Choke Page 8

  “I think that makes a great deal of sense,” Chuck said. “You’re a very levelheaded woman.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “But what you’re doing down there is not keeping me levelheaded.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it,” she said, kissing him on the belly. “And when I’m through with you, you’re going to be downright impractical.”

  And he was.

  16

  Chuck sent Meg back to her own boat after breakfast, and he was happy that Dan wasn’t around at the time. He had no particular desire to face her brother this morning.

  Driving to work, a new thought struck him. For the first time, he considered breaking it off with Clare Carras. God knew he loved being in bed with her, but he thought he liked being in bed with Meg better, and he liked Meg better. Meg was smarter, funnier, and more lovable than Clare, and she had the additional advantage of not having a husband who hired private detectives.

  And, speaking of private detectives, the Turk had vanished. He was nowhere to be seen around Key West Bight or around the Olde Island Racquet Club, and when, in the late afternoon, Harry and Clare showed up to play tennis, he did not follow them.

  There was something different about Harry, though. He was still affable enough, but edgier. Then he surprised Chuck.

  “You think you’re all finished choking in your life?” he asked Chuck.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You choked at Wimbledon. Have you put that behind you? Is your head on straight these days?”

  “I think so.”

  “I think not.”

  Chuck glanced at Clare. She looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Why do you say that, Harry?”

  “I think you’re a born loser, Chuck. When the pressure’s on, you fold.”

  “What evidence do you have of that?” Chuck asked, surprised at the direction the conversation was taking.

  “My own intuition,” Harry said. “I think I know a loser when I see one.”

  Clare looked at the ground. “Harry, knock it off; you’re being rude.”

  Harry ignored her. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll give you a chance to prove me wrong.”

  “That’s kind of you, Harry,” Chuck replied.

  “I’ll play you three games of tennis for a thousand dollars.”

  Clare spoke up. “A thousand dollars! That’s outrageous, Harry!”

  “Three games,” Harry repeated. “Any more than that and your comparative youth would give you too great an advantage. I serve two, you serve one; that’ll even us up a bit.”

  “Come on, Harry, I don’t want your money,” Chuck said.

  Victor had heard all this, and now he spoke up. “What’s the matter, Chuck? Can’t you use a grand?”

  He could, Chuck reflected. He had about twelve hundred in the bank, but he wanted some new equipment for the boat, and a thousand would help a lot. “Harry, I’m the pro here, and I’ve got twenty years on you. I don’t think it would be fair.”

  “Fair doesn’t come into it,” Harry said. “I’m just out to prove a point.”

  “Go on, Chuck,” Victor said. “Take the man’s money.”

  Chuck shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take your money, Harry.”

  They warmed up for a few minutes, then Harry served. Chuck planned a bit of a hustle; he’d lose the first game, win his serve, then let the last game run close before he took it away.

  Losing the first game was easy, since Harry seemed to be playing above his usual game. It was in the second game that Chuck got his first surprise. He served a hard one to the outside, one that should have been an ace against a man in his sixties, but to his astonishment, Harry ran to the ball and snapped a forehand straight down the line. It was in by six inches; love-fifteen.

  Chuck took aim at the inside corner on his next serve, but the ball went closer than he had planned. Harry took it on the rise, and put an inside-out shot into the opposite corner. That was a shot he hadn’t shown Chuck before. Love-thirty. Get a grip, Chuck thought, and he did. He came back to deuce and, with one ace and another hot serve, won the game. They were tied one-all. Harry’s serve.

  Suddenly Chuck found himself playing someone new. Harry opened the game with a clean ace, then followed with another. On his third serve, he surprised Chuck by following his serve to the net and putting away a volley. Before Chuck knew what had happened, he was down forty-love.

  Chuck won one point back, then another, and then they were at deuce. Harry mopped his brow with a towel, then put an ace down the inside. Advantage Harry.

