Housebreaking (21 page)

Andrew went around to the other side of the court to collect the balls, checking his watch. Johnny Sampson was fifteen minutes late. This irritated him. He didn't like waiting on anyone, particularly not a third-year associate. His own fault. He had agreed to the match because it was such a beautiful day, a gift of sorts, and because he wanted to beat Sampson. There was a smugness about him that annoyed Andrew. A know-it-all, with his Supreme Court trivia.

After gathering the practice balls, Andrew looked up to see Sampson hop out of a little black convertible. He jogged over with his tennis racket and a sweater draped around his neck, but nothing more—no gym bag, no water bottle, no tennis balls.

“You're late,” said Andrew.

“My bad.” Sampson explained that one of the partners had called as he was leaving his house and saddled him with some research for Monday morning.

Andrew nodded. “And that's your excuse? That's supposed to make me feel better?”

Sampson scratched his head.

“Do you think you should be doing research for someone besides me? Are you working on my team or someone else's? I got two files on my desk waiting for you. Litigation, not research. You'd be trying cases.”

“I'd like that.”

“Then one, don't take research from anyone else, and, two, don't keep me waiting.”

“Understood.”

“Now stretch out so we can get started.”

“No need. I'm ready to go.”

“You stretched at your place?”

“I don't stretch, particularly.” Sampson pushed his hair to the side; his pale blue eyes gleamed brightly in the sun. There was something cloyingly feminine about the way he arranged his hair.

“Fine. Best of three,” Andrew said. He popped open a fresh can of tennis balls.

“Loser buys dinner?”

“I wasn't planning on dinner,” said Andrew, “but sure, why not.”

“Good. I play better when there's money on the line.”

Andrew snorted. “You're pretty cocky, aren't you?”

Sampson shrugged.

“Make it dinner and drinks, then. You serve.”

Not a bad idea, Andrew figured. It would be nice to escape for a night. He couldn't chastise Audrey for her sadness, but the constant weight of it wore on him too. Did she not know that? Was she trying to bring him down as well? He felt just as bad as she did, every bit as bad. He didn't feel like getting up most mornings either. But he couldn't spend his days under the covers, weeping, could he? How could they continue otherwise? How could he afford to mourn like her, if no one went to work?

He played without conversation, not even speaking when switching sides. The games went fast. Sampson hit hard and deep. He had excellent form, a two-fisted backhand that was as strong as his forehand. He glided along the baseline with long strides, a beautiful thing to see, really. But many shots drifted long, and his placement was poor, usually smack down the middle. He served a handful of thunderous aces, but otherwise he had a low first-serve percentage. Andrew himself had a herky-jerky game, and his backhand, as anyone who played him quickly realized, was weak, but he hustled and rarely made mistakes. As his Amherst coach used to say,
Murray only does one thing right on the court, and that's win
. He moved Sampson from side to side, making him run. He took the first set easily.

Sampson proposed a water break. “Do you ever miss?”

“Not today.”

The fountain outside the gate bubbled a lukewarm dribble. Andrew watched Sampson's Adam's apple bob as he drank.

Sampson wiped his lips. “Have you heard about the fruit loop?”

“The what?”

Johnny Sampson nodded toward the road that led to the tennis courts. It was a narrow one-way gravel path, about a quarter mile long, which circled a wooded area of the park. “When you drove in, did you notice the cars parked along the circle?”

“I guess so. What about it?”

“The hottest gay meeting place in Hartford. At night, all you have
to do is flash your headlights and someone will come knocking on your window.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Weekdays at rush hour you can barely find a place to park. Mostly it's businessmen on their way home to their wives,” Sampson added, turning an ineffable smile toward him.

“How'd you hear about this?”

Sampson shrugged. “It's common knowledge.”

Andrew frowned. Why would Sampson impart this information to him? Did he think he'd be interested? Was this his way of coming on to him? He was his supervisor, for God's sake. Or did he come on to everyone this way, his flirty way of going through life, tempting boys and girls alike with his good looks and charm?

