Spiral

at me. ”And that is what I want, too, Mr. John Cuddy. It is what I work hard for in Romania and risk my life to come to America and find. And no one takes this away from me.”
    Before I could respond, a familiar voice rose stridently from the chicken-wire door. ”Cornel, the fuck is taking you so long?”
    I turned and saw Cassandra Helides, pouting in the opening. Several of the players on other courts stopped their games and glanced over, a couple of them looking pretty angry.
    Helides began walking toward us, wearing a miniskirt-length sundress but—from the way she was jouncing—no bra underneath. Not exactly a tennis outfit.
    ”Cornel?”
    Radescu called out, ”Cassandra, please.”
    I guessed Helides could see my suit but not my face under the shade of the awning, because drawing even closer, she said, ”You’re meeting with an accountant instead of coming to my place?”
    I said, ”Mrs. Helides.”
    Now she stopped. ”The guy Nick hired.”
    ”Good to see you again, too.”
    Helides didn’t quite stamp her foot. ”What are you doing here?”
    Radescu said, ”Cassandra, I tell you later.”
    I stood up. ”I can tell you now. Cornel and I were just wondering why it was that you stopped driving Veronica over here for her tennis lessons?”
    Helides glared at me. ”That fucking little tramp.” Then she moved the high beams over to Radescu. ”The hell are you telling him about that?”
    ”Cassan—”
    Which was as far as he got, as Helides wheeled around and strode for the wire door.
    Over her shoulder, she yelled, ”Fifteen minutes, Cornel, or don’t bother.”
    It was a measurable time before the players on the other courts finished shaking their heads and resumed playing. Maybe another ten seconds after that, Radescu said, ”Mr. John Cuddy, turn around.”
    When I did, he was holding his tennis racquet by the handle, staring at the strings.
    Radescu spoke to them. ”The best players on the professional tour can serve almost one-hundred-fifty miles an hour.” He looked up at me. ”Even now, forty-three years of age, I can reach one-hundred-ten. A tennis ball is not a baseball, but at such a speed, it feels so when it hits you.”
    ”Sorry if I spoiled your afternoon.”
    Moving toward the wire door, I didn’t really expect any impact between the shoulder blades, but I was still a little relieved when none came. As I went up the walkway between the court fences, I could see Don Floyd, standing at the far end.
    When I was a conversational distance from him, he said, ‘Everything all right?”
    ”From my viewpoint, anyway.”
    Floyd nodded. ”You a tennis player, John?”
    ”Not since the army.”
    ”Too bad. Man like you might find this a decidedly interesting place to live.”
    Don Floyd treated me to one of his fountain-of-youth smiles, then ambled away in the afternoon sun’s fading light.

ELEVEN

    Outside the tennis club’s gate, I picked up my cell phone and tapped in the number on Justo’s list for Dr. Henry Forbes. After two rings, a soothing male voice identified itself as the psychiatrist. I started talking back until I realized it was an outgoing tape announcement, suggesting that the caller could leave a message, proceed to the nearest emergency room, or follow the steps that Forbes and the caller had previously discussed. When the beep finally sounded, I gave my name and got as far as ”regarding David Helides” before there was a click and the soothing voice from the outgoing tape came on live.
    ”Mr. Cuddy, I was expecting contact sooner.”
    ”Sooner?”
    ”Nicolas told me the gravity of the situation.”
    Doctor Forbes seemed to have trouble finishing a thought
    ”Mr. Cuddy?”
    I said, ”When can we meet to talk about David?”
    ”Well, I’m rather booked for tomorrow...”
    I decided to go with his flow. ”...but, given the ‘gravity of the situation’?”
    ”Of course. Where are you now?”
    I looked up at the next street sign and told him.
    ”Fine. Head south from there until you hit Las Olas Boulevard, then turn east.”
    Forbes gave me the address and said I should be to him in fifteen minutes.

    It was actually twelve minutes by my watch when I pulled into the parking lot next to a freestanding bungalow with a lot of fussy trim I would have called ”gingerbread” if its colors had been brown and white instead of pink and lime. Leaving the Cavalier, I went up to the front door and knocked. Hearing no reply, I tried the knob.