  “Now we’ll see what you’re made of, Chuck,” Harry called across the net. “I think you’ll choke; want to double the bet?”

  Chuck shook his head. He was one point away from decimating his bank account. “Serve, Harry.”

  Harry looked determined, and Chuck knew he was going to try for another ace. He moved back a step behind the baseline, tensed, and waited. The toss went back over Harry’s head, but Harry reached for it. The ball came high across the net, and Chuck thought it would go out. Too late, he realized that topspin would keep it in. He ran forward as the ball bounced. The topspin carried it high, and Chuck wasn’t ready for that. The ball struck him in the chest.

  “That’s match, I believe,” Harry called from across the net.

  Chuck’s ears were burning; he had been had. Harry had hustled him like a pro. He managed a smile as he shook Harry’s hand at the net. “I’ll get my checkbook,” he said.

  Harry put an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “Nonsense, I wasn’t serious; I was just making a point about performing under pressure. Believe me, I’ve had a lot more experience at that than you have.”

  “Harry, I insist on paying you,” Chuck said.

  “I won’t accept it. If you write the check I won’t cash it.”

  “Harry…”

  “Tell you what. You come diving with us on Monday and you can buy us dinner afterward, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Okay, Harry,” Chuck said. “Tell me, where’d you pick up that goofy topspin serve?”

  “I invented it,” Harry said, getting his gear together. “See you Monday, about eleven?”

  “Fine. And thanks for the tennis lesson.”

  Harry laughed loudly as he and Clare left the court. She glanced over her shoulder and gave Chuck some sort of look. He wasn’t sure just what it meant.

  “Well, guy, what happened?” Victor asked, a look of mock sadness on his walrus face.

  “Oh, shut up, Victor,” Chuck said pleasantly.

  17

  On Monday morning Chuck woke up not wanting to go diving with the Carrases. He rolled over and snuggled up to Meg. “I have to get up,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked sleepily.

  “I have to go diving with some people.”

  “Can I go? I like diving; I’m certified and everything.”

  “Not this trip, I’m afraid. I wish I hadn’t accepted, but this is kind of a kissoff of these people for me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Tennis clients, people I don’t really want a social relationship with anymore. You wouldn’t like them, believe me.”

  “If they’re so terrible, why have you been socializing with them?”

  “Habit, I guess. When I first came to Key West they invited me out, were nice to me.”

  “And now you don’t want to be nice to them?”

  “That’s not it, Meg; I’ve just come to feel uncomfortable around them. Can we leave it at that?”

  “I’ll fix you some dinner this evening, then.”

  “Oh, that’s another thing; I have to buy them dinner.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t sound like that. I lost a bet-the guy beat me at tennis, so I have to buy. That’s all there is to it.”

  “What’s the name of these people?”

  “Carras.”

  She pushed him back and looked at him. “Do they live on Dey Street?”

&nbs
p; “That’s right.”

  “Now I’m getting the picture.”x

  “What picture?”

  “Chuck, I’ve seen the Carras woman. What’s going on there?”

  “Nothing. Not anymore.”

  “You were screwing her?”

  “At one time. It was just a fling.”

  “I’ll bet it was.” She got out of the bunk and began to get dressed.

  “Listen, Meg, this was before you. You’re the reason I’m breaking it off.”

  “Sure.”

  “I told you that before you there were other women, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Then what the hell gives you the right to be pissed off about another woman who happened before you came along?”

  “I may not have the right,” she said, “but I’m pissed off anyway. Good morning.” She stalked out of the cabin and off the boat.

  Chuck sighed and got himself out of bed.

  “Late night?” Clare asked as he climbed aboard Fugitive.

  “Don’t ask,” Chuck replied. “Where are the others?”

  “It’s just a threesome today,” she replied.

  “Where’s Harry?”

  “Getting some beer from the marina shop. We’ve probably got time for a quick one.”

  He looked at her, amazed.

  “Only joking,” she said, smiling. “I would if I could, though.”

