Fiction
by Mark Jonathan Harris
by Mark Jonathan HarrisIt began innocently enough. “Can I buy you dinner or a drink this week?” R asked as we walked to our cars after our regular Sunday tennis game.
“To make up for today?” We’d been partners and he played poorly.
He shifted his tennis bag from one shoulder to the other. “I need some advice, and I thought you could help.”
“About what?”
He glanced at other players returning to the parking lot of the Cheviot Hills public courts where we played. “I’d rather not talk here.”
His invitation and secretiveness intrigued me. Although we’d been playing doubles every Sunday for years, we never socialized outside the courts. I suggested we meet at Musso & Frank in Hollywood. Whatever counsel he was seeking, I thought their martinis might make it
