Goldworthy, retired chemical engineer, but he would always be Mr. Mustache to her.
“Whether I can play or not seems beside the point,” Tracy said. “I’m not in the tournament. I’m just the organizer.”
Mr. Mustache sat back, arms folded. “It’s not beside the point to us.”
She didn’t want to argue, and she knew better than to question. “How about if I just admit I’m lousy? I’m sure every one of you can beat me.”
“Not sure enough,” the hoverer said.
Tracy couldn’t sing or play an instrument. She’d been a good, but not inspired, student at the small private girls’ school her mother had favored because the surnames there showed up so often in People magazine. She was pretty, because a pretty enough face was something money could buy. She only had one attribute that set her apart. She had been blessed with superior coordination and stamina, and she used them well. She had been captain of the high school soccer team, the champion goalkeeper in lacrosse, a tennis star in her division at the country club. In college she had set the Long Beach record for the one hundred meter hurdles.
And now she was supposed to take on three old men who made the walk in from the parking lot look like a marathon.
“I’m not sure what point you’re trying to prove.” She held up her notes. “We have a lot to do today.”
“None of which is going to get done until you’ve played a few frames with us.”
She sighed. “Whatever. Pick your best man. I’m not going to play all three of you.”
The men conferred. Today they were dressed in their Palmetto Grove Shuffleboard shirts, white polos with the crossed cues logo in red. Mr. Mustache stood. The shirt hung limply from his scrawny shoulders. His shorts were belted so tightly they puckered under the loops. She thought if he lost any more weight, his next tournament would have angels watching from the sidelines.
She got cues and discs from the supply cabinet; then they walked to the nearest court. Children were splashing in the swimming pool beyond, but for now, all the courts were empty.
“We’ll lag for color choice,” Mr. Mustache said. “Could you possibly know what that means?”
“We’re supposed to shoot and see who gets a disc closest to that line….” She used the cue to point. “The person who wins gets to choose their color. Yellow shoots first.”
He raised a brow, as if surprised.
“I’ve been boning up,” she said.
“Anybody can read.”
“Giving credit where credit’s due isn’t exactly your thing, is it?”
He stepped aside. “Ladies first. You get one freebie. The next one counts.”
She had been reading, not practicing, but she was hopeful. Tracy placed her disc on the ground in what she hoped was the appropriate place and positioned her cue behind it. When he didn’t correct her, she concentrated on the line she was supposed to hit and shoved. She pushed too hard, and the yellow disc kept sliding until it was well past the line. She shrugged, placed the second disc on the court and shoved again. This time, the disc stopped just short. It wasn’t a perfect shot by any means, but the placement was nothing to be ashamed of.
She wondered how the old man was going to find the strength to shoot all the way to the line. He put his disc down, positioned himself behind it, placed his cue, and then, with what looked like less effort than it would take to swat a mosquito, sent his disc to the center of the line.
“My practice shot,” he said.
“Hey, that was slick. I’m impressed.”
He turned his head and wordlessly told her that her opinion of his skill mattered less than nothing. He sent the next disc, the one that counted, to exactly the same spot.
“So you choose.” She went to the center, and gathered up her discs and put them in place; then she stepped away to let him decide.
“We’ll shoot four frames,” he said. “If you come out of this with half as many points as I do, we’ll work with you. If I blow you off the face of the earth, we’ll find somebody else, and you’ll pay out of your salary.”
“As if.”
“And if you don’t agree, we’ll make your life hell.”
She was beginning to get angry. “After what I’ve been through in the past months, nothing you could do would be a problem.”
“I’m on the rec center board. Finance chairman.”
“So? I’m a temporary employee. By the time you cut my salary, I’ll