Break Point Down Page 9

  “Where?”

  “Let's not go over all this, Kitt,” he whined. “It doesn't do any good. The money is gone.”

  “Where did it go?”

  Jeff's voice was a whisper as he pushed his chair back from the desk as though he was afraid Kitt would attack him.

  “A few bets—”

  Kitt took a deep breath.

  “After we pay off the IRS, I am flat broke, does that about cover it?”

  “If you went back to the tour, Kitt, we could—“

  Grim-faced, Kitt stopped him in midsentence.

  “I am not planning any comebacks. I will figure this out. But if I were ever to go back to the tour, ‘we’ wouldn't anything. As of now, I revoke any and all authority I have ever delegated to you to handle anything. I can't afford you.”

  “But you could get contracts, prizes—”

  “Jeff, shut up. I am trying not to punch your lights out.”

  Silence hung heavy in the room. In the gathering late-afternoon darkness outside street lights started flashing on. Kitt sat motionless across from his brother, trying to absorb the catastrophe and the betrayal. At last he got to his feet.

  “By tomorrow morning I want precise figures on my doorstep. I want to know my exact earnings, investments, investment gains if any and losses, a rundown of expenses over the years, copies of tax documents, an accounting of payments made to the IRS, and an account of any and all funds you took from me to gamble with. I want to go over this with an accountant of my own and see exactly what my position is.”

  “Kitt, that is too soon. I can't do it.”

  “Find a way, Jeff. You have had months to do it. I have been asking for it and asking for it, and now I demand it. I am sure you have copies of all that stuff in your files, with the possible exception of your gambling losses. You will have to estimate those. Have it there by noon tomorrow.”

  In the dark office the only sound came from Jeff's footsteps as he endlessly paced the floor.

  Kitt's meeting with his lawyer and accountant produced no grounds for optimism. Jeff had taken huge amounts of money earmarked for the IRS to patch the holes in Kitt's investment portfolio as well as in his own, and had sought to cover those withdrawals by gambling and reckless and speculative investments. Income and other tax accounts could probably be proven fraudulent, and as the net began to close, Jeff had resorted to large-scale embezzlement from Kitt's accounts to save his own fortune. With a free hand to manage Kitt's affairs, nothing had stopped him from plundering his brother's assets. Making periodic tax payments to stave off a full-bore investigation, and gambling away millions in illegal schemes as well as in further stock market speculation, he had fallen into the plunger's trap of trying to cover up one high-risk blunder with more. The leftovers would narrowly cover the IRS debt and leave him perhaps the house and furnishings or one of the condo's, the piano, a car, and very little else.

  The lawyer looked across the desk, his eyes sympathetic.

  “You can sue. You got plenty of grounds. Fraud, embezzlement, mismanagement. Criminal charges will doubtlessly be filed, and a civil suit would probably give you whatever he's got left. But from where I sit, he hasn't got much.”

  Kitt sat back in the chair, numb. Even after his meeting with Jeff he had tried to believe his brother guilty of no more than bad judgment, and hoped to salvage something from the ruins of his fortune. Enough to get him through school, to give him a start in a new career. Even if the IRS was willing to forgive a few of the penalties, which was doubtful, there would be less money left than he was used to receiving for one championship.

  “I wish you'd come to me three, four years ago.”

  “Me, too. But I didn't know there was anything to see a lawyer about.”

  “You signed contracts that were completely one-sided. You should have had some legal counsel right then.”

  “I was dealing with my brother.”

  “I know. You were very young when he took over your financial life, and of course you trusted him. It should have been all right. But it wasn't.”

  “No.”

  “You gave all your money and complete power of attorney to one person. He has abused that power—it's not just fraud and embezzlement. The percentage of your gross income that went to him as your manager is obscene. After your overhead, you wound up with less net income out of your career than he did.”

  “I can deal with that part.”

  “The government will file charges. Tax fraud, tax evasion. There was a clear intent to defraud.”

