Free Choke by Stuart Woods Page B

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
    C huck 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