Stuart Woods - Choke

Chuck picked up a paper at the Waterfront Market on his way to work. The incident occupied half the front page, and he was prominently featured. The reporter obviously had a source with the Coast Guard, maybe even the skipper of the cutter.

When he arrived at the club, Merk called him into his office, and a moment later Victor walked in.

“What the hell happened, Chuck?” Merk asked.

“I take it you’ve read the papers,” Chuck replied.

“Sure,” Victor said, “but what really happened?”

“The paper got it right,” Chuck said. “They got it from the Coast Guard, I think.”

“How about Clare?” Victor asked. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” the pro said, smiling. “I’d hate to think of anything happening to that sweet body.”

“Oh, shut up, Victor,” Chuck said.

“Hey, listen, the husband’s out of the way now; you’ve got a clear shot, haven’t you?”

Merk broke in. “That’s enough, Victor. Chuck, I take it you’d been seeing her.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Merk,” Chuck replied. “My student’s here; I’ve got to go.” He walked out of the clubhouse to find Billy waiting for him, and Billy’s father as well.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the father said. “I just want to see how Billy’s doing.”

“I don’t mind,” Chuck said. He was too numb to mind.

“Say, listen, what happened out on that boat?”

“The papers got it right,” Chuck replied. “That’s all I can say about it. Come on, Billy, let’s get warmed up.”

Billy was sharp that morning, and when Chuck played points with him, the boy won most of them. When they had finished playing the father motioned Chuck to sit down with him.

“What’s up?” Chuck asked.

“There’s a tournament in Naples this weekend,” the elder Tubbs said. “I’d like Billy to play in it.”

“That’s a pro tournament,” Chuck said. “Nothing major, but a pro tournament, nevertheless.”

“I’m aware of that,” Tubbs said.

“It’s too soon,” Chuck said. “Anyway, he’d blow the rest of his high school season; they wouldn’t let him play again.”

“We both know he’s too good to be playing high school kids,” Tubbs said. “You’ve done wonders with him; it’s time to see how he plays under that kind of pressure, how good he really is.”

Chuck shrugged. “I can’t stop you,” he said.

“Come on, Chuck, we want you there,” Tubbs said. “It’s important that you see how Billy does against that kind of competition. Assuming you still want to coach him, of course.”

“Sure I do.”

“Then come with us. I’ll talk to Merk, get you off for the weekend, and I’ll pay you for your time, of course. We’ll fly up in my airplane; it’s only half an hour.”

Chuck shrugged. “Okay, what the hell.” Today he couldn’t care less.

Tommy Sculley sat across the desk from the lab technician and tried to see what the woman was typing on the form.

“I’ll be just a minute more,” she said.

“Take your time,” Tommy replied. “I’ve got all day.”

“I haven’t.” She typed a few more lines, ripped the form out of the typewriter, took it to a copying machine, and punched some buttons. Finally, she handed a copy to Tommy. “Carbon monoxide,” she said.

Tommy looked at the form. There were three columns of figures, headed SOURCE AIR, AMBIENT AIR, and AIR STANDARD. “What does ambient air mean?” he asked.

“Each tank was tested twice,” she replied. “Source is one test, ambient is the other. The results are expressed in parts per million. The right-hand column, air standard, is what you find in ordinary air-what you should find in compressed air from a clean source. All three tanks are high in carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, and methane. The red and yellow tanks both had more than twenty-five-hundred parts per million. Normal air contains ten parts per million.”

“Pretty rich, huh?”

“Very rich.”

“Enough to kill?”

“Plenty. If your man had put his mouth over a car’s exhaust pipe, it couldn’t be richer. The blue tank is different, though; while it’s abnormally high in carbon monoxide, it contained only about seven hundred parts per million, less than a third of the other two tanks.”

“Not enough to kill?”

“Sure, if you breathed it long enough.”

“How long?”

“Difficult to say-it would depend on the physical condition of the breather, his respiration rate, other things.”

“What would it do to the breather?”

“The symptoms would include weakness and nausea, eventually unconsciousness, finally death.”

“How long would it take the red and yellow tanks to kill?”

“Again, a lot would depend on the condition of the breather.”

“Say a guy who’d had five bypasses and prostate surgery, but who was otherwise in pretty good shape. Top shape, in fact, for his age. The guy swam, played regular tennis.”

“I don’t know what effect the prior surgery would have, but even in top shape, the breather wouldn’t get far sucking on the red or yellow tanks.”

“What do you mean by not far?”

“A few minutes at most-very few.”

Tommy thanked the woman and left the lab. He got into the car, picked up the cellular phone, and after a couple of minutes, was patched through to the Coast Guard cutter.

“Lieutenant, this is Detective Sculley.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Tell me the locations where your men found the three tanks, by color, if you will.”

“The red tank was on the deck of the wrecked ship; the blue tank was maybe twenty feet from the wreck, in the direction of the yacht; the yellow tank was practically under the yacht.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Glad to be of help.”

Daryl spoke for the first time. “So Chandler was wearing the blue tank?”

“That’s how it looks,” Tommy said. “Let’s ask him.”

Tommy and Daryl pulled into the Waterfront Market parking lot just as Chuck Chandler was parking the yellow Porsche Speedster across the road.

“Hey, Chuck,” Tommy called as he got out of the car. He crossed the road to where the tennis pro was waiting, still dressed in whites.

“Hi, Tommy. What’s happening?”

“Beautiful car, Chuck; I haven’t seen one in years.”

“Thanks. I put a lot of work into it.”

“You restored it yourself?”

“Everything. I rented a boat shed near Palm Beach when I was living up there, and I restored both the car and the boat over a period of nearly two years.”

“Is Choke your boat?”

“That’s right.”

“Daryl and I were admiring her the other day.”

“It was a lot of work, but I had a couple of guys helping on the boat. And I got a floating home and a car out of it.”

“Could we take a look at Choke? I wanted to ask you some more questions, anyway.”

“Sure, come on down.”

The three men walked down to the waterfront and boarded Choke.

“Wow,” Tommy breathed. “I’ve never seen such good varnish work.”

“Thanks,” Chuck said. “That took a lot of work. Can I get you guys a drink?”

“Maybe some coffee or tea for us,” Tommy said, catching Daryl’s eye. “You go ahead and have something stronger, if you like.”

“I think I will,” Chuck said. “It’s been a hard couple of days. Come on below and have a look around.”

Chuck showed them the saloon and the master’s cabin, and Tommy poked around while Chuck made tea. The engine room was spotless.

“You do the engine work?” Tommy asked.