Chapter 19
Game and Match
by Jeanne Woods

Pike cut the engine as Margaret’s garage door glided closed. He cradled his head in his hands, leaned into the steering wheel and softly sighed “Ahh, fuck me…” His shoulders ached with tension and his knee hurt like hell. It was all beginning to unravel again and he couldn’t get things to line up. It’s all on account o’ that leggy tart. Seemed friendly enough, but NO. Instead o’ takin’ the piss, she coulda’ bloody-well told me straight out whose kid I was steppin’ onto a court with…Makin’ me the fool in one more squash club. She leads me on and then shuts off cold. And THEN getting’ me thrown out o’ Joe’s on my arse, her and her little friend. What the fuck did they tell him? Everybody turning on me… I got nobody, not on this continent, or any other. What am I gonna bloody-well do? I can’t even fookin’ walk…

It had taken half an hour of precious time to find the alarm code for the house among Margaret’s things. He knew the security drill in the West Islip house from a couple of visits he’d made to Margaret there several months earlier. He-needed-that-code! He was in a state of escalating desperation when he finally found it in her wallet, tucked behind her driver’s license. “Stupid cow!” he’d roared. So obvious a place that he hadn’t deigned to look there.

He’d struggled to stay awake and in his own lane on the drive from the city and now the temptation was strong simply to put the seat back and rest his eyes for a few minutes. But his empty stomach, full bladder and the need to elevate and ice his injuries drew him hobbling painfully toward the house. He grabbed a nearby broom and used the handle as a clumsy walking stick.

The garage door led Pike to the utility room and pantry, where he entered the cursed alarm code, and to an adjacent half bath, Pike’s first objective. Better already, he thought. Inspecting the pantry he sneered at the lifetime supply of toilet paper, the diet Pepsi, and Pop Tarts in the first bay. But he smiled into the next cupboard, “Hello, ‘at’s more like it!” he remarked. Leaning forward to examine an assortment of liquor bottles, he selected the Bushmill’s for nightie-nights.

He entered the kitchen, agleam in stainless steel and black mica-flecked marble, accentuated by K-mart-red walls. The sub-zero was sparse. Pike found cold packs and a variety of Lean Cuisine entrees in the freezer, in the fridge the best he could do was a dry-edged package of Kraft cheddar singles and some ham slices that were well on their way from pink to the iridescent grey of spoiled meat. The lettuce was just too far gone. He refreshed two slices of stale white bread with Miracle Whip and ate his sad sandwich with slugs of the Irish, staring into the microwave as the Salisbury steak dinner revolved.  Nice plate of bangers and mash with a pint o’ brown’d go good just now, he thought.

A quick perusal of the house revealed several small negotiable items that should all fit into Margaret’s Louis Vuiton luggage. “Fookin’ shrine to Las Vegas, this.” he growled, though he’d never been there. Pike reasoned that Margaret’s was a big cash business and that he’d have a careful look around after a bit of sleep. He would also need to sanitize and leave the car in favor of something less incriminating, thing after a little kip…

The top drawer of the nightstand contained the TV remote and, like chocolate mints on a satin pillow, a very recently filled prescription bottle of thirty Percocets--among Pike’s very favorite drugs. “Now that’s hospitality, Maggie!” he declared to the empty room as he stripped and arranged himself and the ice packs into the luxurious sheets of the king-sized bed. He washed down two tablets with the Hennessy and clicked on the large flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. Finally on the horizontal, instead of the relief he’d anticipated, he only felt alone.  Adrift on a cold black sea.  He watched an explosive car chase for a few minutes then abruptly sighed “Oh bugger it.” and downed the remaining Percocets with a several large draughts of Irish whiskey.

The lock and deadbolt were child’s play for Novak, and Kucinich’s connection at United Alarm Systems, who was always happy to collect a few hundred bucks for providing the occasional alarm code, had come through again. Pike didn’t stir when Novak bent over him with a syringe containing a lethal dose of heroin.

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Hank, his teaching schedule decimated, knew he should use this time to connect with the players showing up at the various clubs for the Masters preliminaries, but the word was out about Margaret and he was already sick of the condolences, questions and well meant comments. At the very least he should get out and run some serious sprints. His already abbreviated training schedule had been sideswiped by Kate’s calamity, leaving him feeling anxious and unprepared for the competition.

