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  Choke

  Stuart Woods

  Chuck Chandler, a Key West tennis pro, tends to choke in his big matches, a tendency he must overcome when he meets Harry Carras and his beautiful wife Clare, and becomes a suspect in Harry's death.

  Stuart Woods

  Choke

  Copyright © 1995 by Stuart Woods

  Wimbledon, Early Seventies

  Chuck won the point, won the game. He sat down at courtside, picked up a towel, mopped, then reached into his bag for a dry shirt.

  Bud: Well, Dan, young Chuck Chandler has come a long way in this tournament.

  Dan: I’ll say he has, Bud. Coming into Wimbledon, this boy was ranked number one hundred in the world. He started strong, then clawed his way up through the seeds, defeating two former champions along the way, and now he stands at the threshold of a whole new career. Would you say that, Cynthia?

  Cynthia: I certainly would, Dan. This young man has the talent to beat anybody when he’s playing this well, and the charm and looks to become a new matinee idol of tennis for the young female spectators. Off the court he handles himself with the kind of assurance that we have only just begun to see on the court at this Wimbledon.

  Bud: And now Chuck Chandler has the reigning champion tied at two sets all and down five games to four, and he’s just about to go out there and serve for the greatest of all tennis championships.

  Chuck slipped into the clean shirt. He wanted to be cool and dry when he accepted the gold trophy from the duchess, smiling for the cameras, basking in the glow of his new fame. He thought ahead to the ball that night. He’d be dancing with the women’s champion, pressing his crotch into hers, as he had the night before in her hotel room. They’d make quite a pair for the press, “the dark-haired eighteen-year-old beauty and the handsome, golden twenty-two-year-old who came from nowhere to win Wimbledon.” That’s what the press would be saying.

  “Mr. Chandler?”

  Chuck jerked back to the present.

  “Mr. Chandler,” the umpire said, “would you please take the court?”

  Chuck strode out to the baseline to a swelling roar of approval from the crowd. They had loved him from the moment he had defeated the first former champion in the first round, and now they showed it to the fullest. Chuck flashed his perfect teeth at them. They roared anew.

  He accepted three balls on his racquet from the ball boy, tossed away the fuzziest, and tucked one into a pocket. He positioned himself at the baseline, looked down the court at the waiting champion, began his backswing, tossed the ball, and slammed an ace down the centerline.

  The crowd went wild.

  “Fifteen-love,” the umpire said over the loudspeaker.

  Chuck walked to the opposite side of the court, positioned himself, and sent another serve straight down the centerline at 125 miles an hour.

  The crowd went nuts.

  “Thirty-love,” the umpire announced.

  Chuck accepted balls from the ball boy, took his place, and this time, just for variety, slammed his first serve into his opponent’s forehand corner for a third ace.

  The crowd went berserk.

  “Forty-love,” the umpire announced.

  Bud: Well, now. Young Chuck Chandler is standing on this court with three match points in his pocket and a very shaken champion staring helplessly back at him. Let’s see if he can put this championship away with the next serve.

  Chuck thought about the Porsche Cabriolet he had seen in the showroom in New York. His first phone call after this match would be to the salesman, whose card was in the pocket of his tennis shorts. He’d call from the dressing room, before he even got into a shower.

  “Mr. Chandler?” the umpire said.

  Chuck snapped back. The crowd chuckled.

  Dan: Dreaming of glory, no doubt.

  Bud: Who could blame him?

  Chuck served with all his power. The ball slapped against the tape at the top of the net and fell back into his court.

  A groan from the crowd.

  Chuck served again. The ball struck the net again.

  A noise of pure misery from the crowd.

  “Forty-fifteen,” the umpire announced.

  Dan: Well, I suppose he can afford a double fault at this point.

  Bud: Remember, with double faults it’s not how often, it’s when.

  Chuck felt a swell of anger at himself. He’d let his concentration wander, and he had to settle down and think. He walked to the other side of the court and served again, straight into the net.

