by Stuart Woods
“What did Merk have to say to you?” Victor asked, draining the last of his red.
“Not much; his principal concern seemed to be that none of the customers find out that I got busted.”
“Well, he’s got a business to run, I guess,” Victor said, “whereas all you and I do is show up.”
Meg found another bottle of wine and refilled their glasses. “I think Merk’s a shit.”
“He’s not so bad,” Victor said.
“Oh, Victor,” Chuck said, “you never speak ill of anybody.”
“Well, not while they’re around, anyway. Merk’s been okay to me, though, and I know him pretty well by now.”
Chuck drew on his new glass of wine. Much of the stress of an awful twenty-four hours had drained from him, and he was feeling loose. “I’ll bet I can tell you something about Merk you don’t know,” Chuck said.
“I don’t see how you could,” Victor said. “After all, I’ve been around here for a couple of years, and you’re the new boy.”
“Still,” Chuck replied.
“You got any brandy?” Victor asked.
“Would you get some cognac, please, Meg? The cheap stuff; it’s for Victor.”
Meg brought a bottle of Courvoisier and three glasses to the table and poured them all a slug.
“So, Chuckster,” Victor said, “what could you possibly know about Merk that I don’t? You been sleeping with him?”
“Not likely,” Meg said, resting her head on Chuck’s shoulder. “I’ve been taking up all his time and talent.”
“You told me once that Merk’s ex-wife had stripped him of most of his worldly goods,” Chuck said, sampling the brandy.
“I told you, and it’s true,” Victor said.
“Do you know who the ex-wife, the holder of his former goods, is?”
Victor blinked and had some brandy. “It was before he came to Key West,” he said. “Before I won his confidence. A lady in another part of the world.”
Chuck shook his head slowly. “Nope,” he said, grinning. He sipped his brandy.
“Nope, what?” Victor asked, his eyes half closed. “Jesus, this is good cognac.”
“I brought it from the Bahamas,” Meg said. “Duty free.”
“Free is all that matters,” Victor said. “Was I saying something?”
“No,” Chuck said.
“Yes, I was; I just can’t remember what.”
“You were asking about Merk’s ex-wife,” Meg said helpfully.
“No,” Victor said, wagging a forefinger at her, “Chuck was asking about Merk’s ex.”
“No, Chuck was telling.”
“Telling what?”
“About Victor’s ex-wife.”
“I’m Victor, last time I checked.” He pulled out the waistband of his trousers and regarded his crotch. “Yup, I’m Victor. Who’s the ex-wife?”
“Clare,” Chuck said.
Victor squinted at him. “Clare?”
“Clare.”
“She’s Harry’s ex-wife. Sorry, ex-widow. Widow.”
Chuck shook his head. “Nope. Merk’s.”
“Merk’s widow?”
“Ex-wife.”
Having exhausted all the possibilities, Victor finally got it right. “Merk’s ex-wife?”
“Right.”
“Who?”
“Clare.”
“Clare is Merk’s ex-wife?”
“Now you’ve got it,” Chuck said.
Victor grinned and looked at Chuck suspiciously. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I shit you not.”
“Merk and Clare?”
Chuck nodded slowly.
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”
“Meg and I know somebody who knew them both when they were married, in Las Vegas.”
“Clare and Merk?”
“Man and wife. Ex.”
“Do you mean…” Victor paused and belched. “… that I am the only employee of the Olde Island Racquet Club who has not fucked the lovely Clare?”
“Only you can accurately draw that conclusion, Victor,” Chuck said, enjoying Victor’s astonishment.
“The story of my fucking life,” Victor said. “Even in high school, the other guys got the beauties. I got the girl jocks. Is there any more brandy?”
Meg poured him some more, but withheld the glass. “Only if you stay here tonight,” she said.
Victor drew himself up to his full height. “You think I can’t drive?”
“That’s what I think,” Meg said. “You’re sleeping in the saloon.”
“If you insist,” Victor said. “About the brandy, I mean.”
“About sleeping in the saloon,” Meg said firmly.
“Oh, all right. I’m very sure I could drive, but I’m not sure I could walk to the car.” He turned and looked at Chuck again. “You really mean I’m the only one who hasn’t fucked Clare?”
“Life is unjust,” Chuck replied, sipping his brandy.
“It’s unfair, too,” Victor said glumly.
48
Chuck was shaken awake at eight o’clock by Meg. “Come on,” she said, “you’ll be late for work.”
He blinked in the morning light; his head felt very large. “Boy, did I overdo it last night,” he said. “Is Victor still here?”
“He’s trying to drink some coffee; I suggest you do the same,” Meg said. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”
When Chuck emerged into the saloon Victor was holding a mug of coffee in both hands and staring at a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.
“Eat it, Victor,” Meg was saying, “it’ll do you good.”
“It’ll do me in,” Victor moaned.
“Eat.”
He picked up a fork and tried.
Chuck sat down next to him, feigning good health. “So, pal, you tied one on last night, did you?”
“You could say that,” Victor replied, gulping down some egg. “My best recollection is that you had a few, too.”
