Choke

by Stuart Woods

  “The three of them seem to have spent most of the last forty-eight hours together,” Daryl said. “But Victor was sleeping in the saloon on the boat. He could have sneaked out in the night.”

  Tommy nodded. “But if he did, he’s got Meg, who was pretty sober, to testify as to how drunk he was. It would take a lot of doing to leave Choke and, without a car, get to a marina on Stock Island, slug Merk, dump him out on the reef, get back to the marina, then back to Choke.”

  “Maybe he didn’t go back to the marina,” Daryl said. “Maybe he brought his boat into Key West Bight, then boarded Choke again.”

  “Or,” Tommy said, “maybe he left Key West Bight in a boat and drove around to Stock Island. How long would that take?”

  “Well, I’d say no more than an hour, even at night, if he knew what he was doing.”

  “So he could have done it,” Tommy said.

  “It’s not impossible, but what’s his motive? He and Chuck just bought the tennis club from Merk yesterday, and the money was already in the bank.”

  “You’ve got a point. By the way, he knew about Merk and Clare.”

  “Yeah, Chuck told me he told him.”

  “I wish he hadn’t told him,” Tommy said.

  “Why?”

  “Because Merk might still be alive.”

  “That’s pretty far-fetched, Tommy.”

  Tommy nodded. “I know.”

  “Tommy, not to criticize your surveillance work, but Clare might have gotten past you last night, just like Merk got past me.”

  “How would she get to the marina and back?”

  “Merk had a scooter; maybe she has some transportation we don’t know about. It’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Tommy replied. “That’s the trouble with this case.”

  “Tommy, you predicted this; you said she had a man who was helping her; you said she’d waste him as soon as we nailed Chuck. Well, we nailed Chuck, she thinks, and she wasted him. It’s obvious to me.”

  Tommy sighed. “I wish it were as obvious to me, kid.”

  52

  Tommy was awakened by the telephone before dawn, but Rosie got to it first.

  “Hello?” she said sleepily. Rosie was used to answering the phone for Tommy in the middle of the night. She listened for a moment, then nudged Tommy with an elbow. “It’s for you,” she said.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s a woman,” she said venomously.

  Tommy sat up in bed and took the phone. “Tommy Sculley,” he said.

  “Tommy, it’s Rita,” a small female voice said.

  “Who?” Tommy replied, although he knew very well who it was.”

  “Rita Cortez, in L.A.”

  “Oh, yeah, how are you? What is it, the middle of the night out there?”

  “It’s a little after two,” she said.

  “What’s up, Rita?”

  “You’re going to be very angry with me.”

  “Why should I be angry with you?”

  “I told them.”

  “Told who, and what?”

  “About Key West. I told them.”

  “Start at the beginning, Rita, and tell me everything.”

  “These two guys showed up at my house, and they said they wanted to know everything about Barry’s time in Florida.”

  “Whatshisname, the lawyer sent them?”

  “They didn’t mention his name, but who else?”

  “What, exactly, did they ask you?”

  “They knew Barry had been to Florida, because he was killed there, and they knew you were from Key West. What they didn’t know was the tip that Barry got about Key West. But they know it now.”

  “Oh,” Tommy managed to say. His mind was racing.

  “They hurt me, Tommy; I wouldn’t have told them, but they hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry, Rita; I wish I could have been there to help. Are you all right?”

  “I think they broke my arm.”

  “Oh, shit; do you want me to get you some help there? I’ll call somebody on the LAPD and get you some help.”

  “No, don’t do that; they might still be around, and they swore they’d come back if I called the cops.”

  “But you need help.”

  “I can get myself to the emergency room; Mount Sinai isn’t far from my place.”

  “Can you drive?”

  “I can make it, don’t worry about me; worry about you.”

  “Me, why?”

  “Because the lawyer knows you’re from Key West, remember? They knew it, too. They’re going to want to know what you know about Barry and Marinello and the Carras woman.”

