by Stuart Woods
“Maybe he just liked them.”
“It’s not like Harry to like cops, let alone socialize with them.”
“What’s Harry got against cops?”
“Maybe his mother was frightened by one when she was pregnant. How the hell should I know?”
“You’re married to him.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know him much better than anybody else. Oh, I know what he likes for dinner and what he likes in bed, but beyond that, I’m on the outside.”
“Nobody can keep his wife on the outside; wives know too much. Mine did, anyway. She always knew fucking everything.”
“Maybe I’m not the ideal wife then, okay? Harry’s by nature an enigma; he doesn’t tell anybody anything he doesn’t have to, not even me.”
“But you sign on the bank account; you’re the sole beneficiary of his will, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but the will doesn’t say what there is or where it is. I know he deals with some foreign banks. Once in a while I catch part of a telephone conversation from his end, but I don’t know which banks or how much is in them. He’s promised me that if anything happens to him, his executor will handle everything. I can hardly press him on this.”
“Who’s his executor?”
“A lawyer in Naples.”
“You have his name?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll get the money; there isn’t anybody else to leave it to. Harry’s life is as devoid of friends and relatives as if he had just arrived from another planet.”
“Strange.”
“It’s just the way he is. He trusts me and nobody else.”
“He trusts you, but you know nothing about his financial affairs.”
She turned toward him. “Don’t get sarcastic, baby.” She took his testicles in her hand. “I’ll pull them off.”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” he said.
She changed her grip to his penis and began kneading. “You love it when I do this, don’t you?”
He sighed, then caught his breath.
“You want to fuck me again, baby?” she asked.
“You know it.”
She pulled him toward her and lay back. “Then come to me, lover. Do it to me again.”
It took him longer this time, but she brought him skillfully along until she was ready herself, then she tightened on him. He came in a rush of fast breathing and loud noise.
“There, dear,” she said, “is that better?”
“Boy, is that better,” he breathed.
“So, we’re going to hold off for a while, okay?”
“Why do we always have to fuck in the car or on a beach somewhere?” he complained. “There are beds available to us.”
“You love it in the car and on the beach,” she said. “Anyway, beds are risky. You never know when someone will walk in.”
“Are you fucking Chandler, too?” he asked.
“Baby!” she spat. “What a shitty thing to say to me!”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“If I am, it’s for us, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Always remember that.”
“I’ll try to remember,” he said.
She pushed him off her and retrieved a towel from the front seat, wiping them both. “So we’re going to cool it?”
“I guess.”
“Promise me, baby. I can’t afford another attempt-failed or successful-while this cop is hanging around.”
“Why do you think he suspects something?”
“Oh, he told Harry and me flat out, when he came to the house last week. He said somebody had tampered with the car and wanted to do Harry harm.”
“And what did Harry say?”
“He pooh-poohed the whole thing, just like I knew he would. But we don’t want to start him thinking about it; that would not be good for our plans. When it happens, it happens suddenly, without warning, and it has to be final; no screw-ups next time.”
“Yeah, the screwing will have to be between you and me.”
“You want to screw me again, lover?” She stroked his penis.
“I can’t, baby, you’ve worn me out.”
“Bet you aren’t worn out yet,” she said, bending over and kissing the organ. It twitched in her hand. “See?” she cooed, and took it into her mouth.
“Jesus, how do you do it?” he moaned. “You’ve got me going again.”
“I have, haven’t I?” she said, stopping for a moment.
“Don’t stop!”
“We’re cooling it, then?”
“We’re cooling it!”
“Until I say we’re ready?”
“Anything you say.”
“Good boy; now here’s your reward for being good.”
“Oh, baby, baby, baby!” he yelled as he came again.
“There,” she said. “I knew you could do it.”
14
Chuck first saw the man as Harry and Clare drove up in the Mercedes. He was riding a red rental motor scooter, and he entered the parking lot half a minute after the Carrases, parked in the shade of a tree, switched off the scooter, and watched while Chuck and Victor played three sets with Harry and Clare.
Chuck looked up from time to time to see if the man was still there, and he always was. He was swarthy, very Mediterranean-Greek or Turkish, Chuck thought; tallish, solidly built, with thick, stylishly cut hair and what might be called bruised good looks. He wore jeans, a yellow polo shirt, white running shoes, and Porsche sunglasses, the ones with the big lenses. When the match was over and Harry and Clare moved toward their car, the man started the scooter and drove away. Chuck thought it odd, but he put it out of his mind. There were thousands of tourists in town, hundreds of them riding rented scooters. Then it occurred to him that the man had probably seen Clare somewhere in town and had followed the couple to get a better look at her. Nothing strange about that; all men looked at Clare.
