Stuart Woods: Choke

After dinner they made love again, then again, before they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Chuck woke late on Sunday morning and had to rush to make it to work on time. As he stepped ashore, a catamaran of about fifty feet was backing into the space on Choke’s port side.

“Can you take our lines, please?” a young woman called from the yacht’s stern. She was young, in her late twenties, probably, not tall, and voluptuously constructed, which was easy to see, because she was wearing only the tiniest of bikinis and barely that. Her hair was shoulderlength and sun-bleached, and Chuck thought she was, for want of a better word, pert.

“Sure,” Chuck called back and caught the length of rope just as it was about to strike him in the face. He made the line fast, then took the next one thrown and secured it. On the foredeck a man was paying out anchor rope.

“Thanks,” the girl said, stepping ashore and holding out her hand. “I’m Meg Hailey.”

“Chuck Chandler, Meg; nice to meet you. I guess I’m your next-door neighbor.”

Her male companion walked through the cockpit and stepped ashore. “Hi, I’m Dan Hailey,” he said, shaking hands.

“I’m Chuck Chandler, and this is my boat,” he said, nodding at Choke. “Where’re you in from?”

“Fort Myers was our last port,” Dan said. “We’ll be here for the rest of the winter, I think.”

“Let me know if you need any local knowledge,” Chuck said. “I’ve only been here for a few days myself, but I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

“Thanks,” Meg replied. “You can start by pointing me at a grocery store.”

“The Waterfront Market is just along the way. I’m headed that way; I’ll show you, if you like.”

“Be right with you,” she replied and jumped back aboard the yacht.

“You here for just the winter, too?” Dan asked.

“Maybe longer,” Chuck replied. “I’ll see how it goes.”

Meg returned wearing a T-shirt over her bikini and carrying a purse. “Be back in half an hour,” she said to Dan and kissed him on the cheek. She fell in beside Chuck, and they walked toward the market.

“So, you’re new here, too?” she asked.

“Yeah, I came down from Palm Beach just recently.”

“You going to play some tennis?” she asked, looking at his clothes.

“I teach tennis,” he replied. “Even on Sundays.”

“Sounds like a tough life,” she said, smiling.

“I bear up.” He returned her smile. “Well, here we are,” he said, pointing at the market entrance. “Anything they don’t have here you’ll have to drive to a supermarket for.”

“Thanks,” she said. “See you later.”

He watched her pick her way, barefoot, over the gravel and enter the store. Thank God she’s married, he thought. Otherwise she’d be real trouble. Not that her being married would slow him down; it was just that if she were single it would be harder to break it off when it was over. Clare was going to be available only when Harry was out of town, and it might be good to have another diversion.

He got into the old Porsche and headed for the other end of the island. As he drove through the intersection of Caroline and Elizabeth streets, Harry Carras’s Mercedes crossed just ahead of him. Good thing I didn’t stay the night, he thought.

He parked the car and approached the tennis club; a teenage boy was hitting with Victor, and he was stopped in his tracks by the boy’s grace of movement. He let himself into the court.

“Morning, Chuck,” Victor said. “This is Billy Tubbs; he’s interested in working with you, I think.”

Chuck shook hands with the boy, whose face was nearly blank of expression. He was at least six-two, 190 pounds. He seemed to be looking Chuck over very carefully.

“And this is Billy’s dad, Norman Tubbs,” Victor said, waving toward a short, thickly built, hairy man who was rising from a courtside bench. He and his son didn’t resemble each other.

“How y’doin’?” Norman said.

“Glad to meet you, Norman. Why don’t you and I sit down and watch Billy hit with Victor.”

“Okay,” Tubbs said.

Chuck watched the boy hit ground strokes for a few minutes, making a mental note or two. “Feed him some volleys, Victor,” Chuck called out, then watched as Billy returned them for another ten minutes. “Let me see you serve to Victor, Billy,” he called.

Billy sliced in a few serves.

“Now let’s see you return Victor’s serve.”

Victor served a dozen hard ones to the boy. He got most of them back, but not particularly well.

Norman Tubbs spoke up, handing Chuck a sheet of paper. “Here’s his numbers for last season,” he said.

Chuck looked over the sheet. “Okay, that’s enough,” he called out. “Come on over here and sit down a minute, Billy.”

The boy walked over to the bench and stood, leaning against the netpost, breathing hard.

“Norman, do you mind if Billy and I talk for a few minutes? Just the two of us?”

“I’ll be the one who makes the decision about who coaches him,” Norman said. “You can talk to me.”

“The boy has some problems that he and I need to discuss before I decide whether to take him on,” Chuck said, not unkindly. “When he and I are finished, then you and I can talk.”

Norman looked at him for a moment, then got up and left the court with Victor.

Chuck turned back to the boy. “Have a seat, Billy; let’s talk.”

“I’m okay,” Billy said.

Bad sign. If he wouldn’t sit when he was told, there was a lot he might not do.

“Okay, you stand. What kind of a player do you think you are? No need to be modest.”

“I’m a damned good player,” Billy replied.

“How’d you do in competition your junior year?”

“I was runner-up in the state high school championship.”

“Well,” Chuck said, “I guess that makes you a pretty good high school player.” He waited for that to sink in. “What do you want to do with your tennis in the next few years?”

“I want to join the pro tour as soon as I graduate in June.”

Chuck kept himself from laughing. “Well, let me tell you what I saw this morning. I saw a pretty good high school player who’s got some nice ground strokes and who’s a pretty good volleyer and who has a decent second serve.”

“Second serve? ” Billy said, astounded. “I didn’t even hit any second serves!”

“You mean that was your first serve?” Chuck asked, looking surprised. He looked at the sheet of paper in his hand. “I guess that explains why you only won fifty-two percent of your firstserve points last year.”

The boy glowered at him, but said nothing.

“Let me tell you what I see,” Chuck said, “and if you’re still standing there when I’m finished, we’ll see if we have anything to talk about.”

“Okay,” the boy said.

“First of all you’re using a western grip on your forehand…”

“You sound just like my high school coach,” Billy said. “My dad says I don’t have to listen to that schmuck to be good.”

“Your high school coach sounds like he’s smarter than you think.”

“I’m doing okay with my grip; it feels natural to me.”

“Let’s go on,” Chuck said, “and shut up until I’ve finished. You’re hitting a two-handed backhand, which you’ve probably been doing since you were six, but you’re not six anymore. You’ve got to learn to move your feet when you volley, and you’ve got to learn to hit a flat, hard first serve if you expect to get beyond being a pretty good high school player. You’ve got to learn how to place your serve, too, and you’ve got a long way to go on your return of service. Your returns are weak, just setups for a good player. Am I making any sense?”