  “Where did you hear that last name?”

  “Carras? They mentioned it.”

  “What did the two guys look like? Give me a description.”

  “One of them was sharp-looking, a slick dresser; I think it was an Armani suit; dark hair, not too long, slicked back, straight nose, good teeth, a ladies’ man. The other one was just a gorilla-big, hairy, smelled of garlic-right out of…”

  “A description, Rita.”

  “Six-three, two-forty, black hair going gray, thick hair on the backs of his hands, hair everywhere, bad nose job.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “You watch out, Tommy; they might show up there.”

  “I’ll watch out, Rita; now you get to the ER right away, you hear me? And call me if you need anything, and I mean anything.” He hung up.

  “So?” Rosie said, and she was seething.

  “Shut up, Rosie, it’s business.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she turned over and put her face in the pillow. He had never talked to her that way before.

  He patted her on the bottom. “I’m sorry, sugar, but it was bad news.”

  Tommy and Daryl stood in the arrivals lounge, such as it was-at Key West International Airport, a long shedlike building, no air-conditioning. The good thing about it was that every flight pulled up and emptied at the same gate.

  The two detectives watched the last passenger through the door.

  “Nothing fitting the description,” Daryl said. “Come on, Tommy, we can’t meet every flight.”

  “Just the late afternoon, early evening ones,” Tommy said. “That’s when passengers from L.A. would arrive.”

  “Tommy, there are more than a hundred flights a day into this airport, from Miami, Orlando, Tampa, Naples. We can’t meet even the late afternoon, early evening ones and get anything else done. The chief isn’t going to stand for it.”

  “I haven’t said anything to the chief.”

  “Thank God for that. If he thought you’d pulled two mob palookas down on us, he’d blow a bearing.”

  “A fuse, Daryl; you don’t blow a bearing.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “There’s another flight due in seven minutes, from Orlando. That’s where I’d change planes, if I was coming from L.A. I’d avoid the mess at Miami International. Let’s sit down.”

  They sat down.

  “I don’t get it, Tommy, why are you so het up about this? Are you protecting Clare Carras?”

  Tommy turned and looked at him. “They hurt Rita, Daryl; she’s no more than a hundred pounds, and these two pieces of shit broke her arm!”

  “So, what can we do about it? Beat them up? That’s big trouble for us. Arrest them? On what charge?”

  Tommy looked at his watch. “Listen to that; it’s early.” The sound was the whine of turboprop engines as the airplane approached the ramp. Tommy got up and stood near where the passengers would pass. “Come on, Daryl; let’s check it out.”

  Daryl went and stood next to him.

  “You remember the description?”

  “I remember.”

  “If you spot them, don’t look right at them; pretend you’re looking for somebody behind them.”

  “Right, Tommy,” Daryl said wearily.

  Tommy looked at Daryl in his jeans and Hawaiian shirt. “They’d never mak
e you, anyway; they’ve never seen a cop like you.” He laughed.

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humor,” Daryl grumbled.

  “Heads up!” Tommy said. “Lookahere.”

  There they were, the younger one still in his Armani suit, the gorilla in a sport shirt with the tails out, looking weary and grumpy. They were carrying overnight bags.

  “Don’t look at them,” Tommy commanded out of the side of his mouth.

  “All right, Tommy,” Daryl said, “I’m not looking at them.”

  The two men passed within inches of the detectives. Tommy watched as they headed for the rental car counter. “The big one’s renting the car-he’s using cash; the younger guy is on the hotel reservation phone. Let’s go get in the car.”

  They went out to the car, parked close to where the rental cars were. A few minutes later the two hoods left the airport building, walked across the street, and got into a Lincoln Town Car.

  “If they booked a hotel room, they must not know where she lives,” Tommy said. “Otherwise, they’d just go do what they gotta do, then get out.”

  “They’re tired,” Daryl said. “It was a long flight. Maybe they’re going to wait until morning.”

