Trap Line (12 page)

“Mañana,”
Oscar said finally. It was a promise. He stalked from the wheelhouse, dragging the injured man with him.

A shiver danced along Albury’s spine. “Jimmy,” he said softly, “what have we got besides your shotgun?”

“Not much. A couple of fish knives, the spear gun, the flare pistol. And the bang stick.”

“The knives are down below,” Augie said absently.

“Go get them, Augie. We’re all going to stay up here in the pilothouse until we reach Key Largo. Augie?”

Albury turned to look at the young Cuban. Augie’s face wore a far-off gaze; his jaw was working.

“Did you see what Oscar was wearing?” he asked. “That big gold watch with the green stones on the band, like emeralds?”

Albury nodded. “I saw it when he walked in. A watch on both wrists, for Christ’s sake.”

“Breeze, when I left the wounded guy down there—the one who’s gut-shot—
he
was wearing that emerald watch.”

Later, Albury and his mates would learn that the Colombians had thrown their badly injured
compadre
into the ocean. They could never know if he was still alive when he hit.

THE SQUALL WAS
worse than Albury had expected. The wind gusted to thirty knots and pushed the waves to nine feet. Water cascaded across the bow and lashed the windshield with opaque sheets. The
Diamond Cutter
rolled wickedly, battling the sea that snapped with white fangs at her hull. In the wheelhouse, the features of the three men were illuminated only by the green glow of the dials.

Jimmy and Augie clung nervously to whatever they could, but Albury was placid. He found the squall—it was not big enough to think of as a storm—calming. Not for a moment did he question the
Diamond Cutter
’s strength, or his own skill. He would not have taken her out on a night like this, but together they had ridden out far worse, Albury and the
Diamond Cutter.

The weather brought three blessings. It quieted the Colombians: retching, pathetic bundles, clutching with peasant strength to anything solid. It also ruled out pursuit from the sea. And it allowed Albury to smoke. There was nothing he needed to see except the compass dial, and the jagged streaks of lightning served as eerie purple strobes.

The sole intruder in the wheelhouse then was the radio. If it had been left to Jimmy, the VHF would be off and rock music would be blaring from a tinny portable cassette deck. Augie, Albury suspected, would have steered in silence, as his forebears had.

By habit, Albury left the radio tuned to channel 16, the hailing frequency monitored by the Coast Guard. There had been the normal nighttime banter as the
Diamond Cutter
approached the Florida coastline, and one boat captain laconically reporting engine trouble, but not much else. Reception was capricious amidst the thunderheads; the radio mostly crackled and spat.

Listening to it with half an ear while he conned the
Diamond Cutter
to an uncertain homecoming was the worst mistake Breeze Albury made that night. He should have listened to Jimmy’s rock music. Or to silence. For the radio destroyed his pride.

All three men heard the call for help. It was weak, the transmission scored by static, but they heard it.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is the
Darlin’ Betty
, Whiskey Kilo Alfa Three Six Six. I lost my bilge pump and I’m taking water about two miles east of French Reef. I’ve got three men and a boy aboard … can you read, Coast Guard?”

“That’s a lobster boat,” Jimmy said. “What the hell is he doing out here?”

By law, crawfish boats were not permitted to pull traps after dusk or before dawn. “Maybe he’s just on his way to Miami for engine work,” Augie said, “or maybe he’s out here doin’ what we’re doing.”

Jimmy said, “Breeze, he’s only about ten miles south of us.”

“Mayday, Mayday!” the radio cried.

“I
know
where he is,” Albury said. Sweat sprouted. His guts churned. The rain fell softer.

“Let’s go,” Augie said.

“Hot damn, a rescue,” said Jimmy. “It’ll be another
Vixen
, Breeze.”

Albury could have wept for their innocence.

The
Vixen.
He hadn’t been able to buy a drink on Duval Street for nearly a year after that. What had it been, eight, nine years now? The boat had been still new, still the
Peggy
, and one morning just to shake her down he had run over to the Dry Tortugas; to fish, to snorkel, and to wander the ruins of old Fort Jefferson.