  A sound of shock from the crowd.

  Chuck took a deep breath and served again without delay. The ball struck the tape and died.

  A worried, almost angry murmur rose from the crowd.

  “Forty-thirty,” the umpire announced. “Quiet please, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Bud: That’s two wasted match points, and he’s only got one left. Can Chuck do it?

  Dan: We’re about to find out.

  Suddenly Chuck’s fresh shirt was soaked. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and glanced down the court at the champion. Was that a small smile on the bastard’s face? His heart seemed to be beating irregularly. I’ll do this one by the numbers, he thought. Foot pointed at the netpost, feet a shoulder’s width apart, racquet held for a flat, hard serve, straight-armed toss, mighty swing. The ball hit the tape and bounced off the court.

  The crowd gasped.

  Dan: This is difficult to believe, Bud. For a player who has come this far to put five consecutive serves into the net is absolutely astonishing.

  Bud: I’m speechless, Dan. Chuck is still at match point, though; let’s see if he can pull this one out.

  Chuck stood, sweat pouring down his face into his eyes.

  There could be no second serve in this position; he had to pull just one more ace out of the hat. He walked to courtside, picked up a towel, wiped his face, and returned to the baseline. By the time he arrived the sweat was in his eyes again.

  Please, God. He set himself up, taking his time, tossed the ball, and put his last match point unerringly into the net.

  The crowd was absolutely silent.

  “Deuce,” the umpire said.

  Twenty-four minutes later in the dressing room, Chuck knelt before the porcelain throne and puked his guts out. He had lost the next two points; he had lost the next two games; he had lost the Wimbledon championship. He had lost the best opportunity a boy ever had to become a hero.

  He had lost more than he knew.

  Dan: Bud, what happened out there on the center court?

  Bud: There can be only one explanation, Dan, just one. Chuck choked.

  “Second service, please, Mr. Chandler,” the umpire said, not without sympathy.

  1

  Key West, February 1995

  Chuck woke in a sweat, his heart pounding as hard as it had twenty-odd years before. The Wimbledon dream was back. The brass clock on the bulkhead said 9:20, and he was starting his new job at 10:00. He dove into the boat’s tiny shower and sluiced away the sweat.

  At a quarter to ten, freshly shaved and dressed in clean whites, he stepped ashore at Key West Bight, the racquet bag in his hand and the sunglasses perched on top of his blond head. He looked around him. It was a pretty odd collection of vessels compared to the marina at Palm Beach. There were sightseeing catamarans, a large schooner or two for the more traditional-minded tourists, and a weird submarinelike vessel, along with the usual assortment of fishing boats and live-aboard yachts.

  His own boat was a thirty-two-foot twin-screw motor yacht that had been custom-built in the fifties at an old-line yard in Maine. He had lived aboard her for nearly three years, since the time when he had had to choose between the condo and the boat. The condo had never had a chance. He worked hard at keeping the boat beautif
ul, and she rewarded the effort. Her black hull was unmarked, her mahogany trim was bright, and her teak decks were clean and well oiled.

  She was named Choke. He preferred to make the joke himself, before somebody else brought it up, as somebody always did.

  He’d have to rig up the gangplank, he thought, looking at the three-foot gap between the boat’s stern and the concrete wharf. The women wouldn’t like making that jump.

  He walked to the parking lot and stopped in his tracks. The car was a late-fifties Porsche Speedster, bright yellow, restored to a fault, and her radio antenna had been snapped off by some passing sonofabitch. Chuck sighed. He wasn’t in Palm Beach anymore.

  He got into the car and drove the length of the island to the Olde Island Racquet Club, three courts and a tiny pro shop, owned by the big hotel across the street. He walked in at the stroke of ten.

  Merkle Connor looked up from his computer and peered at Chuck. “Oh, hi,” he said. “That’s right, you’re starting today.” He seemed to have forgotten.

  “That’s right, Merk,” Chuck said, offering his new boss a smile.

