Omerta - Mario Puzo [52]
The brothers had taken up tennis the past year, but it was the one sport that defeated them. They were so athletically gifted that they could not accept this defeat, though it was explained to them that tennis was a sport where you had to acquire the strokes early in life by instruction, that it really depended on certain mechanics, like learning a language. So they had made arrangements to stay for three weeks at a tennis ranch in Scottsdale, Arizona, for an introductory course. From there they would travel to New York to meet Heskow. Of course, during these weeks at the tennis ranch they could pass some of their evenings in Vegas, which was less than an hour from Scottsdale by plane.
The tennis ranch was superluxurious. Franky and Stace were given a two-bedroom adobe cottage with air-conditioning, an Indian-motif dining room, a balconied living room, and a small kitchen. They had a superb view of the mountains. There was a built-in bar, a big refrigerator, and a huge TV.
But the three weeks started off on a sour note. One of the instructors gave Franky a hard time. Franky was easily the best in the group of beginners, and he was especially proud of his serve, which was completely unorthodox and wild. But the instructor, a man named Leslie, seemed particularly irritated by it.
One morning Franky hit the ball to his opponent, who couldn’t come near it, and he said proudly to Leslie, “That’s an ace, right?”
“No,” Leslie said coldly. “That’s a foot fault. Your toe went over the serving line. Try again, with a proper serve. The one you have will more often be out than in.”
Franky hit another serve, fast and accurate. “Ace, right?” he said.
“That is a foot fault,” Leslie said slowly. “And that serve is a bullshit serve. Just get the ball in. You’re a very decent player for a hacker. Play the point.”
Franky was annoyed but controlled himself. “Match me up with somebody who’s not a hacker,” he said. “Let’s see how I do.” He paused. “How about you?”
Leslie looked at him with disgust. “I don’t play matches with hackers,” he said. He pointed to a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. “Rosie?” he said. “Give Mr. Sturzo a one-set match.”
The girl had just come to the court. She had beautiful tanned legs coming out of white shorts, and she wore a pink shirt with the tennis-ranch logo. She had a mischievous pretty face, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“You have to give me a handicap,” Frank said disarmingly. “You look too good. Are you an instructor?”
“No,” Rosie said. “I’m just here to get some serving lessons. Leslie is a champ trainer for that.”
“Give him a handicap,” Leslie said. “He’s way below you in the levels.”
Franky said quickly, “How about two games in each four-game set?”He would bargain down to less.
Rosie gave him a quick, infectious smile. “No,” she said, “that won’t do you any good. What you should ask for is two points in each game. Then you would have a chance. And if we get to deuce, I have to win by four instead of two.”
Franky shook her hand. “Let’s go,” he said. They were standing close together, and he could smell the sweetness of her body. She whispered, “Do you want me to throw the match?”
Franky was thrilled. “No,” he said. “You can’t beat me with that handicap.”
They played with Leslie watching, and he didn’t call the foot faults. Franky won the first two games, but after that Rosie rolled over him. Her ground strokes were perfect, and she had no trouble at all with his serve. She was always standing where Franky had to hit the ball, and though several times he got to deuce, she put him away 6–2.
“Hey, you’re very good for a hacker,” Rosie said. “But you didn’t start playing until you were