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  SLAMMIN’

  A Novel

  Marcus Paul Cootsona

  Copyright © 2014 Marcus Paul Cootsona

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1496082400

  ISBN 13: 9781496082404

  Library of Congress Control Number: XXXXX (If applicable)

  LCCN Imprint Name: City and State (If applicable)

  TO ALL THE PROS

  So yo then man what’s your story?

  – David Foster Wallace

  ONE

  A hundred and sixty-three. That usually described how old Wally felt, but today that number had a new, ominous and revolutionary meaning.

  Some Challenger player, tooling at some Challenger get-lost-until-you-ranking-point-up tournament in Eritrea or Lansing or somewhere had just clocked a hundred and sixty-three miles-an-hour serve. And it went in! Many of the tour pros’ nannies’ SUV’s didn’t go that fast. But there it was. A new record. A new notch. A new day. What was happening to the sport?

  The fastest serve recorded to date was 156. It didn’t go in. But this 163-er did. Until today, 150 was the new 140, which had been the new 130. Many of his students would be happy with 80. But this was 80 times an even integer. Plus. Where would it end? Would it end? Tall, strong athletes were playing now and yearly tour winnings equaled three to four NBA games. There was no top speed in sight. Unless General Relativity put on the brakes at some point.

  As Wally edged up to the security gate, he wondered how fast he could serve. 90? 100? 101? Could his car go that fast? Even with 106 Octane? On his left and right, at similar driveways, in similar cars, were guys also about 162 or 163, starting their days. Wally waved to his friend and teaching pro bro, Brett, pulling into the driveway on the right. Wally’s passenger Rod Laver the Dog raised his left paw and waved too.

  Like the only two-time, calendar-year Grand Slam winner, Rod Laver, the Australian Cattle Dog wore a bandana around his neck and was left-handed. And friendly. Wally was pretty sure he waved. He was congenial, and smart. He probably did wave.

  God, life was great. A job on court, a strong cup of filter coffee ground from fresh, whole, in-season beans in a burr grinder and his dog. Why couldn’t the rest of the word just chill to this same reality? This day was like the planetary alignment in the final set piece in that weird cave in Tomb Raider. That or the coffee was a valance or two above majestic. Wally thought about it all for a moment. The first Tomb Raider was a good film.

  Gate code pushed. Nothing. Brett’s security gate opened effortlessly and his 1970 Cobalt Blue Pontiac GTO started down the twenty million dollar driveway on Wally’s right. Wally’s Shelby GT 500, bought in 1981 for $2,500.00, stayed right where it was. Rod whined softly. Wally pushed the call button. How fast could he serve, he wondered. And why did Angelina Jolie make The Tourist, anyway?

  An eager, pulsating coo from the speaker, “Hello?”

  It was Ashley. What was a high school junior doing home on a Friday morning?

  Wally contorted his neck and stretched to speak into the gate intercom.

  “Hi, Ashley, it’s Wally.”

  “I know.”

  “I think Betty changed the gate code again,” he said.

  “Grandmas. Can’t live with them. Can’t humanely institutionalize them.”

  “Words to love by,” observed Wally.

  “Come on in. No one’s home but me.”

  “I know.”

  “Now it’ll be just me and you.”

  “Ashley?”

  She cooed again. “Yes?”

  “Can you change the gate code back?” he asked.

  Ashley, now sounding like Angelina Jolie, “It’ll cost ya.”

  Wally, now sounding like Jon Voight. “That’s okay.”

  “You never accept my carnally overtures,” she said, sounding hurt.

  “Well, for on thing, you’re my daughter’s best friend,” he said.

  “I could unfriend her.”

  “And I’m as old as your father.”

  “I was abused by my father,” she said.

  Wally looked surprised.

  “Too much space,” she explained. “You know, freedom corrupts and absolute freedom corrupts resolutely. Have you seen American Beauty?”

  “Ashley?”

  “I’m opening the gate.”

