Murder is My Racquet Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned to make the stories more vivid, but all other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  Compilation copyright © 2005 by Otto Penzler • Introduction copyright © 2005 by Otto Penzler • “Terrible Tommy Terhune” copyright © 2005 by Lawrence Block • “Tennis, Anyone?” copyright © 2005 by Kinky Friedman • “Six Love” copyright © 2005 by James W. Hall • “Promise” copyright © 2005 by John Harvey • “A Debt to the Devil” copyright © 2005 by Jeremiah Healy • “Stephen Longacre’s Greatest Match” copyright © 2005 by Stephen Hunter • “No Strings” copyright © 2005 by Judith Kelman • “A Killer Overhead” copyright © 2005 by Robert Leuci • “Needle Match” copyright © 2005 by Peter Lovesey • “The Rematch” copyright © 2005 by Mike Lupica • “Continental Grip” copyright © 2005 by David Morrell • “Close Shave” copyright © 2005 by Ridley Pearson • “Love Match” copyright © 2005 by Lisa Scottoline • “A Peach of a Shot” copyright © 2005 by Daniel Stashower

  All rights reserved.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  Originally published in hardcover by Mysterious Press

  The Grand Central Publishing name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: November 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56954-5

  For Thomas H. Cook

  A truly wonderful writer—

  and an even better friend

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  INTRODUCTION

  TERRIBLE TOMMY TERHUNE

  TENNIS, ANYONE?

  SIX LOVE

  PROMISE

  A DEBT TO THE DEVIL

  STEPHEN LONGACRE’S GREATEST MATCH

  NO STRINGS

  A KILLER OVERHEAD

  NEEDLE MATCH

  THE REMATCH

  CONTINENTAL GRIP

  CLOSE SHAVE

  LOVE MATCH

  A PEACH OF A SHOT

  INTRODUCTION

  Tennis. Now there’s a word that conjures the height of genteel sportsmanship. Fresh white clothes, lemonade, polite tapping of hands together, the occasional “well played” acknowledgment.

  Look a little closer, however, and the nasty underside of tennis, with its many connections to crime and violence, readily rises to the surface. The very name itself, tennis, is probably derived from the French word “tenez,” which means “take it.” No niceties here of accept it, or earn it, or try for it. No, the flat out felonious “take it” is unambiguous in its directive. And the criminal and murderous connections do not end there. The implicit violence of terms like “overhead smash” and “killer serve” are far removed from the gentle lawn game of softer imaginations.

  The violence of the game is not limited to its terminology. Players are coached to rebuff a charge to the net by smashing the ball directly at the opponent, resulting in more than one black-and-blue mark, if not worse.

  And check out old tapes of John McEnroe and his blood rage, directed mainly at umpires and linesmen but also at opponents. Yet those actions, when seen from the perspective of today, seem modulated compared with some of the younger thugs who had the door opened for them by the boorish McEnroe (who, admittedly, now seems to be somewhat embarrassed by his out-of-control actions).

  Also recall Jennifer Capriati being busted on drug charges, and the parental abuse of Mary Pierce’s father, who needed a court order to stop him from terrorizing his daughter. And let’s not forget the fanatic who rooted so enthusiastically for Steffi Graf that he attacked her greatest rival, Monica Seles, stabbing her in the back during a match.

  No, tennis is not all about gentility—a fact amply illustrated on the following pages. Here, some of the giants of the mystery genre have brought their murderous intentions to center court.

  There’s murder, of course, some of it not terribly genteel at all. You’ll encounter blackmail, voodoo, insanity, and clever scams. You’ll see that human behavior doesn’t vary that much, whether it’s on the pro tour, at the country club, or on a public court.

  Whether the action is centered on a top-ranked player, a hopeless pitty-pat struggler, or a ball boy, there are always secrets to keep and mysteries to unravel. And who better to create these mysteries (and solve them) than a gathering of some of the world’s top-ranked crime writers?

  Lawrence Block has received the highest honor bestowed by the Mystery Writers of America: the Grand Master Award for lifetime achievement. He is also a multiple award winner in both the best novel and best short story categories. The versatile and prolific Block has produced more than fifty novels and short story collections, most notably about his tough private eye, Matt Scudder, his comedic bookseller/burglar, Bernie Rhodenbarr, and his amoral hit man, Keller.

  Kinky Friedman has had more than one career. He began as an outrageous country and western singer, leading a group called Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys. Although the group remained successful, he turned his hand to writing hilarious novels of crime and murder starring no less formidable a light than Kinky himself. He also once ran for a local office in Texas as a Republican in a district that was, he reports, 98 percent Democratic. He lost.

  James W. Hall began his writing career as a poet but switched to the mystery genre, creating one of Florida’s most memorable characters in Thorn, the hero of most of his best-selling novels. Hall has been hailed by the San Francisco Chronicle as “brilliant” and by Newsweek as “a poet.” His most recent short story, “Crack,” was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award.

  John Harvey is one of the best of England’s new breed of gritty noir writers whose ten Charlie Resnick novels have been lavishly (and justly) praised. Elmore Leonard has compared him to Graham Greene; Jim Harrison has likened him to James Lee Burke and Elmore Leonard; the London Times has called him “The King of Crime,” and the Denver Post stated unequivocally that “Harvey writes better crime novels than anybody else in the world.”

