by Stuart Woods
“Not bad duty.”
“Sounds like pretty good duty to me, in the middle of a war and all. Still, he managed to get himself court-martialed.”
“What for?”
“Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,” Tommy read. “I wonder what that means? Sounds like a catchall charge that could cover just about anything.”
“Was he convicted?”
“No, the charges were dropped, and he was, I quote, ‘transferred at the request of his commanding officer.’”
“Sounds like he was told to get the hell out, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does, but that’s all the record says. Wait a minute, he was discharged as a second lieutenant; he didn’t get promoted in three years of service. Now that ought to tell us something. I mean, shavetails get promoted to first lieutenant automatically if they keep their noses clean. He also got a general discharge under honorable circumstances. That’s a peg down from a regular honorable discharge.”
“If you say so. Does it say who his commanding officer was? Maybe we could run him down.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Morrell, it says here.”
“I’ll get some e-mail off to the DOD and see if we can get an address,” Daryl said.
“Let me phone instead, see if I can press them for an immediate answer; it’s all in their computer.” Tommy picked up the phone, consulted a directory, and called the Pentagon, asking for personnel records.
“Active or retired?” the sergeant asked.
“I’m not sure; try retired.” He gave the officer’s name and listened to the keystrokes on the other end.
“Here we go, got a pencil?”
“Shoot.” Tommy scribbled down the information, thanked the sergeant, hung up, and handed the results to Daryl. He lives in Fort Myers,” Tommy said. “How far is that?”
“It’s just up the west coast of Florida; there’s a direct flight, I think. If not, there’s one to Naples, and it’s not much of a drive from there.”
Tommy grinned. “I got to go to L.A.; you can have this one.”
“Thanks a lot,” Daryl said.
Daryl flew to Naples, rented a car, and was in Fort Myers by noon. He grabbed a hamburger, then found the colonel’s address, which turned out to be one of an attractive group of condominiums across the road from the beachfront hotels. He found the apartment and knocked.
A gray-haired but very attractive woman answered the door. “Yes?” she said.
Daryl thought she must have been a knockout when she was twenty-one. “Good morning, ma’am,” Daryl said, “I’m looking for Colonel Morrell.”
“He isn’t in right now,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Morrell; may I help you?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am; I’ll have to talk to the colonel himself.”
“With regard to what?” she asked.
Daryl produced his badge. “It’s a police matter,” he said.
The woman’s face fell. “Police?”
“It’s a routine inquiry, ma’am, in connection to somebody he served with.”
“Oh,” she said, looking relieved. “Well, he’s playing golf.” She looked at her watch. “He should be finishing his round soon, and he’ll have lunch at the clubhouse.” She gave Daryl directions. “By the way,” she said, “it’s General Morrell; he retired as a brigadier. You won’t get a thing out of him if you call him Colonel.”
Daryl thanked her and returned to his car.
The golf club was less than five miles away, and, after identifying himself to a security guard, he was directed to the clubhouse. He asked for General Morrell at the pro shop, and the young man pointed outside to two men who were sitting on a bench, removing their golf shoes.
Daryl went outside. “Excuse me, gentlemen, is one of you General Jacob Morrell?”
The older of the two men removed his cap and wiped his head with a towel. He still had a whitewall haircut, even in his mid-sixties. “I’m Jack Morrell,” he said. “Let’s not bother with rank.”
“I wonder if I could speak to you in private, Gen… Mr. Morrell.”
“This is Mark Haber, an old comrade-in-arms,” the general said, nodding to the slightly younger man on the bench beside him. “I don’t have anything to hide from him.”
Daryl produced his badge. “My name is Daryl Haynes; I’m a police officer. I’m looking for information about a man who served under you.”
“I served with thousands of men,” the general said. “Might not remember him.”
“His name is Merkle Connor.”
The general’s face darkened. “Good God, he’s not living in Fort Myers, is he?”
“No, sir, I’m with the Key West department.”
“Is the sonofabitch in trouble with the law?” he asked. “I hope so.”
“I can’t go into that, sir; I just want to ask you some questions about him.”
“What sort of questions?” The general was becoming more and more uncomfortable as they talked.
“Well, sir, Mr. Connor’s service record shows that he was court-martialed in Vietnam, but the charges were dropped and he was transferred. Will you tell me what that was about?”
The general suddenly stood up. “No, sir, I will not. This conversation is at an end.” He turned to his companion. “Mark, I’m going to have a piss; I’ll meet you in the grill.” With that, he turned and strode into the clubhouse.
Daryl stood, gaping, looking after him. “What happened?” he asked the other man.
“Don’t mind Jack,” he said. “He gets wound up about certain things. Sit down, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Daryl sat down and turned his attention to the man. “I’m sorry, sir, your name is Haber?”
“That’s right; I was Jack’s executive officer in Saigon and at two other posts.”
“Did you know Merkle Connor?”
“I did; he worked directly for me, operating a tennis instruction program at the club there.”
“Can you tell me what sort of an officer he was?”
“Lousy. He angled his way into Special Services, and he was okay with the tennis program, but that was it. He had a real problem with authority of any kind, and he was always in trouble, always just on the edge of insubordination.”
