A Body to die for

gossip,” he said. “Very hot.”
    “Hotter than a tamale?” I asked. Alex rarely disappointed me.
    “Steaming hot.Sizzling hot.”
    I almost broke a sweat waiting for him to start yapping. Have I mentioned that my office doesn’t have an air conditioner? “Spill already.”
    “Okay,” he started, rubbing his palms together. “Little Jackie Watson was a tennis prodigy. By the time he was fifteen, he was New York State champ-When he was seventeen, he beat McEnroe in a minor tournament. McEnroe threw a temper tantrum and spat in Watson’s face after the match. But still, Little Jackie-—that was his nickname if you haven’t gathered by now—”
    “I gathered.”
    “Little Jackie persevered. After being baptized by McEnroe effluvium, he went from being a corner to having arrived. Almost arrived, anyway. He kept up good play for a few years, but he never quite made it to championship level. He was still young, and he just might have become the next great American tennis champ. But tragedy struck.”
    He sipped coffee. Examined his fingernails. “Will you get on with this?”
    “I was pausing dramatically.”
    “Like anyone cares, Alex. Just tell the goddamn story.”
    He stared at me while mentally counting to ten. I could practically see the numbers roll by. Alex hated to be told what to do. It was one of the reasons we broke up. “As I was saying,” he started, “after winning a Wimbledon match against some low-ranked French scrub, Jackie attempted to leap over the net to shake his opponent’s hand. He’d done it a million times before, but on that day, his ankle didn’t quite clear the net. Jackie came tumbling down like London Bridge. He broke his right arm in ten places. By the time it was healed, he’d taken himself off the circuit. The official reason was that his arm hadn’t healed properly and that he’d never regain the strength he needed to play for big money. By twenty-one, Little Jackie’s career was over.”
    “Stop calling him Little Jackie. It gives me the creeps.”
    He rolled his eyes. When he finished, his brown Pearls settled on whatever mess was on the carpet behind me. He fidgeted for a second like he was Waging some internal battle. Then he calmed down, sipped his iced coffee and continued. “According to Estoban,” Alex said, “the real reason Watson dropped out was because he didn’t have the balls to pick himself up and get back in the race.”
    “That’s life, as Frank would say.”
    Alex nodded. “So Watson moved back to New York. After a few years in seclusion, his money ran out. He took a job at the Upper West Side Racquet Club last year to give tennis lessons to yups. He’d been off the circuit for a while, but his name still had some cachet. He insisted that he only instruct the beginner classes, and he never really played any hardcore matches. He just lobbed a few easy shots and nobody got hurt. Including him.
    “Then, last September, when the U.S. Open Tournament was being played, the manager of the Racquet Club decided it’d be a good gimmick to have the staff play a round-robin tennis tournament of their own. The club members could bet on a staffer for free lessons—the money went to some charity—and the winning players would get trophies. The manager thought it would be a good promotion for the club. And it was. Everyone covered the tournament— including the Daily Mirror. Of course, Watson was the odds-on favorite, even though he protested his participation to the last minute. In the first round of the tournament, Watson got his ass stomped by a five-foot-one, forty-year-old female massage therapist. He ran out of the place in tears and never came back. Not even to pick up his last paycheck.”
    “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would he lose on purpose?” Maybe he threw the match because some Mafia dude had bet against him.
    “When I heard this story,” Alex said, “I immediately wondered if some Mafia guy bet against him like in old boxer movies.” Among his many talents was Alex’s ability to read my mind. If only we played bridge. “But this wasn’t any big-time tournament,” he explained. “There weren’t any cash prizes—just lessons, free facials and massages. It was for show, not
    for bucks.”
    “Maybe some don had a severe case of blackheads,” I prompted.
    “When Jackie—Watson—ran out, he also lost his contract to teach tennis. So he was again out of luck and out of money.”
    “But I still don’t get