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Back to Vegas, Part 8 (Suspense, Fiction)

August 19, 2011 - Burt Angeli
Bianca, after adjusting to my backhand slice, looked more like a junior tennis champion with a variety of shots. Nearing exhaustion, I could only put my hand on the racquet and form a "T" for timeout.

"That's my girl," beamed her mother. "You're up next. Let's head out to court six."

I checked my watch and figured a hot bowl of war won ton soup would hit the spot. Now if only Oslo would return from his audience with McKinney.

"Kevin, you're not going to leave?" asked both the mother and daughter. "We'd really like you to stay, watch the match and join us for dinner."

I was ready with a good excuse to bail out, but the expressions from both left me no choice.

"Court six is that away," I pointed, hoping the war won ton soup was served 24 hours like everything else in Vegas.

Bianca grabbed her tennis bag and rubbed her right wrist.

"Mother," the budding Chris Evert Lloyd said, no simple 'Mom or Ma,' as if she were already on Centre Court at Wimbledon, "is it possible my racquets are heavier?"

"Bianca, those are the same racquets. You must be tired from your travels. If you know what I mean?" "Mo-ther, really," the snarky Bianca had resurfaced.

I thought Barbie was aiming for a tirade against Ron and the Pahrump experience until the PA announcer asked for her presence on court six.

Barbie and I found a couple bench seats. Barbie sat with a satisfied expression.

"This is great," Barbie said, slapping my thigh and staring straight into my eyes. "Bianca is back on the court, there's no sign of her father and we found a White Knight in you and Oslo."

Before I could counter with an "aw shucks," Bianca started exchanging shots with an unranked player. The match didn't last long, with a victorious Bianca shaking hands with her opponent and walking toward her chair.

While I was thinking about war won ton soup, Bianca stopped short and talked to some guy with greased-back hair.

After a couple moments, Bianca threw down her racquet and ran off to the locker room. Barbie gave him a menacing look and followed her daughter.

I didn't need to be a detective or sportswriter to guess this guy's identity.

"You must be Rick. Understand you always fall short in father of the year voting."

I didn't see his right-hand coming …

(To be continued)



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