“What led to his being court-martialed?”
“He was screwing Jack Morrell’s wife,” the man said.
Daryl’s mouth dropped open. “I met her half an hour ago.”
“Then you can see that she was quite something when she was younger. She still is, in fact.”
“Yes, sir, she certainly is.”
“Connor had been screwing everything in skirts, and Jack had always thought it was funny, until he caught him in bed with Nadia. He would have shot Connor if the lieutenant hadn’t been quick on his feet. As it was, Jack brought charges the next morning-conduct unbecoming.”
“Why were the charges dropped?”
“I talked Jack out of it, convinced him that a court-martial would be an enormous embarrassment. He finally agreed, then did his best to get Connor transferred to a combat assignment. Nobody would have him; he didn’t have any real combat training. I finally got him sent to the Aleutians-it was September, and winter was coming-and I saw to it that he served out his hitch there in an engineering company.” Haber grinned. “His CO, who was an old friend of mine from the Academy, put him to work setting explosive charges on a road they were blasting out of rock. For two years, he never knew if he would live through the working day. I sort of liked that. Jack and Nadia made their peace, and I don’t think he’s heard Connor’s name mentioned since then, until you came along.”
“I’m sorry I upset him,” Daryl said, “and I thank you for the information. Is there anything else you can tell me about Connor’s character?”
Haber thought for a minute. “He was always getting into fights-you know, barroom stuff, the sort of thing you would expect of a combat enlisted man. I got him off with the MPs twice. I’d say, on the whole, h
e was a very screwed-up young man.”
Daryl stood up. “Thank you, sir; I appreciate your help. Please apologize to the general for me.”
“I’ll buy him a couple of drinks, and he’ll get over it,” Haber said.
The two men shook hands, and Daryl was on his way back to Key West.
44
When Chuck got home from work the yellow catamaran was once again moored next to Choke, and Meg, her brother, Dan, and his new girlfriend were seated in the cockpit, drinking margaritas.
“Come aboard,” Meg called, with a wave. “Dan, get another glass for Chuck.”
Chuck hopped aboard and flopped down in the cockpit, gratefully accepting the frosty glass. “I’m whipped,” he said. “I’ve got this kid, Billy Tubbs, who wants to be a pro, and he’s gotten to the point where he beats me half the time, and the other half it nearly kills me to win.”
“Chuck,” Meg said, “you haven’t met Charlie.”
Chuck turned to the girl and stuck out his hand. “Charlie what?”
“Just Charlie,” she said, shaking his hand. She was petite and dark-haired, with a gamine figure that looked wonderful in the bikini. “I never saw the need for last names.”
“I guess you have a point,” Chuck said, “but how do you differentiate yourself from all the other Charlies?”
She smiled. “I’ve never had that problem.”
Everybody laughed.
“I guess not,” Chuck conceded.
“Present company excepted,” Meg said, snuggling up to Chuck.
“Where you from, Charlie?” Chuck asked.
“Grew up in the San Fernando Valley; lived in L.A. and Las Vegas for a while after school. Recently I’ve just been traveling.”
“Where’d you travel?”
“From Vegas I worked my way east, stopped in Santa Fe and New Orleans, then went down to Miami. I was in the Bahamas when I met Dan and Meg. Not a moment too soon, either; I was broke.”
“It’s just as well I’m back on Choke,” Meg said. “It was getting a little crowded, anyway, and it wouldn’t have been long before Dan and Charlie would have ditched me on a beach somewhere.”
“Damn right,” Dan said. He held up the empty margarita pitcher. “Shit, and I’m out of lime juice.”
“I’ve got to go to the Waterfront Market for a few things anyway, so I’ll get you some,” Chuck said. “Meg, why don’t we invite this lovely couple aboard Choke for dinner?”
“Suits me.”
“I’ll pick up some steaks at the market, and you go rustle up a salad; the fixings are in the fridge.”
“I’ll take a shower, if we’re going out,” Dan said. “Charlie, we need a few things, too. Why don’t you go along with Chuck?” He handed her some money, which Charlie tucked into her bikini bra.
Chuck and Charlie strolled along the quay to the Waterfront Market, chatting idly.
“What do you think of Key West?” Chuck asked.
“It has more character than most places on the water,” Charlie replied. “Places on the water always remind me of Vegas.”
“But Las Vegas is in the desert,” Chuck said.
“The ocean is a desert; hadn’t you ever noticed?”
Chuck shrugged. “I guess maybe it is, in a way. The sea is full of life, like the desert, but the life is hidden, as in the desert.”
“Key West isn’t Florida, either,” Charlie said. “It hasn’t been paved over yet.”
“They’re working on it,” Chuck replied. “But at least there are others trying to keep it the way it is. If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll try to help.”
In the market they each got a basket and went their separate ways, stocking up. Chuck had chosen the steaks and selected a couple of bottles of wine and was headed for the register when Charlie appeared from behind a shelf, looking flustered.
“Something wrong?” Chuck asked.
“I just saw somebody I used to know and don’t want to know anymore. Let’s just stay here for a minute until the coast is clear.”
