Break Point Down Page 15

  The morning mail had brought a bombshell. ROCA, the athletic gear manufacturer which had made persistent overtures to him, coolly informed him that they had reconsidered. Upon further thought and in view of recent notoriety, they no longer considered him commercially attractive, and were withdrawing their contract offers. Period.

  The vice president who'd posed for pictures with the champion at every opportunity couldn't be reached. A representative of the advertising department had no light to shed on the message. They were simply no longer interested. No, he didn't know why, but it really didn't matter. They'd signed other athletes. Perhaps if he decided to resume his career—

  He slammed the phone down and paced around his study trying to wear off angry energies. The signing of a contract was supposed to be a mere formality, and they'd had extensive discussions of his future responsibilities with the company. The anticipated income from the commercials had factored heavily in the budget he'd worked out for the coming year.

  Laura showed no intention of claiming her daughter in the near future, or providing any sort of security for her if she moved back home, so he couldn't consider playing even one major. Rick had already tried again to get him interested in Wimbledon, but he was wary now of his old agent, and had abruptly told him to quit trying.

  An insurance agent informed him that his homeowner's insurance policy contained a clause excluding vandalism, so the damage was cash out of his pocket. Just how much cash turned out to be a shocker. How had he ever taken money for granted? In the mail that week he'd received his tax assessment. Property taxes had not figured in his calculations, and the amount was staggering by his present standards. The cash supply left from his tennis career was shrinking almost as fast as his patience.

  Could he pull out for a semester and earn some money somewhere? His ventures into the job market so far had not been encouraging, but he‘d had many sponsors. If ROCA reneged, others might be willing to work with him. Might be worth a try. Meanwhile, finals were coming up and he needed to get his grades back to where they'd been.

  The junior high school had called again, this time because Kari was skipping school. He'd been dropping her off because she hated the bus, and he'd watched her go inside. What was he supposed to do, take her by the hand and walk her to class? What was it with that girl? The attendance principal was unmoved. She was legally required to be in school. How he got her there was his problem.

  After dinner that night, he brought it up.

  “I was there,” she said reproachfully. “They take attendance early, and I have to come all the way from the third floor west for second hour. I can't make it that fast.”

  “Then speak to your teacher and ask to be counted present.”

  “They don't care.”

  “Kari, they tell me you haven't been to those two classes for a week. I asked if you were late and they said you hadn't been there at all.”

  “You're always ready to believe the worst of me,” she charged, her voice trembling. “You think I am just a little slut who lies and cheats and—”

  “Kari, you know better. Oh come on, don't cry. I don't think anything like that.”

  “Everybody else does,” she sobbed.

  “No, they don't.” He reached over and stroked her hair.

  “I hate this school. Everybody acts as if I have a disease or something.”

  “They just don't know you yet, Kari. You came late in the year. These kids have known each other for a long time—”

  “It's been almost three months.”

  “I know. Well, chances are you have to change again. We may have to sell this place and move into something cheaper. I was thinking of the north side of town. The neighborhood isn't too bad and it's close to the edge of town. We could have a yard for Thor.”

  “Are we broke?”

  “Pretty close. But don't worry, I'll get it under control. For now I just can't afford the fees and taxes on this place. It's expensive because of the frills—you know, the workout rooms and the tennis court and the rec rooms and all that. There's security and landscaping and they charge you for all that.”

  “Security was a big help when this place got trashed.”

  “Yeah. Well, we've got some money, but if we stay here, we'll run out pretty soon.”

  “Great.”

  “Try to get to class on time, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  He was relieved that she took it so well. Being told about another change in her life night have set her off. He dropped her at school the next day and drove to campus at leisure. As he turned off the freeway, a beat-up red truck pulled alongside and scraped the side of the Bronco. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, blasting the horn and jumping on the gas to pull ahead, muttering something about the lax standards of the people who handed out driver's licenses.

  The truck roared behind him and now rammed him from the back, throwing him into a skid. Fighting the wheel, he heard tires screech as he whipped into a defensive turn, but the heavy truck struck him hard in the left rear bumper, flinging the Bronco sideways and exposing the passenger's side to his pursuer. He had just moments to brace himself before the doors were hammered by a drum roll of hard hits from the truck's front bumpers, and two wheels of the Bronco clung to the pavement as it hung over the embankment. For a moment it teetered on the edge, then lurched back onto the road and crashed into the truck's side, ripping off its rear fender. With a speed which seemed unlikely for the ancient colossus it veered on screaming tires and came at him head-on, jarring the Bronco loose from the asphalt and throwing it several feet before it rolled two, three times and came to rest on its side halfway down the slope.

  Kitt's head smacked against the side window, and it took him a moment to orient himself. The smell of gasoline invaded his nostrils, and he yanked in vain at the jammed seat belt. From his backpack stashed behind the driver's seat he retrieved a folding knife and freed himself. The window on the passenger's side of the car was smashed in, but the door was bent and offered no way out. He climbed over the seats and pounded the hatchback open far enough to crawl out.

