Stuart Woods: Choke

She was named Choke. He preferred to make the joke himself, before somebody else brought it up, as somebody always did.

He’d have to rig up the gangplank, he thought, looking at the three-foot gap between the boat’s stern and the concrete wharf. The women wouldn’t like making that jump.

He walked to the parking lot and stopped in his tracks. The car was a late-fifties Porsche Speedster, bright yellow, restored to a fault, and her radio antenna had been snapped off by some passing sonofabitch. Chuck sighed. He wasn’t in Palm Beach anymore.

He got into the car and drove the length of the island to the Olde Island Racquet Club, three courts and a tiny pro shop, owned by the big hotel across the street. He walked in at the stroke of ten.

Merkle Connor looked up from his computer and peered at Chuck. “Oh, hi,” he said. “That’s right, you’re starting today.” He seemed to have forgotten.

“That’s right, Merk,” Chuck said, offering his new boss a smile.

“Sit down a minute, Chuck,” Merk said, pushing back from his desk in the tiny office and moving a crate of tennis balls away from the spare chair.

Chuck took a seat. Here it came.

“Let me give you the lay of the land,” Merk said.

This is not Palm Beach, Chuck predicted.

“This is not Palm Beach,” Merk began. “We’re not fancy, but we’re busy. If you work hard at developing a clientele here, you can knock down seventy-five grand a year, maybe more.”

Stay away from the broads.

“You’re going to have to be careful with the female talent,” Merk continued. “I had a guy last year who was shacking up with a hotel guest in her fucking room, and the manager went freaky on me, made me fire the guy. Basically, I don’t give a damn who you screw, as long as it’s not in the hotel and it doesn’t, you know, reverberate. You get my drift?”

“I get your drift, Merk. There won’t be any problems.”

“Good, because I got problems enough, what with running two programs, this one and the one in Santa Fe. In April I head west, and it’s up to you and Victor to run this place.”

“I’m Victor,” a voice behind Chuck said.

Chuck turned and stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Chuck Chandler.”

“Victor Brennan,” the man said. He was mid-forties, bushy mustache, tousled hair, permanent grin. Something of a belly hung over his shorts; he looked more like an ex-football player than a tennis pro. “Welcome to paradise.”

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Then you must believe all of Merk’s lies.”

“Okay, Victor, lay off and listen,” Merk said. “Chuck, I’m going to divide the work roughly between you and Victor; you get the better players, the hotshots and the comers. Victor does the daily clinic, which is mostly hotel guests, plus the housewives, the kids, and the duffers. He’s temperamentally suited to that kind of teaching.”

“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.