Free LACKING VIRTUES by Thomas Kirkwood

Claussen’s barn, which had once been part of a small state-owned dog food plant. Claussen charged him a share of the finished product adequate to feed his geese. This time there would be something other than pig guts in those pellets. His geese would have their go at Maria after all.
     
    He ate heartily, putting ample butter on his black bread and potatoes and not bothering to trim the fat from his cutlet. He had learned long ago your system needed a little something extra when you demanded superhuman things of it. A few more trivial items of  business and he would be ready to leave for the States. Upstairs, he turned off the shower, pleased to see no sign of Maria’s blood in the stall. He left her and his stiletto to spend the night together in peace.
     
     
     

 
     
    Chapter Ten
     
     
     
    Soon after his arrival in the south of France, Steven reported to the Roches Fleuries Tennis Club for his scheduled meeting with the outgoing pro and the director. He already had the job, some sort of international exchange Sophie had worked out with friends in Beverly Hills and Paris. But the director of this exclusive club wanted to have a formal chat with him before he started.
     
    Steven assumed there would be a lot of emphasis on dress codes, tennis etiquette and other things he didn’t give a damn about. It was his image of Nicole in a short skirt responding to his hands-on demonstration of a proper serve that convinced him he could keep his mouth shut.
     
    He was a few minutes early so he throttled back his bike and took a coasting tour of the facility. It was impressive. Twelve finely groomed red clay courts were set among Roman ruins high above the Mediterranean. The courts on the steepest incline were built on platforms that jutted out over the mountainside. Palm trees and pines ringed the courts, providing a windbreak and a measure of privacy, and gnarled old olive trees grew among the ruins. Flower beds with all sorts of brightly colored southern plants bordered the asphalt paths connecting the courts. Best of all, if you looked down at the coastline, you could see medieval fishing villages nestled into craggy coves, and sailboats plying the aquamarine water.
     
    The clubhouse was a sprawling white stucco and glass villa. There was a stone patio with wrought-iron tables facing Court Number One, a first-class tournament court with a grandstand on the far side. A waiter in a white jacket held vigil over a dozen or so middle-aged women who were wearing too much jewelry and getting too much sun. He hoped they didn’t like Americans.
     
    He parked his bike among the fancy cars, introduced himself to the waiter and went inside. The girl at the reservation desk looked coldly at his T-shirt and cut-off jeans.
     
    “May I help you?”
     
    “I have an appointment with Philippe. My name’s LeConte. I’m going to be your pro while he’s in Beverly Hills.”
     
    She looked him over again as if to say, You’re dressed like that and think you’re going to be the pro here?
     
    “This way, please, Monsieur LeConte.”
     
    He followed silently up two broad flights of stairs. She ushered him into a waiting room that reminded him of the waiting room of the shrink he had once gone to see as a condition of his father’s continued financial support.
     
    “I’ll tell them you have arrived,” the girl said.
     
    “Hey, before you lock me in here, why don’t you have that waiter down below bring me up a beer? It’s hot out there.”
     
    “Are you sure you want to drink alcohol, Monsieur LeConte?”
     
    “Of course I’m sure.”
     
    She consulted her watch. “But your match begins in three hours.”
     
    “Match? What match?”
     
    “With Philippe. It’s a big event. We are expecting most of the club members to attend.”
     
    “I don’t know anything about a match. I didn’t even bring my racket.”
     
    The director’s door opened and a stern middle-age man motioned with a condescending flick of his