Vanishing Act (4 page)

Kelleher had not exaggerated about court 18 being at the far end of the grounds. They walked out of the press center, went past the practice courts, and crossed the plaza—Collins no doubt would have called it a piazza. The plaza was surrounded by merchandise kiosks. Just about every corporate name connected to sports seemed to have a place to sell its wares: Nike, Reebok, Adidas, and Prince were names that jumped out at him right away. There was a place where you could test the speed of your serve and another where you could buy “official” USTA merchandise. Stevie knew from his Final Four experience that that would be the most expensive stuff on the grounds. As they crossed the plaza, they could smell food straight ahead. Stevie saw a sign that said
FOOD COURT
. It was only eleven o'clock, but the smell of grilling hamburgers made him hungry. Below the arrow pointing to the food court were more arrows pointing people in various directions: stadium, Louis Armstrong, corporate village, practice courts. At the bottom one of them said
COURTS
10–18, guiding them to turn right and head away from the main stadium, which people were now starting to make their way into since the gates were open.

“That reminds me,” he said as they began picking their way through people to follow the sign leading them to the outside courts. “What's with Louis Armstrong?”

She sighed as if he had asked who Andy Roddick was. “When they first moved here from Forest Hills in 1978, the main stadium was named after Louis Armstrong,” she said.

“What does Louis Armstrong have to do with tennis?” he asked.

“Nothing. But the stadium was once used as a place for concerts. Since Louis Armstrong had lived near here, they named it for him. Before that, it had been used during the World's Fair….”

“Okay, fine, but what about the tennis played in there?”

“I'm getting to that. When they built the new stadium”—she paused and pointed over her shoulder at Arthur Ashe Stadium—“they took the upper deck off of Louis Armstrong”—she turned again and pointed briefly at a much smaller structure about a hundred yards from the main stadium—“and made it into the number one side court. It seats, I think, about ten thousand.”

“I have one more question.”

“What?”

“Is there anything you
don't
know?”

She smiled. “Yes. Why you never bother to know anything.”

The crowds thinned as they approached court 18. Most people were walking in the opposite direction from Stevie and Susan Carol. Court 18 was up against a fence that separated the tennis center from a local park. There was seating around it, but not much—two tiers of bleachers on either side of the court. Still, that was plenty of room for the crowd on hand. Stevie guessed there were fewer than a hundred people watching the match.

It was 2–2 in the first set when Stevie and Susan Carol quietly slid into seats on the bleachers. Evelyn Rubin was wearing a white baseball cap and had light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Stevie guessed she was about his height. She was already glistening with perspiration in the morning heat as she and Maggie Maleeva stood at the baseline blasting ground strokes at one another. Maleeva held serve for 3–2 and the two players walked to their chairs to change sides, no more than fifteen feet from where Stevie and Susan Carol were sitting.

Rubin sat down and took a long sip of water. She took her cap off and pulled the elastic out of her ponytail to reknot it, and for a moment her hair fell to her shoulders. She was close enough that Stevie could see she had enormous brown eyes.

“Wow,” he said, forgetting where he was.

“I told you,” Susan Carol said.

Stevie caught himself. He wasn't going to go breathless and give up his Andy Roddick advantage. He would at least save that for Symanova.

“She's pretty,” he said. “But she isn't any prettier than you.”

He couldn't tell if Susan Carol was blushing, because she had put on a cap too. “Why, Steven Richman Thomas, I do declare that is the
nicest
thing you've ever said to me.”

She was doing her Southern belle routine. He wished he had never told her his middle name. It was his mother's maiden name. “I try, Scarlett,” he said, smiling nevertheless as the players stood to resume the match.

They ended up in a tiebreak in the first set. Rubin was a lot stronger than she looked. She blasted her ground strokes off both her forehand and her backhand and was quick enough to chase down balls that appeared to be winners. Twice, she saved set points by racing into the corner to turn what looked like a Maleeva winner into a crosscourt winner of her own—once off the forehand, the other off the backhand.

“Your uncle wasn't kidding,” Stevie whispered. “She can play.”

“The only thing she can't do well is volley,” Susan Carol said. “But very few of the women can volley.”

