Choke (3 page)

“What kind of fuel did the engines use?”

“Gasoline. Fairly unusual in a boat of this size, but the guy who built her wanted as much speed as possible for the weight of the engine, and diesel didn’t cut it for him.”

They reached the site of the explosion, and Tommy looked around. “Jesus H. Christ!” he said. “There’s nothing left.” All he could see were small pieces of flotsam, some of them still on fire. They added an eerie glow to the moonlight.

“There’ve got to be some bigger pieces,” the skipper said, “but they’ve probably sunk. I mean, nothing short of an atomic bomb could reduce a sixty-foot boat to such splinters. I’ll bet we’re sitting on top of some major wreckage.”

A siren sounded, and from around a point appeared a large vessel wearing a lot of lights.

“Here comes the Coast Guard,” Tommy said. “I got to ask both of you some questions before they get here. Anybody aboard the boat?”

“No,” the accountant said. “We all came ashore for dinner at Louie’s.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Tommy breathed. “Who cooks?”

“Nell,” the skipper said. “She’s my girlfriend; we’ve both been on the boat for over three years.”

“Does she know what she’s doing with the gas system? How to turn it off and secure it when it’s not being used?”

“You bet she does,” the skipper said. “She knows as much about the boat as I do, and she’s a careful girl.”

“Is it just possible that she might have been in a hurry to get ashore with everybody else and forgot to turn off the gas at the bottles?”

“Well, maybe,” the skipper admitted. “Normally we just turn off the gas at the stove and not at the bottles, unless we’re leaving the boat for a longer period of time.”

“So you could have had a leak?”

“It’s possible, but not likely. We’d have smelled it.”

“Did you have a gas detector aboard?”

The skipper shook his head. “It went south a week ago. It was on my list of things to replace while we’re in Key West.”

Tommy nodded. Enough little problems to make an accident were emerging. “Was she insured?” he asked the accountant.

The man nodded sadly. “Yeah, but there’s a ten-thousand-dollar-deductible, and insurance won’t pay for all the time I put in finding this boat and negotiating the sale.”

“Let me say two words to you, Mr. Porter,” Tommy said. “Casualty loss.”

The accountant looked a little happier.

It was past midnight when Tommy got to the hotel room he and his wife were living in until they found a place. He sneaked in, trying not to wake her.

“Have fun?” Rose asked.

“A fucking ball, sweetie,” Tommy said, crawling into bed. “The smell of burning yacht does wonders for your digestion when you’ve just had a great meal.”

“Well, I guess you don’t have to worry about it being too dull down here,” Rose said. “What happened?”

“Looks like an accidental gas explosion that ignited the fuel tanks. Nobody aboard, thank God. I don’t think I could have taken the smell of burning flesh after that dinner.”

“You like it here already, don’t you?”

“I guess we did the right thing,” Tommy replied. He had retired from the New York Police Department after twenty years, taken his pension, and headed south. Rose liked Florida, and it had taken him less than a month to find the Key West job. He was forty-two, and he had just started building time on a second pension. When he was sixty-two, they’d be free as birds.

“Let’s talk about that when we’ve found a place to live that we can afford and the furniture has arrived,” she said. “Then I’ll know if we did the right thing.”

“But Rosie, you always loved Florida,” Tommy said.

“This isn’t Florida, Tommy. This is like some kind of foreign country, some banana republic. It doesn’t have anything to do with Florida.”

“It’s hot as hell and it’s humid and it’s got a beach. It’s Florida.”

“If you say so.”

He rolled over and dug his arm under her head. “You’re going to love it here, Rosie,” he said. “Just you wait.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Rosie?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember the couple who came in right after we sat down to dinner?”

“You mean the couple in the white dress with the tits?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about them?”

“The guy looked familiar, you know?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never saw him before?”

“Nope.”

“Not even in the papers or anything?”

“Nope.”

“You know what he looked like to me? He looked connected.”

“Tommy, they don’t know from connected down here.”

“You never know,” he said. “Say, did I wish you a happy birthday?”

“As a matter of fact, you didn’t.”

Tommy pulled her leg over his, rubbed his thigh against her crotch, and ran a hand up under her nightgown. “Happy birthday,” he said, tickling her ass.

Rose sighed and kissed him. “Thank you, Tommy; it’s been a memorable evening.”

“Memorable starts right now,” Tommy said.

C
huck had a light first week at the Olde Island Racquet Club. His only regulars were Harry and Clare Carras; they never missed, and they always came together. Until Saturday.

Clare showed up at 11:00
A.M.,
alone.

“Morning, Clare,” Chuck said. “Where’s Harry?”

“In Miami, on business,” she replied. “What do you want to do today?”

She looked at him for a moment. “Let’s work on my serve,” she said finally. “I’m too erratic.”

Chuck nodded. “I’ve noticed, but you’ve never seemed interested in any instruction.”

“I’m interested,” she said.

Chuck grabbed a cart of practice balls and led her onto the court. “Let me see you hit a couple,” he said.

Clare picked up a pair of balls and began serving.

Chuck was content to just watch for a couple of minutes. She was wearing a tank top and very short shorts, and every time she reached up for a ball, her buns peeked at him from beneath the white material.

She stopped. “Well?”

“A couple of problems,” he said, “starting with your grip. You’re too far around on the racquet, so all you can hit is a flat serve. Bring your grip around a bit, like this, and you’ll get some spin on the ball, make it harder to return.”

She tried a couple more serves. “Better,” she said. “What else?”

“You’re dumping too many serves into the net; you have to watch the ball until the racquet strikes it. Keep your head up, and you’ll send more over the net.”

