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04-11-2005, 11:54 AM
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#1 (permalink) |
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Location: Florida
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All England Member's Dinning Room
It's kinda long...
 Excerpt taken from "N'Awlins Confidential," a Hackney McTrite PI Adventure." "Hackney McTrite meets with former Wimbledon Champion Jim Tisdelle who the Yard suspects is slated for murder. Wimbledon Members' Dinning Room. Pampered doesn't quite describe how members of The All England Club are treated: perhaps mollycoddled. One glance around the Members' dining room proved it. The walls were appropriately decorated with framed pictures of great players from the past. Fine linen -- anything other than Irish -- covered tables set with sterling silver cutlery and sparkling Royal Doulton china. We drank from Waterford crystal glasses that the reflecting light off the facets seemed to place a minuscule galaxy within our reach. Twelve attractive waitresses fluttered about, catering to whims of the affluent posed on overstuffed chairs. They sat with wives and friends chatting and emoting. Laughter was politely subdued. Men dressed in white pants and solid colored blazers, with gold buttons, and silk shirts. Wives and girl friends looked like they had just stepped off a Paris fashion runway. Glittering jewelry adorned all the appropriate places. Last year I'd been commingled with two English couples of local gentry at Wimbledon's Long Bar. The crowded conditions had brought it about. So, I knew they were a trifle standoffish. They will sit forever without acknowledging your presence. However, knowing the English as I do, I don't think it's snobbery. They simply respect the privacy of others. If you initiate a conversation, they'll talk without looking down their noses, even if you wear tennis apparel and need a shave, which had been my situation. Once their shyness has been penetrated, they become warm and friendly. The English culture has elements of politeness that may be unique. Everyone treats each other with respect and dignity. We'd just engorged a breakfast made in heaven. I drank my third café au lait. The others sipped an aromatic tea that Inspector Whitney dubbed Essence. We'd been waited on hand and foot, and I'd relished the pampering. Tisdelle, Edward, and I sat with a distinguished English gentleman of seventy introduced as Illustrious Sir R.A.A. Presley, no kin of Elvis I was certain. One swivel of his old pelvis would put him on the floor. Caring not to call him Sir R.A.A or R.A.A or Sir Presley, I decided to address him as Mister Presley. Actually, he intimidated me with his innate arrogance, and I was too apathetic to ask him what R.A.A stood for. He was Secretary of The Lawn Tennis Association. The big wig I'd hoped to meet at the Museum and failed to connect with. When we first sat down for breakfast, he'd complained he was peckish…I'd surmised that was slang for lost of appetite…and then he baffled me when he ordered three soft poached eggs on buttered rye, hash browns, and a double order of English bacon. Tisdelle, pushing seventy, stood six feet. His shoulders paralleled the polished wood floor; however, a slight portion of his proud chest had descended, forming the small potbelly that spoke of his love for excess. He wasn't just a champion; he was a British subject who'd won the most prestigious Grand Slam Tournament in the world. That said, he was a handsome chap, which was the reason, I suppose, why he'd been married three times. I wasn't hard over for an explanation, but quite possibly, he suffered from some testosterone deficiency. I entertained an unusual surmise, considering I was as heterosexual as Errol Flynn was, which I readily related with. I doubt if the poor devil's had a wet dream in months: an erection in a year. An orgasm might be out of the question. But a flare radiated from him that suggested he'd been a gay Cavalier in his day: gay in the romantic sense. Perhaps, the way he gawked at our waitress was the flare. Mind you, her feminine endowments were superb. And being brutally honest, his exposed skin looked like a well-worn saddle and was a charbroiled darkish brown. Several blotches on his face smacked of skin cancer. I knew he still played frequently and in the hot sun. Foolish that. I wiped my mouth and said tactfully, "Jim, what kind of a man was Pete Singleton?" He was rich now, but you can't make a silk wallet out of a sow's belly. He answered in his blue-collar English. "Friendly, outgoing, and fun loving. He worshipped the gentler sex. Didn't have much time for men. I was probably as close to him as anyone. At least until I kicked his ass thoroughly in the finals. He'd been out with Millie the night before. He'd probably banged her two or three times." I noticed R.A.A. grimace. His mouth gathered flies. "Banged, as in intercourse?" I asked. "No! More like fornication." R.A.A. grimaced and turned red. "Did Millie have a last name?" I asked. "Yes, Mink. No, I'm being facetious. Smoot." R.A.A covered a smile. The levity went over Whitney's head, and I pressed my lips together. "Where did she live?" "She had a flat in Wimbledon Village. I can't remember where anymore." "How close were they?" "He was inside her constantly." He chortled vulgarly. R.A.A. emoted again. "Actually, he was crazy about her." "How did he feel about his own family?" "I don't think he cared for his wife. He was always demeaning her. She was frigid as a nude Eskimo sitting on a snow bank, to hear him tell it." "When was the last time you saw him?" "The day he lost his fourth final. I met him in the men's locker room. He steamed. He sat on a bench naked as a plucked chicken, using expletives and calling the man in the tall chair every four-letter word he could think of. He felt cheated. I tried to console him, but he scoffed at me, and I left him alone. I understood his feelings. I'd been a runner up once." "Where are you staying?" "A B&B on Church Road." "That's convenient." "Yes, quite." "What's the telephone number?" He told me. "Edward, I don't have any more questions. It's your turn." Edward informed Tisdelle of the measures the Yard had taken to keep him safe. One man was to be with him at all times. And two men would be posted at his place of residence: one inside and one outside. I felt certain he would be safe. Then, I wasn't so sure after regarding Inspector Whitney closely and remembering his ineptitude. I listened and finally said, "Excuse me chaps I have work to do."
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Red beans and ricely, stonewallja Last edited by stonewallja; 04-13-2005 at 04:32 AM.. Reason: Make corrections |
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04-17-2005, 05:05 PM
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#6 (permalink) | |
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Upright
Location: Florida
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Quote:
Of course you kid. Apparently. I don't understand the mindset of folks that frequent WEB Forums.
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Red beans and ricely, stonewallja |
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| dinning, england, member, room |
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