  Tommy stayed well back. He could see the younger man in the passenger seat, consulting a map and giving directions.

  Tommy followed the car down Roosevelt Boulevard, which turned into Truman. The car slowed, the map was consulted, and they turned right on Elizabeth.

  “I think I know where they’re going,” Tommy said.

  “You could be right.”

  The Lincoln drove down Elizabeth, crossed Caroline, turned left on Dey Street, and stopped.

  “Uh-oh,” Daryl said.

  But the Lincoln was moving again.

  “They were just having a look,” Tommy said as the Lincoln began moving again. He followed the car as it turned right on Simonton, then, a couple of blocks later, into the beachfront hotel near the Treasure Island marina. “They’ll be back in the morning, though.”

  “Tommy, we’re not going to babysit them all night, are we?”

  Tommy grinned. “We’ll take turns, kid.”

  53

  Tommy relieved Daryl at ten, and Daryl headed toward home, tired. Then he pulled the car over to the curb and stopped. Something was nagging at him, something about Merk’s actions on the night he was killed. He thought about it for a minute, then pulled back into traffic and drove toward Duval Street.

  He could hear the music two blocks before he got there. A dozen bars up and down the street were blaring competing music into the night. There was a noise ordinance, but it didn’t seem to matter. He thanked heaven he lived on the other side of town.

  He found a parking place and went back to the bar on the corner, entering through the back door. The place was packed, and the music was loud. It was full of gay couples and stags, and Daryl’s entrance was noted by most of them. He found a spot at the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought it back, Daryl leaned over the bar and shouted into the man’s ear, “Who owns the place?”

  “Why do you want to know?” the bartender shouted back, in what passed for a whisper in the crowded bar.

  “I have a badge,” Daryl said. “You want me to show it to you in front of all these people?”

  The bartender held up a finger. “Wait a minute,” he hollered. He walked to the opposite end of the bar, near the rear of the room, and spoke to a small man seated on a stool. After a few words the bartender looked back toward Daryl and waved him over.

  When Daryl reached the end of the bar, the stool next to the little man had been vacated. The owner was slender and very blond; he reminded Daryl of a photograph he had seen on a book jacket of the young Truman Capote.

  “So?” the man shouted.

  Daryl leaned toward him. “Is there somewhere a little quieter where we can talk?”

  The man wagged a finger at him. “Now why would I want to go somewhere quiet with a cop?” He waved an arm at the room. “Maybe there’s somebody you’d like to be introduced to?”

  Daryl leaned in again. “Do you know a man named Merk Connor?”

  “Sweetie,” the man said, “I know absolutely everybody who’s worth knowing. Is this Merk worth knowing?”

  “Not anymore,” Daryl shouted. “This Merk is dead.”

  The little man’s face went very white.

  Tommy walked through the hotel slowly, looking for the two men. He found them in the restaurant, tearing into large steaks and starting a second bottle of an expensive-looking Italian wine. He ordered a club soda at the bar and watched them through the rest of their dinner. They said almost nothing to each other during the meal. Finally, the handsome one paid the check with cash, and they left the table and went up in the elevator. Tommy followed them to the lobby and watched the numbers stop at four.

  He went to the front desk, which was manned by a short, middle-aged man with an extreme comb-over. “I need some information about two people who checked in earlier this evening,” he said.

  “We don’t normally give out information about our guests,” the man said.

  Tommy sighed and placed his badge on the counter, saying nothing.

  “But for you I’ll make an exception,” the man said. “What is it you want to know?”

  “The two men in question just left the dining room and went up to the fourth floor. I want to see their registration cards.”

  The desk clerk riffled through a stack of cards and placed two on the counter.

  “Mr. Oliver and Mr. Twist,” Tommy said aloud. “Somehow I didn’t expect literary allusions. Of Kansas City, Missouri. And I see they’re paying cash, no credit cards.”

