Vanishing Act Read Online Free PDF

Collins screamed. “You read my book! I wrote it before you were born! Wait one second.”
    He scurried to a desk a few yards away from Kelleher’s that was marked BOSTON GLOBE and began burrowing through a gigantic bag. “Aha, knew I had one.” He pulled a book out of the bag, opened it, and quickly scribbled something inside. He walked back and handed it to Susan Carol. Stevie could see a picture of Collins on the cover and could see the title,
My Life with the Pros.
    â€œStevie, I’m sorry, I only have one,” Collins said. “I will track one down for you too.”
    Before Stevie could say anything, Susan Carol was hugging Collins to say thank you. Stevie was embarrassed he hadn’t known about the book. “Thank you so much,” she said.
    â€œNo, no, thank
you,
” Collins said. “It’s been years since anyone mentioned it. Always thought the book would have done better if they’d stayed with my title.”
    â€œWhat was that?” Stevie asked.
    â€œWhat a Sweet Racquet,”
Collins said.
    â€œOh, that’s a
much
better title,” Susan Carol said. Stevie would have thought she was sucking up, but this was Bud Collins, so it was not only okay, it was appropriate.
    â€œSo, Robertino, who are these two young mavens going to write about today?” Collins said.
    â€œHaven’t asked yet,” Kelleher said. “Guys?”
    Stevie had figured he’d be going wherever Kelleher needed him, so he hadn’t studied the schedule that closely. He
did
know that he wanted to see Symanova play, if possible, and that her first-round match was later in the day. She was one of the few stars playing on the afternoon program the first day. He had read a story in the Sunday paper about the U.S. Tennis Association dragging the first round out over three days so that the men’s semifinals wouldn’t be played until the second Saturday—to accommodate TV. Every other Grand Slam event played the men’s semis on Friday.
    Susan Carol—naturally—knew the schedule by heart. “Well, I was hoping to go see Evelyn Rubin play at eleven o’clock,” she said. “She’s on an outside court, I forget which number. And then I saw that Symanova is playing over on Louis Armstrong late this afternoon and I
know
Stevie wants to see that.”
    â€œStevie and every red-blooded American or non-American male on the grounds,” Collins said, laughing. “Why do you want to see Rubin play, my dear? I hear she’s quite good, but what’s your interest?”
    â€œMy uncle is her agent.”
    Collins did a double take. “Your uncle is an agent? But you seem like such a nice girl.”
    Kelleher laughed. “Now, Bud, you can’t choose your relatives.”
    â€œYou can’t?” Collins said. “I’ve chosen three wives—and here comes one of them now.”
    Stevie saw a tall, elegant-looking woman walking up to them. It turned out she
was
his wife, Anita Klaussen. “Bud, don’t go agent bashing again,” she said, walking up.
    â€œWhat’s not to bash?” Kelleher said.
    â€œAre they that bad?” Susan Carol asked.
    â€œWell, I don’t know your uncle, so I’ll presume he’s a fine fellow,” Collins said. “But agents are responsible for most of the ills of tennis, and the ills of tennis are endless.”
    â€œBut you love tennis,” Stevie said.
    â€œI do. I just don’t love the people running it,” Collins said. “Look, you all
must
have dinner with us one night. We’ll talk more. Right now, I have to go figure out who to write about today. Stevie, Susan Carol, you keep an eye on Robertino for me.”
    He trundled off with Anita right behind.
    â€œWhy ‘Robertino’?” Stevie asked Kelleher.
    Kelleher smiled. “Bud loves all things Italian. Spends a month in Italy every year. He would rather speak