“I guess,” Chuck replied, downing some orange juice and trying to keep it there. And when Meg put down the plate of bacon and eggs, he couldn’t look at it. “Okay, I guess I’m a tad hung over,” he admitted.
“That makes me feel so much better,” Victor said.
They arrived together fifteen minutes before the first student was due. After they were dressed, Merk called them into his little office. Chuck had to stand.
“I wanted to talk to both of you,” he said.
“Does it have to be now, Merk?” Victor asked.
“It may as well be.”
“What’s up?” Chuck asked.
“I’ve decided to give up the Key West club and concentrate on Santa Fe. I’ve got a local investor out there who will finance fixing up the facilities, and I think by concentrating on the one place I can do better. Which leaves the Olde Island Racquet Club up for sale-the remainder of my lease, which runs another four years, the computer and office equipment, and the stock in the shop. You guys interested?”
Chuck and Victor looked at each other. “Yes,” they said simultaneously.
“Okay, here’s the deal, and I’m afraid there’s no room for negotiation, it’s take it or leave it. I want twenty-five grand for my lease and goodwill, plus fifty percent of the retail value of the shop goods-I reckon that comes to another fifteen grand. So it’s twenty thousand apiece, and it’s yours. I reckon if you both go on teaching and hire somebody to run the shop and keep the schedule and the books, you can make out okay. When the lease is up in four years, you’ll have to renegotiate with the hotel, but I doubt if there’ll be any competition for the lease. I’ll stay on for a week and teach the computer program to whoever you hire to do the bookkeeping. What do you say?”
“You mind if we talk about it for a minute?” Chuck asked.
“Go right ahead.”
Chuck pulled Victor into the locker room. “What do you think?”
“I’ve been expecting this, so I’ve already ru
n the numbers, and it sounds good to me. Do you think Meg would do the inside job?”
“Probably. You want to do this?”
“Okay with me.”
“I’m assuming you’ve got twenty grand,” Chuck said, grinning.
“I can manage a check today.”
“I can write a check on my brokerage account.”
“That didn’t get tied up for bail?”
“No, just the boat.”
“One other thing, Chuck; are you going to beat the murder rap?”
“I didn’t do it, so I’m going to beat it. Trust me on that, Victor.”
They went back into the office. “You’ve got a deal,” Chuck said, and they all shook hands on it.
Merk produced three copies of a short document. “This outlines what we’ve agreed. Please look it over.”
The two pros both read the document. “Suits me,” Chuck said, and Victor nodded. Everybody signed.
The two new partners took the court feeling their hangovers much less. During their lunch break they paid Merk, sealing the deal.
At the end of the day, Victor said, “How you feeling?”
“Pretty good, considering,” Chuck replied. “I think I’ve sweated out my hangover.”
“Me, too,” Victor said. “Why don’t you go get Meg, let’s go to Louie’s for dinner and do it all over again? I think we’re due a celebration.”
“You’re on, partner.”
The three of them sat on the rear deck at Louie’s Backyard sipping vodka gimlets and perusing the menu.
“You know,” Victor said, “I knew Merk was thinking about this, but I was worried about handling it on my own. I’m glad to have a partner; if the truth be told, I’m not a businessman.”
“Bad news,” Chuck said, “neither am I.”
Meg looked up from her menu. “I am,” she said, “and I’ve got some money to invest. I can run the shop and keep the books, and it seems to me there ought to be a kids’ program. I could handle that; I used to teach tennis at a summer camp.”
The two pros looked at each other, then Victor put his hand on hers. “Sweetie,” he said, “I have the feeling you know a lot more about what you’re talking about than either of us. Why don’t we make it a three-way partnership?”
Meg beamed. “I think I can handle that,” she said.
“Waiter,” Chuck called, “three more vodka gimlets!”
When they left the restaurant they found themselves in possession of two cars and only one person, Meg, sober enough to drive.
“All right,” she said, “pile into the Speedster; Victor, you’re sleeping aboard Choke again.”
“Your wish… et cetera, madam,” Victor said, squeezing into the small space behind the two seats.
“We’re not going to make a habit of this, though,” she said, “partners or no partners.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Victor muttered, then began snoring.
Half an hour later, the three of them were in the same beds they had occupied the night before.
49
Merk Connor left the tennis club later than usual and drove home. He unlocked the door of the little Conch house and picked up the mail, which had come through the slot in the door and was now scattered on the hall floor. He poured himself a rum and tonic and sat down to open what he expected would be nothing but bills.
Then, at the bottom of the stack, he found an envelope with no stamp and his name written in a flowing hand. He thought he recognized the handwriting, and anxiously he tore open the envelope. Inside he found a note and a check made out in his name in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars, unsigned. He read the note; it was brief:
Bring this note to the Gulfstream marina on Stock Island at three A.M. sharp tomorrow morning, and I’ll sign the check. Be sure you’re not followed. I’ll be in slip 19.
Merk looked at the check and thought about how far it would go to solve his financial problems. He put it back into the envelope and laid it on the end table, then went to change clothes.