  “We get some funny names now and then,” the desk clerk said. “Usually it’s a couple of salesmen from Miami who aren’t out of the closet yet and think they’re being discreet. They always pay cash; they don’t want their wives checking the credit card bills.”

  “What were your impressions of them?” Tommy asked.

  “The nice-looking one did all the talking,” the clerk said. “I got the impression that the big one could only grunt.”

  “Accent?”

  “None that I could place.”

  “Education?”

  The man grinned slightly. “None that I could place. Funny, I expected him to sound New Yorky, but he didn’t. His grammar was less than perfect.” He picked up a clipboard and ran a finger down a list. “They left a wakeup call for nine A.M.”

  “Late sleepers, huh?”

  “He said something about jet lag.”

  “Right. I want a room for the night, preferably on the ground floor, and I’d like your very best rate.”

  “For you, it’s comped,” the man said. “Anything to help out our mighty men on the force.”

  “You’re sweet,” Tommy said, accepting a key.

  “Right down the hall there, on your left. You can see the elevators, if you peek through the little hole in the door. That’s what you fellows do, isn’t it? Peek through doors?”

  “All the time,” Tommy replied. “Thanks.” He turned toward the room, and as he did, Daryl came through the front door, trying to look in-conspicuous. “What?” he said when the younger man approached.

  “Let’s talk,” Daryl said.

  “I just got a room; come on.” Tommy led the way down the hall, conscious of the gaze of the night clerk, opened the door, and showed Daryl in. It was one of the hotel’s better rooms, he suspected; it was large, had a seating area with a sofa and a pair of easy chairs, and sliding doors opened directly onto a small beach.

  “Not bad,” Daryl said. “How’d you do it?”

  “I think the desk clerk liked me,” Tommy said. “Have a seat; I’ve gotta call my wife.” He dialed the number.

  “You didn’t show for dinner,” she said without preamble.

  “I’m sorry about that, hon, but this case is heating up. I’m having to stay in a hotel over at the beach
tonight; Daryl and I are following two out-of-towners.”

  “Oh, is one of them the person on the phone in the middle of last night?”

  “Rosie, baby, she was calling from L.A. Her information led us to these two guys. Now, I don’t have time to run it all down for you, but here’s where I am.” He gave her the phone and room numbers. “Daryl and I are both going to be here all night.”

  “So now I have to worry about Daryl?”

  “Sweetie, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He hung up. “I’m starving; you want something from room service?” He tossed a menu at Daryl.

  “Who’s paying?”

  “The hotel.”

  “Caesar salad, prime rib, apple pie à la mode and a good red wine.”

  “Same here.” Tommy called in their orders, then hung up. “I’m going to take a short walk on the beach,” he said, going to the sliding doors and slipping off his shoes and socks.

  “Tommy, we have to talk.”

  “We’ll talk over dinner. Right now I have to think some, and by myself.”

  “Suit yourself,” Daryl said, opening the minibar and choosing a tiny bottle of good scotch.

  They were into the roast beef before Tommy would allow any discussion.

  “Now, what do we have to talk about?”

  “We’re going to have to rethink the secret man theory,” Daryl said. “At least where Merk is concerned.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “I got to thinking when I left here. You remember, I told you that the first time I followed Merk, he went in the front door of a bar and out the back door, and I thought he had gone to Clare’s house?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “He went to the same place the night he was murdered, too, only he didn’t go out the back door. As a matter of fact, he didn’t go out the back door the first time, either.”

  “So where did he go?”

  “Upstairs with the owner.”

  “To do what?”

  “Tommy, it’s a gay bar.”

  Tommy swallowed hard. “Oh.”

  “He’s been seeing the owner, a guy named Wilson Pater, for several weeks on a regular basis.”

  “I never would have figured him,” Tommy said.

  “Seems Merk was not exactly out of the closet yet. Pater said he was a little hard to get the first time.”