Free LACKING VIRTUES by Thomas Kirkwood Page B

gentlemen, I’m going to send you down there with Father Raoul.”
     
    “Send Jules,” Luc mumbled. “I didn’t say anything bad.”
     
    “I didn’t either. I just repeated what father said. Philippe couldn’t beat his grandmother.”
     
    “Oh, yeah? Luc said indignantly. “When did you ever see him lose?”
     
    “He never plays anyone decent.”
     
    “No? What about that slugger from Italy? What do you think, cousine ?”
     
    “I think Philippe is a solid player with exceptionally good form.”
     
    “You think so?” said Jules. “I think he’s a phony.”
     
    The debate was cut short by the roar of a motorcycle on the pedestrian path. The boys and the entire murmuring crowd of two hundred spectators fell silent.
     
    The new arrival, who was wearing a black helmet, a wildly colored shirt that violated all of the club’s dress codes and tennis shorts, parked his bike beside the court entrance and got off. He exchanged his helmet for a New York Yankees baseball cap and grabbed two rackets without covers from his saddle bag, then walked casually over to the group of club directors, linesmen and ball boys who were waiting impatiently around the referee’s chair.
     
    “Hey,” Jules said, “that’s the guy we saw up at Sospel, the guy who promised us a ride. When the newcomer took off his baseball cap, Nicole recognized the good-looking foreigner who had spoken to her in the restaurant. She hadn’t heard that Philippe’s replacement wasn’t French. It would be interesting, she thought, to see how he got along with these snotty haut-bourgeois.
     
    One of the officials introduced the new pro to the crowd. There wasn’t much clapping, people were still trying to make up their minds about him. He seemed to sense this, leaning over to speak into the official’s microphone.
     
    “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “I didn’t know the traffic downtown was so heavy. But I’m glad to be here, now that I’m finally here. This is a beautiful club.”
     
    That’s all he said, though he spoke nearly perfect French. He bowed his head, ran his fingers through his blond hair and put the cap back on.
     
    Philippe entered the court to subdued applause, wearing a beautiful designer warm-up suit. He carried an enormous Sergio Tacchini racket bag from which at least a dozen racket handles protruded. Nicole saw him look condescendingly at the new pro’s shirt, which she rather liked, and walk around him so he wouldn’t have to shake hands. He conferred with the officials and took off his warm-ups. He removed the rackets from his bag, tapped the strings to check tensions and appeared to make an informed choice. Then he nodded.
     
    The referee climbed the chair, the linesmen and ball boys took their positions, Monsieur Denis du Péage strode to the mike and addressed the crowd.
     
    “Messieurs, Mesdames, I apologize for any inconvenience caused you by the delay. Monsieur LeConte assures me he will not be tardy for any other club functions during his stay with us. I know this match is being played late for many of you. Because of Monsieur LeConte’s tardiness, I am requesting that the players forego their warm-up. Philippe, do you have any objections?”
     
    “Of course not.”
     
    “You’ve been warming up all afternoon!” Jules shouted. “Let the other guy warm up.”
     
    “Jules!” said Nicole. “It’s quite nasty what they’re doing, but you must be quiet.”
     
    “Any objections, Monsieur LeConte?”
     
    “No. I had a match last year.”
     
    Subdued laughter rose from the stands.
     
    “Then let us begin.” Monsieur Denis du Péage passed the mike to the referee.
     
    “Quiet please,” the referee said. “Monsieur LeConte, please serve from the south court.”
     
    Steven walked up to the chair and spoke near enough to the mike that his words were amplified. “You ask me to forego a warm-up and then you ask me to serve first without even a toss of the coin? Whatever