“If you’re selling it, no thank you.”
“It’s a game, a variation of jai alai. I have two tickets for tonight, and Suzanne can’t make it. Would you like to go?”
Tracy found herself saying yes.
They dined at a little restaurant in the town square, where they had a local wine and confit de canard à I’ail—roast duck simmered in its own juices with roasted potatoes and garlic. It was delicious.
“The specialty of the house,” Jeff informed Tracy.
They discussed politics and books and travel, and Tracy found Jeff surprisingly knowledgeable.
“When you’re on your own at fourteen,” Jeff told her, “you pick up things fast. First you learn what motivates you, then you learn what motivates other people. A con game is similar to ju jitsu. In ju jitsu you use your opponent’s strength to win. In a con game, you use his greed. You make the first move, and he does the rest of your work for you.”
Tracy smiled, wondering if Jeff had any idea how much alike they were. She enjoyed being with him, but she was sure that given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to double-cross her. He was a man to be careful of, and that she intended to be.
The fronton where pelota was played was a large outdoor arena the size of a football field, high in the hills of Biarritz. There were huge green concrete backboards at either end of the court, and a playing area in the center, with four tiers of stone benches on both sides of the field. At dusk, floodlights were turned on. When Tracy and Jeff arrived, the stands were almost full, crowded with fans, as the two teams went into action.
Members of each team took turns slamming the ball into the concrete wall and catching it on the rebound in their cestas, the long, narrow baskets strapped to their arms. Pelota was a fast, dangerous game.
When one of the players missed the ball, the crowd screamed.
“They really take this very seriously,” Tracy commented.
“A lot of money is bet on these games. The Basques are a gambling race.”
As spectators kept filing in, the benches became more crowded, and Tracy found herself being pressed against Jeff. If he was aware of her body against his, he gave no sign of it.
The pace and ferocity of the game seemed to intensify as the minutes passed, and the screams of the fans kept echoing through the night.
“Is it as dangerous as it looks?” Tracy asked.
“Baroness, that ball travels through the air at almost a hundred miles an hour. If you get hit in the head, you’re dead. But it’s rare for a player to miss.” He patted her hand absently, his eyes glued to the action.
The players were experts, moving gracefully, in perfect control. But in the middle of the game, without warning, one of the players hurled the ball at the backboard at the wrong angle, and the lethal ball came hurtling straight toward the bench where Tracy and Jeff sat. The spectators scrambled for cover. Jeff grabbed Tracy and shoved her to the ground, his body covering hers. They heard the sound of the ball sailing directly over their heads and smashing into the side wall. Tracy lay on the ground, feeling the hardness of Jeff’s body. His face was very close to hers.
He held her a moment, then lifted himself up and pulled her to her feet. There was a sudden awkwardness between them.
“I—I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening,” Tracy said. “I’d like to go back to the hotel, please.”
They said good-night in the lobby.
“I enjoyed this evening,” Tracy told Jeff. She meant it.
“Tracy, you’re not really going ahead with Zuckerman’s crazy sunken-treasure scheme, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
He studied her for a long moment “You still think I’m after that gold, don’t you?”
She looked him in the eye. “Aren’t you?”
His expression hardened. “Good luck ”
“Good night, Jeff.”
Tracy watched him turn and walk out of the hotel. She supposed he was on his way to see Suzanne. Poor woman.
The concierge said, “Ah, good evening, Baroness. There is a message for you.”