Stuart Woods - Choke

Merk was afraid for the first time, and he didn’t move.

“No need to be worried,” the voice said. “After we’ve talked for a while I’ll sign the check, and you can go. Now sit down.”

Merk seated himself at the table, his back to his host.

“Pour yourself a drink,” the voice said. “A large one.”

Merk picked up the bottle of rum and poured a stiff drink.

“More.”

He poured until the glass was half full.

“Fill the glass to the brim.”

Merk did as he was told.

“Now drink it.”

“All of it?” Merk asked.

“Every drop. Get it down.”

Merk began to drink, and it was not as hard to swallow as he had feared.

“Go on,” the voice said. “It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

Merk took a deep breath and finished off the glass.

“Now put the check on the table, and I’ll sign it.”

Merk reached into his pocket, produced the envelope, and placed it on the cabin table.

“Take it out of the envelope; the note, too.”

Merk did as he was told. Then something heavy smashed into the back of his neck, and he fell into unconsciousness.

Daryl sipped coffee from his Thermos and waited for Merk to leave the house for the tennis club. At ten past nine he began to wonder what was wrong. The club opened at nine, and it was his information that Merk was always there first. He picked up his phone and called Tommy.

“It’s Daryl. Merk is late leaving for work.”

“Give it half an hour and call me back,” Tommy said.

Daryl waited the half hour, sipping his coffee, then called back. “He’s still in the house.”

“Hang on, I’ll call the number.”

Daryl waited patiently until Tommy came back.

“No answer. I called the tennis club and got an answering machine.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Knock on the door; if there’s no answer go in, if it’s unlocked. Call me back.”

Daryl got out of the car, walked down the street to the little house, and knocked loudly on the front door, trying to think of something to say if Merk answered. No answer. He tried the door and it was unlocked, so he stepped inside. “Merk?” he called out. No reply. He walked around the house, looked into the bedroom with its unmade bed, saw the mail on the end table, checked the kitchen. He got out his phone.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s not here, and there’s an open window in the kitchen, on the opposite side of the house from where I was.”

“Shit,” Tommy said.

“What do you think?”

“I’m afraid to think,” Tommy said, “because I think I’ve made a big mistake. Meet me at the tennis club now.”

Daryl hung up the phone and got going.

Tommy and Daryl met in the parking lot of the tennis club at a quarter to ten, then went inside. The place was empty. They walked outside where both Chuck and Victor were conducting lessons and sat down at the courtside table. Shortly the two pros came over.

“Morning, Tommy, Daryl,” Chuck said. “What’s up?”

“You guys seen Merk this morning?” Tommy asked.

“No, he didn’t show up,” Victor said, grinning at Chuck. “Actually, I’m not surprised he took the morning off.”

“Why?” Tommy asked.

“Because Chuck and I bought him out yesterday,” Victor replied.

“Out of the club?”

“Yep. Merk said he wanted to devote full time to the Santa Fe operation. He offered us a deal, and we took it.”

“Santa Fe?”

“Merk has an operation there, too. In fact, he told Chuck and me yesterday that he had an investor who would back a revamping of that club, and he had decided to spend all his time there. That’s why he sold out to us.”

Tommy looked at Daryl. “So Merk is leaving Key West, huh? What a surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Chuck asked.

“Merk’s not at home this morning. He went to bed last night, but he wasn’t there this morning.”

“I don’t get it,” Victor said.

“Did you give Merk any money yesterday?”

“We gave him twenty thousand each,” Chuck said, “to seal the deal. He went to the bank at lunchtime to deposit the funds.”

“How many cars does Merk have?” Daryl asked.

“Just one, the Chevy station wagon,” Victor said. “That and a scooter.”

“A scooter?” Daryl asked. “Where does he keep it?”

“In the garage with his car.”

“What kind of scooter?”

“You know, one of those Japanese things that get rented all over town. Merk’s was black, though, so he could tell it apart from all the rentals.”

“I don’t suppose you know the license number,” Daryl said.

“That’s easy,” Victor replied, “it’s Merk2. His car is Merkl.”

“What’s going on, Tommy?” Chuck asked.

“Never mind,” Tommy said. “See you later.”

The two detectives left.

In the car, Daryl asked, “What do you think?”

“There are two possibilities, as I see it,” Tommy replied. “One, Clare and Merk have decamped together; or two, Merk is the schmuck who thought he could have Clare, and he was wrong.”

“Have Clare again,” Daryl said.

“Yeah, again.” Tommy picked up the microphone. “Base, mobile four.”

“Mobile four, base.”

“I want a local APB on a motor scooter, probably Japanese, color black, license plate number mike, echo, romeo, kilo, one.”

The dispatcher repeated the plate number.

“That’s right; call me if somebody finds it.”

“Roger.”

“Over and out.”

“What now?” Daryl asked.

“Let’s go back to Clare’s.”

“Was she there all night?” Daryl asked.

“I saw her come home from the grocery store, I saw her lights go off about eleven, I saw her come out for the paper this morning. She was still there at eight-thirty.”

“Bet you ten bucks she ain’t there no more,” Daryl said.

“I’m not taking that bet,” Tommy replied.

They turned into Dey Street in time to see the big Mercedes back out of the driveway, Clare at the wheel.

“Drop back and tail her,” Tommy said.

“At least she’s still here,” Daryl replied.

“Her bags may be in the trunk. Follow her.”

They followed the Mercedes out Roosevelt Boulevard, where it turned into the parking lot of Scotty’s, a huge building supply-home improvement store. They sat a hundred yards away for half an hour, watched Clare get back into the Mercedes carrying a brown paper bag, then followed her back to Dey Street.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Daryl said.

“Probably.”

“Mobile four, base,” the radio barked.

“Base, mobile four,” Tommy replied.

“A black-and-white found your scooter at the Gulfstream marina on Stock Island.”

“You know it?” Tommy asked Daryl.

“I know it.”

“Thanks, base, over and out.”

The black-and-white was waiting when they got there. There was a small pile of clothing on the footboard of the scooter.

“Thanks, guys,” Tommy said to the two patrolmen. “You touch anything?”

“Not a thing,” one of the cops said. “Can we go now?”

“Sure, we got it.”

The two cops drove away.

Tommy picked up a polo shirt from the pile of clothing. He looked inside the collar. “Laundry mark says, ‘Merk.’”

Daryl picked up the trousers and found a wallet. “It’s Merk’s. We got underwear, socks, and shoes here, too. Think he went for a swim?”

“I’m afraid he might have,” Tommy replied. “Come on.” He led the way to the dockmaster’s shack at the head of the pontoon. A young man wearing nothing but cutoffs was inside, writing in a ledger.

“Morning,” Tommy said, flashing his badge. “What can I do you for?” the kid replied, gulping.