Stuart Woods - Choke

“Who are those people?” Tommy asked.

“Harry Carras and his wife, Clare.”

“She don’t look like nobody’s wife to me,” Tommy said.

Chuck laughed. “I guess not.”

“Who is Carras? What does he do?”

“Retired businessman, I think,” Chuck replied. “I’ve played with them a couple of times and I’ve given her a lesson or two, but I don’t really know that much about them.”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, and Chuck somehow thought the man didn’t believe him. It was time to change the subject. “Where are you from, Tommy?” he asked.

“New York, originally,” Tommy said. “Brooklyn. But we moved down here recently.”

“Retired?”

“Yes and no,” Tommy replied. “I retired from the New York Police Department, and I just joined the Key West PD.”

“First cop I ever had for a student,” Chuck said.

“You’d told me a month ago I’d be on a tennis court I’d have laughed my ass off,” Tommy said. “But Rosie got at me; she said if we’re moving to a new place we ought to do some new things.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Amazingly enough, I did. I want to do it some more.”

“Victor and I could make a pretty good club player out of you this winter,” Chuck said. “What you want to do is set up a regular lesson, say twice, three times a week.”

“I’d just as soon stick with you,” Tommy said.

“Our deal here is that Victor works with the beginners, and I handle the seasoned players,” Chuck said. “But when Victor’s jammed up, as he was today, then I’d be happy to teach you.”

“I guess that’s okay,” Tommy said.

“You’ll like Victor. Check with Merk in the shop and set up a schedule for you and Rosie.”

Tommy shook his hand and headed for the pro shop.

“Hey, Chuck!”

Chuck turned and looked toward the next court.

“Want to hit some with us?” Harry Carras called out.

“Thanks, Harry, but I’ve got another lesson scheduled,” Chuck replied. “Maybe later, if you’re going to be around.”

“Nah, I’m leaving town in a couple of hours.”

“Good,” Chuck said under his breath. “Good.”

Chuck was five minutes early at his destination, and there was no sign of Clare. Six-fifteen came and went, and still she didn’t show. Had he somehow missed the boat?

At 6:25 the Mercedes pulled into the lot, and she got out. “Come on!” she called, trotting toward a canal cut into the island, toting an overnight case.

Chuck grabbed his bag, put the top up on the Porsche, and ran after her. She was getting aboard a boat, along with half a dozen other people. He caught up, stepped aboard, and took a seat next to her. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Stick around and find out,” she said.

The boat backed down the canal, turned around, and headed out into a stretch of open water, picking up speed. A row of houses on the water to their right fell behind them. To the west a lurid sunset was developing, and to the east, a full moon was rising. The effect was spectacular.

“The sunset’s part of the surprise,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled up at a small dock and disembarked. Clare led him into a thatched building, open at the sides, and they were met by a young woman who led them down a path to a palm-thatched cottage. She showed them into an attractive suite, accepted a tip from Chuck, and left them alone.

Chuck snaked an arm around Clare’s waist and kissed her. “What a nice surprise,” he said.

“Not now, baby,” she replied. “We’re booked for the first sitting at dinner. Get changed; we don’t want to miss the rest of the sunset.”

They missed nothing. They sat at a table at the water’s edge and sipped their first drink as the sun sank into the sea.

“Where the hell are we?” Chuck asked.

“Little Palm Island,” she replied. “I read about it in a magazine; isn’t it something?”

“It is,” Chuck said, “and so are you for bringing me. I’ve never been to a more romantic place.”

They ordered from a long menu-seafood with a French accent-and Chuck chose a bottle from a fine wine list.

“By the way,” she said, “this is on me. I hope you don’t have any qualms about accepting the hospitality of a woman.”

“None whatever,” Chuck said, tasting the wine and nodding his approval to the waitress. “That would be rude of me.”

After dinner they walked slowly back along the path toward their cottage.

“Look!” she whispered, stopping and pointing.

Two tiny deer were emerging from the water; they walked up the beach toward the dining area.

“They’re Key deer,” he said. “I’d heard about them, but I’d never seen one until now.”

“They must have swum over from the next island,” she said, pointing. “And look, they’re begging from the diners.”

They made love before they paused long enough to talk.

“It’s good being here, where nobody knows us, isn’t it?” Clare said.

“It certainly is,” Chuck agreed. “And I don’t have to worry about Harry coming home unexpectedly. When is he coming back?”

“Tomorrow night. We can make a day of it, if you want.”

“I want. What does Harry do in Miami? I thought he was retired.”

“Oh, Harry will never retire completely. He keeps his hand in, and you ought to be grateful! How could we do this if he didn’t go away on business?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“This,” she said, and showed him.

Tommy sat in the unmarked patrol car, his head resting against the back of the seat, and half dozed.

Daryl glanced over at him. “You look a little bushed,” he said.

“You’re not going to believe this, Daryl, but I played tennis on Sunday.”

“You don’t seem like the type to me,” Daryl said. They were driving past Smathers Beach, the island’s largest, then past the airport.

“I don’t look like the type to me, either,” Tommy agreed, “but I’m now the owner of a racquet and a pair of white shorts. Also, I’m sore as hell; it’s been a while since I exerted myself like that.”

“Good for you,” Daryl said. “Do you good.”

The radio came alive. “Traffic accident east end of the island, near U.S. 1,” the operator said. “Any units nearby?”

Daryl was reaching for the microphone when a black-and-white took the call. “We’re headed that way anyway,” Daryl said. “Take a look?”

“At a traffic accident?” Tommy asked, incredulous. “That’s a waste of my talents.”

“Whatever you say,” Daryl replied and continued past the airport.

They drove on for a couple of miles, then Daryl pointed ahead. “There it is,” he said. “Looks like that…”

“That Mercedes,” Tommy said. “Pull up over there.”

The black-and-white had its lights going, and Daryl steered the car into the lane ahead of it.

Tommy got out. They were at a point where a number of houseboats were moored in the channel that separated Key West from Stock Island. The Mercedes had crashed through a wooden barrier and come to rest balanced neatly on the edge of the highway. Another foot or two and it would have gone into the channel. Harry Carras was leaning against the black-and-white, looking shaken, giving a statement to a uniformed cop.

Tommy hung back until their talk was over, then approached, flashing his badge. “Afternoon, sir,” he said to Carras. “You all right?”

“I think so,” Carras replied.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Carras said. “I was just driving along, and I braked for the curve and nothing happened. The pedal went right to the floor. The barrier stopped me, I guess.”