Vanishing Act by John Feinstein Read Free Book Online Page A

section.
    â€œHow soon?” Kelleher said, settling in between Carillo and Stevie.
    â€œThey announced players on court to warm up at two o’clock,” Carillo said. “I’ve got one fifty-five. Hey, did you see the Rubin kid beat Boo-Hoo Three? She could play Symanova in the third round.”
    â€œDidn’t see it,” Kelleher said. “But Susan Carol and Stevie did.”
    â€œWhat’d you think?” Carillo said, turning to Stevie as if they were peers.
    Feeling quite expert, Stevie said, “Well, she’s very good from the back of the court, but she doesn’t volley at all.”
    â€œSweetie, no one volleys in women’s tennis,” Carillo said in a tone that somehow didn’t make it sound like a put-down, even though he knew she was right.
    â€œWe haven’t had a true serve-and-volleyer since Martina,” Collins said.
    A murmur ran through the crowd and Stevie saw a TV cameraman backing out of the tunnel that was right in the middle of the stands across from the umpire’s chair. A moment later, a security guy came out onto the court followed by a short, dark-haired player carrying an enormous racquet bag who Stevie knew had to be Joanne Walsh, Symanova’s opponent. Stevie knew nothing about her other than what he had seen in the newspaper that morning. She was twenty-four years old and ranked ninety-sixth in the world. The paper had referred to her as a “veteran,” which in women’s tennis meant anyone over twenty-one. A second security man walked right behind Walsh.
    Stevie realized he was standing up, craning his neck for a view of Symanova. Walsh kept walking across the court to the players’ chairs but the cameraman remained poised just outside the tunnel, waiting for Symanova. Stevie waited. So did everyone else.
    â€œWhere is she?” Susan Carol asked. The crowd was beginning to buzz. Walsh had reached her seat and was unzipping her racquet bag. Still no one else came out of the tunnel.
    â€œMaybe she stopped to check her makeup,” Collins said.
    Kelleher laughed. “There is that little bathroom right off the court.”
    â€œYeah,” Carillo said. “Remember when this was the stadium court and Lendl used to jump in there and change so he could go straight to the parking lot without going back to the locker room?”
    â€œWe used to call him Ivan the Unshowered,” Collins said.
    The buzz was growing. There was still no sign of Symanova. Walsh was now standing, holding her racquet, looking up at the umpire. The umpire had put her hand over the microphone and was leaning down to talk to Walsh.
    â€œThis is now officially getting strange,” Carillo said.
    â€œCheck this out,” Collins said, pointing in the direction of the tunnel.
    A gaggle of security men came sprinting from the tunnel—Stevie counted one, two, three, four, five of them—followed by two men in blazers, both of them barking into walkie-talkies.
    â€œUh-oh,” Kelleher said. “Something’s up, something big-time.”
    â€œShe must be hurt,” Collins said. “But how do you get hurt walking over to the court?”
    â€œTripped on her stilettos?” Susan Carol asked.
    â€œShe’s wearing sneakers!” Stevie said, thinking that was a dumb comment until he realized she was being sarcastic. “Nice, she’s hurt and you’re making jokes.”
    â€œCalm down, Stefano, I’m sure your betrothed is fine,” Collins said, smiling.
    The new group of security men had gone directly to Walsh and spoken to her. Whatever they said, she walked quickly back to her chair, zippered her racquet back into her bag, and began walking back across the court with no fewer than eight blue-shirted security men surrounding her. Seeing this, the crowd began whistling—the tennis equivalent of booing.
    â€œWalsh is leaving,” Stevie said. “Symanova must be