  Jeremiah Healy, creator of the Boston-based private eye John Francis Cuddy, has been nominated for six Shamus Awards by the Private Eye Writers of America, winning the Best Novel Award for The Staked Goat. Two of his short stories have been selected for the prestigious Best American Mystery Stories of the Year.

  Stephen Hunter has become a perennial name on the bestseller list with such gritty thrillers as Hot Springs, Time to Hunt, Point of Impact, and Dirty White Boys. His sometimes shocking adventures of “Bob the Nailer” (and if you haven’t already, read the books so you can learn how he got the name!) have been applauded by Robert Ludlum (“breathtaking, fascinating”), John Sandford (“Stephen Hunter is Elmore Leonard on steroids”), and Nelson DeMille (“Stephen Hunter is in a class by himself”).

  Judith Kelman is the best-selling author of thirteen novels of psychological suspense, including Summer of Storms, After the Fall, Fly Away Home, and More Than You Know, which have been praised by such masters of the genre as Mary Higgins Clark (“Judith Kelman gets better all the time!”), Dean Koontz (“swift, suspenseful, highly entertaining”), and Susan Isaacs (“riveting… loaded with suspense, smart characters, and wonderfully acute observations”).

  Robert Leuci was a detective with the New York City Police Department for more than twenty years and served as the subject of Robert Daley’s best-selling Prince of the City and the motion picture made from it. He is the author of terrifically realistic police novels, including The Snitch and The Blaze, of whom Nichola
s Pileggi, author of Wiseguys, has said, “In the writings of the world of cops and the mob, there is no more authentic voice than Bob Leuci’s.”

  Peter Lovesey capped a brilliant career by winning the British Crime Writers Association’s highest honor, the Carder Diamond Dagger Award for lifetime achievement. He began writing in 1970 with Wobble to Death, introducing Sergeant Cribb, who appeared in seven more novels and two television series (seen in the U.S. on PBS’s Mystery!).

  Mike Lupica is one of the most talented and honored sportswriters in America. His controversial columns and articles in the New York Daily News, Esquire, and other publications have helped make him a household name. His weekly appearance on the television series The Sports Reporters has further enhanced his reputation at the top of his field. He has written several mystery novels about Peter Finley, the first of which, Dead Air, was nominated for an Edgar and then filmed for CBS as Money, Power and Murder.

  David Morrell, although a consistent best-seller for nearly twenty years with such novels as The League of Night and Fog, The Brotherhood of the Rose, Desperate Measures, and Extreme Denial, will always be remembered for having created an American icon, Rambo, in his novel First Blood. More than 12 million copies of his novels are in print in the United States.

  Ridley Pearson won the American Library Association’s Best Fiction Award in 1994 for No Witnesses. He has been a best-seller ever since with such books as Beyond Recognition, The Pied Piper, Middle of Nowhere, and The First Victim. He has been translated into more than twenty languages, and his Lou Boldt series is being produced as an A&E original movie.

  Lisa Scottoline, called “the female John Grisham” by People magazine, has had numerous New York Times best-sellers, including Mistaken Identity, Moment of Truth, and The Vendetta Defense. She won an Edgar Allan Poe Award for her second legal thriller, Final Appeal. Her books are regularly used by bar associations to illustrate issues of legal ethics.

  Daniel Stashower was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award for his first novel, The Adventure of the Ectoplasmic Man, and won the coveted award for Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle. In between, he won the Raymond Chandler Ful-bright Fellowship in Detective and Crime Writing and spent much of his time in Oxford researching his definitive biography.

  So these are the players—not seeded, as each of them has a game worth watching. There are hard hitters here, as well as devious ones. Enjoy the smashes and the lobs, but beware these killer writers because Murder Is Their Racquet.

  —Otto Penzler

  TERRIBLE TOMMY TERHUNE

  LAWRENCE BLOCK

  As every high school chemistry student knows,” wrote sportswriter Garland Hewes, “the initials TNT stand for tri-nitro-toluene, and the compound so designated is an explosive one indeed. And, as every tennis fan is by now aware, the same initials stand as well for Thomas Norton Terhune, supremely gifted, immensely personable, and, as he showed us once again yesterday on the clay courts of Roland Garros, an unstable and violently explosive mixture if ever there was one, and a grave danger to himself and others.”

  The incident to which the venerable Hewes referred was one of many in Tommy Terhune’s career in world-class tennis. In the French Open’s early rounds, he dazzled players and spectators alike with the brilliance of his play. His serve was powerful and on-target, but it was his inspired all-around play that lifted him above the competition. He was quick as a cat, covering the whole court, making impossible returns look easy. His drop shots dropped, his lobs landed just out of his opponent’s reach but just inside the white line.

  But when the ball was out, or, more to the point, when the umpire declared it to be out, Tommy exploded.

  In his quarterfinal match at Roland Garros, a shot of Terhune’s, just eluding the outstretched racquet of his Montenegrin opponent, landed just inside the baseline.