  “My name's on the dotted line, too. So am I going to jail?”

  “They'll be asking you questions. We shouldn't have any trouble showing you knew nothing of the financial details, and that all your financial affairs have always been in Jeff's hands. He had complete power of attorney. In order to convict you of fraud, they have to show intent to defraud. They can't do that, and I doubt they'll try. They'll understand that you're the victim, not the perpetrator.”

  “Do I have to testify against Jeff?”

  “They may ask you questions you can't avoid answering. But most of their answers are right here in the documentation. They won't need much from you. And we can only guess at what Jeff's tax files will show about his own money. My guess is his finances are in a similar mess.”

  “This is unbelievable.”

  “We can file charges. I don't know how much your brother will have left after the IRS gets through with him, and after a possible prosecution for fraud and embezzlement, but you should be able to get your share of that.”

  Kitt held up a restraining hand.

  “No lawsuits.”

  ”Don't make those decisions today. Give it a little time.”

  “That's a definite. I'm not suing. His family will need what's left.”

  “What about another year or two of tennis?” asked the accountant. “You'd be able to get a stake together. From the figures, you've been making close to thirty million a year from different sources. A new financial manager could parlay that into a sizeable fortune. You could take two years—”

  Kitt's stare stopped him cold, and the room was quiet for a few moments. Finally, Kitt got to his feet.

  “How soon can you give me the dollar-and-cents figures?”

  “With the holidays upon us it might be a week or so. I'll see what I can do with the IRS.”

  He walked the trails that night with Thor and tried to order his thoughts, sorting out the realities of his life. At the end of every thought was Jeff, handsome and smiling, surrounded by influential friends, applauding in the stands, telling him he'd always be there for him. Lying, cheating, stealing, manipulating. The man he had trusted. Loved.

  He'd always wanted more, more than the prize money and appearance fees, more than the millions from the contracts, and more than his 25 percent. Why wasn't it enough, Jeff? What was there that you couldn't have, couldn't buy, couldn't own, couldn't show off?

  If there was enough left for school, the decision would be simple enough. What if he sold everything and still owed the IRS? Not much choice then but to go back to tennis, at least for a couple of years, and get his feet back on the ground. Somebody had to provide for those kids—Jeff might not even be able to do that. Laura—nah, not her style.

  Backing up to goals he had outgrown—could he do it? Playing tennis for nothing but the money. Sure he could maintain his ranking. He hadn't lost it yet. Some of the matches would even be fun. But he'd tasted this new life.

  His only job skill was playing tennis. Trying to earn money for school by working in a fast-food place for the next fifteen years didn't make a whole lot of sense when for a few more years he had fabulous earning potential in professional athletics. Then again, he'd wanted a normal life. It had just got normal.

  The Aussie Open was next month. You almost had to play Sydney first, get tuned up a little. He was pretty well conditioned, but he hadn't played any real matches for three months. The semester would be down the drain, and
he was on probation. But the money would solve a lot of problems. He could still win. The tournament would eat into next semester, too, so he'd have to take that off. Might as well do the French and Wimbledon then, and even the U.S. Open series. It would amount to giving it another year. He could make enough money to last a lifetime, and this time he'd keep track of it.

  But what if after three months out of competition—four by that time— and an attitude that stank, he'd be unable to play at his former level? He could be out in the first round. It happened to some of the best. What then? He would have given up everything just to break even on the effort.

  At home he paced the floor and looked at his books, and Thor. What to do about Thor? Taking him along on the road wouldn't work. Could he arrange his life around a dog?

  It wouldn't have been as bad if he'd just kept playing. But he'd rerouted his life. It was a daily thrill to get up and go to class, to soak up all the learning he'd been thirsting for, to finally take some giant steps to fulfilling his dream. But one year, what was one year? After one year he could go back to school, do anything he wanted. Get a coach, maybe an agent, no more.

