Choke (2 page)

“I am,” Victor confirmed. “I’m the sweetest guy in the world, and I can teach
anybody
to play tennis.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Chuck said. “I’ve never been any good with the beginners and the duffers.”

“I’m going to charge more for you, Chuck, because you have a reputation,” Merk said. “We get folks who’ll gladly pay just to hit with you; I’ve already lined up a few. Victor will give you the rundown on them.”

“That I will,” Victor said. “Come on out to the courts, and I’ll show you the lay of the land.”

Victor led him out of the pro shop, past the ball machine and the cart of practice balls. He tapped in a code on the gate lock and let them in. “The code is three three three this week,” he said, handing Chuck a key. “This is for the other gate down there. I teach on court one, you take three, we’ll rent the middle one.” He waved at a bench. “Take a pew and I’ll enlighten you.”

“Do that,” Chuck said, sitting down.

“There are some good regulars. There’s Larry, the writer, who plays the best players in town three or four times a week. He’ll try you out pretty soon, and if you want him to keep coming back, you’d better let him win two out of three.”

“Gotcha,” Chuck said.

“There’s Holly, the freelance personal trainer, who is stronger than you are, believe me, and who will run you right into the ground if you’re not careful.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a seventeen-year-old boy named Bill Tubbs who you might be able to do a lot with. He’s got a hell of a lot of talent, and he’s very strong; has dreams of being a touring pro. I haven’t been able to do a lot with him because he’s too stubborn, thinks he’s always right. And you’ll have to deal with his old man, the beer distributor, who thinks the kid is Pete Sampras.”

“Okay,” Chuck said. “Who else?”

“Over there,” Victor said, nodding toward the parking lot.

Chuck turned to see two people getting out of a shiny new Mercedes S-class sedan. The man was sixtyish, tall, slim, and looked to be in good shape. He had thick, snow-white hair, brushed straight back, and a deep tan. Getting out of the other side of the car was the most beautiful woman Chuck had seen since he’d left the pro tour, and that was a long time ago. She was tall—five-eight or-nine—had high breasts, long legs, a tiny waist, dark hair in a ponytail, and a tan nearly as deep as her companion’s. She was thirty years younger than he.

“Wow,” Chuck said.

“Wow indeed,” Victor replied. “They turned up a few months ago, and they’re both pretty good. Names are Harry and Clare Carras.”

“Married?” Chuck asked.

“That’s the bad news.”

“What else do you know about them?”

“Not a hell of a lot. He seems to be filthy rich and retired. They bought a big old Victorian house in Old Town and apparently spent a fortune fixing it up. He’s got one of those little portable cellular phones, and he talks on it a lot. You’ll have to get used to that.”

The couple opened the main gate to the courts and walked in.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Victor said.

Chuck watched the woman walking toward him, and he was suddenly aware that her husband was watching him watching her.

“Harry and Clare,” Victor said, “this is Chuck Chandler, our new head pro.”

Chuck shook Harry’s hand first. It was soft, but strong. “How are you, Harry?”

“Good,” Harry replied.

“Clare?” Chuck said, turning to her. He felt a stirring in his crotch.

“Hello, Chuck,” Clare said. “We heard you were coming.”

Her hand lingered in his.

“Glad to be here,” Chuck said, trying to tear himself away from her large green eyes. “I hear you folks play good tennis.”

“Let’s find out,” Harry said. “Victor, you want to make a fourth?”

“Sure, Harry,” Victor said. “I’ll play a couple of sets; I don’t have anything scheduled until eleven.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Me and Clare against you two.” He led his wife onto a court.

Chuck followed them, unable to take his eyes off the woman. She was made for tennis clothes, he thought. Or no clothes at all.

Chuck watched them both carefully as they warmed up; they were both smooth players who hit the ball well. He decided to start with his low game, just to see how it went. The low game wasn’t enough; soon he and Victor were down love-three.

Harry chipped and sliced a lot and knew where to put the ball—the mark of a good older player. He had abandoned power a while back and had substituted craft.

Clare had more power than her frame had indicated, and she seemed able to return almost anything. Chuck raised his game a notch and left it there. It was enough for a close finish; he and Victor won the set in a tiebreaker.

They all shook hands, then adjourned to the water cooler.

