Break Point Down Read online

  A used car was a new experience, and not a happy one. But the ancient Suburban with its bad gas habits beat the smaller new cars with their glaring bias against people six feet six inches tall. Jeff had refused to ride with him last summer because he was embarrassed to be seen in the rust bucket, but Kitt didn't care as long as it got him where he wanted to go. That last, Jeff had pointed out, was never a sure thing.

  His first awkward visit to the jail had been a fiasco. Jeff, mortified and angry, had pounced on the convenient target. It had become ugly and depressing, with Jeff doing the old blame dance, and Kitt hadn't even pointed out that pro tennis or no pro tennis, the IRS would have caught on. It was useless to reason with Jeff in his poor-me mode. He'd said little and surreptitiously inspected the surroundings which enveloped him with a numbing grayness. Their visit was supervised, no physical contact. Not that he wanted any.

  He tried to nonchalantly talk about the visit, but Kari closed up at the mention of her father's name, and he backed off. Neither one wanted to know the other existed.

  One thing she enjoyed doing together was watching Danny's matches on TV. A flashback? This was safe ground, and he was glad to answer her questions. They were excited that this year Danny had broken through and won the big one. If Danny had beaten him, would he have felt happy for him? He'd never know now. If he hadn't bowed out nearly a year ago, he might have been the one with the trophy, the applause, the check in an amount most people would take ten years or more to earn. He'd be going to Davis Cup pretty soon, and to France and Germany, and maybe the Orient. Living in hotel rooms and giving interviews and training and planning strategy. But he'd stepped down, and Danny was stepping up, and if he could have picked anyone to inherit his spot at the top, wouldn't it be Danny?

  The U.S. Open was over and Kitt, in utter frustration, had watched Danny lose in the round of sixteen to a qualifier he'd never heard of. Had Danny asked himself what the broadcasters were saying out loud, if he'd won that one major because Kitt was no longer in his way? The sports writers openly suggested that the Wimbledon trophy had been a fluke, a lucky draw, a few bad days for the top guys. Kitt was furious. The next day he called Danny at home in Florida, where he was practicing for Davis Cup. He sounded surprised.

  “Got your wire at Wimbledon. Been all over since. You know how it is. Anything new?”

  “Jeff's in jail. I suppose you know.”

  “I just heard. You guys must be having a hard time.”

  “We're okay. I meant to call you sooner, you know, about the last time.”

  “Oh.”

  “What I wanted to say was—well, I was wrong. So I'm sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was being a jerk.”

  “Forget it. I shouldn't have kept at you. Anyway, let's just put it behind us.”

  “You were great at Wimbledon. That was a real breakthrough.”

  “The field is wide open now. Without our number one man there.”

  “You deserved that win. Your grass court game was all there.”

  “Wish I could have kept it up. Summer was pretty good, but I bombed at the Open. As it is, Wimby may be my only Slam ever.”

  “No it won't. You can do it.”

  It felt good. Danny was going to stop by for a couple of days after he came back from South America in a few weeks. Maybe by then he'd have some good news of his own—the job with TEN-PRO, something positive happening with Jeff maybe. And with Kari.

  He passed her bedroom door and to his surprise it was ajar. Her music was turned up loud. Little Kari, he thought. Giggles and Disney videos and diamond dust. Only now it was hard rock and depression and him for a father. Peeking in, he saw that she had fallen asleep, knees drawn up against her chest, arms tightly around them, her body coiled in self-protection. He tiptoed in to cover her with a blanket, but she flew upright, startled, her eyes dark with fear as she snatched the blanket out of his hands, covering herself.

  “I'm sorry. Your door was open and I thought—”

  “It's okay,” she said, recovering herself. “You just startled me.”

  “Didn't mean to. Well, good night then.”

  “Good night.”

  He shut the door behind him and heard her lock it from the inside.

  Tess, he thought. He had to talk to Tess.

  The sentencing hearing was brief. Jeff offered nothing in his defense and his attorney agreed to waive readings of the verdict. The sentence was ten years.

  Disbelieving, Kitt listened to the proceedings. Jeff seemed impassive, as though he didn't hear. On his feet to hear his sentence, he stood slumped and absent, his face pale and somehow flat. He did not react beyond a nervous twitch at the corners of his mouth, and his fleeting glance at the attorney Kitt had hired for him and then at Kitt laid the responsibility squarely at his brother's feet.

  As far as Kitt could tell, the attorney had done a creditable job. Of course, Jeff would always believe the prestigious firm he'd wanted would have got him off, but no one could have argued away the mountain of evidence and the stacks of paper that documented his deceptions. The outcome had never been in doubt.

  “Ten years?” Kari asked incredulously when he told her the news. “Ten years? I'll be twenty-three. He'll be fifty. He'll be old.”

  “With good behavior it isn't going to be that long,” said Kitt, and almost immediately regretted it, because she looked disturbed.

  “How much time do they take off?”

  “I don't know. Maybe half or so.”

  “That'd be five years,” she mused. “I'd be eighteen.”