Stevie nodded. Maleeva had no more interest in getting to the net than Rubin did. They both treated the area close to the net as if it was radioactive. In the end, Rubin saved a total of five set points and won the tiebreak, 12–10. Maleeva looked like she might cry—which reminded Stevie of something he
had
read once about the three Maleeva sisters who had played on tour. All of them, it seemed, had a penchant for crying when things didn't go well, so they had been nicknamed the Boo-Hoo Sisters.

As the players changed sides before the start of the second set, he mentioned the nickname to Susan Carol, who giggled.

“Actually, they were called Boo-Hoo One, Boo-Hoo Two, and Boo-Hoo Three,” a voice said behind them.

Stevie looked up and saw Brendan Gibson walking toward them, dressed in a snappy blue suit with a white shirt and a red-striped tie. The fancy getup looked out of place among the tennis outfits and the T-shirts and shorts that most people were wearing. Susan Carol was wearing a tennis skirt and sneakers. She fit right in.

“Uncle Brendan, why are you so dressed up in this heat?” Susan Carol asked.

“This is what's called the agent's uniform,” Brendan said.

“Makes the clients feel better that their agent cares enough to dress up. It also makes it easier for them to pick you out in the crowd so they can see that you're there to support them.”

“Well, in this crowd you won't be tough to pick out,” Stevie said, waving his hand at the hundred or so spectators scattered around them. Across the way, he saw another man in a suit. “Hey, is that an agent too?” He pointed at the suit.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Brendan Gibson said. “And he doesn't represent Maleeva. He's checking Evelyn out.”

“But don't you have a contract with her?” Susan Carol said.

“Yeah, I do,” Brendan said. “Which means exactly nothing to the competition.” He dropped his voice to a whisper as his client prepared to serve. “If someone thinks Evelyn's a rising star, they'll try to figure out a way to steal her from me.”

“Nice business,” Stevie said, remembering what Bud Collins had said.

The second set didn't take very long. Losing the long tiebreak seemed to take the heart out of Maleeva, who clearly had no interest in playing three sets against a teenager with boundless energy on a day that was getting hotter by the minute. Rubin won the second set 6–1, serving an ace on match point. She came off the court with a big smile, pausing to point her racquet directly at Brendan Gibson as if to say, “I did it.”

“Come on, I'll introduce you,” Gibson said. The three of them worked their way down to the side of the court, which was separated from the stands by only a low fence. There were two security guards standing on the court behind the umpire's chair. Stevie guessed one of them was there to escort each player through the crowds and back to the locker rooms. Clearly, no one thought that Maggie Maleeva or Evelyn Rubin needed much protection.

Rubin gathered her racquets and walked over to where Stevie, Susan Carol, and her agent were standing. Gibson leaned over the low fence to give her a kiss on the cheek. “What a great win!” he said, squeezing her very sweaty shoulder.

Rubin was glowing. “I know,” she said. “The first set, I was
so
nervous I felt like I couldn't hit a ball. But I knew if I kept her out there, she'd wear down. I think she's like thirty-two or something.”

“God, I didn't know anyone was
that
old,” Gibson said wryly. “Evelyn, I think you met Susan Carol Anderson in Charlotte. This is her friend Steve Thomas.”

The two girls shook hands, and Susan Carol offered her congratulations. Evelyn Rubin then turned to Stevie with a smile so bright Stevie almost blinked. “It's so nice of you guys to come watch me play way out here on this back court,” she said. She swept her hand around the bleachers. “I guess the good news is you didn't have any trouble finding a seat.”

She had one of those flat Midwestern accents in which the word “back” became “be-ack” and “fact” became “fe-act.” Stevie was hypnotized by her smile.

“You played so well today, I'll bet there will be a lot more people watching the next time you play,” he said.

Gibson jumped back in. “Evelyn, a couple of reporters told me they wanted to talk to you if you won,” he said. “But I don't see them out here. Can I call you on your cell when I track them down?”

“Oh sure,” she said. “I'm going to shower and eat something, so I'll be here awhile.”