In the second set, Andrew lost his touch, making a slew of unforced errors. Sampson broke his serve and then held his own on four straight points. During the next game, while sprinting to net, Andrew felt his hamstring pinch. He dropped to a knee, rubbing the back of his thigh.

Sampson said, “Cramp?”

“Hamstring.”

“Ouch. I hate to see that. Did you tear it?”

Andrew shook his head, grimacing. “I don't think so. Give me a minute, will you?”

He glanced at Johnny Sampson, almost twenty years younger. He didn't seem to be breathing hard, standing at midcourt, swatting his racket at butterflies.

“No worries,” said Sampson. “Let's call it a day. We can pick up again when your leg feels better.”

“No,” said Andrew. “Let's finish it.”

Andrew lost the second set in a tiebreaker. In the third set, as the sun began to lower in the sky and shadows claimed all but a patch of the court, Andrew moved stiffly back and forth along the baseline, squinting in pain, unable to catch up with Sampson's ground strokes.

“Are you sure you don't want to pack it in?”

“Stop asking me that.”

During the next game, Andrew tried a lob, but the wind held up his shot and Sampson reared back and slammed the ball—a bunny—­directly into the net. “Damn,” he said, as if delivering a line. Andrew
heard the false tone. He'd blown the shot on purpose, Andrew realized. Had Sampson been giving him points all along, trying to keep the match close, not wanting to embarrass him?

Andrew trudged back to the baseline, his T-shirt heavy with sweat. He hit the serve long, but Sampson played it anyway, returning a lollipop to Andrew's forehand. Andrew let the ball bounce past him.

“What's wrong?” said Sampson.

“My serve was out.”

“I thought it caught the line.”

“Not even close.”

Sampson scratched his head. “Call it let, then.”

Andrew bounced the ball on the baseline, staring across the net. “Are you ready to play?”

Sampson nodded.

Andrew served, and Sampson smacked a low backhand crisply down the line for a winner.

“Game,” said Sampson.

* * *

DOWNTOWN
they ate steaks at the hotel bar among the Saturday night revelers.

Women seemed to flock around Sampson. They slipped between him and Andrew at the bar, offered a quick smile while ordering their drinks.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Sampson?”

Sampson shrugged. “I like to bounce around.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, delicately wiped the corners of his mouth, and sipped his glass of champagne. The bottle was Sampson's idea. He came from money, even if his family had lost it. He didn't seem shy about running up Andrew's bar tab.

Andrew checked his watch. His car was still parked at the tennis courts. “What time do they close the park?”

“No time.”

“You sure? I don't want to get locked out.”

“I'll drive you back after this round.” Sampson refilled their glasses, finishing the bottle of champagne. “Meet the new boss,” he toasted, “same as the old boss.” He offered his self-satisfied smile. “Pete Towns­hend,” answered Andrew. He had the urge to pour the champagne over Sampson's head. But in the face of such conceit, what could he do besides laugh it off?

Andrew excused himself to the men's room. In the mirror, his eyes were bloodshot, his hair wild, his sweatshirt stained down the middle. He tossed some water on his face, but it didn't help.

When he came out of the bathroom, he saw Sampson talking to two women who were wearing the same outfit—black miniskirts and clingy white tops. One of them leaned close to Sampson to whisper in his ear. This was a waste of time, Andrew decided. At a bar like this, he could squander the entire night, like a college kid. His time was more valuable than most people's: three hundred dollars per hour, to be exact. “To hell with it,” he said under his breath. He'd already paid the tab, his debt satisfied, as much as it irked him to lose on a pulled hamstring. Time to go.

He went out to the lobby to flag a cab. As he stood on the sidewalk, Sampson appeared beside him. “Leaving so soon? It's still early.”

“Not for me.”

Sampson handed his ticket to the valet and poked Andrew in the arm. “Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky . . .”

“What's that, more Townshend?”

“Something like that.”

