Three nights later, Daisy had Nick and Jordan over again. For recreation, Jordan plays tennis, and today, she wore a white skirt cut at the knees. Daisy urged Nick to play Jordan, but when he looked embarrassed, Daisy offered him a nip from her hip flask, and I challenged Jordan instead.
"What do you know about tennis?" Daisy asked me.
"I know how to score," I said, taking her hand and whirling her on the tennis court like in the Alabama Slide, before dipping her and flipping her in an aerial.
"Strike me dead," Daisy said breathlessly, her eyes sparkling with longing. "When did you get so swanky?"
All of that whirling made me dizzy. It was three days since Dempsey rang my bell, but the whole time, my head stayed fuzzy. Every moment felt trance-like. Not knowing what to say, I went in for the kiss.
"Tom." She gave me the icy mitt and pushed the tops of my hands down.
But I saw the promise in her eye.
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Still, I felt splifficated even though I hadn't had a drop in three days. Whatever Doc Willard gave me must have been some real backwater coffin varnish. In the Argonne, a bomb blast had blown me off of my feet. I woke in the mud. The back of my skull was bleeding. I thought for sure I'd die. I wasn't right for three weeks.
This was worse.
Just thinking about Doc Willard and what rotgut he gave me made me want to track him down. Ever since Prohibition, you have to be careful about what you drink. A lot of these bootleggers cut corners. Diesel, varnish, formaldehyde: they'll dump anything in a still. Call me a snob, but if it's made in America after 1919, I seldom drink it.
I hoped a little activity would clear my head, but Daisy didn't appear to like me playing tennis with Jordan. Maybe she'd caught my eyes drifting to Jordan's tight outfit, or that I noticed how the breeze ran its fingers through her hair. Jordan had agile, strong legs and sleek arms, with immaculate ivory skin, slightly bronzed by the sun.
Daisy grew progressively unhappier—especially because I picked up the game quickly. I didn't score a point the first game, but I made Jordan glisten.
The second match, I got on the board. And the third, Daisy gave up all pretense of loyalty to me and cheered lustily for Jordan, because both of us scored early, and then we volleyed the ball back, harder and harder, with spins, and artful placements, for what felt like five minutes—until Jordan swung her racquet with incredible force. With blinding speed, I saw it: the ball bulleted for the court's corner where it would ricochet off the white line. She'll win if I don't get it. Instinctively, I lurched, leapt, and swung perfectly, on blind instinct, and knew that I'd return it—
—when it nailed me straight between the eyes.
Since I was midair, Jordan's bullet destroyed my balance. My ankles crisscrossed each other and I went down hard.
