Stuart Woods - Choke

“Oh,” Tommy managed to say. His mind was racing.

“They hurt me, Tommy; I wouldn’t have told them, but they hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, Rita; I wish I could have been there to help. Are you all right?”

“I think they broke my arm.”

“Oh, shit; do you want me to get you some help there? I’ll call somebody on the LAPD and get you some help.”

“No, don’t do that; they might still be around, and they swore they’d come back if I called the cops.”

“But you need help.”

“I can get myself to the emergency room; Mount Sinai isn’t far from my place.”

“Can you drive?”

“I can make it, don’t worry about me; worry about you.”

“Me, why?”

“Because the lawyer knows you’re from Key West, remember? They knew it, too. They’re going to want to know what you know about Barry and Marinello and the Carras woman.”

“Where did you hear that last name?”

“Carras? They mentioned it.”

“What did the two guys look like? Give me a description.”

“One of them was sharp-looking, a slick dresser; I think it was an Armani suit; dark hair, not too long, slicked back, straight nose, good teeth, a ladies’ man. The other one was just a gorilla-big, hairy, smelled of garlic-right out of…”

“A description, Rita.”

“Six-three, two-forty, black hair going gray, thick hair on the backs of his hands, hair everywhere, bad nose job.”

“Okay, got it.”

“You watch out, Tommy; they might show up there.”

“I’ll watch out, Rita; now you get to the ER right away, you hear me? And call me if you need anything, and I mean anything.” He hung up.

“So? ” Rosie said, and she was seething.

“Shut up, Rosie, it’s business.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she turned over and put her face in the pillow. He had never talked to her that way before.

He patted her on the bottom. “I’m sorry, sugar, but it was bad news.”

Tommy and Daryl stood in the arrivals lounge, such as it was-at Key West International Airport, a long shedlike building, no air-conditioning. The good thing about it was that every flight pulled up and emptied at the same gate.

The two detectives watched the last passenger through the door.

“Nothing fitting the description,” Daryl said. “Come on, Tommy, we can’t meet every flight.”

“Just the late afternoon, early evening ones,” Tommy said. “That’s when passengers from L.A. would arrive.”

“Tommy, there are more than a hundred flights a day into this airport, from Miami, Orlando, Tampa, Naples. We can’t meet even the late afternoon, early evening ones and get anything else done. The chief isn’t going to stand for it.”

“I haven’t said anything to the chief.”

“Thank God for that. If he thought you’d pulled two mob palookas down on us, he’d blow a bearing.”

“A fuse, Daryl; you don’t blow a bearing.”

“You know what I mean.”

“There’s another flight due in seven minutes, from Orlando. That’s where I’d change planes, if I was coming from L.A. I’d avoid the mess at Miami International. Let’s sit down.”

They sat down.

“I don’t get it, Tommy, why are you so het up about this? Are you protecting Clare Carras?”

Tommy turned and looked at him. “They hurt Rita, Daryl; she’s no more than a hundred pounds, and these two pieces of shit broke her arm!”

“So, what can we do about it? Beat them up? That’s big trouble for us. Arrest them? On what charge?”

Tommy looked at his watch. “Listen to that; it’s early.” The sound was the whine of turboprop engines as the airplane approached the ramp. Tommy got up and stood near where the passengers would pass. “Come on, Daryl; let’s check it out.”

Daryl went and stood next to him.

“You remember the description?”

“I remember.”

“If you spot them, don’t look right at them; pretend you’re looking for somebody behind them.”

“Right, Tommy,” Daryl said wearily.

Tommy looked at Daryl in his jeans and Hawaiian shirt. “They’d never make you, anyway; they’ve never seen a cop like you.” He laughed.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humor,” Daryl grumbled.

“Heads up!” Tommy said. “Lookahere.”

There they were, the younger one still in his Armani suit, the gorilla in a sport shirt with the tails out, looking weary and grumpy. They were carrying overnight bags.

“Don’t look at them,” Tommy commanded out of the side of his mouth.

“All right, Tommy,” Daryl said, “I’m not looking at them.”

The two men passed within inches of the detectives. Tommy watched as they headed for the rental car counter. “The big one’s renting the car-he’s using cash; the younger guy is on the hotel reservation phone. Let’s go get in the car.”

They went out to the car, parked close to where the rental cars were. A few minutes later the two hoods left the airport building, walked across the street, and got into a Lincoln Town Car.

“If they booked a hotel room, they must not know where she lives,” Tommy said. “Otherwise, they’d just go do what they gotta do, then get out.”

“They’re tired,” Daryl said. “It was a long flight. Maybe they’re going to wait until morning.”

Tommy stayed well back. He could see the younger man in the passenger seat, consulting a map and giving directions.

Tommy followed the car down Roosevelt Boulevard, which turned into Truman. The car slowed, the map was consulted, and they turned right on Elizabeth.

“I think I know where they’re going,” Tommy said.

“You could be right.”

The Lincoln drove down Elizabeth, crossed Caroline, turned left on Dey Street, and stopped.

“Uh-oh,” Daryl said.

But the Lincoln was moving again.

“They were just having a look,” Tommy said as the Lincoln began moving again. He followed the car as it turned right on Simonton, then, a couple of blocks later, into the beachfront hotel near the Treasure Island marina. “They’ll be back in the morning, though.”

“Tommy, we’re not going to babysit them all night, are we?”

Tommy grinned. “We’ll take turns, kid.”

Tommy relieved Daryl at ten, and Daryl headed toward home, tired. Then he pulled the car over to the curb and stopped. Something was nagging at him, something about Merk’s actions on the night he was killed. He thought about it for a minute, then pulled back into traffic and drove toward Duval Street.

He could hear the music two blocks before he got there. A dozen bars up and down the street were blaring competing music into the night. There was a noise ordinance, but it didn’t seem to matter. He thanked heaven he lived on the other side of town.

He found a parking place and went back to the bar on the corner, entering through the back door. The place was packed, and the music was loud. It was full of gay couples and stags, and Daryl’s entrance was noted by most of them. He found a spot at the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought it back, Daryl leaned over the bar and shouted into the man’s ear, “Who owns the place?”

“Why do you want to know?” the bartender shouted back, in what passed for a whisper in the crowded bar.

“I have a badge,” Daryl said. “You want me to show it to you in front of all these people?”

The bartender held up a finger. “Wait a minute,” he hollered. He walked to the opposite end of the bar, near the rear of the room, and spoke to a small man seated on a stool. After a few words the bartender looked back toward Daryl and waved him over.

When Daryl reached the end of the bar, the stool next to the little man had been vacated. The owner was slender and very blond; he reminded Daryl of a photograph he had seen on a book jacket of the young Truman Capote.