  She wants him in jail for the whole ten years. She wants him out of her life. Why the preoccupation with how old she'd be when he got out? Was she measuring herself against the woman she would be in five or ten years? Scouting out a new match? He could almost read her now. At twenty-three she'd be a match for him, she'd feel empowered. Even eighteen would seem adult. In charge. Free to say no. Free of Jeff.

  Dear Lord, those prison walls were her salvation. She had her haven in that room back there, a safe little spot to curl up in with her denial and her pain and her fear, where she could dream up the life she wished she still had. Mom would love her again, and Dad would be her hero. No one came into that room at night to assault her, and no one in the daytime to tell her she needed to talk and tell and accuse. She could cover that raw gash till the scab fell off. The same walls that locked Jeff in could lock him out, for ten long years.

  I'll be thirty-five, he thought. Or thirty. It seemed a lifetime away.

  When he came back from registration he was a sobered individual. Tuition, lab fees, books. What was keeping TEN-PRO? Don't look too eager in a business deal, Jeff had always said, so he'd been careful not to let them know how desperate he was for the money. He was having second thoughts.

  Phone calls didn't speed things up. On impulse he stopped at the campus employment center, scanned the bulletin board. People actually worked for that kind of money? Did the guys who cleaned the locker rooms at the tournaments support themselves on ten or twelve bucks an hour? And these job offers were for only a couple of hours a day, not enough to make a dent in his expenses.

  An exhibition then? One of those events he used to fight about with Jeff, where you got a wad of cash just for showing up, with the play as predictable as junk mail? Right about now, though, a quick hundred grand or more would come in handy. He wouldn't have to leave for more than a day or two, not at all if he could arrange it not too far away. If anybody still cared to see him play now that he'd been out of the business for a year.

  Exos would be a compromise, but now he was talking survival money. Talk to Rick about it? And start that whole thing all over again just now that Rick seemed to be getting the point? He swallowed his pride and called his former agent. Rick listened carefully, and Kitt knew he wasn't fooling anybody. Rick knew he was broke.

  “Let me see if I can pull something off, Kitt. Calendars are probably pretty crowded. But we might find you s
omeone to play. Are you in any shape to give'em a match?”

  “Been working out. Of course I am rusty in match play, but you always said I was far enough ahead I could lose a little advantage and still win.”

  “I'll get on it.”

  That he hadn't thought of that before—a one-time performance, nothing that would interfere with taking care of Kari or with his studies. This could see them through several years. Better tell Kari—she'd be relieved. But Kari was late, and as the evening wore on and she didn't show up for dinner and missed her curfew, his exhilaration was replaced by worry. Where was that girl this time?

  A telephone survey of the hospitals did not turn up any unidentified teenagers, and he reluctantly called the police to check on fatal accidents. The officer did not seem to appreciate his concern.

  “A teenager staying out late is not a crisis,” she told him in a voice that carried no hint of urgency. “She'll probably show up pretty soon.”

  “You don't understand. She's been through a lot of trauma—”

  “If you really think she is missing, check with her friends. Any chance she's run away?”

  The question jolted him. Kari, run away? His voice lacked conviction when he told her there was no chance whatsoever of that. Since the sentencing Kari had changed. He'd expected things to ease up, but it seemed like the opposite had been happening. Still, she wouldn't have run.

  But when he hung up he couldn't shake the thought, and almost against his will he went into her room. Everything seemed normal. Clothes strewn about, the CD player on the floor by the bed, no signs of anything missing. Her overnight bag was in the closet. She certainly hadn't packed anything. He rummaged around, looked under the bed.

  What a slob that girl had become. Dirty clothes were under the bed, and a couple of towels. When he pulled them out to throw them into the laundry, a few unopened pop cans fell out. Annoyed, he picked them up, then frowned as he took a better look. Beer. With sudden suspicion he got on his knees, reached under the bed, and retrieved two full six-packs.

  “Oh no,” he said aloud, and the discovery made him feel weak in the knees. Slowly, he let out his breath, and sat down on the bed. Not Kari. Please don't let it be true. She couldn't be drinking.

  A noise startled him and he looked up to see Kari standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing in my room?”

  He recovered himself quickly.

  “What are you doing out at midnight?”

  “I lost track of time.”

  “So it would seem. Would you like to explain these?” He held up the two six-packs.

  “So now you're spying on me!”

  “I was not spying on you. I didn't have any idea I'd find something like this.”

  “Yeah, right. You just went in to see if I had written myself a note telling me where I was going.”

  “For all I knew you'd fallen asleep!”

  “Under the bed.”

  He was annoyed to find himself on the defensive.

  “Stop stalling, Kari. I want to know what you're doing with alcohol in your room.”

  “It's just beer.”

  “Beer is alcohol, and it's against the law for you to have it.”

  “You don't trust me.”

  “What are you doing with all this beer here? Have you been drinking?”

  She was indignant.

  “If you must know, I am not drinking! This belongs to a friend.”

  “And what is it doing here?”

  “He had it in his car when he drove me home and he thought he might get stopped because his front light was broken. And if you're under age and they find beer in your car—”

  “So your friends drink?”

  “Some of them. I don't judge them for it.”

  “What about you?”

  “Of course not. You don't think much of me, do you?”

