DISCLAIMER: In the spirit of Entourage, this story features real-life celebrities portrayed as fictional versions of themselves. The content of this story is fictional, as are the actions and motivations of the characters therein. No celebrity has endorsed or participated in this story.

CHAPTER 5

Seth Green fired a serve over the net at Vince. It whipped past him before he could even bring his racquet back, but it didn't matter—the shot went over the line by several inches.

Harvey Weingarten leaned forward, straining against his own bulk. Before he spoke into the microphone, he glared at Vince. "Forty – love."

This is how it had gone for the last several games. Any time the Green/Meyer crew missed a shot by less than a country mile, Harvey called it good. Of course, if the Chase brothers hit a shot that just made it in, the bastard called it against them every time. They were down five games to nothing, and Seth would now serve for the first set.

Drama threw up his hand. "Oh, come on, ump!"

Vince tried to intervene. "Johnny—

Drama approached the chair. "I know we've had our differences in matters of business, Harvey, but this is a charity event, and I appeal to your kinder nature."

Harvey put a meaty hand over the mike and leaned down towards Drama. "It's Mr. Weingarten to you. And you guys can go fuck yourselves—dry, in the ass. Ari, too."

He took his hand off the mike and spoke into it. "Call stands, score is forty – love. Set point"

Drama shook his head in disgust, and a few beads of sweat sprinkled off of him. He searched the stands. "Where the hell's Turtle?" A ball boy gestured with a fresh white towel, letting Drama know he was covered. Drama ignored him and headed back to the base line.

"We're fucked, baby bro."

"Hang in there, Johnny," Vince said. "We just have to—

"Hey!"

Vince and Drama—and everyone else in the stands—turned to see a drunk, feral Billy Walsh stagger his way down to the court. He clutched his seventies wooden racquet menacingly. He pointed it straight at Harvey, like Babe Ruth calling his shot.

"You can't call a game any better than you produce a film, you fucking hack."

Harvey made a show of trying to laugh it off, but his reddening face gave off his anger like beacon. "You again? Come on—get the hell out of here. You're boring. Like your movies."

Billy threw a leg over the outer wall and stumbled onto the court, his eyes never leaving Harvey. Harvey rose to his feet, still up in his umpire chair.

"My film was a work of art, and you stole it from us." Billy made a circular gesture with his racquet to make it clear the Chase brothers were stolen from as well. Harvey was now trembling with rage.

Billy turned his back on Harvey and addressed the crowd. "You whored it out like the fat fucking pimp you are."

Harvey leapt down from his chair and charged like a bull, screaming and cursing the whole way.

Billy whirled around and brought back his Slazenger. "Come on, hack!"

He whipped the racket into Harvey's bulk, splitting the wooden neck, sending the strung head spinning away. Harvey slammed into Billy like a freight train, taking him off of his feet. Billy took Harvey in a headlock and hung on like the monkey from Indiana Jones as the rotund film exec ran him around the court, howling threats and profanity.

"Jesus!" Vince said. Harvey tripped over the net and the two crazed film makers rolled onto the cement. Billy sprung onto Harvey and pummeled him with both fists.

Seth moved to a safe distance and continued to laugh his ass off. Breckin produced a cell phone and filmed the spectacle.

Drama smiled broadly. "Can you fucking believe this?" To Vince's surprise, he realized he was smiling, too.

"Billy always said he had my back."

A half-dozen cops ran onto the court and pulled Billy and Harvey apart.

They cuffed them both.

Ari was on his feet along with the rest of the spectators, grinning ear to ear. "No craft service in the slam, you fat fuck."

It occurred to him at that moment that the match was now at a standstill. He whipped out his phone. "You're watching this?"

"Yes, Ari," Lloyd answered from his desk. He was streaming the game on his computer. "The violence is shocking."

"Yeah, yeah – fuck that. What's McEnroe saying up in the booth? They gonna get the game fired back up?"

"They're explaining that every match has an umpire and a backup, but Harvey was the backup for Jeffrey Tambor and now there's no designated alternate."

"Fuck," Ari said. "Well, shit—can I do it?"

The voice came back on the loudspeakers. "Ladies and gentlemen. We need to select a new umpire to continue the match. As per tournament rules, the umpire must have expert knowledge of tennis rules, and may not be a direct representative or current business partner of any of the players."

Ari thrust dual curse fingers up to the sky and dropped heavily into his seat.

E hopped the wall and came over to Vince and Drama. The spectators were milling about idly, chatting it up and comparing cell phone video footage of the fight. "It's a fucking circus in here," he said. "At least Billy finally did us a favor."

"Took out Harvey like Lee Harvey," Drama said.

