I’ve always loved tennis. I can recall entire matches with remarkable clarity. I’m able to do the same thing with baseball games and horror movie dialogue, but when it came to my homemade brand of pattern-recall therapy, tennis was always the most effective. One of my favorite matches was the 2001 U.S. Open quarterfinals match between Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi. On my legs, I would tap once for each player—Sampras on my left knee, Agassi on my right. I visualized every single shot, every serve and point, and eventually whatever was making me anxious would lose its potency and I’d be able to relax.
This technique had been extremely helpful after the accident with Annie and Emily Connors, and later when my parents were killed in a ferry accident while on vacation in Greece.
In the years following my parents’ death, I would go on to develop a number of deep-breathing and relaxation techniques that were effective in combating my anxiety. Those exercises, along with medical advances in anti-anxiety medication, eventually allowed me to stop tapping out tennis matches on my legs entirely.
I was almost two full sets into that U.S. Open match before I realized what I’d been doing. I yanked my hands away from my knees and took a sip of coffee.
It had been at least ten years since I’d tapped out a tennis match.
Fuck. Why was I so anxious?
Scarpio was reportedly fifty-six years old, but looked at least a decade younger. He was about five foot ten and thin, with scruffy brown hair, cool blue eyes, and a wide mischievous smile. He wore dark blue jeans, faded brown desert boots, and a white Oxford button-up shirt. He was Caucasian, with a barely perceptible accent—most likely English, or maybe Welsh.
“Did you know rhubarb grows so fast you can actually hear it?”
“Really?” I said. I had no idea.
“It’s true. I have a recording on my phone if you’re interested.”
“Oh…cool.”
“I’m just fucking with you.” He went back to eating his pie. “I mean, it’s true. Rhubarb does grow fast, and I do have a recording of it on my phone, but what the fuck do you care? You wanna know why we’re here, why I showed up at the arcade, and, more importantly, why I asked you for help.” He smiled. “Am I right?”
“You’re right—although the rhubarb thing is interesting.”
Alan Scarpio nodded. “You’re lying, but that’s okay.” He was using his fork to hunt down every crumb on his plate. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? This pie is fucking fantastic.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I took a sip of the warmish coffee.
“Well, I’m stuffed,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and exhaled, every bit of pie now off the plate and inside the enigmatic billionaire.
I sat there in silence for as long as I could stand it.
“So,” I said, finally, “why did you show up at the arcade?”
“You’re surprised.”
“Very.”
“I get it. I’m a face you’ve seen on television or online. I saw Gary Busey once in a bar. He looked so familiar. As I walked by I smiled at him like the two of us were old friends.”
“He’s the crazy conspiracy guy?”
“I suppose maybe he is, but he was in Point Break. Classic. Two meatball subs!” Scarpio held up two fingers and yelled loud enough for the entire diner to hear. “Get me two, Utah!”
“I don’t remember that scene,” I said as the server approached our table and glared at Scarpio as if he were a small child who had just spilled a milkshake on the floor.
“Is everything all right?” She looked tired. The whites of her wide grayish-green eyes were spidered with tiny red lines, and her voice carried the earned rasp of somebody who’d poured an infinite amount of coffee into the cups of an infinite number of assholes. It had to be close to the end of her shift. She desperately wanted everything to be all right.
“Everything is perfect. I’m sorry for the outburst. We don’t actually want meatball subs. I promise it won’t happen again.” Scarpio smiled.
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t have the energy to throw anybody else out tonight.” She smiled, added a tired wink, then topped up my coffee.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, clearly happy we weren’t going to ruin her night.
She didn’t appear to recognize Alan Scarpio. Maybe she’d look him up tomorrow when she came in for her shift and discovered she’d been given a three-hundred-dollar tip on a seven-dollar check.