  Under Thor's worried eyes he walked around the house, aimlessly picking up things and putting them back, straightening out a picture, looking out a window. The decision had to be made soon. Within a week or two at the latest.

  He sat on the floor and buried his face in Thor's flank, listening to the beat of the dog's tail on the floor. The pup nuzzled him, softly licked his fingers and whimpered by his shoulder. Finally he sat up and let out a shivery bark, stood on his hind feet and put his paws on Kitt's chest. In only three months he'd become a large dog, and he wasn't done growing. The vet expected him to break a few records. Kitt scratched him behind the ears and under the chin, then ordered him down.

  “Thor, Thor,” he told the young dog. “I don't want to go back. I just don't want to go back.”

  Thor didn't have any answers, and from his deck Kitt stared up at the sky, absentmindedly running his fingers through Thor's rough fur.

  “So do we get practical or idealistic, Thor?” he asked the patient dog. “That is the question before the court. Right now I'm leaning to practical. Look at me. The conscientious objector who couldn't stomach the guarantees and ranted about the obscene amounts of money the pros get. Not earn. Get. And here I'm just about ready to go back and scrape for it.”

  Two weeks he'd give himself to make the decision. Any longer than that, and time would make the decision for him.

  Jeff and Laura moved out of the house a few days before Christmas, courtesy of the Internal Revenue Service. Kitt didn't know the details of their IRS troubles and didn't ask. As it was, he had his hands full emptying his own house. Reluctantly he moved into the condo in the city. Thor would miss the yard, but he reminded himself that he was lucky to have a home at all. He had moved the piano, some furniture, and truckloads of books and DVDs from the house to the condo, and was still loading up odds and ends when Jeff drove up.

  He stared somberly at the boxes stacked on the front porch.

  “You made a decision?”

  “What decision did you have in mind? I decided to move out before they kicked me out,” he replied testily.

  “Same here. We have rented a place in Beechwood. Nothing like the house, of course. Kids will miss the pool.”

  “We'll all learn to go without some of the perks.”

  “We wouldn't have to if—”

  Kitt's cold stare cut him short, and he visibly winced at his brother's anger. Jeff paced around, looking lost.

  “Laura's mad. The place embarrasses her.”

  “Laura needs to quit whining.”

  “You know how she loves entertaining, and this place is a dump after the big house. You couldn't invite your friends there.”

  “Depends on who your friends are.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. And if you think a guilt trip about Laura's snobby friends is going to make me go back to the tour so she can have her big house and her swimming pool, think again. I'm not the one who blew it. And I don't feel in the least obligated to support Laura in the style she wants to be accustomed to.”

  “So you're not going to Australia?”

  “Drop it, Jeff. Just drop it.”

  Jeff's face was wan and gray, and he seemed absentminded and dejected, as though every ounce of energy had been drained from his body. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hand unsteady as he reached for a suitcase. Kitt eyed him suspiciously and a little worried. Jeff was drowning his troubles again. He didn't say any more, and after a few moments turned without a word and got back into his car. Kitt stood and watched him drive off with a fleeting feeling almost like pity.

  They'd been by the house earlier to plead with him. Jeff, with hopes of redemption, had angered Kitt almost as much with his whining about his bad luck and the pressures that had brought him down as the whole catastrophe itself. Laura had come, liberally dishing out guilt and pleading for rescue. At the root of her connection with him all that showed now was greed. Hostile and humiliated, she hadn't masked her resentment, pointing out what he should do if he cared about them. He could always go to school later if he was serious about an education.

  If you care, if school means that much. Did they ever listen? No use trying to communicate. He'd dropped off the kids’ gifts, and Jeff handed him a few file folders, without comment. From outside he'd heard them arguing, and they had only briefly stopped the fight to turn on him, throwing it all in his face—the famous sacrifices, Kitt's ingratitude, the arrogance of his decision. Their former warmth and welcome had been an investment. An insurance premium, with a policy that paid off year after year, tournament after tournament.

