Stuart Woods - Choke

Prologue

WIMBLEDON
EARLY SEVENTIES

Chuck won the point, won the game. He sat down at court-side, pickedup a towel, mopped, then reached into his bag for a dry shirt.

Bud: Well, Dan, young Chuck Chandler has come a long way in thistournament.

Dan: Ill say he has, Bud. Coming intoWimbledon, this boy was ranked number one hundred in the world. Hestarted strong, then clawed his way up through the seeds, defeating twoformer champions along the way, and now he stands at the threshold of awhole new career. Would you say that, Cynthia?

Cynthia: I certainly would, Dan. Thisyoung man has the talent to beat anybody when hes playing this well,and the charm and looks to become a new matinee idol of tennis for theyoung female spectators. Off the court he handles himself with the kindof assurance that we have only just begun to see on the court at thisWimbledon.

Bud: And now Chuck Chandler has thereigning champion tied at two sets all and down five games to four, andhes just about to go out there and serve for the greatest of alltennis championships.

Chuck slipped into the clean shirt. He wanted to be cool and dry whenhe accepted the gold trophy from the duchess, smiling for the cameras,basking in the glow of his new fame. He thought ahead to the ball thatnight. Hed be dancing with the womens champion, pressing his crotchinto hers, as he had the night before in her hotel room. Theyd makequite a pair for the press, the dark-haired eighteen-year-old beautyand the handsome, golden twenty-two-year-old who came from nowhere towin Wimbledon. Thats what the press would be saying.

Mr. Chandler?

Chuck jerked back to the present.

Mr. Chandler, the umpire said, would you please take the court?

Chuck strode out to the baseline to a swelling roar of approval fromthe crowd. They had loved him from the moment he had defeated the firstformer champion in the first round, and now they showed it to thefullest. Chuck flashed his perfect teeth at them. They roared anew.

He accepted three balls on his racquet from the ball boy, tossedaway the fuzziest, and tucked one into a pocket. He positioned himselfat the baseline, looked down the court at the waiting champion, beganhis backswing, tossed the ball, and slammed an ace down the centerline.

The crowd went wild.

Fifteen-love, the umpire said over the loudspeaker.

Chuck walked to the opposite side of the court, positioned himself,and sent another serve straight down the centerline at 125 miles anhour.

The crowd went nuts.

Thirty-love, the umpire announced.

Chuck accepted balls from the ball boy, took his place, and thistime, just for variety, slammed his first serve into his opponentsforehand corner for a third ace.

The crowd went berserk.

Forty-love, the umpire announced.

Bud: Well, now. Young Chuck Chandleris standing on this court with three match points in his pocket and avery shaken champion staring helplessly back at him. Lets see if hecan put this championship away with the next serve.

Chuck thought about the Porsche Cabriolet he had seen in the showroomin New York. His first phone call after this match would be to thesalesman, whose card was in the pocket of his tennis shorts. Hed callfrom the dressing room, before he even got into a shower.

Mr. Chandler? the umpire said.

Chuck snapped back. The crowd chuckled.

Dan: Dreaming of glory, no doubt. Bud:Who could blame him?

Chuck served with all his power. The ball slapped against the tape atthe top of the net and fell back into his court. A groan from the crowd.

Chuck served again. The ball struck the net again. A noise of puremisery from the crowd. Forty-fifteen, the umpire announced.

Dan: Well, I suppose he can afford adouble fault at this point. Bud: Remember, with double faults its nothow often, its when.

Chuck felt a swell of anger at himself. Hed let his concentrationwander, and he had to settle down and think. He walked to the otherside of the court and served again, straight into the net.

A sound of shock from the crowd.

Chuck took a deep breath and served again without delay. The ballstruck the tape and died.

A worried, almost angry murmur rose from the crowd.

Forty-thirty, the umpire announced. Quiet please, ladies andgentlemen.

Bud: Thats two wasted match points,and hes only got one left. Can Chuck do it?

Dan: Were about to find out.

Suddenly Chucks fresh shirt was soaked. He wiped the sweat from hiseyes and glanced down the court at the champion. Was that a small smileon the bastards face? His heart seemed to be beating irregularly. Illdo this one by the numbers, he thought. Foot pointed at thenetpost, feet a shoulders width apart, racquet held for a flat, hardserve, straight-armed toss, mighty swing. The ball hit the tape andbounced off the court. The crowd gasped.

Dan: This is difficult to believe,Bud. For a player who has come this far to put five consecutive servesinto the net is absolutely astonishing.

Bud: Im speechless, Dan. Chuck is stillat match point, though; lets see if he can pull this one out.

Chuck stood, sweat pouring down his face into his eyes.

Second service, please, Mr. Chandler, the umpire said, not withoutsympathy.

There could be no second serve in this position; he had to pull justone more ace out of the hat. He walked to courtside, picked up a towel,wiped his face, and returned to the baseline. By the time he arrivedthe sweat was in his eyes again.

Please, God. He set himself up, taking his time, tossed theball, and put his last match point unerringly into the net.

The crowd was absolutely silent.

Deuce, the umpire said.

Twenty-four minutes later in the dressing room, Chuck knelt beforethe porcelain throne and puked his guts out. He had lost the next twopoints; he had lost the next two games; he had lost the Wimbledonchampionship. He had lost the best opportunity a boy ever had to becomea hero.

He had lost more than he knew.

Dan: Bud, what happened out there on the center court?

Bud: There can be only one explanation,Dan, just one. Chuck choked.

CHAPTER 1

KEY WEST
FEBRUARY 1995

Chuck woke in a sweat, his heart pounding as hard as it hadtwenty-odd years before. The Wimbledon dream was back. The brass clockon the bulkhead said 9:20, and he was starting his new job at 10:00. Hedove into the boats tiny shower and sluiced away the sweat.

At a quarter to ten, freshly shaved and dressed in clean whites, hestepped ashore at Key West Bight, the racquet bag in his hand and thesunglasses perched on top of his blond head. He looked around him. Itwas a pretty odd collection of vessels compared to the marina at PalmBeach. There were sightseeing catamarans, a large schooner or two forthe more traditional-minded tourists, and a weird submarinelike vessel,along with the usual assortment of fishing boats and live-aboard yachts.

His own boat was a thirty-two-foot twin-screw motor yacht that hadbeen custom-built in the fifties at an old-line yard in Maine. He hadlived aboard her for nearly three years, since the time when he had hadto choose between the condo and the boat. The condo had never had achance. He worked hard at keeping the boat beautiful, and she rewardedthe effort. Her black hull was unmarked, her mahogany trim was bright,and her teak decks were clean and well oiled.

She was named Choke. He preferred to make the jokehimself, before somebody else brought it up, as somebody always did.

Hed have to rig up the gangplank, he thought, looking at thethree-foot gap between the boats stern and the concrete wharf. Thewomen wouldnt like making that jump.