He worked with her for a full hour, and by the end she had improved noticeably.

“Thanks,” she said. “I enjoyed that.”

“So did I,” he said.

She put down her racquet and mopped her face with a towel. “Come to dinner tonight,” she said without preamble.

Chuck took in a quick breath. “Love to,” he replied, trying to sound casual.

She gave him the address. “Seven?”

“Seven’s fine; can I bring some wine?”

“A good red would be perfect.”

“A very good red.”

“See you at seven,” she said. “Don’t dress up.”

“I won’t.”

The house was only a block from Key West Bight, a big, three-story Victorian on what seemed to be a double, even triple lot, if the fence was any indication. The door was open, but he rang the bell anyway.

“Come on in!” she called from somewhere.

Chuck opened the screen door and entered the house. There was a short hallway that stopped at a stairway. To his right he could see a large swimming pool.

“Up here!” she called from upstairs.

He climbed the stairs and emerged into a large living room, with the kitchen to his left, separated by a bar.

Clare was rummaging in the refrigerator. She turned toward him, and there was a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in her hands. “Some champagne?”

“Sure.” He set his gift of wine on the bar.

She looked at the label. “Very nice,” she said. “It will go well with dinner.”

“The best the Waterfront Market had,” he replied, accepting a flute of champagne. They clinked glasses.

“New friends,” she said.

“I’ll drink to that.”

She came from behind the bar and took a stool next to his. She was wearing a short, sheer dress that buttoned down the front. Two patch pockets covered her breasts, and he could clearly see her panties through the material.

“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said.

She laughed, showing even white teeth. “It’s my job,” she said.

“Your job?”

“It’s how I earn my keep.” She shrugged. “It’s how most women earn their keep if they don’t have children and don’t keep house.”

“You make marriage sound very businesslike,” Chuck said.

“Harry is a businesslike kind of guy.”

“How long have you been married?”

“A little over a year. Harry’s first wife died the year before we met.”

“Where you from?”

“We’re both originally from the coast—Harry’s from L.A., I’m from San Diego. You?”

“Small town in Georgia, called Delano.”

“How did you get to be a good enough player to turn pro, starting from a small town?”

“I had a high school coach who was very good. He got me a tennis scholarship to the University of Georgia, where I had another good coach. I turned pro right out of school. What did you do before you met Harry?”

“Oh, lots of things—secretary, receptionist, manicurist, masseuse.”

“I’ll bet you were a wonderful masseuse.”

She smiled again. “I was, as a matter of fact. That’s how I met Harry. I was working at a hotel in Vegas.”

“You’re far too elegant a woman to hang out in Vegas.”

“I thought so, too. When Harry asked me to marry him I made one condition—that I would never have to visit Las Vegas again, ever.” She poured them both more champagne.

“You’ll get me drunk, feeding me champagne on an empty stomach,” he said.

She uncrossed her legs. “Don’t I have to get you drunk to fuck you?” she asked.

Chuck set down his glass and tried to control his breathing. “Nope,” he said.

She stood up, moved to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him lightly, playfully.

Chuck slid up her dress, put his hands down the back of her underwear, and held her cheeks, pulling her crotch to his.

“They come off, you know,” she breathed in his ear.

He pushed them down.

She stepped out of the panties, moved back a pace, and started unbuttoning the dress.

Chuck kicked off his moccasins, peeled the polo shirt over his head, and shucked off his shorts. He was fully erect.

She reached out and took hold of his penis. “Come with me,” she said, backing across the living room, leading him by his member. They reached a thick wool rug, and she pulled him down on top of her. “Now,” she breathed. “No more foreplay.” She guided him into her.

Chuck rested on his elbows, watching her face. Her eyes never left his. They moved together slowly, then faster.

Her eyes began to glaze over, and she reached down and held his testicles in her hand, squeezing gently. “Now,” she said. “Right now.”

Chuck rose to the occasion. He came right behind her, moving as fast as he could, groaning with pleasure. They stopped gradually, wound down like a clock spring.

“So much for safe sex,” Clare said.

“You look pretty safe to me,” he replied, rolling off and lying next to her on the rug.

“Don’t you believe it,” she said, then she got up, went to the bar for some paper towels, and returned. She mopped him gently, then herself. “That was very quick,” she said. “Next time you’re going to have to last longer to make me happy.”

“Making you happy is why I’m here,” Chuck said.

“I hope so,” she replied. “In a minute, after I’ve rested a bit, I’m going to cook you the best steak you ever had, and then I’m going to let you make me
very
happy.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you feel guilty? About Harry, I mean?”

“Not really.”

“You shouldn’t, you know. Harry looks great, but he’s not a healthy man. He had bypass surgery a year and a half ago, but he still drinks a lot and eats lots of fatty foods. Then he’ll go out there and swim fifty laps in that pool like there’s no tomorrow.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I know. He’ll drop dead one day. I’ll go out there and find him floating facedown.”

“Are you ready for that?”

“Yes, but in the meantime, there’s practically no sex. He had prostate surgery last year.”

“I’ll do what I can to help.”

She laughed. “You’re sweet; only thinking of me.”

“You think Harry knows what we’re doing?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“How often does he go away on business?”

“Two or three times a month, usually.”

“That’s not often enough.”

“We’ll manage.” She turned and looked at him seriously. “How old are you, Chuck?”

“Forty-four,” he replied.

“Mmmm,” she breathed. “It’s time you were thinking about your future, your security.”

She got up and, still naked, began to prepare dinner.

Chuck watched her move about the kitchen and wondered how he’d gotten so lucky.

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

C
huck 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.”