  On his way home from a run with Thor on Christmas day he whipped the Bronco into a U-turn and headed toward the middle-class part of town where Jeff and Laura had rented a place. It sat in a row of medium-sized houses of uniform construction, differentiated mainly by color. Every house was a mirror image of its neighbor. The neighborhood seemed dull.

  He rang the bell and heard the children running to the door.

  “Unca Kitt! Unca Kitt!”

  Tony and Lita were at the door. Tony's big brown eyes looked frightened, and it touched Kitt's heart. He swept them up in his arms and onto his shoulders, and walked into the living room, determined not to let Jeff's or Laura's hostility mar the occasion.

  The fair-sized living room, with a cheap grade of carpet long past its prime, made the remnants of their expensive furniture look out of place. The dining room was just an extension of the living area, and a smallish kitchen lay beyond. Boxes were stacked, unopened. A few toys were scattered about. A faint musty odor hung about the place, something he couldn't place. The familiar smells of Christmas dinner were absent; some bags of fast food and two empty whiskey bottles lay on the kitchen counter. He couldn't help remembering last year's sumptuous holiday dinner with Laura as a gracious hostess, drop-dead beautiful in her simple, classic gown of something moss green that looked like suede to him, relieved at the throat by an exquisite diamond and emerald necklace. Jeff, as always, had been the center of attention among his group of well-dressed, well-heeled guests. The dinner had been catered, and waiters in formal attire had served the food against a background of soft Christmas music impressively rendered through a state-of-the-art sound system.

  Laura was seated on the sofa, dressed in a bathrobe, her eyes swollen. He was taken aback by the undisguised hatred in her eyes. For the kids’ sakes, he tried to sound normal.

  “Kari home?”

  “She and Jeff went somewhere. I don't know when they'll be back.”

  He played with Lita and Tony, who dragged him to the bedroom they shared, to show him the new toys.

  “Unca Kitt, I am being good, huh, Unca Kitt!”

  “You're the best!” he laughed.

  “Mommy be happy, huh, Unca Kitt?”

  Four years old, and look at those scared ey
es. Knocking himself out, so Mommy could be happy. Like it was his problem to fix. What was he taking on those skinny little-boy shoulders?

  I'm as much at fault as anybody. Maybe I should go back and play tennis for a while. Not for Jeff and not for Laura. But for these kids. Set up something for them, a trust or so, so Jeff couldn't blow it. Jeff had charged him plenty over the years, and he wasn't responsible for Jeff's stupidity with the money, but he'd always supported the outfit, and they'd had reason to believe he'd keep on doing it. If I hadn't shoved temptation into Jeff's face year after year …

  Jeff and Kari came home and Jeff didn't look straight at him, but just nodded over his shoulder and said he was tired. He was going to lie down for a while. Kari looked as if she'd been crying, and when he hugged her she stood rigid and cold, and did not hug him back. Even Kari was acting as though she hated him. The cracks in her support system were growing into gaping holes. Jeff and Laura were easy enough to figure out. But those kids. The anguish in those big eyes, the fear.

  He tried to shut out the memory as he lay in bed, and finally, unable to sleep, he left the house with Thor, plodding through the snow. The night was pitch-dark, and the wind was picking up. Huddling in his parka, he braced himself and headed into the storm.

  Chapter 3

  Double Fault

  The menace was back the next evening when he answered the telephone.

  “Uncle Kitt, can I sleep at your place tonight?”

  One eye on the papers Rick had sent over, he smiled absently. “Nice try, Kari. It's almost midnight. Better not get caught at the phone.”

  “They don't know.”

  She sounded like she'd been crying, and he quickly dismissed the alarm that rang in the back of his mind. A spat with Mom and Dad.

  “They're asleep, huh?”

  “I don't know. I'm not at home.”

  No mistaking the alarm bells now, gonging with head-splitting resonance into reality. Reluctantly, he ventured a surface question.

  “You need a ride home?”

  “I want to come to your place.”