  “Sit down a minute, Chuck,” Merk said, pushing back from his desk in the tiny office and moving a crate of tennis balls away from the spare chair.

  Chuck took a seat. Here it came.

  “Let me give you the lay of the land,” Merk said.

  This is not Palm Beach, Chuck predicted.

  “This is not Palm Beach,” Merk began. “We’re not fancy, but we’re busy. If you work hard at developing a clientele here, you can knock down seventy-five grand a year, maybe more.”

  Stay away from the broads.

  “You’re going to have to be careful with the female talent,” Merk continued. “I had a guy last year who was shacking up with a hotel guest in her fucking room, and the manager went freaky on me, made me fire the guy. Basically, I don’t give a damn who you screw, as long as it’s not in the hotel and it doesn’t, you know, reverberate. You get my drift?”

  “I get your drift, Merk. There won’t be any problems.”

  “Good, because I got problems enough, what with running two programs, this one and the one in Santa Fe. In April I head west, and it’s up to you and Victor to run this place.”

  “I’m Victor,” a voice behind Chuck said.

  Chuck turned and stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Chuck Chandler.”

  “Victor Brennan,” the man said. He was mid-forties, bushy mustache, tousled hair, permanent grin. Something of a belly hung over his shorts; he looked more like an ex-football player than a tennis pro. “Welcome to paradise.”

  “Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Then you must believe all of Merk’s lies.”

  “Okay, Victor, lay off and listen,” Merk said. “Chuck, I’m going to divide the work roughly between you and Victor; you get the better players, the hotshots and the comers. Victor does the daily clinic, which is mostly hotel guests, plus the housewives, the kids, and the duffers. He’s temperamentally suited to that kind of teaching.”

  “I am,” Victor confirmed. “I’m the sweetest guy in the world, and I can teach anybody to play tennis.”

  “You’re welcome to it,” Chuck said. “I’ve never been any good with the beginners and the duffers.”

  “I’m going to charge more for you, Chuck, because you have a reputation,” Merk said. “We get folks who’ll gladly pay just to hit with you; I’ve already lined up a few. Victor will give you the rundown on them.”

  “That I will,” Victor said. “Come on out to the courts, and I’ll show you the lay of the land.”

  Victor led him out of the pro shop, past the ball machine and the cart of practice balls. He tapped in a code on the gate lock and let them in. “The code is three three three this week,” he said, handing Chuck a key. “This is for the other gate down there. I teach on court one, you take three, we’ll rent the middle one.” He waved at a bench. “Take a pew and I’ll enlighten you.”

  “Do that,” Chuck said, sitting down.

  “There are some good regulars. There’s Larry, the writer, who plays the best players in town three or four times a week. He’ll try you out pretty soon, and if you want him to keep coming back, you’d better let him win two out of three.”

  “Gotcha,” Chuck said.

  “There’s Holly, the freelance personal trainer, who is stronger than you are, believe me, and who will run you right into the ground if you’re not careful.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s a seventeen-year-old boy named Bill Tubbs who you might be able to do a lot with. He’s got a hell of a lot of talent, and he’s very strong; has dreams of being a touring pro. I haven’t been able to do a lot with him because he’s too stubborn, thinks he’s always right. And you’ll have to deal with his old man, the beer distributor, who thinks the kid is Pete Sampras.”

  “Okay,” Chuck said. “Who else?”

  “Over there,” Victor said, nodding toward the parking lot.

  Chuck turned to see two people getting out of a shiny new Mercedes S-class sedan. The man was sixtyish, tall, slim, and looked to be in good shape. He had thick, snow-white hair, brushed straight back, and a deep tan. Getting out of the other side of the car was the most beautiful woman Chuck had seen since he’d left the pro tour, and that was a long time ago. She was tall-five-eight or-nine-had high breasts, long legs, a tiny waist, dark hair in a ponytail, and a tan nearly as deep as her companion’s. She was thirty years younger than he.

  “Wow,” Chuck said.

