The Matarese Countdown Read Online Free PDF Page A

Albion. My summer house is in Gull Bay, on the beach. And to the best of my knowledge, Giancarlo has no relatives in the area. It’s my understanding that he was here in the States to oversee the Tremonte family’s American interests. When he leased the Wellstone estate, we were, of course, delighted to accept him into Green Meadow. He is—was—a very talented polo player.… May we please remove his remains?”
    “We’ll cover him, sir, but he has to stay here until our superiors and the medical examiner arrive. The less he’s moved, the better.”
    “Are you implying that we should have left him out in the field in front of the crowds?” said Albion curtly. “If so,you
will
have an argument with me. It’s tasteless enough that you roped off the area where he fell.”
    “We’re just doing our job, sir.” The first police officer replaced the notebook in his pocket. “Insurance companies are very demanding in these cases, especially cases where injury or death is the result. They want to examine everything.”
    “Speaking of which,” added the second patrolman, “we’ll need the mallets of both teams, of everyone who was in the match.”
    “They’re all on the wall over there,” said the blond player with the precise if slightly nasal speech. The wall referred to held dozens of two-pronged colored racks from which the polo mallets hung like wooden utensils. “Today’s players are in the red section, the farthest on the left,” he continued. “The grooms hose them down but they’re all there.”
    “Hose them down?…” The first policeman took out his notebook.
    “Dirt and mud, old boy. It can get messy out there. See, some are still dripping.”
    “Yes, I can see that,” said the second patrolman quietly. “Just water from hoses? No dipping in cleaning solutions or anything like that?”
    “No, but it sounds like a fine idea,” said yet another rider, shaking, then nodding, his head.
    “Just a minute,” interrupted the patrolman, walking to the wall and studying the mallets. “How many are supposed to be here in the red section?”
    “It varies,” replied Albion condescendingly. “There are eight players, four to a team, along with replacements and reserve mallets. There’s a movable yellow peg that separates the current match from the members not playing that day. The grooms take care of it all.”
    “Is this the yellow peg?” asked the patrolman, pointing to a bright, circular, snub-nosed piece of wood.
    “It’s not purple, is it?”
    “No, it’s not, Mr. Albion. And it hasn’t been moved since the match began this afternoon?”
    “Why should it be?”
    “Maybe you should ask, why wasn’t it? There are two mallets missing.”
    The celebrity tennis tournament in Monte Carlo drew dozens of recognizable performers from films and television. Most were American and British who played with and against the socialites of Europe—minor royalty and wealthy Greeks, Germans, a few fading French writers, and several Spaniards who claimed long-forgotten titles but insisted that the word
Don
preceded their names. Nobody took much seriously, for the nightly festivities were extravagant, the participants gloried in their brief spotlights—televised, of course—and since everything was sponsored by Monaco’s ruling house, a great deal of fun—and publicity—was had by all while charity thrived.
    An enormous buffet was held under the stars in the huge courtyard of the palace overlooking the harbor. A talented orchestra held sway, playing in a variety of musical styles, from opera to nostalgic pop, as internationally known singers took turns entertaining the crowd, each receiving an ovation as the elegant audience rose from their elegantly dressed tables under the spill of roving spotlights.
    “Manny, I want my gig on
Sixty Minutes
, you
got
that?”
    “Got it, babe, it’s a natural!”
    “Cyril, why am I here? I don’t play
tennis!
”
    “Because there are studio heads here! Go up