Chuck thought no more about it until after work, when he was leaving Wooley’s, a grocery store on Roosevelt Boulevard. He pulled out of his parking space and, as he stopped for traffic at the exit to Roosevelt, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the man on the scooter two cars back. He stared at the man, the Turk, as he was beginning to think of him, until the driver behind blew his horn impatiently. Chuck looked both ways, then pulled onto Roosevelt, but instead of turning left toward Key West Bight, he turned right. The scooter turned with him.
What now? He was headed away from home, toward the upper Keys. Should he try to lose the man? If so, where? Key West was one mile by four, and its streets were ill suited for car-scooter chases; he could turn north on Highway 1, but there was only one road all the way to Miami. Anyway, there was ice cream melting in the bag beside him.
He turned into the Overseas Market shopping center, drove aimlessly around for a minute or two, then got back onto Roosevelt and headed toward home. The scooter kept pace, darting among cars a hundred yards back.
Chuck turned right on Palm Avenue and drove across the arching Garrison Bight bridge, past the naval base. Palm became Eaton Street as he headed into Old Town. He turned left on Elizabeth Street, picked up his laundry and dry cleaning, made a U-turn, and drove back to Key West Bight. He parked in his usual spot, put the tonneau cover on the car, and struggled toward Choke, burdened with groceries and laundry. He danced across the little gangplank and dumped his cargo on a deck chair while he unlocked the cabin. As he did so, he looked toward the parking lot and saw the Turk carefully not looking at him. A moment later, the man turned the scooter around and drove away.
As Chuck was putting away his groceries, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi.” Clare.
“Ah…” Chuck struggled for the right words.
“Is this a bad time?”
“Call me back in five minutes, but not from home.”
She was silent for a moment. “Right,” she said finally, then hung up.
Chu
ck mixed himself a drink and took the cordless phone onto the afterdeck. He sat and sipped, idly watching the sunset, until the instrument rang in his hand.
“Hi,” he said.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you with somebody?”
“No, I’m alone. Where are you?”
“I’m in the car.”
“Good.”
“Baby, what’s the matter? Aren’t we on for tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“He’s left for Marathon. There’s some property up there he’s been looking at.”
“He may have left a representative behind.”
“A representative? What are you talking about?”
“When you and Harry came to tennis today, a man on a motor scooter seemed to follow you.”
“What did he look like?”
Chuck described the Turk.
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Anyway, it’s not the first time I was followed by a man. Maybe he’s a breast man.”
“Maybe,” Chuck said, “but when I left work tonight, he followed me, too, and I don’t think it was because he liked my tits.”
She laughed. “Are you sure you’re not imagining things?”
“I spotted him as I was leaving the grocery store; I took the long way home, and he was with me all the way. He just left, at least I think he did.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think there’s a better-than-even chance that Harry has put somebody on us.”
“Mmmm,” she said. “I wonder if he’d do that.”
“You know him better than I. Would he?”
“It’s unlikely, but you’re right, tonight might not be a good idea, considering.”
“Considering,” Chuck echoed. “Why don’t you keep an eye behind you for a couple of days, see if the guy turns up again? I’ll do the same.”
“I don’t want to wait a couple of days to see you,” she said, her voice low.
“Believe me, I feel exactly the same way,” Chuck replied. “But we don’t know if today is this guy’s first day on us, or if he’s been around for a while.”
“My guess is this is his first day,” Clare said.
“Why?”
“Because, as hard as Harry is to read, I think I’d know if somebody had reported to him that you and I are screwing each other blind twice a week. That would trouble him.”
“Maybe we got lucky. We’ll give it a rest for a few days, then?”
“I’m not feeling very restful.”
“I’m feeling downright horny just talking to you,” he said.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“But only call me from the car,” Chuck said. “If he’s Harry’s man, he might have done something to your phone.”
“Only from the car,” she said. “‘Bye, lover; I’m going to miss you.”
Chuck started to respond, but she had already hung up. He put down the phone, sucked on his drink, and began feeling sorry for himself. He was very randy indeed, and alone.
Then he looked to his right and there was Meg Hailey, dressed in her inadequate bikini, watering the potted plants in the catamaran’s cockpit next door.
“Hi,” she said, catching sight of him.
“Hi yourself,” he replied. “Buy you a drink?”
15
Chuck mixed them a drink, then set up the little stainless steel grill, which hung outboard in a special bracket, and got a charcoal fire going.
“Haven’t seen much of you,” Meg said, sipping her drink. She had changed from her bikini to bleached cutoffs and a chambray shirt, unbuttoned and tied in a knot under her breasts. This passed for dressing for dinner in Key West.
“Work, work, work,” Chuck said.
“Teaching tennis is work?” she snorted.
“That’s what everybody thinks,” Chuck replied. “If your work is somebody else’s sport, then it’s not work. Actually, I put in five or six hours of instruction a day, in the hot sun, on my feet, every week of my life.”
“Poor baby,” she said. “What’s your idea of recreation?”
Chuck looked her up and down. “You haven’t had enough to drink for me to tell you.”
She laughed heartily and handed him her glass. “I guess I’d better get to work if I want to find out.”
