Chapter Seven

manhattan

sunday, august 5, 198-

1

Tennis!

Jack rolled out of bed with a groan. He’d almost forgotten. He had been lying there dreaming of a big brunch at the Perkins Pancakes down on Seventh Avenue when he remembered the father-son tennis match he’d promised to play in today.

And he had no racquet. He’d lent it to someone in April and couldn’t remember who. Only one thing to do: Call Abe and tell him it was an emergency.

Abe said he would meet him at the store right away. Jack showered, shaved, pulled on white tennis shorts, a dark blue jersey, sneakers, and socks, and hurried down to the street. The morning sky had lost the humid haze it had carried for most of the week. Looked like it was going to be a nice day.

As he neared the Isher Sports Shop he saw Abe waddling up from the other direction. Abe looked him up and down as they met before the folding iron grille that protected the store during off-hours.

“You’re going to tell me you want a can of tennis balls, are you?”

Jack shook his head and said, “Naw. I wouldn’t get you up early on a Sunday morning for tennis balls.”

“Glad to hear it.” He unlocked the grille and pushed it back far enough to expose the door. “Did you see the business section of the Times this morning? All that talk about the economy picking up? Don’t believe it. We’re on the Titanic and the iceberg’s straight ahead.”

“It’s too nice a day for an economic holocaust, Abe.”

“All right,” he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Go ahead, close your eyes to it. But it’s coming and the weather has nothing to do with it.”

After disarming the alarm system, Abe headed for the back of the store. Jack didn’t follow. He went directly to the tennis racquets and stood before a display of the oversized Prince models. After a moment’s consideration, he rejected them. Jack figured he’d need all the help he could get today, but he still had his pride. He’d play with a normal size racquet. He picked out a Wilson Triumph—the one with little weights on each side of the head that were supposed to enlarge the sweet spot. The grip felt good in his hand, and it was already strung.

He was about to call out that he’d take this one when he noticed Abe glaring at him from the end of the aisle.

“For this you took me away from my breakfast? A tennis racquet?”

“And balls, too. I’ll need some balls.”

“Balls you’ve got! Too much balls to do such a thing to me! You said it was an emergency!”

Jack had been expecting this reaction. Sunday was the only morning Abe allowed himself the forbidden foods: lox and bagels. The first was verboten because of his blood pressure, the second because of his weight.

“It is an emergency. I’m supposed to be playing with my father in a couple of hours.”