The clients kept Adrian occupied throughout the trip. When their plane landed at LaGuardia, a pair of black town cars swept them into Manhattan, where they had a block of rooms at the Waldorf Astoria. Ethan had been there once, on a holiday with his ex-wife. It had been a last attempt at patching things up, an expense they could not really afford. But they had gone anyway, and it had been a miserable failure. Now he stood in the art deco lobby, filled with remorse over things that had not yet happened.
Adrian guided him into the bar, where the firm and their clients took over a trio of tables and regaled each other with tales from other moments on the tennis world circuit. Ethan listened to them take excited pleasure in what everyone assumed would be America’s year.
World tennis had become increasingly dominated by foreign players. But this year would be different. Everyone said so. John McEnroe and Chris Evert Lloyd were expected to bring the trophies back where they belonged.
Only Ethan knew it would not turn out that way.
The first go-round, Adrian had phoned Ethan most evenings, offering a quick recap of the day’s events. But really what his brother intended with the calls was to be there in the midst of Ethan’s own contest loss. Adrian had done what he always did in the bad times. He made sure Ethan knew he wasn’t alone.
Those phone calls had formed the last significant bond the brothers ever shared.
The next morning, Ethan met with Adrian’s group before they headed out for the first round at Flushing Meadows. As he walked with Adrian to the door, his brother offered, “I could probably get you tickets for the early-round matches.”
“I told you,” Ethan said, “I’m here on business.”
“What happened to taking time off to celebrate?”
“I am, in a way.” Ethan followed his brother out the Waldorf’s front door. “Have a great day.”
“Watching Jimmy Connors clean the decks, you kidding? What could be better?” Adrian gave him five seconds of the laser stare. “You sure you’re doing the right thing?”
“Yes. I am.”
Adrian nodded and kept whatever concerns he had inside. “You’ll tell me what’s going on when we can kick back alone?”
“Everything you want to know,” Ethan replied. “Everything you can handle.”
“Well, you clean up good, I’ll give you that much.” Adrian strode to the limo’s open door, then turned back and said, “Be careful. Do that for me. You’re the only brother I’ve got.”
Ethan waved him off, then went back upstairs for the Samsonite briefcase he had bought the previous evening. He spent another long moment at the bathroom mirror, inspecting a man he had never seen before. He had not owned a decent outfit until he returned from his global trek. Now he stood in a Hugo Boss jacket and gabardine trousers, polished Bally loafers, and a haircut that was a vast improvement on his previous unkempt style.
He retrieved the manila envelopes holding his cash from the hotel safe, took a taxi to Penn Central, then hopped on the next train heading south by east to his new place of business.
CHAPTER
NINE
Atlantic City was a town made for the blues.
That was the strongest impression Ethan had, strolling from the train station to the boardwalk. Behind the rising hulks of the glitzy new shorefront casinos stretched block after block of sheer misery. Even the brightest shop looked tawdry, as if the signs were meant to mock everyone who passed.
The sea breeze was welcoming, but little else gave Ethan any sense that he was where he belonged. The people were pasty white and brash as only New Jersey locals could be. They showed a lifetime’s experience of ignoring everyone else and focusing on whatever it was they wanted next.
Ethan walked through the summertime crowds, utterly alone.
He chose the Trump Casino first. It was still new and glistening and full of promise. The hotel’s bankruptcies and the boardwalk’s decline were all in the future. Atlantic City was busy reinventing itself as a New England alternative to Las Vegas. The day was filled with the sound of jackhammers, and the sky was etched with skeletal cranes.
A smiling hostess greeted him as he entered the vast lobby. He passed through the main casino, the tables already crowded at eleven in the morning. Beside the bar were the betting windows. The only one with no line was for hundred-dollar-plus bets. Ethan approached that window.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to place a bet on the US Open.”
“What round?”
“The finals. Men’s and women’s singles.” He was fairly certain he also remembered who had won the men’s doubles, but he couldn’t be sure. He had decided to limit himself to the two events where his memories were clearest. If his memories applied at all.
The woman was attractive in a hard-edged fashion, with heavily caked makeup and eyes of brown glass. “You want to place one bet on both, or two separate?”
“What’s the difference in the odds?”
In reply, she lifted the phone and dialed. Ethan could not hear what she said until she leaned toward her mike and asked, “Who are you backing?”
Ethan glanced at the line of bettors to his left and hesitated.
The woman had clearly seen it all. Wordlessly she slid a piece of paper and pen through the money slot. Ethan wrote on it and slipped it back.
She spoke into the phone, then leaned forward and asked, “What’s the size of your bet?”
Ethan motioned for the paper again. This time she sighed her exasperation, at least until he returned the page and she read what he had written. She glanced at him, read it again. Then she cupped her hand around the receiver, hiding her conversation. She watched Ethan as she waited for a response. They waited for what seemed like hours.
Finally she said, “Twelve to one on the women’s, fourteen on the men’s. If you go for both, thirty to one.”
“I’ll take them both together.”
She spoke into the phone another time. “One moment.”
Ethan started to object to another round of waiting, but he saw the blockade in her gaze and knew he had to do what she said. He realized he was sweating. His legs were trembling slightly. Eighteen-foot waves were apparently easier to handle than placing a bet.
A door beside the bettors’ windows clicked open. “US Open, right?” The man wore a suit of sharkskin grey and a Countess Mara tie, his silver hair razored to precision, his face mechanically tanned.
“Uh, yes.”
“This way, sir.”
Ethan saw another man lurking farther back, a brute in navy serge, and said, “Thanks, I’d rather stay where I am.”
The guy was as polite as he was firm. “Sir, we’re just trying to protect your interests here.”
Ethan knew every eye at the counter watched as he reluctantly entered a windowless chamber. It was clearly used for counting the spoils, because a pair of long steel tables and several adding machines were the only furniture.
The guy pulled the door shut, then said, “Five thousand to win, right?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I see the cash?”
Ethan had no choice but to open the briefcase. The guy saw the additional bands of money, accepted one bundle, counted it swiftly, then handed it to the brute. “He’ll make your tickets.”