She turned back to Stevie and Susan Carol. “I hope I see you guys again soon.” They all shook hands once more, and she began walking to the court exit, the security guard a half step behind her.

“And you thought I was bad with Roddick.”

“Hey, she's pretty and she's nice,” Stevie said. “Should I not like someone who is pretty and nice
and
can play?”

“Oh, Evelyn, I just know there will be more people watching the next time you play….”

Stevie smiled.

“Okay, Scarlett,” he said. “We'll call it deuce.”

4:
NADIA SYMANOVA

THE MEDIA
center was packed by the time they made the long walk back.

“Lunchtime frenzy,” Bobby Kelleher said when they found him at his desk. He had just finished a phone call.

“So, what's the scouting report on Evelyn Rubin?” he asked. “I saw the end of the match on one of the TV monitors. I see she made Boo-Hoo Three cry.”

“Stevie's in love with her,” Susan Carol reported.

“I am
not
!” Stevie said. “She can really play, though. Great ground strokes and she's fast.”

Susan Carol was grinning. “
And
a beautiful smile.”

“An older woman, huh, Stevie?” Kelleher said, smiling. Without giving Stevie a chance to respond, he gestured at the TV screen propped on the corner of his desk. “The match before Symanova out on Armstrong is just about over. If you guys want good seats, we probably ought to walk over there.”

“Do we have time to eat something?” Susan Carol said.

Kelleher shook his head. “No. It's packed in the cafeteria right now. If you want to eat, we probably won't get into the press section.”

“I'm not that hungry,” Stevie said.

“That figures,” Susan Carol answered, rolling her eyes.

“Bud wants to come too,” Kelleher said. “In fact, he might have a sandwich or something—he's always carrying food. You guys can grab a soda on the way out.”

Kelleher turned out to be right. Collins was more than happy to offer up a choice of sandwiches. Stevie and Susan Carol each grabbed one and quickly disposed of them. They grabbed cups of Coke and made their way back outside. The temperature had gone up at least ten degrees and the number of people appeared to have doubled. Kelleher led the way, with Stevie and Susan Carol behind him and Collins, hat pulled low over his head, right behind them. Even with the cap, people were constantly screaming Collins's name. He answered everyone but kept moving, his hand on Stevie's shoulder to make sure he stayed close to him.

“Gotta keep moving!” he said. “If Nadia's boyfriend isn't there when the match starts, she'll be very upset.”

“Where? Who?” everyone kept asking.

“Right here in front of me,” Collins would reply. “Young Steven Thomas. Don't you read the tabloids?”

Given that Symanova was three years older than Stevie and about a half foot taller, the notion of them as an item was pretty outrageous. But such was the power of Bud that few fans seemed skeptical. One woman wearing a tennis dress even asked Stevie for his autograph. “Not right now,” Collins said. “After the match. He's got his game face on.”

They made it to the entrance and walked under the stands to the far side, where a small sign with an arrow said
MEDIA SEATING
. They went up a short flight of steps and came out in a section that was almost directly behind the court—which was empty at the moment. Apparently the prior match had ended. The stands were almost full and there were no more than ten seats left in the media seating area, which Stevie estimated had about a hundred and fifty seats.

“Just in time,” Kelleher said.

A security guard stood at the top of the steps checking badges. He gave Stevie a skeptical look and twice looked at the photo on Stevie's badge and then back at him. Having been through the same sort of thing at the Final Four, Stevie said nothing. When the guard went back for a third look, Kelleher couldn't take it. “You can look at the photo a hundred times and it's going to be him,” he said. “He's working with me. He's legit.”

“Whaddya think, workin' with you makes the kid legit?” the guard said in one of those unmistakable New York accents. “I'm just doin' my job here, okay?”

“Fine,” Kelleher said. “Are you done doing your job now?”

“You want I should just throw youse bot' out?” the guard said.

Before Kelleher could respond, Collins, a step behind Kelleher, jumped in. “Fellas, fellas, let's all be friends here,” he said. “Mr….?”

“Shapiro,” the guard said. “Max Shapiro.”

