Stuart Woods - Choke

“You mean like in Rock Hudson? That’s not a real name.”

“That’s what was in the book, though. It said, ‘To Rock, with my warm good wishes.’ I couldn’t read the signature, but it looked like a different name from the author’s.”

“It looked like an old book; maybe he bought it in a used book store.”

“It was leatherbound, but it wasn’t old; it looked pretty new to me.”

“What was the name of the book?”

“Investing Wisely, by John Harrison. It was published in 1989.”

“Rock, huh?”

“Rock.”

Chuck stood across the net from Billy Tubbs, a cart of balls at his side. “Okay, Billy, I’m going to hit you some forehands and backhands. I want to see a proper grip, and I don’t want you to hit the ball hard-just smoothly. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy called back.

Chuck had not let him hit anything but ground strokes, and only against the ball machine. “And if I see you lapse into your old grip, or start slamming the ball across, I’ll return you to the tender mercies of the ball machine, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is only a drill; there’s nothing to win.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chuck fed the boy a forehand and watched carefully as he returned the ball. He fed a backhand and watched again, then he started returning the shots. For fifteen minutes he sent smooth, medium-speed shots across the net and watched Billy return them, just as he had been told. Billy, he reflected, had turned out to be able to follow instructions, when he had to, anyway, and he was pleased with the boy. He stopped the rally and walked to the net, beckoning Billy. “That’s very good,” he said. “Believe me when I tell you you’ll never have to hit a ball any harder than that to win a high school match, as long as you place the ball well. What I want you to do now is to hit your ground strokes just as you have been doing, except I want you to aim this way-right corner, center, left corner, then work your way back. Keep your swing smooth, don’t hit anything hard, and concentrate on accuracy.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy replied.

Chuck walked off the court, grabbed a towel from the stack, and flopped down on a bench next to Victor, mopping the sweat from his face.

“The boy’s coming along, isn’t he?” Victor said.

“He really is. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised.”

“So am I. I thought he would have told you to go fuck yourself by now.”

Chuck laughed. “So did I. He really has a gift for concentration, and he’s a fine natural athlete. I think if he can develop a good temperament he could make a winning pro.”

“You think temperament is something you can develop?” Victor asked. “I always thought you were born with it.”

Chuck shook his head. “Some people are, maybe, but for most of us it’s a training thing, just like hitting a good ground stroke. I was as hot-headed as Billy when I was sixteen; a good coach drilled it out of me.”

“Then why did you choke at Wimbledon?”

“That had nothing to do with temperament; it was all about confidence, and at the worst possible moment, I lost my confidence. I didn’t believe I could do it, so I couldn’t.”

“Well, I guess you’ve had some time to think about it.”

“Plenty of time.”

“There’s something else you maybe ought to think about,” Victor said.

“What’s that?”

“Staying out of Clare Carras’s pants.”

Chuck looked at Victor. “You think I’m messing with Clare?”

“I think you’re screwing her socks off every chance you get, is what I think.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I can look at you and look at her and tell, that’s why. And if I can figure it out, so can Harry Carras. And I’ll tell you something else, I don’t think he’s the kind of guy to take it well.”

“What makes you say that?” Chuck asked. “You know something I don’t?”

Victor shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m a good judge of character.”

“There’s more to it than that, Victor; you know something you’re not telling me.”

“I know a lot about a lot of things I’m not telling you, kid, but your personal life is really none of my business, so I’ll keep most of it to myself. Just this one piece of advice: Unless you want to start walking around with your dick in your hip pocket, you’d better watch whose wife you stick it in.”

“I guess that’s pretty good advice, generally,” Chuck said.

“It’s good advice, specifically, too,” Victor replied. He looked up. “Well, here come the Sculleys, Tommy and Rosie, my most enthusiastic new students.”

“How are they doing?” Chuck asked.

“Remarkably well. I wish all my students caught on so fast.”

“It must have been their first lesson with me that did it.”

Victor laughed, got up, and strolled toward his teaching court. He looked back over his shoulder. “Remember my advice, kid,” he called.

“I’ll remember, Victor,” Chuck called back. For about five seconds, he thought. Just thinking about Clare Carras made him hot. Oh, it would end, he knew that, but not for a while. They were a long way from being through with each other.

He mopped his face again and headed for his next session. It was Larry, the writer, and he’d have to remember to lose, but not by much.

Tommy sat at the Raw Bar at Key West Bight and looked out over the little harbor as he munched a conch fritter. Occasionally he tossed the gulls a crumb, and they made a fuss as they went for it. Pelicans sat sleepily on pilings, undisturbed by the gulls, or anything else, for that matter.

Daryl poured himself some more iced tea. “So who you figure is trying to knock off Carras?” he asked.

“Before we know who Carras’s enemies are, we have to know who Carras is. You follow?”

Daryl nodded, chewing his calamari. “I guess that makes sense. You don’t think it’s anybody around here, then?”

“I only know of one candidate here,” Tommy replied, washing down the fritter with some tea.

“Who’s that?”

“The guy who’s screwing Mrs. Carras.”

“And who would that be?”

“Listen, Daryl, I’m kinda thinking out loud here, you know? This isn’t necessarily serious.”

“Okay, it’s not serious. Who you thinking about?”

“Tennis pro down at the Olde Island Racquet Club, name of Chuck Chandler.”

“Don’t know him,” Daryl said. “How do you know he’s screwing Mrs. Carras?”

“I just know, Daryl. Trouble is, he’s not the type.”

“To screw Mrs. Carras?”

“To commit murder, dummy.”

“Lots of people who aren’t the type commit murder,” Daryl said.

“Not really,” Tommy replied. “Murderers who aren’t the type are in the minority. How the hell did you get to be a detective so quick, anyway?”

“The chief is my uncle,” Daryl replied, without embarrassment. “My mother’s brother.”

“That explains a lot,” Tommy said.

“Listen, Tommy, maybe we’re off on a wild goose chase, you know? Maybe nobody tampered with Carras’s car; maybe it was just a defect in the tubing.”

“Nah,” Tommy said. “I mean, if that was all we had to go on, you might be right. But we’ve got more than that.”

“What else have we got?”

“Over there.” Tommy pointed toward the hotel marina across the way.

“Where?”

“The boat on the end of the dock; the big one.”

“Fugitive?”

“That’s the one. I’ve seen another one just like it.”

“It’s a Hatteras; lots of them up and down the coast.”

“The one I saw is on the bottom, the other side of the island.”