  He knew she would. “That’s very flattering,

  Clare.”

  “I fucking well hope so,” she said sweetly. “Here comes Harry.”

  Chuck took the paper bag from his host and waited while he climbed aboard. “Where we headed today, Harry?”

  “A wreck I know,” Harry replied, starting the engines. “A few miles west of here, just outside the reef.”

  “Won’t there be a crowd? The tourist dive boats know all the wrecks.”

  “The dive boats don’t know about this one; I found it myself-a coaster of about a hundred feet. Looks like it’s been there for at least ten years.”

  “Sounds good,” Chuck said.

  Harry backed the boat out of her berth, motored slowly out of the harbor, and headed west, toward what seemed to be open water. Chuck knew, though, that the water in that direction was shallow, and a skipper had to know what he was doing to go that way. Then they were in deeper water.

  They had been cruising at thirty knots for half an hour when smoke began to drift up from below, just as it had on their last trip.

  “Harry!” Chuck yelled over the engine noise. He drew a finger across his throat.

  Harry cut the engines. “Not again,” he moaned.

  “I’ll see to it,” Chuck called out. “Turn on your blower.” He gave the ventilator five minutes to work, then went down to the engine room. An inspection revealed a repeat of their last problem; an exhaust hose had come off the overboard vent pipe. The two hose clips he had put in place on that occasion were still there, but loose. Chuck reconnected the hose, tightened the clamp, and safety-wired them for insurance. The whole business took less than ten minutes. As he was leaving the engine room he noticed Harry’s air compressor again, bolted to the deck beside the engine, the exhaust of which he had just repaired. Funny place for a compressor, he thought. You’d think he’d want it on deck, where it would be a hell of a lot more convenient for refilling dive tanks.

  “Everything okay?” Harry called out as Chuck surfaced.

  “Yep; the hose clips had worked loose again. I wired them this time; you shouldn’t have another problem.”

  Harry restarted the engines, and they were on their way again. He was steering from the flying bridge, so Chuck and Clare had the afterdeck to themselves. Clare opened them a beer.

  “Sorry about that tennis bet the other day,” she said. “I don’t know what got into Harry.”

  “Sure you do,” Chuck replied. “He knows; that was his guy following us the other day.”

  “I haven’t seen him around again,” she said.

  “Neither have I, but we have no way of knowing how long he’d been following us.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think Harry knows; really, I don’t.”

  “We’re going to have to let it go, Clare.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re going to have to stop seeing each other on the sly.”

  “Seeing each other? Is that what you call it? I’d have said we were screwing each other’s socks off every chance we got.”

  “Okay, then we’re going to have to stop screwing each other’s socks off.” He managed a smile.

  “So you’re dumping me?”

  “Clare, come on; this is dangerous, and we can’t go on with it.”

  “So I’m stuck with a husband who’s had five bypasses and a prostate operation, and I can’t have a sex life?”

  “If you want a sex life, leave him and find somebody else. That would be a snap for you.”

  “Are you asking me to divorce Harry for you?”

  “Of course not,” Chuck replied, flustered.

  “You don’t want me, then?”

  “Clare, we had some good times, but that’s all they were. Don’t come on like a woman scorned, okay?”

  Harry leaned out from his perch. “You two all right down there?”

  Clare flashed him a big smile. “Just perfect, darling.”

  Harry went back to steering the boat, and Clare was quiet for a while.

  “All right,” she said, finally.

  “All right what?”

  “We’ll stop seeing each other. After all, Harry could fall off the perch at any time. Maybe we’ll have another chance.”

  “Maybe,” Chuck said. But he was thinking, Never.

  The engines slowed. “Here we are,” Harry called. “Chuck, will you get on the anchor? Clare, will you get out our gear?”

  The two ex-lovers parted, one to the bow, one to the stern lockers.

  As Chuck let the anchor chain out he tried to feel relief, but he was still uncomfortable about being on this boat with Harry and Clare Carras. He wanted the day to be over. Later, he would wish it had never begun.

