"Well, how did I do?" Christian said to Jenna Lee, the Golden Gate Park tennis pro. "My money going down the drain, or what?"

Jenna said, "You don't listen, you don't try to change anything, so yes, it is."

"Best thing about it though?" Christian said. "Sharing a little perspective with you after. Over these 12 ounce lemon-lime Gatorades you provide. Unless you got anything stronger in that little pro shop fridge, by chance."

"No. And you know what? You might be the strangest student I've dealt with."

"You mean most intriguing . . . Meanwhile, your policy on dating clients, how's that work again?"

"It doesn't," Jenna said. "You really have to reduce it to this every time, don't you Chris?"

"Hey, I meant to ask you, you ever try squash?"

"Occasionally, when I was growing up in Seattle. It was different, all continental grip. You have?"

"Nah, but I watched my doctor's receptionist play a match not too long ago, down at the Bayside Club. She was pretty much a novice, but it was interesting."

"Was it."

"Her opponent was really working her, making her sweat, and by the third game I noticed a clarity of mass and a projection that I hadn't been aware of before. Viewing it through those glass back walls they have."

"Oh God, here we go."

Christian said, "The police ever return, by the way? Any follow up on that?"

"They came back once, yes."

"Oh . . . Detective, uniform, both? . . . What?"

"Just the detective this time. He wanted names of players who may have taken lessons from Damirko Crackoifka."

"And you gave him some."

"No, I didn't give him any. Some of them are my students as well. It didn't seem kosher."

Christian took a moment. Jenna had no idea, of course, but it had been about six weeks now since he drowned Damirko off China Beach in the Sea Cliff district of San Francisco. That same night, trying to take his mind off things, he had watched his doctor's receptionist Bethany play the league match at the Bayside Club.

He said, "You may not be the greatest tennis instructor, but you've got a serious backbone, you know it?"

"I'm not sure how to take that," Jenna said, "but whatever."

"I can see how teaching a sport can be rough," Christian said. "That situation, where I watched the person play squash? When she came off the court I tried to give her a little advice for next time, and she wanted to rip my throat out."

"She'd just lost though, right? That's one of the first rules of coaching, leave a loser alone until the next day. If they win, you can critique them all you want, it doesn't bother them."

"I'll try to remember that. She yelled at me so loud her teammates had to come over and intervene. Come to think of it, that was the beginning of the end. A shame."

"What did you tell her, that was so important?"

"I'm just a doe-doe bird sitting there, okay? But it was so obvious. Her ball was too low on the front wall, it kept landing short, where that red line crosses the floor. Right in the other person's wheelhouse."

"Okay, well, I have a three o'clock. If there's nothing else, I'll see you next week."

"Now that I'm thinking about it, next week we can try some squash. I'll take care of everything."

"Yeah, right."

"We can grab a bite afterwards, right near the club. The Big Horn on Sansome. California-fusion meets Jersey-diner."

"I tried that place once. It was overpriced and kind of ordinary."

"I agree it's not that good, but who cares?"

"Not going to happen," Jenna said.

*****

That night at Weatherby's in the Marina, Mitch the bartender said, "I've been trying not to bring it up, but I can't help myself. You done?"

"You mean with the list?" Christian said.

"That whole concept, yeah."

"Not sure. I've been thinking about what you said: haven't I accomplished enough, why not sit back and enjoy what I've got left, yada-yada."

"Well you look good. You've been getting some sun."

"I'm back into tennis. The whole reason, there's a pro I'm trying to maneuver. Beautiful, slightly mysterious, Asian. She sees right through my bullshit, however."

"And how about Kim, what was the end result there?"

"You'd know as much as me," Christian said. "My understanding is she took off with my brother. Though that'll never work."

"Hey, what can you do," Mitch said.

Christian said, "You want to play a little squash though?"

"The indoor racquet game, right? . . . No. Where'd that come from?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it is all. Ever since I watched someone put on a pretty good show . . . In fact it was that person I was telling you about, where the ex-husband was supposedly holding her back. Passion-wise."

"Oh yeah. The one where you noticed an extra car in the driveway at three in the morning? After you had to put something in Lake Merced?"

"Right, that one."

Mitch looked around and lowered his voice. "As I recall, you were considering doing something about that. To help her out."

"I was, so I met him half way, which backfired. I took a little road trip to his hometown of Anthem, Arizona, and when he answered the door I hit him with a chunk of local red rock."

"Jesus Criminy . . . Backfired, you mean he came after you?"

"No, he wasn't in the greatest shape at that point. But my friend found out about it and she turned on me big-time."

"See this is too often the thing," Mitch said.

Christian said, "I know. I was an idiot to think that would work . . . Anyhow, you sure you don't want to hit a few squash balls?"

Mitch said, "Pardner, I appreciate it. But if I had my own list, something like that, it'd be off the page."

*****

Wednesday evening Christian picked up Ray, and they went to the House of Prime Rib on Van Ness Avenue.

"Smells good," Ray said when they were settled into an overstuffed booth. "They got an early-bird special in this joint?"

"Not that kind of place," Christian said. "But order whatever you like, the pleasure's mine."

Ray said, "Nope. Tonight you ain't paying for nothing. I appreciate the company, even though it kills me to admit it."

Christian said, "Well that makes two of us, I guess. Which is amazing, seeing as how at one time I wanted to kill you."

"There you go again," Ray said, "with the talk. Only one thing missing, taking the walk."

