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the track had floated in the breeze, was now tied back into a horse’s tail. (I’d have to make a pun on that.) And, typical pretentious tennis player, she had sweatbands on both wrists.
    “Call me what you wish, dear Pancho. Can we start to play?”
    “What for?” I asked.
    “I beg your pardon?” Marcie said.
    “The stakes,” I said. “What are we playing for?”
    “Oh, isn’t fun enough?” said Marcie Nash demurely and ingenuously.
    “Nothing’s fun at six A.M .,” I said. “I need a tangible incentive.”
    “Half a buck,” she said.
    “Was that a reference to my personality?” I asked.
    “Hey, you’re a wit. No, I meant fifty cents.”
    “Uhn-uhn.” I shook my head and indicated that it had to be substantial. If she played at Gotham she could not be impecunious. Unless she’d joined on spec. That is, in hope the bread she’d cast on membership would soon return as wedding cake.
    “Are you rich?” she said to me.
    “How is that relevant?” I answered, ever on the defense, since the fates have forced me to be linked to Barrett money bags.
    “Just to know how much you can afford to lose,” she said.
    Tricky question, that. My problem was to find out how much she could part with. And so I figured something that would save our mutually smirking faces.
    “Look,” I said, “why don’t we say the loser takes the winner out to dinner. And the winner picks the place.”
    “I pick ‘21,’ ” she said.
    “A trifle prematurely,” I remarked. “But since I’ll take it too, please be forewarned: I eat as much as any elephant.”
    “I have no doubt,” she said. “You run like one.”
    This psyching had to stop. Goddammit, let’s begin!
    I played with her. I mean I wanted to humiliate her in the end and thus I played the bluffer’s game. I missed some easy shots. Reacted slowly. Never charged up to the net. Meanwhile Marcie bit, and played all out.
    Actually, she wasn’t bad. Her moves were swift. Her shots were almost always accurately placed. Her serve was strong and had some spin. Yeah, she had practiced often and was fairly good.
    “Hey, you’re not too bad at all.”
    Thus Marcie Nash to me , after lengthy although indecisive play. We had traded games about as evenly as I could manage. With my lethal shots still deep inside my hustler’s closet. And in fact, I’d let her break my “Simple Simon” service several times.
    “I’m afraid we’ll have to knock off soon,” she said. “I have to be at work by half past eight.”
    “Gee whiz,” I said (how’s that for masking my aggression?), “can’t we play just one last game? I mean for fun? We’ll call it sudden death and winner gets the dinner.”
    “Well, okay,” Marcie Nash conceded, seeming nonetheless a trifle worried that she might be late. Dear me. The boss might be annoyed and not promote her. Yea, ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
    “Just one quick game,” she said, reluctantly.
    “Miss Nash,” I said, “I promise you this game will be the swiftest of your life.”
    And so it was. I let her serve. But now, not only did I charge the net—I virtually stampeded it. Whambam, thank you, ma’am. Marcie Nash was literally shell-shocked. And she never scored a point.
    “Holy shit,” she said, “you hustled me!”
    “Let’s say I took awhile in warming up,” I answered. “Gee whiz, I hope this doesn’t make you late for work.”
    “That’s okay—I mean, that’s fine,” she stammered, somewhat traumatized. “Eight o’clock at ‘21’?”
    I nodded yeah. “Shall I book it for ‘Gonzales’?” she inquired.
    “No, that’s just my racket name. Otherwise they call me Barrett. Oliver ‘The Great Pretender’ Barrett.”
    “Oh,” she said. “I liked Gonzales better.” And then sprinted to the ladies’ locker room. For some strange reason, I began to smile.
    “What amuses you?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You’re smiling,” Dr. London said.
    “It’s a long and boring story,” I