  18

  Chuck handed down the three tanks, each a different color, to Harry, who was standing on the teak diving platform, inches above the water. Harry was all ready to go in his swimsuit and a T-shirt. He slung the red tank onto his back and buckled it in place.

  “Aren’t you wearing a life jacket, Harry?” Chuck asked.

  “Never do,” Harry replied. “Too much gear; gets in the way.”

  Chuck thought he had worn a jacket the last time they’d dived, but he wasn’t sure. He got his own inflatable jacket out of his bag and slipped into it. Clare emerged from the master cabin wearing a white one-piece swimsuit that might have been sprayed on. Chuck sighed. And he was giving this up.

  “You wearing a compass?” Harry called up.

  “Yep.”

  Harry pointed to the north. “You see the reef?”

  “Yep.”

  “The wreck is in about sixty feet of water outside the reef, bearing about zero-three-zero from here, maybe a hundred yards.”

  Chuck looked at the compass on his wrist and oriented himself.

  “I’m off,” Harry called. “You two come on when you’re ready.”

  “Harry, wait up,” Chuck called. “Let’s all go together.”

  But Harry had dropped into the water. A trail of bubbles followed him toward the wreck.

  Chuck climbed down to the dive platform. “Give you a hand with your tank?” he called up to Clare.

  “You go ahead; Harry should have someone with him. He’s always doing that.”

  “Okay. Does it matter which tank?”

  “The blue one is the guest tank; the yellow one is mine.”

  Chuck got his flippers on, then strapped his harness onto the tank, and slung it onto his back. “You’re wearing a life jacket, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. Go ahead after Harry; I’m right
behind you.”

  Chuck pulled on his mask, bit the mouthpiece, and tested his regulator. Clare was coming down the ladder. He gave her a wave and dropped into the water.

  The gin clear waters off Key West were not so clear today. There was a breeze and, since they were outside the reef, no shelter, so a light swell had roiled the sandy bottom a bit. Visibility was no more than thirty feet, Chuck reckoned as he swam after Harry, constantly checking his compass. It was peaceful, though; one of the things Chuck most enjoyed about diving was the peace. It was impossible to think about anything else when underwater.

  He was descending a little too quickly, so he blew a little air into his vest to neutralize his buoyancy. That done, he continued his descent, checking his compass and depth meter, on opposite wrists, as he went. He felt a little queasy; too much wine with dinner last night, maybe. He reckoned he’d covered a hundred yards, but the wreck was still not in sight. At fifty feet he stopped his descent and blew more air into his vest. The bottom was in sight, and for the first time he had a fixed reference to let him know that a current was running-a knot, maybe two. A nurse shark swam idly underneath him, giving him a start.

  He made himself relax. The creatures weren’t dangerous unless stepped on while they were sleeping on the bottom. Still, a fish that size nearby was enough to get his attention. He continued on his course of zero-three-zero, compensating for the current, which seemed to be at ninety degrees to his course.

  A moment later, something large came hazily into view, and a moment after that it was clearer. The ship lay upright on the sandy bottom, intact, it seemed. Only the encrustations on its superstructure and rigging made it seem at home on the bottom instead of the surface. Harry was right; it was a good one. Harry was nowhere in sight; Chuck swam for the wreck.

  Then he stopped. A little wave of nausea swept over him. Jesus, he thought, maybe he shouldn’t have come diving with a hangover. Only it wasn’t much of a hangover, not enough to make him sick. Chuck belched a couple of times; there was an awful taste in his mouth. He took a couple of extra-deep breaths and continued on. Then he saw Harry.

  Harry was on deck, near the little wheelhouse, and he wasn’t wearing his tank, which lay on the ship’s deck. He still had his mask on, though, and it was all that was keeping him in one place. His body flowed out, parallel to the ship’s deck, his arms waving idly in the current.