Stuart Woods - Choke

“Chuck, I’ve seen the Carras woman. What’s going on there?”

“Nothing. Not anymore.”

“You were screwing her?”

“At one time. It was just a fling.”

“I’ll bet it was.” She got out of the bunk and began to get dressed.

“Listen, Meg, this was before you. You’re the reason I’m breaking it off.”

“Sure.”

“I told you that before you there were other women, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Then what the hell gives you the right to be pissed off about another woman who happened before you came along?”

“I may not have the right,” she said, “but I’m pissed off anyway. Good morning.” She stalked out of the cabin and off the boat.

Chuck sighed and got himself out of bed.

“Late night?” Clare asked as he climbed aboard Fugitive.

“Don’t ask,” Chuck replied. “Where are the others?”

“It’s just a threesome today,” she replied.

“Where’s Harry?”

“Getting some beer from the marina shop. We’ve probably got time for a quick one.”

He looked at her, amazed.

“Only joking,” she said, smiling. “I would if I could, though.”

He knew she would. “That’s very flattering,

Clare.”

“I fucking well hope so,” she said sweetly. “Here comes Harry.”

Chuck took the paper bag from his host and waited while he climbed aboard. “Where we headed today, Harry?”

“A wreck I know,” Harry replied, starting the engines. “A few miles west of here, just outside the reef.”

“Won’t there be a crowd? The tourist dive boats know all the wrecks.”

“The dive boats don’t know about this one; I found it myself-a coaster of about a hundred feet. Looks like it’s been there for at least ten years.”

“Sounds good,” Chuck said.

Harry backed the boat out of her berth, motored slowly out of the harbor, and headed west, toward what seemed to be open water. Chuck knew, though, that the water in that direction was shallow, and a skipper had to know what he was doing to go that way. Then they were in deeper water.

They had been cruising at thirty knots for half an hour when smoke began to drift up from below, just as it had on their last trip.

“Harry!” Chuck yelled over the engine noise. He drew a finger across his throat.

Harry cut the engines. “Not again,” he moaned.

“I’ll see to it,” Chuck called out. “Turn on your blower.” He gave the ventilator five minutes to work, then went down to the engine room. An inspection revealed a repeat of their last problem; an exhaust hose had come off the overboard vent pipe. The two hose clips he had put in place on that occasion were still there, but loose. Chuck reconnected the hose, tightened the clamp, and safety-wired them for insurance. The whole business took less than ten minutes. As he was leaving the engine room he noticed Harry’s air compressor again, bolted to the deck beside the engine, the exhaust of which he had just repaired. Funny place for a compressor, he thought. You’d think he’d want it on deck, where it would be a hell of a lot more convenient for refilling dive tanks.

“Everything okay?” Harry called out as Chuck surfaced.

“Yep; the hose clips had worked loose again. I wired them this time; you shouldn’t have another problem.”

Harry restarted the engines, and they were on their way again. He was steering from the flying bridge, so Chuck and Clare had the afterdeck to themselves. Clare opened them a beer.

“Sorry about that tennis bet the other day,” she said. “I don’t know what got into Harry.”

“Sure you do,” Chuck replied. “He knows; that was his guy following us the other day.”

“I haven’t seen him around again,” she said.

“Neither have I, but we have no way of knowing how long he’d been following us.”

“Honestly, I don’t think Harry knows; really, I don’t.”

“We’re going to have to let it go, Clare.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to have to stop seeing each other on the sly.”

“Seeing each other? Is that what you call it? I’d have said we were screwing each other’s socks off every chance we got.”

“Okay, then we’re going to have to stop screwing each other’s socks off.” He managed a smile.

“So you’re dumping me?”

“Clare, come on; this is dangerous, and we can’t go on with it.”

“So I’m stuck with a husband who’s had five bypasses and a prostate operation, and I can’t have a sex life?”

“If you want a sex life, leave him and find somebody else. That would be a snap for you.”

“Are you asking me to divorce Harry for you?”

“Of course not,” Chuck replied, flustered.

“You don’t want me, then?”

“Clare, we had some good times, but that’s all they were. Don’t come on like a woman scorned, okay?”

Harry leaned out from his perch. “You two all right down there?”

Clare flashed him a big smile. “Just perfect, darling.”

Harry went back to steering the boat, and Clare was quiet for a while.

“All right,” she said, finally.

“All right what?”

“We’ll stop seeing each other. After all, Harry could fall off the perch at any time. Maybe we’ll have another chance.”

“Maybe,” Chuck said. But he was thinking, Never.

The engines slowed. “Here we are,” Harry called. “Chuck, will you get on the anchor? Clare, will you get out our gear?”

The two ex-lovers parted, one to the bow, one to the stern lockers.

As Chuck let the anchor chain out he tried to feel relief, but he was still uncomfortable about being on this boat with Harry and Clare Carras. He wanted the day to be over. Later, he would wish it had never begun.

Chuck handed down the three tanks, each a different color, to Harry, who was standing on the teak diving platform, inches above the water. Harry was all ready to go in his swimsuit and a T-shirt. He slung the red tank onto his back and buckled it in place.

“Aren’t you wearing a life jacket, Harry?” Chuck asked.

“Never do,” Harry replied. “Too much gear; gets in the way.”

Chuck thought he had worn a jacket the last time they’d dived, but he wasn’t sure. He got his own inflatable jacket out of his bag and slipped into it. Clare emerged from the master cabin wearing a white one-piece swimsuit that might have been sprayed on. Chuck sighed. And he was giving this up.

“You wearing a compass?” Harry called up.

“Yep.”

Harry pointed to the north. “You see the reef?”

“Yep.”

“The wreck is in about sixty feet of water outside the reef, bearing about zero-three-zero from here, maybe a hundred yards.”

Chuck looked at the compass on his wrist and oriented himself.

“I’m off,” Harry called. “You two come on when you’re ready.”

“Harry, wait up,” Chuck called. “Let’s all go together.”

But Harry had dropped into the water. A trail of bubbles followed him toward the wreck.

Chuck climbed down to the dive platform. “Give you a hand with your tank?” he called up to Clare.

“You go ahead; Harry should have someone with him. He’s always doing that.”

“Okay. Does it matter which tank?”

“The blue one is the guest tank; the yellow one is mine.”

Chuck got his flippers on, then strapped his harness onto the tank, and slung it onto his back. “You’re wearing a life jacket, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Go ahead after Harry; I’m right behind you.”

Chuck pulled on his mask, bit the mouthpiece, and tested his regulator. Clare was coming down the ladder. He gave her a wave and dropped into the water.