Daryl was on his second night of watching Merk Connor, and he couldn’t say he was enjoying the stakeout. He had a magazine, but he couldn’t turn on the dome light to read it without attracting attention to himself, and the batteries were getting weak in his portable radio. He and Tommy were spread thin, what with watching both Merk and Clare Carras, so he had a long night to look forward to.
Then he saw, as he had the last time, a figure leave the back door of the house and vault over the fence. He got the car started, drove around the block to Duval, and, just as he had before, Merk emerged into the street and walked briskly west.
This time, Daryl stayed in the car. He followed Merk down the street, stopping from time to time and waving traffic around him, and when Merk turned into the same bar, Daryl drove to the corner and stopped, watching both entrances. When Merk did not emerge from either, Daryl parked the car, walked across the street, sat down in an outdoor cafe, and ordered coffee. Nobody was getting out of that bar whom he wouldn’t see.
Two and a half hours later, Merk emerged from the door he had entered and walked back toward his house. Daryl followed him all the way, watching as he let himself in the back door. Twenty minutes later, one by one, all the lights in the house went off. Daryl settled in for the night watch.
At two-thirty A.M. the alarm went off, and Merk sat up in bed. He was hung over and sleepy, but he forced himself to get dressed. He was about to go out the front door when he remembered that he had been warned against being followed. With the lights still off he peeped through the venetian blinds in the living room and saw the car that had followed him earlier in the evening. It was strategically parked so as to cover both the front and rear entrances.
Merk thought for a moment, then picked up the envelope on the end table, put it into his pocket, and went into the kitchen. He opened a window on the side of the house opposite the car and stepped out into the night, leaving the window open so that he could reenter the same way. His motor scooter was in the garage with his car. He backed out the scooter and pushed it a block from the house before kicking the starter, then he headed toward Stock Island. The streets of Key West were eerily empty at this time of night, and he headed for the eastern end of the island, past the tennis club, toward the airport. From there he continued northward, over the bridge and onto Stock Island. He turned right at the first traffic signal, remembering that the marinas were at the end of this road.
He wasn’t sure which one was the Gulfstream, but there was a large sign. He remembered then that this was an older marina that had silted over and was no longer useful for larger boats. He parked the scooter in the deserted parking lot and headed toward the pontoons, passing a sign that read NO LIVEABOARDS. A single bulb illuminated the entrance to the slips; after that it was dark, with no lighting for the pontoons, and he took care not to fall into the water. He could barely see the slip numbers painted on the pontoons.
Near the end of the pontoons, not far from the entrance to the marina, he came to number nineteen, which was occupied by a small cabin cruiser. Through drawn curtains, he could see a glimmer of light from inside. Not wanting to call out, he rapped sharply on the hull. There was no response. The boat was moored stern to, and he stepped lightly aboard. The cabin door was closed, and as he was about to knock on it a familiar voice said, “Come in.”
Merk opened the door and stepped down into the cabin. At first it appeared that there was no one inside. Straight ahead of him was a table on which there were a small lamp providing the only light, a bottle of Myers’s rum, and a glass. Then Merk felt something cold and metallic on the back of his neck.
“Sit down, Merk,” the familiar voice said, “and have a drink.”
Merk was afraid for the first time, and he didn’t move.
“No need to be worried,” the voice said. “After we’ve talked for a while I’ll sign the check, and you can go. Now sit down.”
Merk seated himself at the table, his back to his host.
/> “Pour yourself a drink,” the voice said. “A large one.”
Merk picked up the bottle of rum and poured a stiff drink.
“More.”
He poured until the glass was half full.
“Fill the glass to the brim.”
Merk did as he was told.
“Now drink it.”
“All of it?” Merk asked.
“Every drop. Get it down.”
Merk began to drink, and it was not as hard to swallow as he had feared.
“Go on,” the voice said. “It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
Merk took a deep breath and finished off the glass.
“Now put the check on the table, and I’ll sign it.”
Merk reached into his pocket, produced the envelope, and placed it on the cabin table.
“Take it out of the envelope; the note, too.”
Merk did as he was told. Then something heavy smashed into the back of his neck, and he fell into unconsciousness.
Daryl sipped coffee from his Thermos and waited for Merk to leave the house for the tennis club. At ten past nine he began to wonder what was wrong. The club opened at nine, and it was his information that Merk was always there first. He picked up his phone and called Tommy.
“It’s Daryl. Merk is late leaving for work.”
“Give it half an hour and call me back,” Tommy said.
Daryl waited the half hour, sipping his coffee, then called back. “He’s still in the house.”
“Hang on, I’ll call the number.”
Daryl waited patiently until Tommy came back.
“No answer. I called the tennis club and got an answering machine.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Knock on the door; if there’s no answer go in, if it’s unlocked. Call me back.”
Daryl got out of the car, walked down the street to the little house, and knocked loudly on the front door, trying to think of something to say if Merk answered. No answer. He tried the door and it was unlocked, so he stepped inside. “Merk?” he called out. No reply. He walked around the house, looked into the bedroom with its unmade bed, saw the mail on the end table, checked the kitchen. He got out his phone.
“Tommy?”