When I’d bought the place, I decided I wouldn’t touch the exterior, because it looked so ordinary and unremarkable, perfect for what I planned on doing inside. So I took my time—almost two years—to refurbish the interior so that it met my needs. This would be my first real test.
I turned on the cameras in the cargo bay. Stanton was sitting up against the side of the truck, thrashing futilely as he tried to free himself of the bag and wrist restraints. It was 8:35 p.m. Everything had gone as planned.
28
I SAT IN MY office, feet on my filing cabinet, staring out the window at my million-dollar view of Lake Michigan. A few clouds barely interrupted the wide stretch of blue sky, and the sun released all its might, bumping the temperature into the low eighties. Runners and cyclists jammed the paths in Grant Park, and a group of what looked like college students scratched together a game in the volleyball pit.
I had lots of pieces to the puzzle, but I still couldn’t make them fit. I was trying to be optimistic, but Chopper’s death made it a strong possibility that he and Butterfly had already reunited in the afterlife.
I picked up the phone on my desk—my second line, which had a blocked number. I dialed the emergency contact number I had swiped from Regina’s computer at Calderone & Calderone. It rang three times; then voice mail kicked in. An automated voice instructed me to leave a message. No clue as to whom the number belonged to. I hung up instead. It was time to go see my old man.
THE XS TENNIS VILLAGE was an enormous new construction of glass and metal, rising like a beacon of hope in a part of the city’s Third Ward that had long been forgotten. Built by a fearless young tennis coach who insisted that this traditionally country-club sport could be appreciated as much on the South Side as it was up north, he ignored all the naysayers, raised millions of dollars, and erected the biggest tennis facility in all the Midwest. It not only revived the ward but attracted a diverse clientele from all over the city who otherwise would have never ventured south of the Loop. Gold Coast millionaires played next to kids who once lived in Robert Taylor Homes, a dangerous housing project that occupied the very land where the tennis center now stood.
Dr. Wendell Cayne and his cohorts held a weekly Thursday doubles match at the facility. When I arrived, he was sitting upstairs in the lounge with two ice packs wrapped around his knees, drinking a purple smoothie. He hadn’t showered yet.
“You look like you just went twelve rounds,” I said, pulling up a chair.
“Then I look better than I feel,” he said. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Getting old is shit.”
“Is that technical medical terminology for your two bum knees?”
“As technical as it gets for a psychiatrist describing an orthopedic diagnosis.”
We looked out the huge window that opened onto the long stretch of courts full of an assortment of pairings and balls in various stages of flight. He didn’t have to say anything; I knew what he was thinking. Had I stuck with it long enough, I could’ve made it, maybe even won a couple of Grand Slams. My name was by no means a random selection. He idolized Arthur Ashe, the skinny, big-Afro-wearing player who was the first and only black man to win the singles championship at Wimbledon, the US Open, and Australian Open. He’d dreamed that I would be the second. After countless hours of private lessons and long road trips to weekend tournaments, I just never developed the passion and dedication required to compete at that level. Girls and cars were a lot more fun than mastering the technique of a kick serve. We never fully discussed it, but I knew he had never gotten over the disappointment. Every time I looked at him, I could still see residual traces of sadness in the corners of his eyes.
“And just to think, no one believed this would work here on the South Side,” he said. “Look at it now. Middle of the morning and not one court available.”
“If you build it, they will come,” I said.
“Great movie,” he said, quickly catching my reference to Field of Dreams. “I still watch it once a year.” He took a long swallow of his smoothie. “Your mother was not into sports, as we both know, but she loved that movie too.”
“She might not have been the biggest sports fan, but she never missed one of my tennis matches or basketball games,” I said.
“Is that a thinly veiled reference to my absences?” he said.
“I was talking about Mom, not you,” I said. “Must you always find a way to make it about you?”
“You can’t hold that against me forever,” he said. “I was working my ass off to build my practice. Your private school wasn’t cheap, nor were the trips to Europe and Asia.”
“Mom worked hard and made money also,” I said. “It wasn’t like she was sitting home all day. I’m just saying she always found a way.”
My father nodded softly. “Your mother was a great woman,” he said. “There’s no denying that. It’s been almost five years, and not a day goes by I don’t think about her.”
We sat there for a moment looking at the tennis courts but not paying much attention to