  Cars stopped and the siren of a police car chanted a monotonous wail from somewhere in the distance. His head hurt and he felt dizzy, but nothing seemed broken. The truck was nowhere in sight. Voices above him yelled at him to run. Behind him he heard a whoosh as the Bronco burst into flames, and he could barely claw himself through the wet grass up the slope in time to escape. Now that it was over he was shaky.

  A voice somewhere up near the road asked him if he was all right, and several hands grabbed his and pulled him up the embankment. Two officers jumped out of a police car. In the driving rain sizzling steam rose from the wreck below.

  “You hurt?”

  “Couple of cuts. I'm all right.”

  “Someone hit you?”

  “Smart guess. Rammed me till I went over.”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “An older Ford truck, full size. Reddish. Oversized bumper. Tore off the right rear fender.”

  “Could you see who was driving it?”

  “Not much. The windows were dark.”

  “Age, sex, description?”

  “White male, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “He didn't introduce himself.”

  “Witnesses?”

  No one came forward. This would come to nothing. A lot of huffing and puffing, and in the end they wouldn't know a thing. After a while, the officers drove him to a bus stop, and with a sigh he climbed aboard.

  The insurance agent was a few shades off sympathetic.

  “I‘m sorry, Mr. Buchanan, but we have sent you notices in the mail. Your policy expired months ago. You passed the grace period in November.”

  Had he seen any bills from the insurance company? He'd never taken care of this sort of stuff in his life. Several bills had been overdue, and he'd learned a thing or two about late fees, but for the life of him he didn't remember seeing anything about the car
.

  He called Jeff, who was back in town, and he said something about the bill probably getting lost. They had always come to his office, which was now closed.

  “Isn't your mail forwarded?”

  “Oh sure, it's my fault again.”

  The condo would have to go sooner than he'd planned. Put it on the market right away, and start seriously looking for a job. Anything left that he could sell? His trophies? What would anyone want with them?

  The Lyon trophy was gold and could probably bring in some money. He searched for it in the storage room till he remembered he'd donated it to a charity to raise money with. He couldn't bring himself to sell the two Olympic gold medals. Would the furniture sell for anything? It might bring enough for a used vehicle and some cheaper stuff for whatever place they'd be living in. Not the piano—please not the piano. Not until things were a whole lot worse. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Buchanan. You could've been dead.

  Some good news came in the form of the approval for next year's student loan. It was a relief to know that was taken care of for now. At the urging of Dr. White he also applied for a scholarship, although he felt humiliated at having to ask perfect strangers for money.

  “You've sent dozens of people through school,” Dr. White told him. “Now it's time to get a little of it back.”

  He was in a bad mood when he arrived home and found a message from Danny. “Stopped by. Back about six.”

  Danny was in town? He was supposed to be in England preparing for Wimbledon. He'd been ousted in the quarters of the French Open a few days ago. The red clay of Roland Garros was Danny's best surface, and with Kitt out of the way, he should have won it. Kitt had watched the TV screen in frustration as Danny double-faulted his way out of the final set. You had days like that, days when you couldn't buy a clean shot. The trick was to find a way to win even when your serve was off, your volleys went into the net, and your feet were glued to the ground. Danny had lost his temper at a few bad calls, and he wasn't one who could get mad and make it work for him. You had to learn to go with it, not let these things get to you.

  So Danny had come back to the States before going to England. Not smart. He should have taken the extra days and spent them on the grass courts, fine-tuning his grass game. He fixed dinner of sorts, and Danny showed up around six thirty.

  “Smells good, what is it?”

  “Spaghetti à la Chef Boyardee.”

  “Better than the French cuisine.”

  “How come you didn't go straight to England?”

  “You want me to split, right?”

  “Right. There's a grass court south of town. Wanna practice tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  On the court the next morning Kitt felt strangely relieved to find that he was still in excellent form, at the same time troubled that it should matter. Danny asked what happened to his Bronco, but Kitt blew it off.

  “Totaled it. Uninsured driver.”

  “So what are you doing about a car?”

  “Oh, I'll be looking around for something.”

  They played another set and drove home in Danny's rental car. Kitt fixed a couple of sandwiches and a bowl of soup. Danny didn't comment on the For Sale sign in the window.

  “Kitt?”

  “What?”

  “How about coming back to the tour? I know what you set out to do, but everything seems to have gone against you. You could earn big money.”

  “And quit school. And leave Kari.”

  “You got to think of yourself. School would still be there a year from now, two years from now.”

  “And Kari?”

  “Kari is not your responsibility. She has parents.”

  “Yes—Daddy climbs in her bed and Mom's worried it will get her kicked out of the snob club. Which one would you like me to send her to?”

  “She could be in foster care. You're not even twenty-five and raising a teenager. You can't do all that and get through school and make the money to do it.”

  “I can't think about going back now.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I am getting a student loan, and I'm applying for a scholarship, and I'll do what ninety-nine out of a hundred people do when they need money. Get a job.”