“I was at a cocktail party in Palm Beach once,” he said, “and I was talking to a famous writer, a novelist; his name escapes me at the moment. A woman came up to him and told him how much she enjoyed his books, then she asked him what he did for a living! It was like, his books were so much fun to read that writing them couldn’t possibly be work.”
“Okay, okay, I concede your point,” she laughed. “You work hard for a living, even if it is on a tennis court.”
“That’s better,” he said, taking her empty glass. “Now you deserve another drink.” He glanced toward the parking lot in time to see the Turk making a slow U-turn on his scooter. Good; now the man had seen him with another woman. “So,” he said to Meg, “you been living aboard for a while?”
“Nearly a year. Tell you the truth, when Dan suggested the trip, I didn’t think I’d last two weeks. But it grows on you-if you can get used to living in a fiberglass coffin and taking showers sitting down.”
“Seems to me I’ve seen you take a shower or two standing up,” he said.
She looked blank for a moment. “Oh, you mean in the cockpit. Sure, I’d rather do it that way, even if…”
“Even if you draw a crowd?” he asked. “You do, you know. Half of Key West Bight seems to amble by when you’re hosing yourself down.”
“Well, what the hell,” she laughed. “I’m not going to let a lot of gawkers crowd me.”
“You’re accustomed to gawkers, I imagine.”
She blushed. “My share, I guess. If you spend most of your life in a bikini…”
“Half in a bikini.”
“Are you objecting?”
“Not in the least. I consider you part of the view from my boat.” He put the steaks on the grill. “How do you like your meat?”
“Are you being vulgar?” she asked archly.
“Sorry, your steak?”
“Medium.”
“Me too; that makes dinner simpler. Hang on, I’d better go below and put the rice on to cook.” He did that, and when he came back on deck, she was turning over the steaks. “They smell wonderful,” she said.
He leaned over and sniffed behind her ear. “So do you,” he said. As he straightened up, he saw the Turk sitting at waterside in the Raw Bar, eating conch fritters. He kissed Meg on the neck for the Turk’s benefit. Well, not entirely for the Turk’s benefit.
“You keep doing that, and we’ll never get to the steaks,” she said.
He stepped away to make himself another drink. “I’ll back off until after dessert.”
“What’s for dessert?”
He was tempted to tell her she was for dessert, but he thought better of it. “Ice cream,” he replied.
“On a boat?”
“This boat has a freezer,” he said.
“What kind of ice cream?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I love surprises,” she said.
“Stick around,” he replied.
He rolled over and reached for the ice cream, then fed her a spoonful.
“Mmmm,” she said, “macadamia brittle, my favorite.”
“I knew it would be,” he said.
“How could you know that?”
He shrugged. “You just look like a macadamia brittle kind of woman to me.” He liked this girl. Thank God she’s married, he thought. I could get into serious trouble here.
She plumped up the pillows and sat up in the double berth, bumping her head. “Ouch,” she said.
“Forget you’re on a boat?” “I’m unaccustomed to this much space on a boat.”
“Well, there’s just the saloon, the head,
and this cabin.”
“No room for guests?”
“Not unless they sleep with me.”
“Somehow I have the feeling I’m not the first guest to share this berth with you.”
“I confess,” he said. “Before you, there were other women.”
“We didn’t exactly practice safe sex,” she said.
He lifted his head from the pillow. “Aren’t you safe?” he asked, half alarmed.
“Of course,” she said. “It was you I was wondering about.”
He raised a hand. “Absolutely safe,” he said. “I swear.”
“You’ve had a blood test?”
“About three months ago,” he said.
“And how many women since then?”
“Only safe ones,” he replied. “Let’s not talk numbers.”
“Would the numbers be embarrassing?”
“Embarrassingly small,” he said.
She snuggled up next to him and ran a hand down his belly. “Me too,” she said.
“I should hope so,” he replied. “Married woman like yourself.”
“Me, married?” she asked. “Not likely.”
Alarm bells rang. “But what about Dan?”
“What about him?”
“You have the same last name.”
“Our mother wanted it that way.”
“He’s your brother?”
“Since birth.”
“Oh, shit,” he whispered to himself.
“What did you say?”
“I said, and shipmates, too.”
“Oh. Does it somehow bother you that I’m not married?”
“Oh, bother isn’t exactly the word,” he said. Terrify is the word, he thought.
“I don’t believe in marriage,” she said.
“Well, that’s something.”
“I guess you don’t believe in marriage, either.”
“Only for the married.”
“The way I look at it,” she said, “is if you suddenly come over all hot to get married, what you do is the two of you disappear for a few days, and when you come back you say to your friends, ‘We got married.’ And everybody says, ‘Congratulations.’ Then, when the relationship doesn’t work anymore, you disappear again for a few days, and when you come back to say to everybody, ‘We got divorced,’ everybody says, ‘Congratulations.’”
