Hebert shook his head and laughed inwardly. "Yeah, a great sport, one of the few you can stay with no matter how old you get. And it surely does beat stumbling on gopher holes around eighteen greens just to have an excuse for getting drunk on the nineteenth."
He scoffed a little more Scotch, apparently not feeling the need for an excuse but not really showing any effect from the booze either.
I said, "How long since you retired?"
"Retired? 'Retired,' now, that's a kind word, John, and I thank you for using it. I had to hang up the serious game at thirty-one, which if you're counting was seven years back. But it's not like you work for a corporation and build up a pension and stock plans and all. Nossir, it's get some backers, get in, and get what you can, because the show's over awful fast. Hey, now, I can't really complain, you understand? I had the brass ring for a while there."
Hebert set down the drink to count on his fingers. "One French Open, finalist at Wimbledon, semis three years running at Forest Hills. But what I had was the serve and the crosscourts, like you saw on that tape there. When the old rotator cuff went…"
He moved his shoulder in a very slow-motion serve. I could hear a crickling noise that had nothing to do with the starching of his shirt.
Hebert shrugged. "That was all she wrote."
"Can you still play?"
"Lordy, no. That is, not play play. You know the difference between, say, a Corvette and a Prelude?"
I didn't know if he was aware I drove a Honda and was toying with me, so I said, "No."
"Well, your Corvette, now, that's a sports car. But your Prelude, now, that's just a sporty car, get me?"
"The difference between an athlete and somebody who's just athletic."
"There you go. Well, I'm a Prelude that knows it used to be a Corvette. Oh, I'm happy to go out and shuck my way through a celebrity tournament for charity and all, but I can't really play no more, no more."
"And this has just what to do with the threats to your wife?"
Hebert finished his drink and got up immediately. "Another?"
I'd barely touched the Miller's. "Not just yet, thanks."
Fridge, rattle of fresh cubes, the neck of bottle clinking against rim of glass. I took in his trophies. Platters, cups, occasionally the racquet and player in metal outlined against a ceramic background. Hebert returned to his chair. "This all has to do with Maisy like this: I'm her husband. She used to have some doctor from Europe who died, but I'm it now. She's quite a woman, Maisy, but she gets an idea in her head, and it's Katy-Bar-the-Door, you think you're gonna change her mind. Like the players on the tour today."
"I'm sorry?"
"The players today. They verbalize everything. Take 'first serve percentage.' John, do you know I never, ever heard anybody say that all the time I played? Nossir, all you'd say to yourself then was 'I hope to Christ I can get this next one in.' Now they actually plan their matches around percentage and tendency and all. I suppose it does make sense. We plan everything else, why not 'first serve percentage'?"
"Or death."
Taking a slug, Hebert said, "Right, right. That's my point. Maisy's got this idea she can save the world by encouraging people to help each other die peaceable. Fine by me. I'm not about to go threatening her about it. I'm happy as can be. You know why?"
"No."
"Take any professional athlete – tennis, football, you name it. Once you've seen Paree, it's tough to give that up. Tougher than kicking drugs, I'm told by those who've known both pretty well. But your body, this thing that's made your fortune, sooner or later it lets you down, John. It goes and gets old on you.
"Now, I never held on to a dime longer than it took to order another round for the house. But it turns out I'm one of the lucky ones. Wasn't a year I was out of the tournaments, with not too many options staring me in the face, when I met up with Maisy. Boy, I was just plain dazzled by her. Don't know what she saw in me other than the usual stuff that the gossips'll spread, and there'd sure be some truth to that."
Hebert grinned. "I learned two things on the tour, John. How to serve and how to bed a woman. You've got to practice both every day, and I can still do the one to beat the band. But Maisy also provides for me."
He waved his hand around the room. "This used to be some kind of library. Well, she let me turn it into a shrine. A place I feel comfortable, like old St. Francis enjoying his sainthood before the pope declared it for him. I get everything I want out of this relationship, and I don't have to speak nice with old fogies that couldn't hit a dead hog with the sweet spot on a windless day. Nossir, I don't have to worry about tips or the IRS or club ladies getting fussy because I haven't made a move to lift their skirts. A lot of players I knew – good ones, too, John. Tough, chew-your-leg-off competitors – they've got to worry about those things. Not me. And if you think I'd piss in the well by threatening Maisy, you've got another think coming."
"Why would I think that?"
Hebert put his drink on the table, nearly sloshing it. "Because I was here when Inés found the threat note in the mailbox."
I thought about it. "You hear or see anything unusual that day?"
"Nothing. Sound asleep for a good part of it. Friend of mine from the old old days, he was in town, and we tied one the night before."
"You were sleeping off a drunk."
"Dead to the world till I heard all the commotion downstairs over the note."
"And tonight?"
"What about tonight?"
"You were there, at the auditorium and the bookstore. You see anything?"
"Just what everybody else did. Bunch of neurotics talking to themselves, except for my Maisy. But I was smiling, John. I was smiling because that's my job, and I'm happy to be doing it."
"And you're not taking the threats that seriously."
Hebert retrieved his drink. "You have any notion how many threats Maisy receives in a week?"
"You have any notion who's behind this batch?"
"Sure don't."
"You ever meet the first husband's son?"
"Who?"
"The doctor had a son. You ever meet him?"
"Oh, yeah. Not at the wedding though, I can tell you that. No, there was some kind of business for the estate in Spain. Couple of years ago, still dragging on all that time. Name of… just a second… Ramone was what Maisy called him."
"What was your impression of him?"
A sip. "You ever traveled through Europe, John?"
"No."
"Well, you do, and you get certain vibes from people. Like they know you're richer, maybe more powerful than they are, but they still think they're better?"
"Go on."
"Well, this guy wasn't like that. All-American and pleased as punch about being in the States. Even changed his name to just Ray, I think."
"Anything else?"
Another sip. "Not that I remember. Seems to me Ray signed all the papers he had to, no muss or bother. I don't believe he's been around since."
"So you wouldn't think the son was behind this?"
"No. I'll tell you something, though."
"What's that?"
"I find the feller's been sending these things…" Hebert tossed the rest of his drink at the back of his throat and started to get up, then paused halfway. "I'll crush the sumbitch, John. I will, messing with my life support system like he is."
I closed the doors on Hebert and was halfway around the landing when Maisy Andrus stuck her head through the other threshold on the floor.
I said, "How are you doing?"
"All right, I suppose. Do you have a minute?"
"Sure."
I followed her into the study, also lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, these actually containing books. There were law titles, but many seemed to be from other disciplines such as philosophy, sociology, medicine, and history. Andrus settled into a desk chair. Off to one side, computer components ranged over a trilevel table. The monitor was still glowing above one of those backless chairs that resemble a disoriented Catholic kneeler.