“Chuck, that was a good game,” Harry said. “We’ll take you next time.”

“I’ll watch out, Harry.”

“Why don’t you join us for dinner this evening? We’ll officially welcome you to Key West. Victor, you too?”

Both pros accepted.

“Good. Eight o’clock at Louie’s Backyard.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Chuck said. He glanced at Clare. “I’ll look forward to it.”

There was a tiny curl to Clare’s red lip. Chuck took it for a smile.

C
huck found Louie’s Backyard on the second try. Key West was only one mile by four, but he needed a map, and still it was tricky. There were only two or three streets that ran the length of the island; the rest were narrow and crowded with frame dwellings called Conch houses. Louie’s was on one of these little streets, a good-sized Victorian place that looked more like somebody’s home than a restaurant.

“Mr. Carras hasn’t arrived yet,” the headwaiter said, “but the other member of your party is waiting at the bar outside. Just walk straight through.”

Chuck emerged from the rear of the house onto a three-tiered deck filled with tables; the bar was on the lower level and nearly in the water. The sea lapped at the deck, and a rising moon illuminated the diners, mostly tourists, Chuck figured, come south for some sun.

Victor waved at him from the bar, and Chuck slid onto an adjacent barstool. “Where are our hosts?” he asked.

“Harry and Clare are not great at on-time performance,” Victor replied. “Buy you a drink?”

“Thanks. I’ll have a vodka gimlet, straight up, very cold,” he said to the bartender.

The two clinked glasses. “Welcome to paradise,” Victor said.

“That’s what you said this morning. Is it really?”

“Can be. Depends on your attitude.”

“My attitude’s pretty good.”

“Then you’ll like it. There are a lot of very strange people in this town,” Victor said. “It’s the end of the road, figuratively, for a lot of them. They couldn’t make it anywhere else, so they decided to come down here and not make it. Not making it is what folks do here.”

“My attitude’s not
that
good,” Chuck said, laughing. “I gotta make a living.”

“Found a place to live yet?”

“I brought it with me.”

“Trailer?”

“I haven’t sunk that low; it’s a little motor yacht. I found a berth at Key West Bight.”

“That’s where it’s all happening, boatwise,” Victor said. “Say, is the yellow Speedster yours?”

“Yep. I restored the thing from scratch when I was living in Palm Beach.”

“I guess Merk told you, this isn’t Palm Beach.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Listen, Chuck, you and I don’t know each other very well, but I’ve got to ask you …”

“Yep, I choked.”

“Not about that.”

“About what, then?”

“About Palm Beach. We got a whiff of the rumor down here. Did you really get the club president’s wife pregnant?”

Chuck shook his head.

“I didn’t really believe it,” Victor said.

“It was the chairman’s wife. And it was a hysterical pregnancy.”

“A
hysterical
pregnancy?”

“Hysterical, isn’t it? She actually missed two periods.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Neither did her husband. Of course, by the time she was running on schedule again, I was out of the club.” Chuck looked out over the moonlit water. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Victor agreed.

Chuck watched as a boatload of people left a good-sized motor yacht anchored offshore and made their way to Louie’s aboard a Boston Whaler. The skipper tied up the boat, and a party of six scrambled ashore.

Chuck glanced at his watch. “Our hosts are twenty minutes late,” he said. “You may have to buy me dinner.”

“They’ll show,” Victor said. “Harry’s the type to keep his promises.”

Another half hour passed before the Carrases turned up, and the whole restaurant turned to watch their entrance—or rather, Clare’s entrance. She came down the stairs in a white strapless dress that Nature held up, and for a brief moment, not a word was spoken within sight of her.

Chuck stood up and watched her walk toward the bar. “Hello, Harry,” he said, shaking the husband’s hand first. “And Clare.”

Her cool hand squeezed his again. He stopped himself from fantasizing.

“Sorry we’re late,” Harry said, “but our table’s ready, so let’s sit down and have a drink there.”

Chuck and Victor followed the couple to a well-placed table and ordered another round. Harry ordered scotch; Clare ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc.

Harry raised his glass. “Welcome to Key West,” he said.

“Thank you, Harry,” Chuck replied. “I think I’m going to like it here.” He tried not to look at Clare as he said it.

