane to keep on his toes. By now, both knew they could have just about anybody they wanted. They wanted one another.

The first day Jane met Ricky, six years ago, he swaggered over and whispered, “You have beautiful eyes.”

“Can’t you think of anything more original?” came the tart reply.

No woman talked to Ricky that way. Jane Fulton could care less that he was a man about town, a world traveler, and a television personality. He was a dude on the make and she was bored. Stung, he wanted to win her affections simply to prove he could. All the old ploys were used. Flowers were sent first. They were sent right back to him. He tried phone calls, notes, and candy. He went so far as to hire a high school band from Philadelphia to file into the
Inquirer
and play John Philip Sousa marches. Jane hated John Philip Sousa. This dragged on for months. Finally, getting nowhere, Ricky hopped the Metroliner to Philadelphia and waited for her to leave work. She was leaving with a date. Undaunted, Ricky walked up to her and said, “I’ve tried everything. Nothing works. Okay, so maybe I do lack imagination. I’m worth knowing anyway.”

On the spot, Jane disengaged from her date. She and Ricky ate in a tiny Italian restaurant that was her favorite. They closed the place down. It had taken Ricky many flowers, candies, and one high school band to learn to deal with Jane as a person, but once he learned it, he never regretted it. They were lovers from that night on. In a year they married.

Once Harriet asked Jane if she ever thought she could divorce Ricky. The question came after one of their fights. Jane fired back, “Divorce, never. Murder, yes.”

“What time is it?” asked Jane.

“Time for both of us to get to work.”

Jane, forlorn, waved good-bye to his Jockey shorts and the riches therein. “Damn.”

Ricky zipped his trousers. “If all the girls would finish their matches in forty-five minutes, we might not be too tired.”

“Wouldn’t Siggy Wayne shit a brick?” Jane relished the thought of Siggy, sticking to a sponsor like a leech, feverishly
explaining that most opening rounds were interesting. Most opening rounds were boring as bat shit, and the public knew it. That’s why they didn’t show up until the semifinals and the finals. As good as women’s tennis was, it still did not have the depth the men’s game possessed.

“Siggy Wayne has the personality of a gargoyle.” Rick knotted his tie. He decided against a tie tack.

“If I had to sit around with local sponsors, I think I’d get weird myself.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready for another week on the Tomahawk Circuit, a small pool filled with man-eating sharks.” Jane grabbed her full-length silver fox and sailed out the door on Ricky’s arm.

“Hey, creep,” Jane saucily called to Harriet, who was picking her way around the empty seats, moving down toward the practice court.

“Creepette. I’m too little to be a creep.” The two embraced. “Where’s the best-looking man on the women’s circuit?”

“Who could you mean? Let me guess. Seth Quintard just flew in from New York City. No? It must be Siggy Wayne, world’s perfect ectomorph. I’m running out of men.”

Harriet linked her arm through Jane’s. “How’s our last choice?”

“Fussing. You know how he is the first day of a tournament. He has to inspect everything. He never has gotten over that time at the U.S. Open when he broadcast two sets without sound.”

“I still say some angry female player cut the cables because her side wasn’t getting enough coverage.”

The two friends stood at the net to watch Carmen and Beanie Kittredge practice. Carmen waved to Jane from the backcourt.

Beanie’s Aussie accent boomed out, “Hey, bitch, you getting any?”

Jane answered in perfect mid-Atlantic tones, “Beanie, I hear you put a yellow yield sign over your bed.”

Carmen fluffed a ball. “No fair. Save your best lines when she’s in her backswing.”

Jane dutifully waited until Beanie’s wrist was laid back for her murderous forehand. “Beanie, what’s the definition of a macho woman?”

Beanie kept her eye on the ball. “I don’t know.”

“One who kick-starts her vibrator.” The ball rocketed off Beanie’s forehand toward the lights.

“Old joke!” Carmen called back.

The laughter thinned as Happy Straker, Alicia Brinker, and Susan Reilly walked by on their way back from a practice court on another level. Only Alicia waved a hello.

“An ulcerous presence,” Harriet whispered to Jane.

Jane shrugged, “Assholes have to live, too. After Billie Jean King, Virginia Wade, and all those oldies but goodies, Susan came along and saved women’s tennis. It was all Susan until Page Bartlett Campbell, Tracy Austin, and Martina Navratilova showed up. So she deserves her accolades.”

Susan steamed through the locker room in search of fresh tennis balls with Happy and Alicia still in her wake. The three planned to go back out and work on lobs even though they had just finished a grueling practice. Happy Straker and Alicia Brinker endured one another’s company because Susan would have it no other way.

When Alicia looked at Happy she shuddered. She swore Happy took steroids because no woman could look that bad and be all woman.

In the best of situations, a new lover lacks charity toward the jilted lover. The jilted lover is usually seething with hatred.

It was a no-win situation for Alicia and Happy, but Susan benefited by having one docile lover and one eager doubles partner.

Happy replaced her soggy socks with a fresh pair. “You should ignore Harriet Rawls. You know Susan doesn’t like her.”

“Harriet never did anything to me.” Alicia sat stoically.

“Susan feels she’s a bad influence on the tour.” What Happy didn’t say was Susan thought that about everyone who didn’t succumb to Susan’s charisma.

“I never said I liked her. I don’t see any reason to be rude, that’s all.”

Happy moved a step closer to the seated Alicia. “When you love Susan, her enemies are your enemies. Her friends are your friends. Why don’t you do what she says? You’ll last longer.”

“Why didn’t you last longer?” That arrow sunk up to the shaft. Alicia had some life to her, after all.

Happy lowered her voice. “Susan tired of her toy.”

“Señor Knipe, you know my sister is besieged with offers.” Miguel larded on the Senñr bit when he talked to Americans. The more he acted like a gaucho, the better they liked it. It was the year sportscasters discovered the words “awesome” and “relevant.” Miguel decided to be an awesome and relevant South American.

“Yes, but it’s for a good cause.” Mr. Knipe headed Chicago’s Easter Seal campaign.

“No doubt, but if Carmen helped out everyone who asked her, think what would happen to her game.” He reassuringly patted the downcast man’s arm.

“Won’t you talk to her?”

“Of course, of course.” Miguel’s voice oozed understanding. “I’ve heard, Mr. Knipe, that you own a British Leyland, uh, what would you call it, franchise.”