The car jockey pulled up and flipped the keys to Sampson, who snatched them nonchalantly out of the air. He drove with his left arm out the window. He pushed a CD into the player and classical music came from the speakers, something slow and mournful. Andrew remembered Sampson's résumé: “the violin.” He pictured Sampson as a child: the spoiled little towhead toddling down the brick sidewalks of Georgetown with his violin case, pushing his stupid blond locks out of his eyes.

Andrew felt his head spinning and realized that he was drunk. He wasn't a big drinker by nature; he didn't like the feeling of losing control, or paying for it the next day with one of his killer hangovers. But tonight he didn't mind. It felt good to sit in the passenger seat, windows down in the Alfa Romeo, the night air rushing by.

Sampson turned in to the entrance to the park. There was a restaurant on the premises, well lit, with a row of cars lined up in front. Past the restaurant, Sampson turned onto the narrow, rutted lane that led to the tennis courts.
The fruit loop
. Who the hell came up with that? Andrew
wondered. There were no streetlights, just tall trees lining the way, the branches overhanging like a canopy. Halfway around the circle, a car flashed its lights and jerked out into the middle of the road. There, the car idled, blocking the way.

“What's this?”

“The usual wanton and reckless conduct,” said Sampson.

He turned onto the grass to steer around the car and continued to the tennis courts. Andrew's SUV was the only vehicle left in the dirt lot.

Andrew felt reluctant to get out of the car. “You won today, but you didn't beat me. There's a difference.”

Sampson smiled. “If you say so.”

“What's so funny?”

“Do you know the first thing everyone says about you?”

“What?”

“He doesn't like to lose.”

“What else do they say?”

“That it's a mistake to get on your bad side.”

Andrew nodded. “The inverse is true as well. You should know that.”

“Like those two files on your desk, for instance.”

“Precisely.”

Andrew got out of the car. He fired up his SUV and wheeled out of the park. On the way home, he tried to keep it slow, not wanting to get pulled over after a half bottle of champagne, but he found himself juicing the gas, zipping around corners. He flipped to a seventies rock station and cranked the volume, singing along.

* * *

AT HOME
, Sheba jumped up to greet him at the door. Andrew staggered around the furniture piled in the hallway, telling himself it would all be in its place soon. When he came into the bedroom, Audrey looked up from her book.

“Chicken's in the fridge, if you're hungry,” she said.

“I already ate,” he explained.

“Did you win?”

He shook his head. “Pulled a hamstring.”

“Sorry.”

He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He fumbled for the light switch and knocked over the plastic cup that held
their toothbrushes. “Shit,” he muttered. The patter of piss seemed to go on for minutes. He was drunk, his bladder bloated.

He jumped into the shower for less than five minutes, but when he came out of the bathroom, the lights were off and Audrey was curled under the comforter. He went to his side of the bed, not bothering to put on his pajamas. Even on sober nights, he wasn't a good sleeper. He would try everything from counting aloud, which bothered Audrey, to pills, but the pills made him foggy the next day. He didn't count tonight; instead he thrashed about, shifting onto his back or stomach every few minutes.

Audrey was wearing a long white cotton T-shirt and hospital pants, her usual sleeping outfit; but she hadn't taken off her bra, as she usually did for bed, and his hand stopped when he reached it. “Hey,” he said softly.

She groaned and turned away from him.

“Let me help you get this off.” He reached under her T-shirt and unclasped her bra and ran his hands over her breasts.

“Andrew.”

“What?”

“It's late.”

“It's not even eleven.”

He pushed aside the comforter and eased down her scrubs.

“Cut it out.” She pulled the comforter back over herself.

“I'll make it quick.”

“No.”

“Come on. It'll help me sleep.”

“Go take a pill if you can't sleep.”

“I'd rather do this.”

She turned to him and said in a gentler tone, “I'm tired, okay? We can talk about this later.”

“To hell with later.”

“Jesus, Andrew. Why the sudden romance?”

“I want to, that's all.”

“Well, I don't. Not at this hour.”