  The umpire called it out.

  As the television replay would demonstrate, time and time again, the call was an error on the official’s part. The ball did in fact land inside the line, by two or three inches. Thus Tommy Terhune was correct in believing that the point should be his, and he was understandably dismayed at the call.

  His behavior was less understandable. He froze at the call, his racquet at shoulder height, his mouth open. While the crowd watched in anticipatory silence, he approached the umpire’s raised platform. “Are you out of your mind?” he shouted. “Are you blind as a bat? What the hell is the matter with you, you pop-eyed frog?”

  The umpire’s response was inaudible, but was evidently uttered in support of his decision. Tommy paced to and fro at the foot of the platform, ranting, raving, and drawing whistles of disapproval from the fans. Then, after a tense moment, he returned to the baseline and prepared to serve.

  Two games later in the same set, he let a desperate return of his opponent’s drop. It was long, landing a full six inches beyond the white line. The umpire declared it in, and Tommy went berserk. He screamed, he shouted, he commented critically on the umpire’s lineage and sexual predilections, and he underscored his remarks by gripping his racquet in both hands, then swinging it like an axe as if to chop down the wooden platform, perhaps as a first step to chopping down the official himself. He managed to land three ringing blows, the third of which shattered his graphite racquet, before another official stepped in to declare the match a forfeit, while security personnel took the American in hand and led him off the court.

  The French had never seen the like and, characteristically, their reaction combined distaste for Terhune’s lack of savoir-faire with grudging respect for his spirit. Phrases like enfant terrible and monstre sacre turned up in their press coverage. Elsewhere in the world, fans and journalists said essentially the same thing. Terrible Tommy Terhune, the tennis world’s most gifted and most temperamentally challenged player, had proven to be his own worst enemy, and had succeeded in ousting himself from a tournament he’d been favored to win. He had done it again.

  • • •

  The racquet Tommy shattered at the French Open was not the first one to go to pieces in his hands. His racquets had the life expectancy of a rock star’s guitar, and he consequently had learned to travel with not one but two spares. Even so, he’d been forced to withdraw from one tournament in the semifinal round, when, after a second double fault, he held his racquet high overhead, then brought it down full-force upon the hardened playing surface. He had already sacrificed his other two racquets in earlier rounds, one destroyed in similar fashion to protest an official’s decision, the other snapped over his knee in fury at himself for a missed opportunity at the net. He was now out of racquets, and unable to continue. His double fault had cost him a point; his ungovernable rage had cost him the tournament.

  Such episodes notwithstanding, Tommy won his share of tournaments. He did not always blow up, and not every episode led to disqualification. In England, one confrontation with an official provoked a clamor in the press that he be refused future entry, not merely to Wimbledon, but to the entire United Kingdom; in response, Tommy somehow held himself in check long enough to breeze through the semifinals, and, in the final round, treated the fans to an exhibition of play unlike anything they’d seen before.

  Playing against Roger MacReady, the rangy Australian who was the crowd’s clear favorite, Tommy played Centre Court at Wimbledon as Joe DiMaggio had once played center field at Yankee Stadium. He anticipated every move MacReady made, moving in response not at the impact of ball and racquet but somehow before it, as if he knew where MacReady was going to send the ball before the Australian knew it himself. He won the first two sets, lost the third in a tiebreaker, and soared to an easy victory in the fourth set, winning 6–1, and winning over the crowd in the process. By the time his last impossible backhand return had landed where MacReady couldn’t get to it, the English fans were on their feet cheering for him.

  A month later, the laurels of Wimbledon still figuratively draped around his shoulders, Terrible Tommy Terhune diagnosed
an official as suffering severely from myopia, astigmatism, and tunnel vision, and recommended an unorthodox course of ophthalmological treatment consisting of the performance of two sexual acts, one incestuous, the other physically impossible. He then threw his racquet on the ground, stepped on its face, and pulled up on its handle until the thing snapped. He picked up the two pieces, sailed them into the crowd, and stalked off the court.

  • • •

  Morley Safer leaned forward. “If you were watching a tennis match,” he began, “and saw someone behave as you yourself have so often behaved—”

  “I’d be disgusted,” Tommy told him. “I get sick to my stomach when I see myself on videotape. I can’t watch. I have to turn off the set. Or leave the room.”

  “Or pick up a racquet and smash the set?”

  Tommy laughed along with the TV newsman, then assured him that his displays of temper were confined to the tennis court. “That’s the only place they happen,” he said. “As to why they happen, well, I know what provokes them. I get mad at myself when I play poorly, of course, and that’s led me to smash a racquet now and then. It’s stupid and self-destructive, sure, but it’s nothing compared to what happens when an official makes a bad call. That drives me out of my mind.”

  “And out of control?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And yet there are skeptics who think you’re crazy like a fox,” Safer said. “Look at the publicity you get. After all, you’re the subject of this 60 Minutes profile, not Vasco Barxi, not Roger MacReady. All over the world, people know your name.”

  “They know me as a maniac who can’t control himself. That’s not how I want to be known.”

  “And there are others who say you gain by intimidating officials,” Safer went on. “You get them so they’re afraid to call a close point against you.”