The Players by Gary Brandner Page A

the last ridge of whiskers from his upper lip. He toweled the lather from his face and walked out of the bathroom to take the call.
    “Your car is here, Mr. Wilder,” said the clerk’s voice on the other end.
    “Thank you, I’ll be down in five minutes.”
    Mike splashed lotion on his face and dragged a comb through his hair. He felt rotten. He had been replaying in his mind last night’s scene with Paula all morning. Now he could see at least a dozen ways he could have handled it better. But as the boys at the race track said, the hindsight system never loses.
    Maybe he had just expected too much of Paula. Or too much of him and Paula together. There was no reason for him to assume that because Paula stimulated his mind and attracted him physically, she was going to be great in bed too.
    For that matter, how did he know she
wasn’t
great in bed? It was time to give the male ego a rest and admit that maybe
he
had done something wrong. It took two to fail just like it took two to succeed. How could he ever forget that wretched period with Lorraine while he was writing his ill-fated novel. He had been close to despair on finding himself impotent both at the typewriter during the day and in bed at night. Then he found out what Lorraine was doing to him.
    Yes, it might have helped last night if he had been a little more understanding. He had stomped out of Paula’s apartment like some pimply high school kid with his first case of passion cramps.
    Mike grimaced at his reflection in the mirror and turned away. He pulled on a soft sport shirt and a jacket and headed for the lobby. He had awakened at dawn this morning after a few hours of fitful sleep. He had hauled out the typewriter and struggled through his column for tomorrow. It was a sarcastic piece based on his encounter last night with J. J. Kaiser, filled with sneering remarks about the growing commercialism of tennis. Mike was not happy with the column when he finished it, but he had sent it off by messenger all the same. You couldn’t come up with a literary gem every day.
    After that he had been at a loss for something to do. He didn’t feel like talking to anybody, and the thought of sitting around the hotel room put his teeth on edge. Then he recalled a brochure he had picked up at the airport that talked about the beauty of the English countryside around London. A drive in the country, he decided, might be just the thing to blow the cobwebs out of his mind. He had called down to the desk and arranged for a rental car to be brought around.
    The desk clerk looked up as Mike crossed from the elevator and had a set of keys and a sheet of paper ready for him when he reached the counter.
    “This is it?” Mike asked.
    “Yes, sir. All that’s required is that you sign the rental agreement. You do have a valid driver’s license in the United States?”
    “Yes, I do,” Mike said, scratching his name at the bottom of the form. “I thought they might send over somebody from the agency to check me out on English driving—keeping to the left and so on.”
    “There’ll be a folder in the glove box explaining the traffic laws and road signs,” the clerk said. “You’ll find that you get the hang of it in no time.”
    “I hope so. Tell me, what’s the best way to get out of London and drive through some restful countryside where there isn’t too much traffic?”
    “I’d suggest you motor out to Kent, Mr. Wilder. If you cross the Thames at Waterloo Bridge, take Kennington Road south through Lambeth and Kennington, you can drive east on Motorway A1 into Kent. There are a number of lightly traveled roads there that will take you out past some small farms and through an old village or two.”
    “That sounds like what I’m looking for.”
    “You should find a map in the car. Enjoy yourself.”
    “Thanks.” Mike palmed the keys and walked out in front of the hotel where a small white English Ford awaited him. He slid in behind the wheel, feeling strange and