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an insult?” she inquired.
    “It was,” I said. Not masking it, as she did.
    “Would you rather run alone?” she asked.
    “I would,” I said.
    “Okay,” she said. And sprinted suddenly ahead. Now she was smoking—obviously just a ploy—but I was damned if I’d be bluffed. Acceleration now took total effort. But I caught her.
    “Hi.”
    “I thought you wanted solitude,” she said.
    Breath was short and hence the dialogue was likewise.
    “What team do you run for?”
    “None,” she said. “I only run to help my tennis.”
    “Ah, the total jock,” I said, deliberately to slight her femininity.
    “Yes,” she said demurely. “And yourself, are you the total prick?”
    How to deal with this, especially when straining to keep running at her pace?
    “Yes,” I managed. Which in retrospect was just about the wisest thing I could have said. “How’s your tennis, anyway?”
    “You wouldn’t want to play me.”
    “Yes I would.”
    “You would?” she said. And slowed—thank God—to walk.
    “Tomorrow?”
    “Sure,” I puffed.
    “At six? The Gotham Tennis Club on Ninety-fourth and First.”
    “I work till six,” I said. “How’s seven?”
    “No, I meant the morning,” she replied.
    “Six A.M .? Who plays at six A.M .?” I said.
    “We do—unless you chicken out,” she answered.
    “Oh, not at all,” I said, regaining breath and wit near simultaneously.
    She smiled at that. She had a lot of teeth.
    “That’s fine. The court’s reserved for Marcie Nash—who, by the way, is me.”
    And then she offered me her hand. To shake, not to kiss, of course. Unlike what I had readied for, she didn’t have a jocklike, crushing grip. It was normal. Even delicate.
    “And may I know your name?” she said.
    I thought I’d be a trifle jocular.
    “Gonzales, madam. Pancho B. Gonzales.”
    “Oh,” she said, “I knew it wasn’t Speedy Gonzales.”
    “No,” I said, surprised she’d heard about the legendary Speedy, the protagonist of many filthy jokes in many filthy locker rooms.
    “Okay, Pancho, six A.M . But don’t forget to bring your ass.”
    “Why?” I queried.
    “Naturally,” she said, “so I can whip it.”
    I could counter that.
    “Of course. And naturally, you’ll bring the balls?”
    “Of course,” she said. “A lady in New York is lost without them.”
    With that she ran off at a sprint that Jesse Owens would have envied.

Chapter Ten

    A t 5 A.M . New York is dark both physically and metaphorically. From down the block, its second floor illuminated, the tennis club seemed like a baby’s night light for the sleeping city. I entered, signed the register, and was directed to the locker rooms. Yawning constantly, I changed and strolled out to the playing area. Lights from all those tennis courts near blinded me. And every one was in full use. These go-go Gothamites about to start their frantic day all seemed to need a frantic tennis session to prepare them for the Game Out There.
    Anticipating that Miss Marcie Nash would wear the chicest tennis togs available, I clad myself as shabbily as possible. My uniform was what the fashion page might call “off white.” In truth, it was the end result of accidentally mixing many colored garments in the Laundromat. Further, I selected what I called my Stan Kowalski shirt. Although it actually was grungier than anything that Marlon Brando ever wore. I was sartorially subtle. Or in other words, a slob.
    And just as I expected, she had neon balls. The yellow and fluorescent kind the pros all use.
    “Good morning, Merry Sunshine.”
    She was there already, practicing her serves into the net.
    “Hey, you know it’s absolutely dark outside?” I said.
    “That’s precisely why we’re playing inside , Sancho.”
    “Pancho,” I corrected her, “Miss Narcie Mash . . .”
    For I could josh with nomenclature too.
    “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but nothing ever breaks my serve,” she said, still slamming. Marcie’s hair, which on