Vanishing Act by John Feinstein Read Free Book Online

SEATING . They went up a short flight of steps and came out in a section that was almost directly behind the court—which was empty at the moment. Apparently the prior match had ended. The stands were almost full and there were no more than ten seats left in the media seating area, which Stevie estimated had about a hundred and fifty seats.
    â€œJust in time,” Kelleher said.
    A security guard stood at the top of the steps checking badges. He gave Stevie a skeptical look and twice looked at the photo on Stevie’s badge and then back at him. Having been through the same sort of thing at the Final Four, Stevie said nothing. When the guard went back for a third look, Kelleher couldn’t take it. “You can look at the photo a hundred times and it’s going to be him,” he said. “He’s working with me. He’s legit.”
    â€œWhaddya think, workin’ with you makes the kid legit?” the guard said in one of those unmistakable New York accents. “I’m just doin’ my job here, okay?”
    â€œFine,” Kelleher said. “Are you done doing your job now?”
    â€œYou want I should just throw youse bot’ out?” the guard said.
    Before Kelleher could respond, Collins, a step behind Kelleher, jumped in. “Fellas, fellas, let’s all be friends here,” he said. “Mr….?”
    â€œShapiro,” the guard said. “Max Shapiro.”
    â€œMax, nice to meet you,” Collins said, shaking hands with the guard as if they were long-lost friends. “This is Bobby Kelleher. He’s the leading tennis writer in the country, and this is his assistant, Steven Thomas. They’re just like you and me, here to see Symanova. No one wants any trouble.”
    Shapiro eyed Stevie and Kelleher for another moment. “Okay, Bud,” he said. “Seein’ that it’s you, okay. But the kid don’t look older than thirteen.”
    â€œWell, they do get younger-looking all the time,” Collins said.
    That seemed to satisfy Max, who moved aside. Stevie heard someone several rows up shouting Kelleher’s name.
    â€œKelleher, right here—I was about to give up on you guys!”
    Stevie looked in the direction of the voice—which was very familiar—and did a double take. It was Mary Carillo, the CBS tennis commentator who he knew also worked for ESPN. His dad had told him on more than one occasion that if his mother ever ran off with George Clooney, the first person he would pursue was Carillo.
    Carillo had black hair and big brown eyes. Her distinctively deep voice sounded exactly as it did on television. She was wearing a collared white shirt and shorts, and Stevie was surprised at how tall she was when she stood up to greet their group. It looked to him as if she and Susan Carol were about the same height. He had never thought of her as tall, but then he had only seen her on TV.
    â€œThe love of my life,” she said, throwing her arms around Kelleher as they walked up to greet her. “Only for you and Bud would I have fought off the masses to save these seats. Who’ve we got here?”
    Kelleher introduced her to Susan Carol and Stevie. “I can’t tell you what a big fan I am,” Susan Carol said. “I love listening to you talk about tennis.”
    â€œLearned it all from the master,” Carillo said, hugging Collins. “Right, master?”
    â€œYou never needed to learn a thing,” Collins said. “You were born knowing everything about tennis.”
    Stevie, feeling a little bit left out, heard himself blurt, “My dad thinks you’re hot.”
    Carillo laughed, a musical laugh that was filled with joy. “Thank you, Stevie,” she said. “I will take that as a compliment. And tell your dad thank you.”
    They all maneuvered into the seats Carillo had saved for them. Others were right behind them searching for seats in the fast-filling media