The
Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match #2
The Handouts versus The Tin Ringers
EAST
SIDE A
Collaborative Novel
Chapter 11
Brown Sugar
by Richard Millman
Kate looked at the text that April had sent her.
The address of April's team owner's office was 86th Street.
Not just 86th Street but the building that Eastside was situated in.
A little bead of white hot sweat ran down her neck.
She had no sketches, no story and now there
was a decidedly risky chance that by showing up to an appointment and
making a complete fool of herself, she would seal the deal by bumping
into her estranged father Hank.
Run away, she muttered to herself. Far away.
But that was not who Kate Reynolds was.
”Fuck it,” she said fatalistically, walked out of the hallway, and hailed a cab.
***
It was a few years since he had stood on
this corner. In times past he had enjoyed standing here and stealing a
few precious moments of incognito existence, as he watched the world go
by. Not so long as to allow the passersby enough time to recognize him,
but long enough to remember what life had been like before celebrity.
Having perused a magazine or two he would
leap up the stairs, two by two, into the club and run himself to near
exhaustion, frequently ending up in a loud argument over a ridiculous
let situation, as he and one of his regular opponents all but killed
each other on the squash court.
Eventually the game would disintegrate into
raucous laughter as both he and his opponent realized that it was ”all
bollocks” anyway.
He turned away from the magazine stall with
a nostalgic look up to the windows of the club and trotted up the steps
of the private entrance.
He smiled in acknowledgement as the Irish
transplant doorman touched his finger to his ostentatious top hat and
said conspiratorially under his breath, "Good afternoon, Mr Jagger.”
The man nodded and slipped into the elevator.
***
About twenty minutes later the doorman
inquired as to the business of an attractive but distracted young lady
who climbed the same stairs as had the legend of the music industry.
”Help ya, Miss?” he asked with just a slightly forbidding tone.
“I have an appointment. With...” She paused uncertainly, ”Stormy is it?'”
The doorman moved smoothly toward a barely
visible 1950s style phone set that was hidden behind one of the columns
of the impressive entrance.
”Name Miss?”
”Kate Reynolds.”
There was a quick exchange and the doorman turned and flashed Kate a fine grin.
”Tenth floor, elevator's just inside the lobby on your right. Good luck to you Miss!”
”Thanks,” thought Kate flatly, “I'll need it.”
***
Hank gave up on the Village and made his way back to 86th street.
When he got back to his office he looked
disdainfully at the pile of re-strings that had inevitably appeared in
the corner, then flopped down in his favorite overstuffed chair—which
had seen much better days.
He was still coming to terms with his fruitless labors, when Jesus Alvarez knocked on the frame of the open door.
”Hey, Mr Hank, how are you?”
”Been better, Jesus, to tell the truth. What's up?”
Jesus had been the locker room attendant at the club since it had opened. He knew everyone and everyone liked him.
Another sad victim of the club's demise, Hank reflected.
”Well, I think maybe I'm going a little crazy.“
”How's that?” said Hank.
”Well' continued Alvarez,” about an hour
and a half ago, I was cleaning the window sill looking over 86th and I
swore I saw Mick Jagger—in the flesh—just like the old days. Then I
went to get a new bottle of cleaner and I came back a few minutes later
and the next time I looked down I thought I saw your Katie! I couldn't
see exactly where they were going but....” He trailed off because the
club pro had leaped from his chair like a man of twenty and sped from
the room.
***
Dermot, the Irish doorman was smiling.
He had just hailed a cab for the young lady
that, only an hour since, had appeared at the door looking as though
she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
She’d emerged, with the second young lady
who’d rushed up a quarter of an hour after the first girl had gone up
to the Van Alstyne's private offices.
The pair of them had been giggling, high-fiving, and generally carrying on as if they’d just won the lottery.
He overheard the first young lady say to the second, “Whatever made you scan all my sketches Marie?”
To which the other replied, “When you are
dealing with priceless artifacts, you record everything and copy what
you can. To me your sketches were priceless, so I thought I'd scan them
for safety's sake.”
”And since when have you been my 'executive assistant’?” the first girl said.
”Since I needed to save your life, roomie!”
They both erupted into peels of laughter.
A wonderful day, Dermot thought to himself, just lovely.
***
Hank burst onto the street and charged over to the magazine stall. Farrukh, the owner, was just closing up for the day.
“Did you see Mick Jagger here this afternoon, Farrukh?” Hank demanded.
Farrukh said nothing and continued locking down the shutters of the stall while looking sideways at Hank.
"And a pretty young women in her twenties a few minutes later?"
“It's possible.” he said after a moment or two.
Farrukh threw his hands in the air and raised his eyebrows.
”You think I notice every person who comes by my stall?”
Hank narrowed his eyes.
”Yes I do, Farrukh, and I happen to know
that the NYPD do also. So do me a favor, cut the bullshit and help me
out here. I think she was my daughter and I've lost touch with her.”
Behind Hank a somehow familiar accented voice interrupted his interview with the magazine stall owner.
“Hallo Mate, longtime no see.”
Hank whirled around and came face to face with the most iconic pair of lips in the world.
Jesus wasn't going mad. There before him stood Mick Jagger, large as life and in the flesh.
”Hello Mick,” Hank stammered. “Haven't see you around here in years.”
He wanted to ask why he was here, but didn't have the nerve.
”Nah, I know. I miss the place. But the old
bones can't stand the Squash court anymore. I just popped in to see
Jaapie Van Alstyne. His pops Henrik is an old marrer of mine. They're
thinking of selling the building and I might be interested.”
Hank took a few minutes to register all this new information.
”Thinking of selling? I thought it was a done deal.”
'Apparently not. Anyway great to see you
after all these years. Hope everything is OK with you.' Mick smiled,
turned and walked toward an immaculately polished black Lincoln
stretch, where an enormous black driver was holding the passenger door
open for him.
Hank swallowed hard and took a chance. ”Mick!” he shouted.
The icon turned.
”Sorry to trouble you, but you didn't happen to notice a young woman when you were arriving here this afternoon, did you?”
Jagger smiled. “I always notice young women, Hank.”
Hank nodded and smiled himself. Then he described Katie.
”Funnily enough I did see a girl like that.
In Jaapie's offices. I think she was waiting for Jaapie's sister
Stormy. Does that help?”
”Fantastic, Mick, you're a star.” Hank said, and quickly realized the irony.
”You're welcome, mate. Perhaps I'll see you again soon.” And the legend disappeared into the limo.
Richard Millmanis
an international lifelong squash professional - and husband, dad,
grampa, writer, coach, player, referee, innovator, maverick, mentor,
team player, thinker, listener, promoter, developer, retailer - who
lives squash.
__________ This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental. _____________________________