“So you’re down from Palm Beach,” Harry said. “Are the rumors true?”

“No, they’re not,” Victor said. “It was a hysterical pregnancy.”

They all burst out laughing, and Chuck joined them.

“Chuck,” Harry said when they had stopped laughing, “do you make a specialty of other men’s wives?”

“No, Harry,” Chuck replied. “But from time to time, they seem to make a specialty of me.”

Everybody laughed again.

Clare put a hand on Chuck’s arm. “Who could blame them?” she said, and there was just a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

“You’re too kind, Clare,” Chuck replied.

The talk turned to tennis as the menus arrived, and they stayed on that subject through two courses, until Harry changed it.

“You do any diving, Chuck?” Harry asked.

“I do. I live on my boat, over at Key West Bight, and I’ll be happy to take you out sometime.”

“We’ll take you,” Harry said.

“I’d love to.”

At that moment a gust of wind struck, so sharp and so sudden it knocked over a wineglass, and a split second later a roar filled the air. Suddenly everyone in the restaurant was standing, looking in the same direction.

Chuck followed their gaze. A column of yellow fire rose into the sky, and debris was falling into the water in a large circle. The motor yacht Chuck had noticed earlier had now become a flaming hulk.

“Holy shit,” Victor murmured.

“Gas,” Harry said. “Gotta be gas.”

“Gas
and
gasoline,” Chuck replied. “Diesel wouldn’t blow like that.”

“Do you suppose anyone was hurt?” Clare asked.

“I don’t think so,” Chuck replied. “We saw a large party leave the boat and come ashore here a little while ago.”

As if on cue, a woman screamed.

Chuck looked toward the bar. The woman had now covered her mouth with her hand and was pointing toward the fire. Tears streamed down her face.

“What’s she bitching about?” Harry asked. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

T
ommy Sculley was on his feet with the rest of the diners, gawking at the explosion. Then he got hold of himself, reached for his pocket cell-phone, and dialed 911.

“I knew it,” Rose said. “I knew you’d do something to fuck up this dinner, but I’ll admit, I hadn’t expected anything quite so elaborate.”

“Rosie, shut up and eat your dessert,” Tommy said.

“Key West Police Department,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Detective Sculley. A boat has exploded a hundred and fifty yards off the east end of the island, and there may be fatalities. I want you to …”

“Who did you say this is?” the woman asked.

“Detective Thomas Sculley of the Key West Police Department,” he replied.

“I don’t know any detective named Sculley,” she said.

“Sweetheart,” Tommy said, “if you don’t listen to me and do what I tell you
right now,
you’re going to get a very personal introduction. I’m new, okay? Now you get hold of the Coast Guard and tell them to scramble a cutter and to make sure there’s a medic on board.”

“You sure this isn’t some kind of joke?”

“What’s your name?”

“Helen Rafferty.”

“Helen, as one Irishman to another, this is the straight scoop. Now, does this department have a boat of some sort?”

“Yeah, but it’s hauled out getting some work done at the moment.”

“Swell. You call the Coast Guard, and I’ll find my own boat.”

“Are you sure …”

“Do it, Helen, and think about it later.” He raised a hand. “Waiter!” he yelled. “Check!”

Five minutes later, Tommy had left his wife to pay the bill for her birthday dinner, collared the young man who had skippered the Boston Whaler to the restaurant, and was on his way to the scene of the explosion, along with a very unhappy accountant from Atlanta.

“I just bought the thing,” the accountant said. “This is our first cruise.”

“What’s your name?” Tommy asked, notebook at the ready.

“Warren Porter,” the man replied. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my tender?”

Tommy flashed his new badge. “Key West PD; name’s Sculley.”

“How did you get here so fast?”

“I was having dinner, just like you.” Tommy turned to the man driving the boat. “Are you new on the yacht?”

“No, sir,” the young man said. “I worked for the previous owner.”

“Were you in charge of maintenance?”

“Yes, sir. She’s maintained to the hilt, you can take my word for it.”

“Take his word for it,” the accountant said. “I’ll show you my first yard bill.”

“Was there a gas system for cooking?”

“Yes, sir, two twenty-gallon bottles, both stowed on the port quarter. The system is … was first-rate, conformed to all the Coast Guard regulations.”