  The burly gates parted and Wally started down the long driveway to the estate’s second parcel, wondering if Ashley had really seen American Beauty. Kevin Spacey was good, but that movie gave him the skeevies. He made another in the long line of notes to himself to be careful here.

  Welcome to Atherton. Where teaching pros worked on stunning, improbable estates in a rare, hidden economy. Every house was grand and impressive. Every teenager knew a lot and used what they knew. And Ashley Margincall knew more than most. Rod was straining to de-car, but it was a two-minute driveway. To stand out in Atherton, you had to have a second lot with a tennis court, a pool, a putting green and maybe a sculpture garden. Or, sit out in your own yard once in a while. Ashley’s parents, Silas and Penny Margincall, had the court, the pool, the putting green and a few Ginnevers. They never sat in the yard.

  Her dad, Silas Margincall was short. But he was long on money by being short. He shorted dotcom in 1998, housing, retail and Iceland in 2008 and these days was “old, smart money”, but still short. He was currently in Europe, buying back the Iceland condos for the next boom and shorting Andalusian banks. He and Penny were rarely home and when they were, not at the same time. But they could have been. Their second living room alone could hold fifty of their closest portfolio managers and their egos. But except for the mysterious grandmother, Betty and their 17 year-old daughter, Ashley, the only true full-time inhabitants were the gardeners, maids, cooks and handymen. Consequently, the Margincalls economic spigot was always open.

  Ashley had gotten very good at her part in the economic plumbing. With her folks perennially en vacance, she kept everything flowing. So Wally needed to be vigilant and respectful. Circumspect. Stern but not scolding. After all, Ashley was not only his tennis student, she was his landlord. Like many of his buddies from college tennis or the tour, Wally Woodrow Wilson was a squatting tennis professional, making a living teaching millionaires and billionaires at somebody else’s house. But that happens in Atherton. So, it turns out, do others things.

  Wally and Rod Laver the Dog got out of the Stang and while Rod went off to see a man about a cat, Wally set up the court supplies for a day of teaching. Tennis balls in the ball mower. Racquet. Sunglasses. Water. And towels. He was ready. Thankfully, Ashley was nowhere to be seen. At eight a.m., his first student would arrive and his day would begin.

  TWO

  June, July and August were dead center cut in the Peninsula weather tenderloin. Warm days. No wind. Sultry evenings. So of course everyone left town. These were Wally’s three slowest months. The gentle downside of serving millionaires and billionaires was their mobility. Released from the school year restraining order, Atherton logic demanded flight. Anyone who was someone left the town. So did everyone else. The incessant home construction slowed or stopped as the contractors left for Lake Tahoe or Lake Como. Even the support staff decamped.

  There was still no decent cell phone coverage, but it was quiet for almost ninety whole days. Like it was thirty years ago, when he was only 133. Wally had grown up across the Valparaiso divide in West Menlo, but he did merit an Atherton summons now and then. He didn’t remember as much demolition or construction then. Everyone had less money and more time, and there were not as many double-booked playdates, club sports for three year-olds, maniacal soccer parents or private tennis pros.

  But today was May 27, 2011 and it was busy. The storm before the calm. The school year clock was ticking down and not even D
aniel Craig as the new, disheveled James Bond could cut the blue wire or the red wire. It was also the first weekend of the French Open, the only clay court tournament that anyone in America cared about. And even then, not that much.

  May always brought frantic, rushed behavior and complications, but this year was particularly hectic. Wally wasn’t a hectic guy. He moved slowly. He acted slowly. He wasn’t tense. But he felt it too. He wasn’t one of the walking stressed he saw around him, but there was something. He saw those tight-jawed Athertonians on the road, on his court and at the Draeger’s market parking lot. They’d lost the chill in their reality. Those were the heart palpitation folks, not him. So what was going on with him and his heart?