“You wait here; I want to get some bread.” Chuck left her with her cart and went toward the baked goods counter. He was nearly there when Clare Carras passed in front of him, heading for the checkout and looking neither to her left or right. Chuck was happy she hadn’t seen him; he had no desire to talk to her. He got the bread and went back for Charlie.
“Was it a woman you were avoiding?” he asked the girl.
“You could say that,” Charlie replied. “You could also call her a snake.”
“Is her name Clare Carras?”
“It was Clare Connor when I knew her.”
“She’s checked out by now; the coast is clear.”
They paid for their groceries and started back to the boat.
“Where did you know her?” Chuck asked.
“In Vegas; she was a pro.”
It took Chuck a moment to figure out that she wasn’t talking about tennis. “You mean she was a hooker?”
“No, I was a hooker; she was my boss.”
“Oh?” Chuck said, his eyebrows going up.
“Don’t be so shocked,” Charlie said. “Dan knows about it; it’s okay with him.”
“I didn’t mean to seem shocked,” Chuck replied. “It’s just that I was…”
“Shocked,” Charlie said.
“Okay, shocked.”
“Clare was running a string out of the Empress Hotel, and she was married to the tennis pro at the hotel. She was an absolute bitch.”
Chuck stopped and looked at her. “What was the tennis pro’s name?”
“Connor, I guess. I never knew his first name.”
“That is really strange,” Chuck said. “The guy I work for here is named Connor, and he’s a tennis pro.”
“Probably not the same guy,” she said.
“Probably not.” Chuck was thinking about that.
“Go ahead, ask me,” Charlie said.
“What?”
“Ask me the question.”
“What question?”
“The one every man asks me: What was it like being a pro?”
“Okay, what was it like being a pro?”
“It was fun.”
“Fun? I always thought it would be damned hard work.”
“Well, the hours could be long, but the money was great, and the sex was good.”
Chuck stopped in his tracks. “The sex was good? Even when you were…”
“Doing it all the time? Sure it was. Most of the girls I knew-those who weren’t dykes-were in it for the sex.”
“Not for the money?”
“Sure, for the money, too, but think about it: If you like sex, and I sure do, then you can have all you want by turning pro. People are always saying-if they like their work-that they would do it even if they weren’t being paid for it.”
“I guess I’ve always thought about my work that way,” Chuck admitted. “I’ve always enjoyed it.”
“So did I,” Charlie said. “Do you think that makes me a bad person?”
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“Good,” she said, apparently satisfied.
“Clare was your madam, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Did she ever…”
“Turn tricks? I’m not sure I would call it that-not for the kind of money she got for it.”
“What kind of money?”
“Well, most of us were in the two-to-five-hundred bracket,” Charlie said. “Then there were a few absolute knockouts who got a thousand to fifteen hundred, but Clare, rumor had it, got five grand a pop.”
“Five thousand dollars?”
“For an hour.”
Chuck wondered what his tab would have been if he had been paying. “That’s astonishing.”
“Well, it was just a rumor among the girls. We never knew for sure, but once in a while-every couple of weeks or so-some dandy John would turn up, and Clare would disappear with him-always for a drink, she would say.”
> They had reached Choke and were ready to go aboard.
“Charlie,” Chuck said, “would you do me a favor?”
“What kind of favor?”
“There’s a guy I know I’d like you to meet.”
“No thanks, Chuck, I’m out of the game,” she said.
“No, you don’t understand; he’s a cop, not a potential client.”
“Is this connected with the trouble you’re supposed to be in?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if I can help, sure.”
“Thanks, Charlie; I appreciate it very much.”
“No problem.”
They went aboard and Chuck surrendered the steaks to Meg. All through dinner he thought about what Charlie had told him, but he couldn’t make any sense of it. Maybe Tommy Sculley could.
45
Tommy and Daryl had just taken seats in the chief’s office when the chief’s secretary came in. “There’s a Chuck Chandler to see you,” she said to Tommy.
“Chief,” Tommy said, “do you mind if we see Chandler before we bring you up to date?”
The chief leafed through his calendar. “In an hour and a half,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, and led the way from the room. Chuck was in the foyer with a very pretty woman. “What’s up?” Tommy asked.
“There’s some new information you ought to know about,” Chuck replied. “Can we talk somewhere?”
“Sure, follow me.” Tommy led them to an interrogation room, and everybody took a seat.
“This is Charlie,” Chuck said. “Detectives Sculley and Haynes.”
“How do you do?” Tommy said.
“Tommy, Charlie is living aboard the boat next to mine, and yesterday we were in the Waterfront Market when we saw Clare Carras. Charlie, tell him what you told me.”
Tommy listened, rapt, as Charlie told her story, not interrupting her. When she had finished he sat there grinning.
“Is this helpful?” Chuck asked.
“Very possibly,” Tommy replied. “Folks, I thank you for the information, and I’ll be in touch.” He stood up and shook Charlie’s hand.
“Aren’t you going to ask Charlie any questions?” Chuck asked.
“Charlie is a very thorough young lady,” Tommy said. “If we need to know more we’ll get ahold of her. And Charlie, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if you should decide to leave town.”