  “Wow indeed,” Victor replied. “They turned up a few months ago, and they’re both pretty good. Names are Harry and Clare Carras.”

  “Married?” Chuck asked.

  “That’s the bad news.”

  “What else do you know about them?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. He seems to be filthy rich and retired. They bought a big old Victorian house in Old Town and apparently spent a fortune fixing it up. He’s got one of those little portable cellular phones, and he talks on it a lot. You’ll have to get used to that.”

  The couple opened the main gate to the courts and walked in.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Victor said.

  Chuck watched the woman walking toward him, and he was suddenly aware that her husband was watching him watching her.

  “Harry and Clare,” Victor said, “this is Chuck Chandler, our new head pro.”

  Chuck shook Harry’s hand first. It was soft, but strong. “How are you, Harry?”

  “Good,” Harry replied.

  “Clare?” Chuck said, turning to her. He felt a stirring in his crotch.

  “Hello, Chuck,” Clare said. “We heard you were coming.”

  Her hand lingered in his.

  “Glad to be here,” Chuck said, trying to tear himself away from her large green eyes. “I hear you folks play good tennis.”

  “Let’s find out,” Harry said. “Victor, you want to make a fourth?”

  “Sure, Harry,” Victor said. “I’ll play a couple of sets; I don’t have anything scheduled until eleven.”

  “Good,” Harry said. “Me and Clare against you two.” He led his wife onto a court.

  Chuck followed them, unable to take his eyes off the woman. She was made for tennis clothes, he thought. Or no clothes at all.

  Chuck watched them both carefully as they warmed up; they were both smooth players who hit the ball well. He decided to start with his low game, just to see how it went. The low game wasn’t enough; soon he and Victor were down love-three.

  Harry chipped and sliced a lot and knew where to put the ball-the mark of a good older player. He had abandoned power a while back and had substituted craft.

  Clare had more power than her frame had indicated, and she seemed able to return almost anything. Chuck raised his game a notch and left it there. It was enough for a close finish; he and Victor won the set in a tiebreaker.

  They all shook hands, then adjourned to the water cooler.

&
nbsp; “Chuck, that was a good game,” Harry said. “We’ll take you next time.”

  “I’ll watch out, Harry.”

  “Why don’t you join us for dinner this evening? We’ll officially welcome you to Key West. Victor, you too?”

  Both pros accepted.

  “Good. Eight o’clock at Louie’s Backyard.”

  “Thanks, Harry,” Chuck said. He glanced at Clare. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  There was a tiny curl to Clare’s red lip. Chuck took it for a smile.

  2

  Chuck found Louie’s Backyard on the second try. Key West was only one mile by four, but he needed a map, and still it was tricky. There were only two or three streets that ran the length of the island; the rest were narrow and crowded with frame dwellings called Conch houses. Louie’s was on one of these little streets, a good-sized Victorian place that looked more like somebody’s home than a restaurant.

  “Mr. Carras hasn’t arrived yet,” the headwaiter said, “but the other member of your party is waiting at the bar outside. Just walk straight through.”

  Chuck emerged from the rear of the house onto a three-tiered deck filled with tables; the bar was on the lower level and nearly in the water. The sea lapped at the deck, and a rising moon illuminated the diners, mostly tourists, Chuck figured, come south for some sun.

  Victor waved at him from the bar, and Chuck slid onto an adjacent barstool. “Where are our hosts?” he asked.

  “Harry and Clare are not great at on-time performance,” Victor replied. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Thanks. I’ll have a vodka gimlet, straight up, very cold,” he said to the bartender.

  The two clinked glasses. “Welcome to paradise,” Victor said.

  “That’s what you said this morning. Is it really?”

  “Can be. Depends on your attitude.”

  “My attitude’s pretty good.”

  “Then you’ll like it. There are a lot of very strange people in this town,” Victor said. “It’s the end of the road, figuratively, for a lot of them. They couldn’t make it anywhere else, so they decided to come down here and not make it. Not making it is what folks do here.”