Stuart Woods - Choke

“Not me. If Carras was Marinello, I’d bet she didn’t know it.”

“Way I look at it,” Tommy said, “if somebody can clip the mob for a bundle and get away with it, it’s okay with me.”

Clare Carras swam slowly up and down the length of the pool. The underwater light was off, and the house was dark. It was just after midnight. A faint, mixed din of rock music wafted over the fence from the direction of Duval Street; the tourists were stocking the bars.

He came in over the back fence, as he had been told to do, looking around him in the darkness.

“Over here,” Clare said quietly. He walked to the edge of the pool, slipped out of his clothes, then slid silently into the water.

After they had made love and he was still begging for another time, she climbed out of the pool and lay on the grass. He came and lay beside her.

“Something’s come up,” she said. “We have to talk.”

“If we have to.”

“A man named Carman showed up in town yesterday; he came to see me in the afternoon.”

“Somebody Harry knew?”

“No. Somebody who was looking for Harry.”

“Well, he’s a little late, isn’t he?”

“He’s not too late to make trouble for us, baby.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He found out who Harry really was.”

“Wasn’t Harry Harry?”

“Not until a few years ago. He spent the earlier part of his life as somebody else, somebody who disappeared with a lot of somebody else’s money.”

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re getting the point, baby. We do not want these particular people coming around asking for their money back.”

“Who are these people?”

“Believe me, it’s better if you don’t know any more about that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Trouble is, they might take Carman seriously about the connection to Harry, and we can’t have that.”

“We certainly can’t,” he said.

“Do you think you could handle the problem?”

“For you? Of course.”

“For both of us, baby.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“He’s at the Pier House. I followed him home after the inquest. He’d been talking to that cop, Tommy Sculley.”

“Not good.”

“No, but not necessarily bad, either. I don’t think he’s likely to tell Sculley who he’s working for.”

“No?”

“Believe me, no. But we’re going to have to take care of Mr. Carman, and we can’t do it in Key West. I don’t want the people he works for to even know he was here.”

“Did he fly in?”

“No, he flew into Miami, rented a car, and drove down. He told me he’d never been to the Keys, and he wanted to know what it was like. In fact, Mr. Carman told me a lot more than he should have. He told me, for instance, during our conversation, that he liked to travel under an assumed name, and that he always paid his travel expenses in cash whenever possible. Mr. Carman is a private detective, and I think he’s seen too many movies about his profession.”

“So?”

“So what we have to do is to get him back to Miami and deal with him there.”

“I’ll bet you already have it worked out how to do that.”

She smiled. “I have. Mr. Carman was in a bar on Duval Street a couple of hours ago. He could be back in his room by now. Shall we see?”

“Let’s.”

She picked up the poolside phone and dialed the hotel room directly, bypassing the switchboard.

“Hello?” His voice was sleepy and slurred.

“Mr. Carman?”

“Yes.”

“This is the person you talked to yesterday afternoon; do you remember?”

“Yes, of course.” He was awake now.

“I’m in Miami, and I have some information about the man whose photograph you showed me yesterday.”

“That’s very good. When can I have it?”

“You’ll have to move fast, I’m afraid; I’ve left Key West, and I’m not coming back.”

“I can move as fast as you like,” Carman replied. “Where can we meet?”

“First, you have to promise me that you won’t ever tell your clients you spoke with me.”

“All right; I won’t tell them.”

“Do you have a Florida road map?”

“Got one right here; let me turn on the light. Okay, got it.”

“Do you see where Highway 1 leaves Key Largo and goes north?”

“Yes.”

“That goes to Homestead. From there take Route 997 north until it joins 27, then turn north.”

“Got it.”

“Highway 27 crosses I-75, and there’s a tollbooth. There’s a rest stop just before the tollbooth; stop there. I’ll leave all the information in an envelope behind the toilet in the men’s room.”

“What sort of information is it?”

“Everything you need to make the connection. But leave me out of it, remember?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t even exist.”

“That’s the way I prefer it. Now, you must leave at once to get there before dawn; after that the rest stop will get busy, and somebody might find the envelope before you do.”

“I can be out of the hotel in ten minutes; I’ve already paid my bill.”

“Good. We won’t be talking again. You’ll make good time on the road this time of night, but don’t get any speeding tickets.”

“I won’t. Thank you and good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” She hung up. “He’s all yours,” she said, “but you’d better hurry.”

He stood up and started to get dressed.

“Search him and his car for any sign of Key West-hotel bill, matchbooks-anything. And there’s a photograph; bring it to me.”

“Gotcha.”

She stood up and kissed him. “Thank you, baby,” she said. “Next time we meet I’ll do something special for you.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said.

When he had left, Clare got back into the pool and resumed her laps-slowly and easily. Harry had taught her how.

Carman pulled into the rest stop and switched off his lights. There was a glow in the sky to the east, but the place wasn’t crowded; only one other car there.

He got out of his car and walked toward the little building housing the restrooms, wondering if they’d be unlocked this time of day. When he reached the door, he saw that the hasp had been jimmied off the door and hung, useless, with the padlock still on it. He opened the door and felt for the light switch. He found it, but the lights didn’t come on. “Shit,” he said, feeling his way toward the toilet. It was the last word he ever spoke.

He went through the man’s pockets and found no evidence of a stay in Key West. He took a thick wad of small bills and the man’s wallet and wristwatch, then stepped out of the building. The sky was brightening now, and he could see the parking lot clearly. He went to Carman’s car and, using a handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, rifled the briefcase on the front seat and took the Key West hotel bill… and the photograph. He looked at the beefy man with the curly hair; sure didn’t look like Harry. Then he took the credit cards from the wallet and threw it toward the pond next to the rest stop.

A few miles down the road, he tossed the credit cards and the wristwatch into a drainage ditch, then headed for Key West, his mission complete. He’d managed very nicely, he thought, and made some money in the process. That would buy a few good dinners.

Clare Carras opened the Key West Citizen and looked through the realty ads. There was a display advertisement with photographs of a number of agents. She was stopped by the picture of a very beautiful Asian woman from whom Harry had bought the house. She didn’t want to be in the same room with any woman as lovely as that; she chose the man in the next photograph, phoned him, and made an appointment.