On the way back the weather had gone to hell in a hurry. Albury had just about decided to run for cover in the Marquesas when the
Vixen
came on channel 16. A motor ketch, fifty-two feet, a lovely boat she must have been, but when Albury got to her she was dismasted and listing badly, the captain fighting feverishly to free the dinghy and keep the lines around three crying kids and a sick wife. Albury had been lucky to get them all off, and even luckier to get back to Key West. It was not until then that he had discovered the captain he had saved was a United States senator. The clippings were someplace in the trailer, together with the letter of commendation from the Coast Guard. Unless Peg had taken them.

But this was not the
Vixen
, not a famous stranger but a member of Albury’s own tribe: a Conch fisherman. Albury knew the
Darlin’ Betty;
it worked out of Marathon. And he knew the captain, a gangling retired Navy CPO named Hawk Trumbull. The boy on board would be his grandson.

And Albury knew there was nothing that he could do to help. He averted his face so the two young mates would not see the tears of rage and shame.

The distress call echoed again over the VHF.

“Breeze,” Jimmy urged, “we got to change course.” He reached for the microphone. “I’ll tell them we’re comin’.”

Albury brushed the hand away. “
Think
, goddamnit. Think.”

Jimmy withdrew his hand as though it had been scalded. He looked like a baffled puppy: Albury never yelled at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“What the fuck do you think is wrong? Have you forgotten about our cargo? Hawk Trumbull might understand why I’m carrying twenty dirtbags named José, but the boys at the Coast Guard station won’t—”

“But their boat is sinking….”

“I know, Augie. I’m praying that somebody else is nearby. I can’t get caught with these assholes on board, son. They’ll lock the three of us up and seize the
Diamond Cutter.
I can’t afford that. Now, turn up the radio and let’s listen.”

The next ten minutes were the longest Albury would endure. Hands wrapped protectively around the wheel, he stared straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield. The silence was wracking; Albury could taste the resentment and bewilderment that flowed from Jimmy and Augie. Jimmy did not really understand. Augie did, and, understanding, he would have run hell-for-leather to the sinking boat anyway. From the corner of his eye, Albury watched Augie. If he were five years older, he would cold-cock me and take the helm, Albury thought. That is what I would have done. Once.

The squall was losing its fury, and the
Diamond Cutter
rode easier. Albury willed the radio to life. The Coast Guard, a tanker, a long-liner, surely somebody had heard the
Darlin’ Betty’s
distress call. They were near the shipping lanes now, but tonight, perversely, there were no ships at sea. Or they were all deaf. No one had heard the dying call a Conch fisherman had launched into the thunder-heads. There was no one but Breeze Albury to lift the microphone and say he was on his way.

He had to go, but he could not. Twice his hands began to spin the wheel for a more precise course toward the stricken craft, but twice he drew back. To go would be to lose everything: his boat, his freedom, his ticket off the Keys, even his son. Not to go was to lose his manhood. Feverish with self-disgust, Albury could devise no alternative. He looked straight ahead.

Then the radio whined to life a final time.

“Mayday, Mayday, somebody …” It was the excited voice of a boy. “Grandpa is hurt and we are leaving the boat. Good-bye.”

“Dear God in heaven!” This time Albury made no attempt to hide the tears. Jimmy bit his lip and turned away.

“Mayday, please,” came the last faint transmission.

Albury flicked the wheel a few points to port and opened the throttle to its last stop. He snatched the microphone, but he did not say what he wanted to say. The squall was abating to a mist. There was one chance for Hawk Trumbull now, one that would save Albury as well.

“Mayday! Mayday!” Albury barked through a dry throat. “This is the fishing vessel
Darlin’ Betty
, Whiskey Kilo Alpha Three Six Six. We are sinking two miles east of French Reef, six miles southwest of the Elbow. Abandoning ship. Can you copy, Mayday!”

The response was instantaneous.

“Darlin’ Betty
, this is Coast Guard Islamorada. Could you repeat your position?”

Thank God, Albury thought. Thank God the
Diamond Cutter
had a decent radio. He repeated Trumbull’s position, nine miles southwest of his own, then broke off in mid-sentence to make it sound as though he had lost power.

“Stand by,” the Coast Guard operator said. “Stand by.”

Albury could imagine figures hunched tensely around a plotting table, a duty officer rubbing sleep from his eyes, a klaxon sounding to awaken a crew. It was too dark for a helicopter. It would have to be a patrol boat.