"You mean walking the walk."

"I mean fuck you, motherfucker."

Ray didn't know it, but Christian really had planned to kill him. When he'd gotten his diagnosis in February, he'd made his original list on the back of a receipt at Starbucks in Mill Valley. Ray was number one, for beating him up 28 years ago by Alta Plaza Park. He found Ray and asked him about it, and was trying to figure out the best way to do it when Ray called and didn't exactly apologize but said he remembered the incident and it shouldn't have happened.  

Christian crossed Ray off the list and killed the next guy down. He and Ray became close.

Christian said, "Hey, I think that's Moose Bond just walked in, I thought he was living in Chicago . . . Jeez, pretty lady with him. Remember that guy, from junior high school?"

"No. Why you keep bringing up the school shit? I believe I told you, the only thing I remember is that PE teacher."

"Mr. Gullickson."

"Very first day? Stupid little white boy like you chewing gum. Gullickson tells him he breaking school rules. So the dude, he spits it down one of those metal grates in the yard. Gullickson eyes get all big and he says you littered, now pick it up. That boy tried the whole period to get that grate off. Hands ended up all bloody. "

"Not quite. What happened was the kid started ripping sheets of paper out of his binder, trying to make a cone-shaped tube that was about ten feet long that he could reach down and stick the gum to. I had to give him credit."

"Yeah, whatever," Ray said.

"You wanna play some squash?" Christian said.

"I wouldn't mind, except I can't move any more."

"Except when you're on the dance floor, then you're flying . . . The rest of the time you limp around like an old man. It's in your head."

"No, man, I can't. Great sport though."

"Great sport how? You don't even know what it is."

"Damn right I do. They was playing outside the Ferry Building."

"They were?"

"Last fall. Giants making the stretch run. Was getting ready to scalp me some tickets at AT&T, I hear this thumping noise, so I checked it out."

"Jeez, I didn't know about that."

"Man, they ripping that thing and it keep coming back. Foreign dudes, was my impression."

"Wow . . . So let's try it then."

"You developing a bad habit," Ray said, "of asking me things two times."

*****

Joyce said, "That last situation, in my closet, it was nice."

"You say that," Christian said, "but you're leaving out a small detail. What's-his-name just happening to drop by."

"Doug . . . Forget about that, Chris. I told you, I'm seeing Dave Luccia now."

"Not sure if I mentioned it, but one thing that Rohnert Park cop, Cousins, said? The second time he questioned me? You were shtupping them both simultaneously, meaning Doug and the first guy Bruce."

"He said that?"

"Yeah . . . Dang, finally you can see the ocean."

They were on the Matt Davis Trail on the western flank of Mount Tam, headed to Stinson Beach.

Joyce said, "Seems like a little too much today, don't you think? There and back?"

"Well, could be," Christian said.

When they'd left the trail and were squared away in a stand of Douglas-firs, he said, "Not the worst idea, actually . . . Except do you get poison oak?"

Joyce said, "That the best you can come up with? . . . At this . . . particular moment?"

"How about squash? . . . You want to try that?"

"I see . . . what do they wear . . . typically?"

The conversation deteriorated at that point, but driving home Joyce said no, don't be ridiculous.

*****

"I booked the court for twelve, high-noon," Christian said. "What's the problem now?"

Allison said, "Chris, if you feel that way about it, we'll sacrifice. A touch more notice would have been nice, is all I'm saying."

"Too much notice, you're liable to over-think it. What else do you both have going, that's so in the way?"

"You know something? I'm not going to dignify that bit of aggression . . . It's clear you haven't worked one iota on what we talked about."

Christian said, "We get kicked off at 12:45. Don't be late."

Allison and Monica had tagged along a few months back when he'd made his first trip to Pocatello, Idaho, which got cut short when a redneck driver got in the way and Christian had to hightail it out of there.

He couldn't quite figure out Allison and Monica's story, and decided it wasn't worth it, though there had been that time he returned from a morning run on the Marina Green to find Allison standing nude in his kitchen, waiting for a piece of toast to pop up.

Two slightly overweight guys were going at it, both real red in the face, and at noon on the dot Christian knocked on the door and one of them signaled 'one more point' through the little glass window.

Christian looked up and there was Allison, ready to go.

"Monica couldn't make it," she said. "But something else. On the bulletin board I see they have a squash short story contest. Just give me a minute, I want to write down the information."

"God damn it," Christian said.

The door opened and the players came out of the court, and it felt like they left sweat all over the place. Christian did some stretching.

Allison was back. "Looks interesting," she said. "You get your story posted on the two major squash websites in the world."

"So? Who reads that shit?"

"I don't know, probably a few hundred people. Maybe more."

"What, you're a writer now suddenly? And what do you possibly know about squash?"

"It says right here, your work just needs to have a glancing relationship to the sport of squash . . . Tell you what Chris, you go ahead, I'm going to grab a coffee. I'm formulating a few ideas I want to write down before I lose them . . . This is great, thanks for inviting me!"

It occurred to Christian you could hit a guy over the head with a racquet, perhaps add a little extra weight to it beforehand, and maybe take care of something that way. You had over-swung, was all. The tricky part, how would you get the right guy on the court with you?

Something to think about later. Right now, may as well get in there and hit a few balls to himself, see what all the hoopla's about.

Ted Gross publishes Daily Squash Report. A prequel, 'What Can You Do?', is at ByTedGross.com