“Max, nice to meet you,” Collins said, shaking hands with the guard as if they were long-lost friends. “This is Bobby Kelleher. He's the leading tennis writer in the country, and this is his assistant, Steven Thomas. They're just like you and me, here to see Symanova. No one wants any trouble.”

Shapiro eyed Stevie and Kelleher for another moment. “Okay, Bud,” he said. “Seein' that it's you, okay. But the kid don't look older than thirteen.”

“Well, they do get younger-looking all the time,” Collins said.

That seemed to satisfy Max, who moved aside. Stevie heard someone several rows up shouting Kelleher's name.

“Kelleher, right here—I was about to give up on you guys!”

Stevie looked in the direction of the voice—which was very familiar—and did a double take. It was Mary Carillo, the CBS tennis commentator who he knew also worked for ESPN. His dad had told him on more than one occasion that if his mother ever ran off with George Clooney, the first person he would pursue was Carillo.

Carillo had black hair and big brown eyes. Her distinctively deep voice sounded exactly as it did on television. She was wearing a collared white shirt and shorts, and Stevie was surprised at how tall she was when she stood up to greet their group. It looked to him as if she and Susan Carol were about the same height. He had never thought of her as tall, but then he had only seen her on TV.

“The love of my life,” she said, throwing her arms around Kelleher as they walked up to greet her. “Only for you and Bud would I have fought off the masses to save these seats. Who've we got here?”

Kelleher introduced her to Susan Carol and Stevie. “I can't tell you what a big fan I am,” Susan Carol said. “I love listening to you talk about tennis.”

“Learned it all from the master,” Carillo said, hugging Collins. “Right, master?”

“You never needed to learn a thing,” Collins said. “You were born knowing everything about tennis.”

Stevie, feeling a little bit left out, heard himself blurt, “My dad thinks you're hot.”

Carillo laughed, a musical laugh that was filled with joy. “Thank you, Stevie,” she said. “I will take that as a compliment. And tell your dad thank you.”

They all maneuvered into the seats Carillo had saved for them. Others were right behind them searching for seats in the fast-filling media section.

“How soon?” Kelleher said, settling in between Carillo and Stevie.

“They announced players on court to warm up at two o'clock,” Carillo said. “I've got one fifty-five. Hey, did you see the Rubin kid beat Boo-Hoo Three? She could play Symanova in the third round.”

“Didn't see it,” Kelleher said. “But Susan Carol and Stevie did.”

“What'd you think?” Carillo said, turning to Stevie as if they were peers.

Feeling quite expert, Stevie said, “Well, she's very good from the back of the court, but she doesn't volley at all.”

“Sweetie, no one volleys in women's tennis,” Carillo said in a tone that somehow didn't make it sound like a put-down, even though he knew she was right.

“We haven't had a true serve-and-volleyer since Martina,” Collins said.

A murmur ran through the crowd and Stevie saw a TV cameraman backing out of the tunnel that was right in the middle of the stands across from the umpire's chair. A moment later, a security guy came out onto the court followed by a short, dark-haired player carrying an enormous racquet bag who Stevie knew had to be Joanne Walsh, Symanova's opponent. Stevie knew nothing about her other than what he had seen in the newspaper that morning. She was twenty-four years old and ranked ninety-sixth in the world. The paper had referred to her as a “veteran,” which in women's tennis meant anyone over twenty-one. A second security man walked right behind Walsh.

Stevie realized he was standing up, craning his neck for a view of Symanova. Walsh kept walking across the court to the players' chairs but the cameraman remained poised just outside the tunnel, waiting for Symanova. Stevie waited. So did everyone else.

“Where is she?” Susan Carol asked. The crowd was beginning to buzz. Walsh had reached her seat and was unzipping her racquet bag. Still no one else came out of the tunnel.

“Maybe she stopped to check her makeup,” Collins said.

Kelleher laughed. “There is that little bathroom right off the court.”

“Yeah,” Carillo said. “Remember when this was the stadium court and Lendl used to jump in there and change so he could go straight to the parking lot without going back to the locker room?”

“We used to call him Ivan the Unshowered,” Collins said.

The buzz was growing. There was still no sign of Symanova. Walsh was now standing, holding her racquet, looking up at the umpire. The umpire had put her hand over the microphone and was leaning down to talk to Walsh.

