Stuart Woods - Choke

“I’m assuming you’ve got twenty grand,” Chuck said, grinning.

“I can manage a check today.”

“I can write a check on my brokerage account.”

“That didn’t get tied up for bail?”

“No, just the boat.”

“One other thing, Chuck; are you going to beat the murder rap?”

“I didn’t do it, so I’m going to beat it. Trust me on that, Victor.”

They went back into the office. “You’ve got a deal,” Chuck said, and they all shook hands on it.

Merk produced three copies of a short document. “This outlines what we’ve agreed. Please look it over.”

The two pros both read the document. “Suits me,” Chuck said, and Victor nodded. Everybody signed.

The two new partners took the court feeling their hangovers much less. During their lunch break they paid Merk, sealing the deal.

At the end of the day, Victor said, “How you feeling?”

“Pretty good, considering,” Chuck replied. “I think I’ve sweated out my hangover.”

“Me, too,” Victor said. “Why don’t you go get Meg, let’s go to Louie’s for dinner and do it all over again? I think we’re due a celebration.”

“You’re on, partner.”

The three of them sat on the rear deck at Louie’s Backyard sipping vodka gimlets and perusing the menu.

“You know,” Victor said, “I knew Merk was thinking about this, but I was worried about handling it on my own. I’m glad to have a partner; if the truth be told, I’m not a businessman.”

“Bad news,” Chuck said, “neither am I.”

Meg looked up from her menu. “I am,” she said, “and I’ve got some money to invest. I can run the shop and keep the books, and it seems to me there ought to be a kids’ program. I could handle that; I used to teach tennis at a summer camp.”

The two pros looked at each other, then Victor put his hand on hers. “Sweetie,” he said, “I have the feeling you know a lot more about what you’re talking about than either of us. Why don’t we make it a three-way partnership?”

Meg beamed. “I think I can handle that,” she said.

“Waiter,” Chuck called, “three more vodka gimlets!”

When they left the restaurant they found themselves in possession of two cars and only one person, Meg, sober enough to drive.

“All right,” she said, “pile into the Speedster; Victor, you’re sleeping aboard Choke again.”

“Your wish… et cetera, madam,” Victor said, squeezing into the small space behind the two seats.

“We’re not going to make a habit of this, though,” she said, “partners or no partners.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Victor muttered, then began snoring.

Half an hour later, the three of them were in the same beds they had occupied the night before.

Merk Connor left the tennis club later than usual and drove home. He unlocked the door of the little Conch house and picked up the mail, which had come through the slot in the door and was now scattered on the hall floor. He poured himself a rum and tonic and sat down to open what he expected would be nothing but bills.

Then, at the bottom of the stack, he found an envelope with no stamp and his name written in a flowing hand. He thought he recognized the handwriting, and anxiously he tore open the envelope. Inside he found a note and a check made out in his name in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars, unsigned. He read the note; it was brief:

Bring this note to the Gulfstream marina on Stock Island at three A.M. sharp tomorrow morning, and I’ll sign the check. Be sure you’re not followed. I’ll be in slip 19.

Merk looked at the check and thought about how far it would go to solve his financial problems. He put it back into the envelope and laid it on the end table, then went to change clothes.

Daryl was on his second night of watching Merk Connor, and he couldn’t say he was enjoying the stakeout. He had a magazine, but he couldn’t turn on the dome light to read it without attracting attention to himself, and the batteries were getting weak in his portable radio. He and Tommy were spread thin, what with watching both Merk and Clare Carras, so he had a long night to look forward to.

Then he saw, as he had the last time, a figure leave the back door of the house and vault over the fence. He got the car started, drove around the block to Duval, and, just as he had before, Merk emerged into the street and walked briskly west.

This time, Daryl stayed in the car. He followed Merk down the street, stopping from time to time and waving traffic around him, and when Merk turned into the same bar, Daryl drove to the corner and stopped, watching both entrances. When Merk did not emerge from either, Daryl parked the car, walked across the street, sat down in an outdoor cafe, and ordered coffee. Nobody was getting out of that bar whom he wouldn’t see.

Two and a half hours later, Merk emerged from the door he had entered and walked back toward his house. Daryl followed him all the way, watching as he let himself in the back door. Twenty minutes later, one by one, all the lights in the house went off. Daryl settled in for the night watch.

At two-thirty A.M. the alarm went off, and Merk sat up in bed. He was hung over and sleepy, but he forced himself to get dressed. He was about to go out the front door when he remembered that he had been warned against being followed. With the lights still off he peeped through the venetian blinds in the living room and saw the car that had followed him earlier in the evening. It was strategically parked so as to cover both the front and rear entrances.

Merk thought for a moment, then picked up the envelope on the end table, put it into his pocket, and went into the kitchen. He opened a window on the side of the house opposite the car and stepped out into the night, leaving the window open so that he could reenter the same way. His motor scooter was in the garage with his car. He backed out the scooter and pushed it a block from the house before kicking the starter, then he headed toward Stock Island. The streets of Key West were eerily empty at this time of night, and he headed for the eastern end of the island, past the tennis club, toward the airport. From there he continued northward, over the bridge and onto Stock Island. He turned right at the first traffic signal, remembering that the marinas were at the end of this road.

He wasn’t sure which one was the Gulfstream, but there was a large sign. He remembered then that this was an older marina that had silted over and was no longer useful for larger boats. He parked the scooter in the deserted parking lot and headed toward the pontoons, passing a sign that read NO LIVEABOARDS. A single bulb illuminated the entrance to the slips; after that it was dark, with no lighting for the pontoons, and he took care not to fall into the water. He could barely see the slip numbers painted on the pontoons.

Near the end of the pontoons, not far from the entrance to the marina, he came to number nineteen, which was occupied by a small cabin cruiser. Through drawn curtains, he could see a glimmer of light from inside. Not wanting to call out, he rapped sharply on the hull. There was no response. The boat was moored stern to, and he stepped lightly aboard. The cabin door was closed, and as he was about to knock on it a familiar voice said, “Come in.”

Merk opened the door and stepped down into the cabin. At first it appeared that there was no one inside. Straight ahead of him was a table on which there were a small lamp providing the only light, a bottle of Myers’s rum, and a glass. Then Merk felt something cold and metallic on the back of his neck.

“Sit down, Merk,” the familiar voice said, “and have a drink.”