  “What can you do?”

  “I've made appointments with some of the places where I had contracts and endorsements. Something will turn up.”

  “They want active athletes in their commercials.”

  “So I'll do other stuff. I can be a consultant. I can work in the warehouse, I can be a truck driver. I don't care.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes before Danny spoke again.

  “I'm buying you a truck.”

  “No way.”

  “Don't be an idiot. You know the kind of money we make. You've given lots away. You paid my way when I was hurting.”

  “I can get myself a car. It may not be what I've been driving, but it'll get me there. Thanks for the thought.”

  “No, listen to me. I thought I'd come here and have you coach me between tournaments, and I'd pay your school expenses. It's a good trade.”

  “Since when do you have to pay me to hit a few balls? You know I'll train with you any time you want to come here. It's just as good for me as for you, helps me keep up on my game.”

  “Your brother ripped you off and you know money doesn't mean a lot in our line of work, not when you get where you and I are. So cut the crap and let me pay for your school for now. You can call it a loan if it makes you feel better.”

  “No. I will make it. Quit worrying about me.”

  “What kind of friend am I that you can't let me help when you need it?”

  “I don't need it, Danny. I'm not broke yet.”

  “You are too pig-headed to let anybody help you. MacPhie tells me you wouldn't let him. Delaney has tried. Dimitri wants to chip in. So what's the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that I got myself into all this and I'll get myself out.”

  “Don't be expecting any medals for that.”

  “Thank you, I won't.”

  “Kitt, I'm going to tell you something. I'm buying a car and put your name on the title, and then I'm going to park it in front and drop the key in your mailbox. That's what I'm gonna do.”

  “You're not. Because I'll take it back and send you a money order for the full amount. I don't want charity, got that?”

  “You mean I can be your friend so far and no farther, is that it?”

  “I mean I don't need any more people telling me I can't make it on my own.”

  “Who's saying that? All I want to do is buy a truck. The insurance company would have done it if you hadn't been dumb enough to let the policy lapse.”

  “So I was dumb.”

  Danny walked to the door.

  “You can be a real jerk, you know that?”

  He slammed the door behind him and a few moments later Kitt heard the rental car tear down the road at warp speed.

  Later that night he found a message from Wynne on his voice mail. Answer it? Ignore it? With a sigh, he punched in her number, and almost immediately regretted it. She wanted him to meet some of her friends. A couple of CEO's, she said. Some of the better people. Dress right and act like he was interested. They'd be willing to sponsor him on the tour. After an angry exchange he told her not to call back and slammed the phone down.

  Had they ever done something he'd suggested? She'd come and gone at her convenience, told him what to wear, how to act, and who they'd meet for dinner. She'd displayed him for her friends and cheered him from the stands, well aware of the TV cameras that repeatedly zoomed in on the socialite girlfriend of the number one player in the world. They'd agreed on nothing of importance. He'd sought a soul mate and become a trophy.

  No reason to blame her. Wynne had never made a secret of what she wanted. His fame, his body. He'd known she wasn't for him every time she'd tried to seduce him and everything in him screamed “No!” She was a beauti
ful woman, and in her way she was very fond of him. Had he ever been in love with her? The question contained the answer. So all it had ever been was a tradeoff. A gorgeous woman ready to give him all, to open up for him a world of glamor and adoration and pleasure, and he'd said no, time and again. She'd been moving toward closeness as he'd moved away. Who was he that he would not connect? Was he bound to expend the wealth of love within him on a little girl and a dog?

  Solitude had always been a comfort, but this was loneliness. With his support reduced to an occasional call from MacPhie, Delaney, or Dimitri, and Kari fighting him at every turn, he worked his way through semester finals without the enthusiasm of his first months. Most of his interviews with commercial companies didn't lead to much, but a racket manufacturer sounded promising. He'd been sympathetic and said a position might open in about a month. Somewhat hopeful he told them he'd call back in a few weeks.

  June was a month of nostalgia. Last year at this time he'd been playing on the grass courts of England, preparing to win his tenth Wimbledon title, blissfully unaware of the storms gathering momentum. Danny was in England now—maybe he should call him. Instead, he sent a stiff and stubborn-sounding note of apology. There was no reply.

  “Nice one, Buchanan,” he said to himself as he ran the trails with Thor, struggling with the loss. “Like you can afford to lose friends.”

  What had possessed him to tear into Danny? It had cost him the best friend he'd ever had. They were all gone now, one after the other. Mateo, Jeff, Danny. Even Dave and Zack and Les and Rick, who'd been on his team once. Wynne. Laura. Who was left?

  When the broadcasts began, he found himself unable to watch. No point in underlining today's failures by dwelling on past triumphs. But Danny made it to the semifinals, and he changed his mind. Before it started Jeff called, and he sounded desperate.

  “I have to see you,” he told Kitt. “I know you hate my guts, but I have no one else.”

  “Where are you?”