Even flat out from the Coast Guard station at Plantation Key, an able patrol boat would need thirty minutes. The
Diamond Cutter
would be there first.

“What are the Colombians doing, Jimmy?” Albury asked, as though it mattered. They could do anything they wanted now; their presence alone was enough to destroy Albury and his boat.

“They’re mostly lyin’ around on the deck, Breeze. I think the storm made ’em wish they were dead.”

The radio swamped Albury’s response.

“Darlin’ Betty
, this is Coast Guard Islamorada. The cutter
Dauntless
is thirteen miles north northeast of your position and will assist.”

Dauntless.
A good ship. Probably looking for me, Albury thought ruefully. And now she’ll find me.

Then, with mournful precision, the Coast Guard operator began that universal sailors’ litany of hope and despair.

“Calling all ships. The fishing vessel
Darlin’ Betty
reports she is sinking off French Reef in two hundred feet of water. Coast Guard has lost radio contact. All ships in the area please respond to a sector two miles east of French Reef, over.”

Albury cursed himself for forgetting to say how many people were aboard Trumbull’s boat. He listened without expression while better men accepted the challenge of the sea.

Out in the Florida Straits, the Norwegian captain of a giant bulk carrier, Maracaibo to Boston, rang for more speed and to hell with the company computers that would later demand an accounting for unprogrammed fuel expenditure. Bending over his ship-to-shore, the Chinese deck officer of a rusty freighter bound for Charleston from Shanghai decided to risk criticism and altered course. Marine radios were suddenly alive with promising voices intent on a single purpose. In their midst, the
Diamond Cutter
sailed alone, in shame and silence.

As the ship captains exchanged positions, Augie listened somberly, his jaw set. “Too far away, all of them, Breeze,” he said.

“Yeah. Looks like we’re up.”

“It’ll work out,” Jimmy offered. “It’s a rescue, Breeze, what are they gonna do? Give us a medal, then throw us in jail for smuggling?”

“The law is the law,” Albury replied.

“This is the Keys, man,” Jimmy said.

“We’d better get on the radio and tell ’em we’re in the area,” Augie urged. “We’re so close now they might mistake us for the
Darlin’ Betty.”

“Yeah.”

They were good boys, both of them, Albury reflected. Maybe he could tell Customs that they hadn’t known about the illegals, or that he had forced them to come along, threatened them. Maybe that would get them off the hook. And thank God he had not let Ricky talk him into coming, too.

Albury’s palms were moist, but his hands were steady when he lifted the VHF microphone from its holder.

“Let’s go out in style,” he murmured, then cleared his throat.

“Coast Guard Islamorada, this is the fishing vessel
Diamond Cutter
, Captain William Albury. I’m in the area of French Reef and I will assist the Mayday, over. My posi—”

“… in the storm.”

The foggy voice leaped from the
Diamond Cutter
’s tinny radio speaker. It was a Latin voice, speaking slow and deliberate English.

“Por Dios
, he must be right on top of us. Who is he?” Augie grabbed a pair of binoculars and bounded from the wheelhouse.

“Your transmission is broken up,” the Coast Guard operator said patiently. “Vessel calling, please repeat.”

Albury took a deep breath, the microphone dangling loosely from his right hand. Talk! he wanted to scream. Talk back and save me.

“This is the motor vessel
Rio Limay,”
the Latin voice answered at last. “Buenos Aires to New York, general cargo. My antenna was damaged in a storm, but I have heard the Mayday. I believe I am now in the location of the vessel in distress. Coast Guard, do you read?”

“This is the Coast Guard Islamorada calling the motor vessel
Rio Limay.
You’re breaking up on the VHF; can you call on ship-to-shore, over?”

“Breeze!” Augie shouted from the deck. “Dead ahead, about half a mile.”

Albury saw the squat form of the freighter, black in the predawn grayness, almost dead in the water. It lay straight off the
Diamond Cutter
’s bow.

A white flare suddenly burst farther inshore, spitting pink sparks into the mist. Albury eased the helm, dropped the throttle a couple notches, and killed his running lights. In a dense stillness, the crawfish boat wallowed parallel to the freighter.

“Coast Guard calling all vessels. The motor vessel
Rio Limay
reports contact with the crew of the vessel in distress. Cutter
Dauntless
is en route with ETA of fifteen minutes.”