“This is now officially getting strange,” Carillo said.

“Check this out,” Collins said, pointing in the direction of the tunnel.

A gaggle of security men came sprinting from the tunnel—Stevie counted one, two, three, four, five of them—followed by two men in blazers, both of them barking into walkie-talkies.

“Uh-oh,” Kelleher said. “Something's up, something big-time.”

“She must be hurt,” Collins said. “But how do you get hurt walking over to the court?”

“Tripped on her stilettos?” Susan Carol asked.

“She's wearing sneakers!” Stevie said, thinking that was a dumb comment until he realized she was being sarcastic. “Nice, she's hurt and you're making jokes.”

“Calm down, Stefano, I'm sure your betrothed is fine,” Collins said, smiling.

The new group of security men had gone directly to Walsh and spoken to her. Whatever they said, she walked quickly back to her chair, zippered her racquet back into her bag, and began walking back across the court with no fewer than eight blue-shirted security men surrounding her. Seeing this, the crowd began whistling—the tennis equivalent of booing.

“Walsh is leaving,” Stevie said. “Symanova must be hurt.”

Kelleher was shaking his head. “If she's hurt, what's with all the security people around Walsh? Something's up. Come on, guys, we need to get out of here.”

“Now?”
Susan Carol said.

“Yup,” Kelleher said, “right now.”

He pointed at the two walkie-talkie guys who were talking intently to the umpire. “Soon as they make an announcement, all hell is going to break loose here. We need to get moving so we don't get trapped in the stampede for the exits. Come on.”

“I need to stay,” Carillo said. “I'll see you guys later.”

“I better stay too,” Collins said. “You young guns start chasing this down.”

Kelleher shrugged and made his way to the aisle. Stevie kind of wanted to stay too, but he trusted Kelleher's instincts. Susan Carol seemed to agree, because she was standing, ready to move. The three of them started down the steps while others in the media section were standing up and consulting with one another. They bolted past Max Shapiro and down the steps leading under the stadium. They were under the stands and sprinting through an almost empty concourse when they heard what had to be the umpire's voice on the PA system. She wasn't calling out any score.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to announce that the scheduled match between Joanne Walsh and Nadia Symanova has been postponed until a later time.” Stevie could hear groans and shouts coming from inside as the umpire forged on. “More details will be announced when they become available. Thank you for your patience and indulgence.”

Kelleher turned to Stevie and Susan Carol, shaking his head. “There's
nothing
in the rules about postponing a match. If she's hurt, she defaults. Something crazy's going on here.”

They made it out onto the courtyard between the two stadiums. There were security people and police all over the place, blocking the most direct path back to the main stadium. When a security guard stopped Kelleher, he held up his media badge. “We're media,” he said. “We have to get back to the media center.”

“I don't care who you are,” the security man said. “You can go through the food court like everyone else and you'll get there eventually. This area's frozen right now.”

Stevie could see two cops right behind the security guy, ready to back him up. People were being herded from the area very quickly by security and police, all of them being pushed toward the food court. Kelleher could clearly see this was an argument he wasn't going to win—even if Collins had been there.

He took one swipe at getting something accomplished. “Can't you at least tell us what in the world is going on?” he said.

One of the cops answered, stepping in front of the security guard. “Here's what I can tell you, pal: if you don't get moving right now, you're going to jail. How's that for telling you something?”

Stevie could see Kelleher redden a little and bite his lip. He turned to Stevie and Susan Carol. “Come on,” he said, pointing them toward the food court. The good news was that because they had beaten the crowd out of Louis Armstrong, they were able to maneuver their way through the food court fairly quickly.

“I'm not sure who is worse to deal with,” Kelleher said when they finally reached the other side and were back within sight of the entrance to the media center. “The security guys are just rent-a-cops, know-nothings given a little bit of authority. The cops know what they're doing, but they see a media credential and it's like waving red at a bull.”

“Why is that?” Susan Carol asked.

“It's just a natural adversarial thing,” Kelleher said. “Sometimes cops help reporters, but they also like to remind you they're in charge whenever they get a chance.”