Stuart Woods: Choke

Tommy turned to see what he took to be a kid of about seventeen-skinny, longish hair, and pimples-walk into the office.

“Tommy, this is Daryl Haynes,” the chief said. “Daryl, this is the detective I told you about.”

The two shook hands.

“How you doin’, Daryl?” Tommy asked, appalled.

“Okay,” Daryl replied, then looked at his feet.

“This is Daryl’s first day as a detective,” the chief said. “He’s had two years on the street.”

On whose side? Tommy thought. “Oh, yeah, good.”

“I reckon you can teach Daryl a lot about investigation,” the chief said, “and Daryl can show you a few things about Key West. He grew up here.”

Grew up? Tommy thought. When?

“Daryl, why don’t you start by giving Tommy a tour of the town?”

“Right, Chief,” Daryl said. He tossed his head in the direction of the door. “Ready when you are, Detective.”

Tommy shook hands with the chief and followed the pimply new detective.

“Tommy?” the chief called.

Tommy stuck his head back through the door. “Yes, Chief?”

“He’s smarter than he looks,” the chief said.

“Right, Chief.” He’d have to be.

Daryl was already gunning the engine when Tommy got into the car. The second the door closed, he whipped out of the police parking lot and down the street.

“Pull over here a minute,” Tommy said quietly.

“What for?” Daryl asked.

“My underwear is twisted. Just pull over.”

Daryl pulled over.

“Okay, Daryl, the first thing is, a detective doesn’t drive a car like he just stole it. You notice that there’s no markings on the doors?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s because we’re supposed to be inconspicuous. You want people to notice you, you wear a uniform and drive a black-and-white. You get the picture?”

“Right, Detective.”

“You can call me Tommy.”

“Right, Tommy.”

“Now, I want you to start practicing driving like you were, say, fifty years old and had a heart condition.”

Daryl sighed and drove on.

“What’s this street?” Tommy asked as they turned a corner.

“This is Duval Street, the main drag. It’s where most of the bars and a lot of the restaurants are. We get a call a night about a drunk who wouldn’t pay his bill or decked the bouncer, you know?”

“I know. What’s the worst time of year for us?”

“That’s easy, spring break. We get a few thousand college punks down here; they get drunk and drive around with thirteen people in a convertible. The chief has a policy of, when they do something, putting them to cleaning up the streets. Then he makes sure their picture gets in the paper, so the rest of them will know about it. That pretty much keeps them in line.”

They continued the tour. They saw the shady streets and neat Conch houses of Old Town, they saw Roosevelt Boulevard, the strip with the car dealerships and the fast food restaurants. They saw the hotels and the schools, then drove up to the next key, Stock Island, and had a look at the new jail. They stopped for some lunch at McDonald’s and ate in the car. As they were finishing their burgers Tommy looked up to see the white-haired man he had seen at Louie’s on the night of the exploding yacht.

“There,” Tommy said. “What do you make of that guy?”

Daryl watched as the man got into a large Mercedes and drove away. “I don’t know; rich, I guess.”

“You’re a wizard, Daryl,” Tommy said, scribbling down the car’s license number. “Here, run this tag, and let’s see who he is.”

Daryl called in the tag number.

“Name is Harry Carras,” the radio operator conveyed, “of an address on Dey Street, Old Town.”

“Harry Carras,” Tommy said aloud to himself. “I’ll give you two to one, Daryl, that’s not his real name.”

“Why do you think that?” Daryl asked. “He just looks like a rich guy in a Mercedes. Come to think of it, there’s not even a Mercedes dealer in Key West. You’d have to go halfway up the Keys to Marathon to find one.”

“That tell you anything, Daryl? A Mercedes 600S, a twelve-cylinder car in a town where the fastest traffic is the rented motor scooters?”

“Tells me he must be really rich,” Daryl said.

“That’s what you call conspicuous consumption,” Tommy said, “and I’ll bet the folks in this town don’t go for conspicuous consumption-of that type, anyway.”

“You’re right, they don’t.”

“So that means that Mr. Carras don’t give a shit what the neighbors say, right?”

“Right, but so what?”

“Let’s test out your local knowledge, Daryl; the chief said you’re good at that. Do you know somebody who would run a credit report on our conspicuous consumer?”

Daryl thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said.

The two policemen sat in the tiny office in a corner of a used car lot on Roosevelt. They watched as the fax machine slowly spat out its paper. The salesman ripped it off the machine.

“Weird,” he said.

“What’s weird?” Daryl asked.

“Three credit bureaus never heard of a Harry Carras on Dey Street.”

Daryl looked at Tommy.

Tommy beamed.

Harry’s going to Miami on Sunday,” she said. “Are you free Sunday night?” “Sure,” Chuck replied.

“All Sunday night?”

“I’m teaching until five, but anytime after that, and I’m off Monday.”

“Good. I want you to meet me up the Keys a ways.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“What I had in mind was, you drive up U.S. 1 just past the twenty-eight-mile marker, then you turn right into a marina parking lot. Allowing forty-five minutes for the drive, I’ll meet you at six-fifteen sharp, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bring your toothbrush and something nice to wear at dinner. And I mean six-fifteen sharp,” she reiterated. “If you’re late, you’ll miss the boat.”

He laughed. “I’ll miss the boat?”

“In more ways than one,” she replied, then hung up.

Sunday was busy and there was a shortage of advanced players, so Chuck had to take a pair of Victor’s duffers.

“I’m Tommy,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “This is Rosie.”

They were both on the short side and firmly built. “Good to meet you, Tommy, Rosie,” Chuck said, managing a winning smile. “How much tennis have you played?”

“She’s played maybe twice, and I’ve never walked on a court before,” Tommy replied.

Swell, Chuck thought. Rank beginners. “Okay,” Chuck said, “let’s start with the grip. Shake hands with the racquet, Tommy; you too, Rosie.”

The lesson went more smoothly than Chuck would have believed. Tommy was a pretty good natural athlete, and Rosie concentrated so much that she made up for her lack of natural talent. By the end of their hour, Chuck had them both hitting a decent forehand and backhand. Maybe it was easier to teach a raw beginner with some talent than to try and correct a more experienced player’s years of bad habits. They were just walking off the court when Harry and Clare Carras drove up in the Mercedes.

Chuck felt a pang of disappointment. Harry was supposed to be in Miami. Still, he thought, glancing at his watch, it was early.

“Ain’t that something?” Tommy asked.

“What?” Chuck replied.

“That lady,” Tommy said. Rosie had gone into the pro shop. “Ain’t she something?” He nodded in the direction of Clare.

“Not bad,” Chuck said.

“Not bad? ” Tommy said. “You must run with a different crowd than me. Where I come from, that’s downright fucking spectacular.”

“I guess she is, at that,” Chuck agreed.