Sudden Death by Rita Mae Brown Page A

but Carmen literally was in another world. Every shot felt like a hot knife through butter. Every serve left a shimmer down her forearm, a shot of coordination. She could feel the ball even when it was on her opponent’s side of the court. Tight as the match was—Susan never gave away anything—Carmen possessed magic. Moving like a ballerina in time with beautiful music, Carmen hit winner after winner.
    Susan clung on with her fingernails. She chased down each ball like a wild woman. She lunged, leapt, and lashed at the ball. She made returns that were impossible. Yet Carmen flicked her godlike wrist, and batted the ball away like an irritating gnat. It was an awesome display of talent.
    Carmen put Susan down at six-four, six-four. The crowd was dazzled by Carmen’s lyrical athleticism and amazed by Susan’s concentrated will. As they walked to the net to shake hands, there was a collective intake of breath. Susan reached across and shook her opponent’s hand. Relieved, Carmen genuinely shook her hand in return. Susan smiled a penetrating, unsettling gaze.

    Susan sat in her room and drank a Perrier with lime. Alicia sat silently on the sofa. It was not a good idea to talk to Susan after a loss. Susan played and replayed each point. She could recall points she’d played in high school. Had she ever shown any intellectual discipline, Susan Reilly would have forged a first-class mind. Now she forged her weapon.
    “What are you thinking?” Susan asked Alicia.
    “Nothing.”
    “What’d you think of the match?”
    “No one could have beaten Carmen today.”
    “Every dog has its day?” Susan asked rhetorically.
    “I guess so.”
    “It’s the wheel of fortune. Did you ever see a tarot deck?”
    “No.” Alicia stuck close to the Bible. The occult was tainted with paganism.
    “It’s interesting, the tarot deck.” Susan’s eyes blazed like small laser beams. “It’s another way to look at the world. Maybe it’s a form of lost knowledge. Anyway, the wheel of fortune is a card showing a turning wheel. One person is up; another person is down. The wheel never stops turning.”
    “You’ll be up.”
    “Yeah.”
    “If Carmen plays like that tomorrow, Rainey Rogers will get swamped.”
    “Maybe. Carmen has a curious habit of underrating her opponents when she’s on top of her form. It’ll catch up.”
    “The wheel of fortune?”
    “Sometimes you have to give the wheel a push, I think.” Susan swung her legs over the bed. She was back in the present. Alicia could breathe again.

    Gary Shorter, Rainey Rogers’s coach, never had an idea above the waist. He fiddled with Rainey’s many racquets; he checked the tension in the strings, the weight, the grip. Mrs. Rogers withdrew into her prematch trance. She fetched whatever her daughter needed, but she was rerouting her energy, preparing for the match the same as Rainey.
    Rainey painted Tomahawk’s Hot and Wild Pink on her fingernails. She brushed a thin layer of pearl over that. Her tennis dress was pale pink and edged with bugle beads to catch the lights.
    Rainey thought about her game plan. Carmen at her best was unbeatable, but if Rainey could cause a hairline fracturein that confidence, then Carmen could be beaten. In two more years Carmen would be struggling to get into the finals. Rainey, like a duke defending his castle, withstood the assaults of Carmen. In her mind, it was the warfare of attackers and defenders. She stayed in the backcourt, her castle walls, while Carmen mounted wave after wave of attack. Rainey’s bread-and-butter shot was a sharp, short crosscourt to Carmen’s backhand. The cumulative effect of that shot was like a great boxer’s left jab. Flick, flick, it looks as though it causes no damage. As time wears on, that flick wears down the opponent, kills his spirit, and he’s open to the crushing finish. Rainey never took a match longer than she had to. She’d learned at eighteen if you’ve got your woman on the ropes, finish her