"He took one for the team," Vince said. "Let's just hope they can find an ump that doesn't hate us so much."

Seth and Breckin stepped up the net. "Don't sweat this, guys," Seth called out to them. "Whoever they pick to judge the match can't possibly have business affiliation with Vince. I mean, your calendar is pretty wide open these days, right Vince?"

Vince broke off and walked to the net. E and Drama followed, ready to stop a fight or jump into one—whatever the occasion called for.

They were intercepted by a tournament official who trotted out onto the court. "All right, gentlemen – we can continue as soon as a qualified umpire is selected."

"And how long is that going to take?" Vince asked, glaring hard at Seth.

The official shrugged. "Depends who volunteers."

"Is Alan Green available?" Seth asked. "He told me he's a huge supporter of Vince's."

Vince jabbed a finger at Seth. "You're about to get your fucking teeth knocked out."

The crowd hushed rapidly as it became evident that words were being exchanged. Seth flashed a grin and stood his ground. "Go for it, man. Maybe you'd feel tougher if you had on your Escobar fat suit."

Someone in the crowd shouted in the distance. "Hit him, Vince!"

Vince was sorely tempted. But he knew that to take a swing at another actor at a charity event would only further alienate him. And while he might be willing to risk that for himself, he didn't want to ruin things for his boys in the process.

The two sides faced off silently. The tension was palpable and the crowd remained silent, desperate to hear and see every detail of the next portion of this insanity.

And amidst all that, a tall, elderly man stood up three rows back from courtside. He cleared his throat and smiled helpfully.

"What if I were to tell you that I was the men's singles champion at Wilshire Country Club in 1967, and I can judge a tennis match better than Ursula Andress gives a Swedish massage?"

Bob Ryan cocked his eyebrows. "Is that something you might be interested in?"

The Chase brothers lost that first set six-love, but coming into the second with a fair ump in the chair, Vince and Drama had each held serve, and were now up two games to one.

Breckin served to Drama, firing a shot up the center line. Drama got behind it with a crushing forehand and drilled the return straight back between Breckin and Seth. It bounced squarely between them and hit the back wall resoundingly.

"How do you like them apples, boys?" Drama called. Vince held out his racquet and they gently high-fived with the heads.

"Just warming up, Melrose," Breckin retorted.

Drama sauntered up to the net. "I'm gonna break your serve like your sister's hymen."

"I think that boat already sailed, tough guy," Seth said.

Breckin looked over at Seth. "Fuck you, man."

"What? I never hit that," Seth said.

Drama ran his forearm along his brow and push off a bucket of sweat. He turned to the stands again. Turtle's seat remained vacant. "Fuckin Turtle."

A ball boy ran over, and—in an enthusiastically misguided attempt to help—tossed a brilliantly white towel onto Drama's shoulder. It lassoed around his collar bone and clung solidly to his soaked torso.

"Mother fucker!" Drama jerked and whipped the towel off of himself like it was a rattlesnake. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he screamed at the ball boy, who had already retreated to the court's wall.

"That's a warning, Johnny," Bob Ryan said. "Get a hold of yourself."

"How can I calm down when I smell Agassi's taint on my fucking clothes?"

Bob pursed his flappy lips in disapproval. "That's another one. This is a gentleman's game."

Vince hissed at Drama. "Cut the shit or you're gonna get ejected."

"Hey Five Towns," Seth called. "When you doused Brooke Shields, did you clean up with studio towels or do you keep your own stock for that sort of thing?"

"Fuck you, you little cocksucker!" Drama threw his racquet at the opposing side. It flew over the net, flipping end over end, forcing Seth to duck away from it.

Bob Ryan shot to his feet. "Abuse! Unsportsman-like conduct. Johnny Chase is ejected."

Turtle dropped into the seat next to E, who was watching the scene on the court in forlorn disbelief.

Turtle was out of breath. E finally noticed him.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Turtle smiled. "Bangin Breckin Meyer's assistant. She is a freak, bro." He turned to face the court. "What's going on? We winning?"

After making his usual apologies to Vince, Drama walked off the court, head hung in shame.

Vince stood under the chair, looking up at Bob. "So now what?"

Bob put a hand over the mike. "This reminds me of the time Steve McQueen hit Dusty Hoffman in the balls with a pitching wedge at the Beverly Hills Golf Club. He—

"Bob, please," Vince said. "The match."

"Be patient, Vincent," Bob said crossly. Seth and Breckin now came to the base of the chair as well. "You can select a replacement partner, but he has to be mutually agreed on by all players."

"That's easy," Seth said. "Because there's only one guy here I'm willing to agree to play against."

"And who's that?" Vince asked.

Seth pointed into the stands. "Eric Murphy."

To be continued…