The Sourdough Wars

at the Golden Gateway Tennis Club.” She spoke so briskly that a person who didn’t know her could get the idea she was being rude. But she wasn’t—she just didn’t have any time to waste. Of course Anita would play tennis at lunchtime. Of course she’d belong to the Golden Gateway club—which was close to her office—instead of the San Francisco Tennis Club, which was south of Market. And of course she’d combine tennis, lunch, and a talk with a lawyer about her dead brother. She hadn’t gotten where she was by wasting time.
    I just had time to go home, get into my tennis togs, and get over there. I wasn’t going to like playing on an empty stomach, but then Peter Martinelli probably didn’t like being dead.
    I was glad I’d dressed at home. Anita was already warming up. She had a good figure, skinny for an Italian. Her bones were not so fine as Peter’s, and she had rather an ordinary, darkish face. But her expensive haircut made the best of it. It also revealed a tightness in her jaw that wasn’t sexy but probably worked to her advantage in business. She looked slightly intimidating—very much the crisp, no-nonsense businesswoman.
    She consulted her watch. “You’re two minutes late.”
    “Mea culpa.”
    “No, that’s not bad. It’s okay, really. I always allow for the other guy being five minutes late. Have you ever noticed how few people are punctual?”
    “Often, ever since I took your course.”
    “You’re a good student. Want to warm up?”
    I shook my head. “Let’s just play.”
    She had a strong serve and terrific focus. Her small brown eyes were everywhere at once. Oddly, her hair seemed not to move as she whipped around the court, even after it was dripping from perspiration. Which it was after about ten minutes. Mine was, too. We were almost well matched—at any rate, I was able to keep her moving, a good trick with my stomach growling the way it was. But I couldn’t win. Each game was a struggle, going in and out of advantage, but the final point was always hers. We played two sets and I didn’t win once.
    In the sauna afterward, she asked again what she could do for me.
    “Background,” I said, “I guess. My partner and your brother were lovers.”
    “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. Especially when she turned out to be female.”
    “Peter was gay?”
    She shrugged her naked shoulders. “I don’t know, really. I guess not if he was seeing your partner.”
    “Let me go over this again. You don’t know whether your own brother was gay or not?”
    “I didn’t see him much.” She was silent for a bit. “He had women friends, yes. It was just an idea I had—that he might be bi. Didn’t it occur to you?”
    “It did, come to think of it.”
    “Well, if you want to know for sure, I can’t help you.”
    “You don’t seem very broken up about his death.”
    “Why should I be?” She stepped into the shower and turned it on, spritzing the fancy hairdo, then working shampoo in. “I hated him. I’ve hated him ever since I can remember. Whoever killed him did me a good turn.”
    “Why did you hate him so much?”
    “Rebecca, did your family encourage you to become a lawyer?”
    “Not exactly. They wanted me to be a doctor.”
    She laughed, and the sound was rather nasty. “You can’t identify with me at all, can you? You have no idea what I was up against.”
    “I don’t really see what you’re saying.”
    “I haven’t said it yet.” She washed the soap out of her hair. “Would you say I have business sense?”
    “No more than, say, the president of IBM does. How many mil’ are you worth, anyhow?”
    She looked right at me, and I noticed how small her eyes were—that hairdo really did wonders. “Several,” she said. “And I made every penny without the slightest encouragement from my warm, loving Italian relatives.”
    “But Peter was poor—how could he have helped you?”
    “By not existing, that’s how!” She spoke venomously. “It’s true what he told that reporter—he’s got about as much of a head for business”—she looked around—“as that bar of soap.” She kicked it and it skidded across the tiled floor. “But just because he had a wing-wang, and I didn’t, he got the starter.”
    “Wing-wang?” I was feeling a little lost. Also, I was starving.
    “Because he was a boy, dammit! Let’s go.”
    I followed her out to the anteroom and lay down on one of the benches. She rang for a hair dryer and began reshaping the