  He felt somewhat reassured.

  “Oh, come on, Kari. In my place you would have thought the same thing. If your friend is worried about beer in his car, that's his problem. What were you doing in a car with a kid who drinks, anyway?”

  “He hadn't been drinking.”

  “You're not supposed to be dating.”

  “It wasn't a date. He just gave me a ride.”

  “And what about tonight?”

  “What about it?”

  He tapped his watch.

  “We were studying together. I didn't notice.”

  “Kari, I want to know where you are, and I want you home on time.”

  “Okay.”

  Later, he wanted to kick himself. Once again she was getting off easy; just a lecture she didn't listen to. He should have done something, grounded her or whatever. Was it true that the kid had pawned the beer off on her? It must be; how would she have come up with that story on the spot? Some older kid who was using her. Expecting a traffic stop and playing it safe. That's the kind of people she was hanging out with these days. Have a talk with her about it.

  Talk indeed. That's all he ever did. The ritual. She broke the rules, he talked. She mouthed off, he talked. She burst into tears, he talked. And she kept right on breaking those rules and mouthing off and bursting into tears when the talk became too uncomfortable. He was sick of talking. Sick of listening to other people talk. Jeff, who talked his guilt away, and Laura, who talked about all she had lost, and Kari, who talked about how rough she had it, and Rick, who talked and talked about the glorious rewards life would hold if only he went back to playing tennis. And the voice inside, that kept saying what he was going to accomplish in this life, and then copped out with an exhibition match.

  The coach of the Montrado U. tennis team collapsed on the courtside chair, sweat dripping down his face, his shirt clinging to his body.

  “I should know better than to play you. This is brutal.”

  Kitt grinned. It had been an easy match but still a good workout. He'd deliberately held his serves so they could get into some rallies, test his reflexes. He didn't need a partner to practice his serves.

  “Don't forget I did nothing else for ten years. Experience helps.”

  “Talent doesn't hurt, either. Not to mention six foot six. I still don't get you.”

  “What's to get?”

  “Quitting the pro tour. You haven't played a professional match in a year and you could walk out there tomorrow and win a Slam.”

  “”I wouldn't bet on it.”

  “I would. Oh, I know I'm not the kind of opponent you're used to, but I know tennis, and you're as good as ever. I can't imagine walking away from that.”

  “You ever think of going pro?”

  “Used to. Now, I'd like to coach on the tour. Got a couple of feelers out.”

  “Who'd you like to coach?”

  “You. Easy money.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I am serious. But I'd start with some minor leaguers, work my way up. Who knows, when another Kitt Buchanan comes along I'll be ready.”

  “Got a family?”

  “Divorced. Got two kids every other weekend, vacations.”

  “The tour's rough on families. You're always gone when you coach a top player.”

  “I know. But she could move across the country tomorrow. She married a guy who's on the move. New York, LA, that sort of thing.”

  “If my recommendation will help, let me know.”

  During lunch they discussed Kitt's routine before the exhibition he was hoping to play. Rick figured that around November or so he'd get his chance.

  “Hey George, you want to sort of help me out for a little while, get me ready for a good match?”

  “Thinking of going back?”

  “No, no. Just that exo. The kind of money they pay would put me through school. I want this kept quiet, though.”

  “I can keep my mouth shut. You'll look good on my resume.”

  “I'll have to pay after the exo.”

  “Quite all right.”

  MacPhie and Delaney took him and Kari
to dinner the next time they were in town, and afterward they visited for a while at Kitt's home. Kari was in her room, studying to the accompaniment of numerous decibels of hard rock, and he had to ask her again to turn it down.

  “Parenting business getting to you, Kitt?”

  He grimaced.

  “I know what they say about walking the floor with a baby. But it sounds easy.”

  “Any end to this in sight?”

  “Don't think so.”

  Delaney nodded.

  “You said something about a contract when we talked last month.”

  “I was dealing with TEN-PRO. They set a date to sign the contract. Now they act like we've never met, never talked, never had any contract discussions.”

  “Sounds fishy.”

  “Yes, but I have nothing in writing. Same thing happened with ROCA. I've never been in on negotiations. Is this normal in business?”

  “I don't think so. I wonder what's behind it.”

  “A guy there told me they like to work with active athletes and my name on their rackets doesn't mean anything when I'm not playing. And my negatives didn't help.”

  “What negatives?”

  “He mumbled something about the tabloid crap, and Jeff. But those negatives were there when we first talked. It didn't seem to matter then.”

  MacPhie grunted.

  “I saw some of that. That kind of excrement goes around about just about everybody with a name. Some companies like it. It's free publicity. After all, your name gets known to an audience that didn't know you before.”

  “Any prospects besides TEN-PRO?”

  “Eat crow,” he grimaced. “I'm trying for an exhibition. Question is, does anyone pay me to show up anymore?”

  “You serious? I'd pay a good bit myself.”

  When he came home from class with the good news that he had been hired to conduct a series of clinics for the university tennis team, he found Kari in the kitchen trying to put a meal together. When she didn't say anything he came closer. Her eyes were swollen and she turned her head when he tried to get a good look at her.