  In the last few days, he noticed that sometimes his pulse would climb up to 180. At rest. And stay there for a while. He resolved to have it checked next month, during the dead calm. Another good movie, incidentally. Nicole Kidman, Billy Zane, Sam Neill. That one made his heart pound. But it was supposed to. And Billy Zane really should have had more career too. Wally had friends with Atrial Fibrillation and they said if you were healthy, the racing heart episodes were nothing to worry about. You just lived with it. He was healthy. Old as Methuselah’s parrot, but healthy. Especially for a guy with a beat-up body and a teenage daughter. That’s of course if it was just A-fib.

  The morning lessons had gone well. Dan the investment advisor at eight. No instruction, just there to hit the ball and burn the calories from the Chateau Petrus the night before. Gina the lawyer trying to resurrect the lovely, classic one-handed backhand the 13 year-old pro in Hawaii had corrupted at nine. And Dave the investment advisor at ten. Point play and a subcutaneously delivered pointer or two. All longtime students and all a joy to work with.

  It was now 11:55 and Wally was standing idle on the court with his last morning lesson, a venture capitalist named Dick. Wally only took new students recommended by existing students, but even that vetting didn’t always guarantee serenity, focus and progress. Or right now, even just the purposeful hitting of felt spheres. Barbara, Dick’s wife, was a delightful, dedicated student who was just beginning to think of herself as an athlete. Never would be a Title IX girl, but she was going to be a solid USTA league player. At this rate, her husband, Dick the VC, would most likely be neither.

  The Dick spent the first twenty-five minutes of the lesson on his phone. Wally tried to firm up Dick’s flaccid strokes for five and then the incessant venture capitalist was ear-humping his cell again. The lesson now had five minutes left. Wally had mowed up the balls, arranged and re-arranged the towels, cups and water and tried not to pay attention to Dick’s concert-volume phone call. Gently petting Rod Laver the Dog, he waited patiently, ready to resume the job he would be instructed to bill Dick’s assistant for, since incessant V.C.’s never had cash. Rod rolled onto his back for a quick tummy rub fix, closed his eyes and soaked up the sun. What a smart being. So was Wally in a way. Right now, he was being paid to pet his dog. Still, all things being equal, he’d rather just do his job.

  And then, a change in inflection. Maybe he was in luck, Dick the VC seemed to be wrapping a bow around the deal. “Well you tell that conniving moron that the valuation we set was based on our team in five board seats,” he bellowed. “And if he thinks…Uh, hunh, uh, hunh…Okay. We’ll send you a terms sheet.”

  He clicked off the phone, turned abruptly to Wally and asked him, “Do you have affairs with your students?”

  “No,” said Wally.

  Dick picked up his racquet and took a vicious cut at an imaginary serve toss. “Are you having an affair with my wife?”

  “No,” said Wally.

  “Then how did you get my name?” he asked.

  “Your assistant called me.”

  “My assistant?” He looked down at his racquet, back at Wally and said, “You’re tall. Are you having an affair with her?”

  Wally wheeled the ball cart over to the baseline. Motioning with his racquet, he said, “A few serves?”

  Dick grabbed a ball, took the same vicious swing, powered a serve deep into the off-court roses and exclaimed authoritatively, “Serves suck. Let’s play points.”

  “Great,” said Wally.

  “What time is it?”

  Wally checked his watch unnecessarily. “Three minutes to.”

  “I gotta go. But this was the best first lesson I’ve had today. I want to book you for this time every morning for the year. Just call my assistant.”

  And before Wally could answer, Dick’s phone was lovingly mating with his ear again and he was on his way to his Aston Martin. Over his shoulder he shouted to Wally, “And I love the dog.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Wally said.

  The Dick stopped. “Is he for sale?”

  “No. Sorry. We’re kind of attached to him.”

  “Too bad. Great dog. And Roy Emerson. Great name,” he said.

  Rod growled just a little. Dick started another thought, but before he could expound and command, something more important intervened. He had just noticed 17 year-old Ashley Margincall, stretched out on a lawn chair, sunbathing by the pool. Topless. Wally saw her too. Oh, God, he thought, Atherton Beauty.

