Stuart Woods - Choke

Daryl quietly laid the shotgun on a cockpit cushion and drew his pistol.

Tommy drew his own pistol and motioned to Daryl to follow. He tiptoed to the sliding saloon doors, pushed them back, and stepped into the main saloon, his pistol out in front of him. A man and a woman stood in the middle of the cabin, locked in an embrace.

“Good evening,” Tommy said, and as the two turned to face him, his mouth dropped open. “Well, look at this, Daryl,” he said, “look who we got here.”

Tommy was grinning from ear to ear. “Hello, Clare,” he said. “Hello, Victor.” The two let each other go.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Daryl said. “Victor is the schmuck?”

“Victor’s the biggest schmuck you ever saw,” Tommy said. “Tell Chuck and Meg they can come aboard.”

Daryl stepped into the cockpit. “Chuck, Meg, come aboard! You’re not going to believe it!”

A moment later Chuck and Meg came into the saloon. “Jesus, Victor,” Chuck said, “what the hell are you doing here?”

Victor looked unhappy. “Just making my way in the world, pal.”

“So now all is revealed,” Tommy said. “In a blinding flash of light.”

“Wait a minute, Tommy,” Chuck said. “Will you please tell me what’s going on here?”

“What’s going on is that all along, Victor has been helping Clare do her dirty work. In fact, he’s probably been doing it for her.”

“Victor killed Harry?”

“That’s right, with more than a little assistance from Clare. He also knifed a man named Barry Carman-I don’t believe you knew him-up near Miami. And he killed poor old Merk.”

Chuck stared at Tommy. “Merk’s dead?”

“That’s right. Victor snuck off your boat a few nights ago, met Merk, slugged him, then drove him out to the reef and dumped him to drown. Nice guy, huh?”

Victor said nothing.

Chuck turned to face his new partner. “Victor, why?”

“For Clare,” Tommy explained. “He did it all for Clare-and Harry’s ill-gotten money, of course.”

Victor shrugged. “I’m getting old,” he said. “So are you, Chuck, for that matter, but unlike you, I didn’t want to end my days teaching tennis in the hot sun.”

“No,” Tommy said, “Victor had other ideas about how to spend his days in the sun. Daryl, you pat Victor down real good and sit him down on that sofa over there, and if he gets desperate, you put a couple of rounds in him, and don’t shoot to wound. Victor’s a big, strong guy, and the Marines taught him a lot.” There was no need to frisk Clare; she was wearing only one of her tiny bikinis.

Daryl turned Victor around, stuck the gun next to his spine, searched him thoroughly, and sat him down.

Tommy’s eyes had never left Clare. “Clare,” he said, “you turn off the music, and be very careful how you do it. If you have any ideas about going into that handbag next to the stereo, please remember that I’m not some jerk from L.A., and that I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Clare walked to an elaborate entertainment center and turned off the music, then went and sat by Victor.

“Chuck, you and Meg have a seat at the bar.”

Chuck took Meg’s hand, and they settled themselves on barstools. There was a fifth of rum resting on the bar, and Chuck looked as if he wanted some of it.

Tommy frowned and turned to Daryl. “Daryl, with the music off, do you hear water dripping? Is it raining outside?”

Another man’s voice came from behind them. “It’s not raining, Tommy.” Then there was the sound of a shotgun being pumped. “Let your guns drop at your sides and put your hands on top of your heads.”

Tommy did as he was told, then turned around. “Harry?” he said weakly.

Harry Carras was standing in the cockpit, dripping wet, wearing a wetsuit. His hair was blond, and he had a full beard; there was a large plastic cooler at his feet, sealed with tape, and Chuck’s shotgun was in his hands.

Victor got up, retrieved the detectives’ pistols, stuck them into his belt, and stood at the end of the bar next to Chuck.

“Now, Tommy,” Harry said, “you and your partner sit down on the deck, right where you are.”

The two detectives sat down.

Tommy turned to Daryl. “I was wrong; Victor isn’t the schmuck, I am.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Tommy. You weren’t meant to figure it out.”

“No,” Tommy said, “I was meant to nail Chuck for murdering you, so you could be dead and Clare could disappear. By the way, Chuck, it was Victor who put the incriminating plastic hose in your car. And I thought it was Merk. What happens now, Harry?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute, Tommy. Chuck, that beautiful little boat of yours runs on gasoline, doesn’t it?”

Chuck nodded slowly.

“Victor, let’s put your skills to work. Go aboard Chuck’s boat and see if you can cause a lot of gasoline to leak into the bilges.”

Victor left the saloon without a word.

“Harry,” Tommy said, “while Victor’s doing his dirty work, you mind answering a few questions?”

“Why not? My answers aren’t going anywhere.”

“Let’s start with L.A. You are Marinello, aren’t you?”

“I used to be, Tommy, but not anymore. I’m not even Harry Carras anymore. Clare and I have brand-new, quite genuine passports and a whole identity package to go with them.”

“Let me give you a tip, Harry; this time make yourself a credit record. If you’d had a credit record when I checked, I might never have gotten near you.”

“That’s very good advice, Tommy. I’ll put somebody to work on that. Did I make any other mistakes?”

“Yeah, but you first,” Tommy said. “What’s in the cooler?” He pointed to the cockpit.

“Twenty-two million dollars in bearer bonds, gold certificates, and other negotiable instruments,” Harry said.

“It was all on the wreck?”

“That’s right. You see, although I had a sizable sum in other, more visible investments, that was just to allow us to live well on the income while we were planning our final escape. I didn’t want all the rest of it lying around the house.”

Chuck spoke up. “Harry, I have a question, too. Why aren’t you dead? You looked dead to me, lying down there on the deck of the wreck with a tank full of carbon monoxide and blood in your mask.”

Harry smiled. “I was pretty convincing, huh?”

“You certainly were. How did you do it?”

“I had a little cylinder of clean air, just enough to get me to the wreck without breathing the noxious fumes.”

“But how did you get off the wreck and… here?”

“I had a rebreather kit, which leaves no bubbles, stashed in a locker on the wreck,” Harry explained. “When you popped up, I swam to the locker, started breathing oxygen, and got out of there.”

“But you were an awfully long time with no air, weren’t you? I mean, from the time I found you down there until I popped up.”

“Less than two minutes; I can hold my breath for a little over three. It’s a gift, like being able to run fast or jump high.”

“Where did you go after that? There were no boats around that I could see.”

“No, but there’s a little island to the northwest, about two and a half miles.”

“You swam two and a half miles underwater?” Chuck asked, incredulously.

“Partly. The last hour was on the surface; the Coast Guard had gone by then. I began swimming competitively at six; I would have made the Olympics, but my… personal sponsors didn’t want me to become famous before I started practicing law. The trip took me nearly three hours, against the current, but then it had to be far enough that nobody would believe I could make it.”