A few days later, Mitch was in his second happy place, the USTA Billie Jean King Tennis Center—a hard court sea of blue and green—watching some of the junior players practice when he heard someone come up behind him: “You Tommy’s friend?”
He turned around to see an older man with a prominent nose, slicked back, thinning hair, and sunglasses. His slight paunch was apparent under a short-sleeved checked shirt and jeans. He was carrying a copy of the New York Post. Mitch stood for introductions, shaking Chas DiNapoli’s hand, and motioned for him to take a seat beside him in Court Number Five.
“Boy, they must get some bucks for this place,” Chas said, looking around before he took his seat. “I mean, they got a Moët Chandon pavilion here and a Heineken pavilion and all these boutiques. It’s l
