THE P R O P E R T Y O F the Key West Yacht Club was entered from busy Roosevelt Boulevard, and the clubhouse was an unassuming 1950s-era building, surrounded by a large parking lot and a good-sized marina. There was a party going aboard a traditional motor yacht moored near the entrance to the driveway. Stone found a parking place, and they walked into the club, taking a left into a roomy bar sheltering a crowd of happy-sounding people. Tommy Sculley waved them over to a corner of the bar, where he introduced them to a couple.
“Stone Barrington, Dino Bacchetti, this is Jack Spottswood and his wife, Terry, local lawyer and real estate broker, respectively.”
Hands were shaken.
“Jack, I think we met in Atlanta a few years ago,” Stone said. “A real estate closing, as I remember.”
“That’s right, we did,” Spottswood said. “Nice to see you again. I hear you and Dino used to practice the police arts in New York with Tommy.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stone said. “We were all street detectives, and only Dino prospered in the work. Tommy and I got out when we could.”
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“Yeah, Stone, sure,” Tommy said. “I retired in good order; you got your ass bounced by Captain Leary and the other brass.”
“True enough,” Stone said. “There’s enough in that story for a novel. I’ll tell it to you when I’m drunker.”
“Speaking of drunk,” Spottswood said, “we’re all invited to a party on a yacht next to the club.”
“The traditional one?” Stone asked.
“She’s a 1937 Trumpy,” Spottswood said. “A member here, the local tennis pro, Chuck Chandler, just fi nished restoring her.”
“There’s that name again,” Stone said.
“Yeah, the Chuck Choke. He hasn’t lived it down yet.”
“Come on, let’s go see Chuck’s new boat,” Terry said. They walked out of the bar and around to the yacht; her name on the stern was Choke II. They stepped aboard into the large cockpit, which was filled with people drinking with both hands. A tall, deeply tanned man in his late thirties with sun-bleached hair made his way toward them, and Spottswood introduced them to Chuck Chandler. A pretty girl with a tray of champagne glasses came over and gave everybody one.
“She’s very beautiful,” Stone said to Chuck.
“Yes, she is,” Chuck replied, watching the girl walk away.
“I was referring to the yacht, but I can’t argue the point. She’s a Trumpy, I hear. The yacht, I mean.”
“Yep, 1937.”
“How’d you come by her?”
“I had a client at the Olde Island Tennis Club for some years, and he died last year. I had been helping him with the finish work on the restoration, and to my astonishment, he left her to me. She already had new engines and electronics, and her hull had been painted. All I really had to do to her was a hell of a lot of varnishing.”
“You did a very fine job,” Stone said, touching a bit of mahogany.
“How many coats?”
“Ten, and I’ll give her another coat every year. It’ll give me something to do in the summers, when business is slow.”
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“You know your varnishing, Chuck.”
“I had a lot of experience restoring her predecessor, a thirtytwo-foot one-off that I lived aboard. This one is forty-four feet, and, believe me, the extra room is going to come in handy.”
“May I see below?” Stone asked.