At about noon on Wednesday Detective Fazzio called with the news that Pike, who turned out to be wanted for murder in New Zealand, had been found dead in Margaret’s bed, an apparent suicide. Hank immediately grabbed his coat and headed out at a good clip for Kate’s redoubt at April’s place. He did not want Kate to learn about this on a newscast.

Kate broke in to a backlog of tears when Hank brought her up to date on the end of things with Pike. He held her as he had so long ago, adding his own tears of gratitude and relief that she had been spared. When her sobs subsided they found themselves smiling and slipping into giddy laughter as the worst of the tensions began to release.

“How’s the wrist feeling, Love?” he asked.

“Better today, I finally don’t have to keep it elevated and can move around a little more easily. In fact, I’d love to go out for a coffee if you have the time. Hiding out here, afraid to show my face at the window, has been hard. But I’m still not quite ready to venture out on my own.”

“You got it “Hank said and helped her into a parka, zipping her cast inside.

They walked to a nearby place and settled into a window seat with coffees and blueberry scones. After an exchange of pleasantries Hank said, in a more serious tone, “You know, Honey, before long you’re going to be called upon to make some decisions about that house.”

“I never want to set foot in that place again, Dad. Can you please make that happen?” she begged. “And I don’t want that pig of a car or any of her other shit.”

“You bet, sweetheart, but it’s your house now. I’ll take care of getting it emptied out and sold for you but there’ll be some paper work for you to deal with. Our buddy, Jerry, the one who dropped the dime on Pike, can probably help with that.”

“Dad, I’ve thought a lot about this and I want to share the proceeds of the house with you--no arguments.” Kate held up her hand in a blocking gesture. “You always paid for that place and it’s probably almost paid off at this point. With the money from the sale and the wads of cash Mom stashed in those bails of toilet paper she always kept in the pantry, I think we can get your kids’ program and my design business up and running.”

“Thank you, Katie-girl, I’m very touched. We’ll talk more about this another time.” Hank smiled and crossed his arms, effectively tabling the topic.

Kate put her hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Dad, I hope you find someone to be with. Someone who’s kind and nice.” Kate said, catching Hank completely off guard.

He looked at her then down at his latte, as if the words he needed would be revealed in the froth. He gave it a nervous stir. “Well,” he began. “Um, this might be a bit premature…”

“Oh, Dad! Really? Tell me everything!” Kate seemed genuinely delighted.

“Well, her name is Yvette. I haven’t even met her children yet, but when things settle down a little we’ll get to that. Right now I just need to try and focus on the Masters.”

They giggled together as Kate pried a few more hard-won tidbits from her father, along with his promise to introduce her to Kate very soon.

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Hank was being pressed hard by his old East Side sparing pal, Ed Boynton, in the third game of the finals of the Masters. He hadn’t seen Ed, who was seeded second behind him, since Ed’s move to Boston three years ago and it was good to be on the court with him again. He’s come a long way since the days I knew I could beat him if I tried. And dang, he’s fit! Hank mused.

Hank had the superior court craft and hoped to make short work of the match, but Ed’s level of fitness was beginning to make a difference—he clearly wanted to draw out the play and wear Hank down. Also tugging on Hank’s resources was the effort it was costing him to stay focused on the match given the wild turn of recent events. He hadn’t slept soundly in days.

They had split the first two games and Ed came on with a burst of power in the third, scoring on a couple of good drops before Hank became fully present. Hank evened the score with some volley winners but followed them up with tins. His attention had wavered again to the violence that had come so terribly close, and now he wondered how he’d muster the steam to hold up his end of the match. Another intense rally and Ed came through with an untouchable cross-court nick and let out a short, sharp yelp. He stopped and bent forward holding his shoulder as his racquet slid to the floor.

Hank turned to steady his friend who slowly straightened up to meet his gaze. “You OK?” he asked.

“I think the goddamn rotator cuff went all the way this time.” Ed half whispered. He gave a small bow and, smiling at Hank through a grimace, said “Game and match to you, Amigo, but you know? I think I just might have had you this time.”

“That is entirely possible, Edward.” Hank chuckled, “Entirely possible.”






Jeanne (2 syllables) Woods is a real estate broker in Sonoma County, an hour north of San Francisco, whose squash expertise is limited to her avid gardening and cooking.

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.