The Cavanaugh Quest by Thomas Gifford Page A

whose marriages had come undone.
    “My wife has left me, y’know. Called me a chaser, called me a cradle robber. Said I’d be hanging about school yards and offering them candy soon. I couldn’t believe my ears, the stupid woman.” He yawned. “I’ll never forgive her for leaving me, for beating me to it. She was a mistake from the beginning … You’re not married anymore, are you?”
    “Nope.”
    “This place is turning into a goddamn singles bar,” he reflected. “The only married people are the old ones.” An eye gleamed at me. “Do you figure there’s a lot of wife swapping or ex-wife-swapping going on here?”
    “My God, I don’t know. I sure as hell don’t want a wife, my own or anyone else’s.”
    He clasped my arm. “You tell ’em, Paulie.” He sipped his drink and added sorrowfully, “I spend most of my time in the pro shop now, nothing to go home to, not even an argumentative bitch. Funny how you can miss even a bitch …”
    McGill’s relationship with his wife had been stormy for as long as I could remember, something the members sometimes chuckled over. She was always accusing him, not only in private, of messing about with the women and girls he coached. She may well have had grounds, too, but no one ever made a scandal and Darwin inevitably rode out any marginal squalls. If he hadn’t been such a fine player and teacher, he would probably have been fired; he was good, though, and personally well liked, so he survived the years. He must have been fifty-five.
    “What do you know about Kim Roderick?” I asked. “You taught her the game, didn’t you?”
    He nodded, glass to his lips. “She picked it up quick and kept getting better. If she were fifteen years old today, what with all the indoor courts and improved competition, she might have made the tour, the Slims or something. TV would have picked up on her because she’s so pretty, and she’s got the personality to win, kind of a Rosemary Casals game, short but strong, good musculature, hits a big overhead, death on lobs.” He was talking like a pro now and I could see his mind recalling her making the shots. “Not too fast but she gets into good position, goes for the winners, very fast reflexes. And on top of that she’s a fucking killer. She’s in her mid-thirties now but she’s still got that nasty quality … a lousy loser, let me tell you.”
    “You still play with her?”
    “Yeah, matter of fact, I do. She beat me last week, ran me back and forth all day, wore me out, and then just beat hell out of me. I know exactly what Riggs felt like in the Astrodome … The expression on her face never changed, it was like she was doing an exercise. I’ve known women who screwed that way, mechanically, never show the slightest emotion.”
    We were on our next drink and the mood was right. “Did you ever sleep with her?”
    “Oh, hell, no—not for want of trying, though. Hell, Paul, you know how it is, she worked for me, I saw a lot of her every day, I couldn’t help putting a little move on her every now and then. You really can’t blame me, can you? That’s one of the best things about a job like this. Then, before you know it, it’s your life, not just your job, and there’s nothing you can do about it and your liver gives out …”
    “What was she like then back when you were making your moves?”
    Darwin McGill’s hair was dark and wavy, flecked with gray, and he slid strong dark fingers through it like an old movie star. He grinned, remembering, and shook his handsome head, flashed the white teeth.
    “It depends when you’re talking about. She changed, y’see.” He scooped up a handful of Spanish peanuts and suggested we go outside. He was still lean but there was a little thickening about his waist. I was sorry about his poor damn liver. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he seemed to think. The breeze was cool, the sky bright and spattered with blinking stars which had actually burned away and died a million