  Dick stopped dead in his tracks on the Margincall’s lovely Connecticut Bluestone pavers. With no shame or disguise, he stood where he was, unmoving, transfixed on the Margincall’s walkway, staring at their teenage daughter and her breasts. Or maybe just her breasts.

  “Ever driven in an Aston?” he asked her.

  “Besides mine?”

  Missing half a beat. “So this is your place?”

  “Sort of,” she said.

  “I like your guy. The tall tennis pro. Hold onto him.”

  “If only.”

  “You having an affair with him?”

  “He’s married. I think they’re even in love.”

  “Me too,” said Dick, still staring at Ashley’s chest. Pausing for just a moment, he was hit by a delightful idea. “Bottomless. You ever go bottomless?”

  “Tuesdays,” she said.

  “You here tomorrow?”

  “Saturday?” A sly smile. “Playing tennis.”

  “Another day then.”

  Ashley sat up. “Another day. Nice to meet you.”

  He walked to her, extending his hand, barely able to focus on the shake. “Dick,” he said.

  “Dick,” she repeated.

  Dick somehow took the necessary steps up the path and climbed into his Aston. On the phone and still staring at Ashley, he almost hit a gazebo and a Ginnever as he drove out.

  Wally, under his breath, “Careful, Dick.”

  Wally whistled to Rod Laver the Dog who jumped up and trotted to the car. Then he called over to Ashley. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “He’s harmless. Just like the boys at school.”

  “Speaking of which–”

  “Why am I not there,” she asked.

  “Well?”

  “I’m studying for finals,” she said. Noticing that Wally was still standing across the yard from her, she smiled and said, “Wally?”

  “Ashley?”

  “You’re not looking at me. Do my boobs make you nervous?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Did you put on sunscreen?”

  “No. I forgot. But you’re the pro. Will you do them for me?”

  Wally turned and while still not looking at Ashley, said to her in all earnestness, “You could be a good player.”

  “Why bother?” Looking down and chestward. “I’ve got these.”

  “We have a lesson at three.”

  “I know. I’m ready.”

  “Well, if you get tired of studying, hit a few serves,” he said.

  Smiling, she said, “Serves suck. Let’s play points.”

  “When do your folks come home again?” he asked.

  “Who knows? I’m just a gate code kid.” Taking a towel and standing up, “But don’t worry, I’ll be decent for the lesson.” Smiling again. “In fact, I’ll cover
up now.”

  And with that, she wrapped the towel around her waist and reclined again on the lawn chair.

  Wally had successfully avoided locking eyes with anything but Ashley’s eyes. It occurred to him that the intercom wasn’t actually a bad way to communicate with her. Much less distracting.

  He wasn’t really tempted to look at her. It was just difficult not to look. Even at 163. He’d had women students change their tops on the court, or wear next to nothing next to something, but Ashley was the only one in thirty years of ample opportunities who had tried to provoke him. Was this funny for her? Or funnier because he was a hundred and sixty-three? Or more of a challenge for her because he resisted? Bored, with money and no supervision, she just had too much time and inclination. Not the best upbringing. He made a useless note to himself not to make too much money.

  The morning book filed, he tucked his six-foot-six body into the best looking car ever built, the car that sold a million units in its first eighteen months and put in the key. But when his foot pressed down on the gas pedal, he felt like he was going to push the pedal through the metal. He had to lift his foot back up with his hand to stop it. His heart was jumping the steeplechase again and it was about to do the long jump too. Was it the 14 ounces of burr-ground gloop he drank every morning? Was it Ashley? What was going on? Still wondering, he closed his door absentmindedly, but with such a rush of unexpected macho arm power that he broke the driver’s side window. Rod Laver the Dog winced.

  What was going on?

  THREE

  That afternoon, after a bleak, teeny quiche-and-twig luncher with their mortgage broker, Ken, at Café Barrone, Wally and his wife, Danielle, drove north to the airport on highway 101 in her eight year-old Honda Odyssey mini-van. Danielle was in a business suit and Rod Laver the Dog was napping in the back. Wally had felt a little tense in the meeting, but his pulse rate had slowed since then.