“You’re wearing the bandage in the wrong place,” he said. “If your elbow hurts, you should wear it on your elbow, not your wrist.”
“No,” I said, “it’s the action of the wrist that causes the pain in the elbow.”
“Who told you that?”
“My doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“Dr. Cooper, he’s an orthopedist.”
“He doesn’t know tennis elbows,” Mark said. “I had my first tennis elbow when I was sixteen.”
“What’d you do for it?”
“I wrapped it in a bandage and went up on the roof with a girl named Giselle. Giselle knew how to fix a tennis elbow, all right. If Giselle was here in Calusa, she’d fix that tennis elbow of yours in a minute.”
“It’s not the elbow, it’s really the wrist.”
“She’d fix your wrist, too, old Giselle.”
It was twenty minutes past nine. Mark’s exercise in demolition had taken little more than an hour. Where the courts had earlier been filled almost exclusively with men, there were now women beginning to play, or walking along the shrub-lined paths toward unoccupied courts. Some of the courts were being watered, and there was the whispering sound of the sprinklers and above that the steady rhythmic sound of balls being hit and returned, hit and returned. The morning was cool, a faint breeze rustled in the trees surrounding the courts. It occurred to me that something was different. Or rather... nothing was different, that was the trouble. Everything was the same.
This could have been Monday morning last week or the week before. There was no excited buzz in the air, no seeming knowledge of the fact that last night, not too many miles from here, a woman and her two daughters had been stabbed to death. True enough, there were sometimes fatal stabbings or shootings in Calusa, but these were normally the result of barroom brawls that got out of hand. It was rare that we had a sensational murder. The only one I could remember in the three years I’d been living here had taken place on Stone Crab Key — the Howell murder case. The reverberations of that one had rumbled through the city for months. This morning, it seemed the only people who yet knew anything at all about the murders on Jacaranda Drive were the ones who’d been at Jamie’s house last night. I was suddenly chilled; one of those people was the murderer.
“The reason tennis has become such a popular sport,” Mark said, “is that it gives women a legal opportunity to show their panties. If women had to play tennis in long dresses, they’d suddenly take up quilting. But the way it is now, a woman reaches up to serve, she bends over to receive, the whole world can see her panties and comment on her beautiful ass. It’s wonderful. Do you have time for coffee, counselor, or must you go plead the Sacco-Vanzetti case?”
“I have time for coffee,” I said.
There were half a dozen men and four women sitting at tables inside the screened-in coffee shop. Mark looked the women over as we went to the counter. One of the women, a busty blonde wearing a white T-shirt and very short shorts, blatantly looked him over in return. He winked at her, and she turned away and began an overly animated conversation with the woman sitting on her right. Mark ordered two coffees, and asked if I wanted a cheese Danish. I said I’d skip the Danish. We took a table just inside the screen, overlooking court number five. Two very strong women players were playing singles on it. One of them appeared to be in her late sixties, but she had a serve that was giving her younger opponent a lot of trouble. I watched them in silence for several moments, sipping my coffee, savoring it. Mark’s attention was on the blonde who’d earlier appraised him. When I asked him what he’d been doing lately, he missed the question. I repeated it.
“Professionally or socially?” he asked. “Never mind, the hell with professionally. Socially’s more interesting. Do you remember my telling you about a young lady named Eileen?”
“Yes, the National Airlines stewardess.”
“No that was Arlene.”
“I don’t remember anyone named Eileen.”
“Anyway, we’ve become very friendly.”
“Good,” I said.
“Not so good,” Mark said. “She’s moving back to Ohio. She’s had an offer to teach at Oberlin. She called me last night, said she desperately had to see me. I told her I couldn’t. She said, ‘But I’m leaving for Ohio!’ I said, ‘I know you’re leaving for Ohio, honey, but that’s not till September. This isn’t even March yet.’”
“So did you go see her?”
“No, I couldn’t, I had a poker game. Your friend’s game.”
I looked at him. “My friend’s game?”
“Jamie Bircher. You introduced me to him once a long time ago. At Marina Blue.”
“Purchase, do you mean? Jamie Purchase?”
“Yeah. An internist or something?”
“You played poker with him last night?”
“Well, don’t sound so shocked, Matt. It’s perfectly legal, you know.”
“Yes, I know, I just...”
“Didn’t remember me from a hole in the wall. Shook hands, how do you do, Mr. Goldman, sat down and started counting his chips.” Mark shrugged. “Hell with him,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you a regular in the game?”
“No, no, a friend of mine called yesterday afternoon — ten minutes before Eileen did, as a matter of fact. Art Kramer, do you know him? He sells real estate out on Whisper.”
“No, I don’t know him.”
“Two of his players had dropped out, he asked if I’d do him a favor and play. I played in the game once a long time ago. I didn’t much like it, so I never went back. They don’t play any wild games, just five-card draw or seven-card... do you play poker?”
“Yes.”
“Art doesn’t. Not really. He loves the game, but he can’t play it to save his ass. You know how much he lost last night?”
“How much?”
“Forty dollars. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but these guys play for nickels and dimes. Your friend walked out with a bundle.”
“My friend?”
“Tell me, Matt, has your tennis elbow moved up into your ear?”
“You mean Jamie Purchase?”
“Yes, your friend. Jamie Purchase your friend. Jamie Purchase the internist. Ask him to take a look at your ear, Matt.”
“You mean he won?”
“Yes. Very good, Matt. That’s exactly what I meant when I said he walked out with a bundle. He won. Excellent, Matt, you’re doing very—”
“No, wait a minute. He won? He won?”
“Must be an echo in this place,” Mark said. “Yes, he won. Or to put it yet another way, he won, yes. Cashed in his chips, said good night and walked out.”
“Did he say why he was leaving?”
“He was tired, poor fellow. Said he had to go home and get some sleep.”
“He said he was going home?”