Trap Line (16 page)

“Sure,” Crystal said. What a poor sap this guy was. “But I really don’t see what the big deal is. It happened a hundred miles away, Shorty. It’s not a Key West case, is it?”

“The chief is interested,” Whitting replied curtly. As he moved toward the door, a suitcase-sized radio mounted over the workbench crackled to life.

“Smilin’ Jack, this is Lucky Seven, do you copy, over?” The signal was weak, but the voice was distinct. Crystal swiftly rolled himself across the workshop.

“Smilin’ Jack? Can you copy, please? This—”

Crystal twisted the volume control to zero. The voice died in the speaker box.

“Who’s that?” Shorty asked curiously.

“Some fuckin’ crank. He’s been jamming up the radio all morning. The Coast Guard ought to throw his sorry ass in jail.”

Whining studied the sophisticated VHF radio. “How far can you listen with this thing?”

“Depends,” Crystal said. “Depends on the atmosphere.”

Crystal waited until he heard Whitting’s patrol car roll out of the gravel drive. He turned back to the radio, playing the dials like a maestro.

“Lucky Seven, this is Smilin’ Jack, over. Can you copy?” he asked urgently.

“It’s about time, you lazy sonofabitch,” came the voice of Breeze Albury.

A few minutes later Albury came down from the pilothouse. Jimmy and Augie were scrubbing the mess from Key Largo off the fishing deck.

“Anchors up,” Albury said. “We got trouble.” He told them of his conversation with Crystal. Word was out about the fiasco with the Colombians. Tom knew about it; Barnett already was asking questions.

Albury took the
Diamond Cutter
to Bud N’ Mary’s to gas up. Jimmy and Augie went for groceries, Albury for a telephone.

“Good morning,” said Mark Haller on the other end.

“I was afraid you’d be out rousting trap robbers,” Albury said.

“Naw. I used up my gas allotment for August, so I can’t take the boat out. How d’you like that shit—a Marine patrolman who can’t go out on the water?”

“The State of Florida strikes again,” Albury said. “Mark, I need a favor. I was around Key Largo yesterday …”

“You weren’t involved with those damn Colombians?”

“What Colombians?”

“Christ, Breeze, I remember back when you were a decent fisherman.”

Albury grimaced. Jimmy stood outside the phone booth and pointed to the palm of his hand. Albury opened the glass door and handed him a damp fifty-dollar bill.

“I talked with a friend of mine,” Albury said. “He said there’s a load coming in at Bahia Honda tonight.”

“So what do you want from me? I told you I ain’t got a boat with any gas in it.”

“Just tell me, is it Tom’s load?”

“That’s what I heard,” Haller said. “Five tons. If I knew exactly where they were bringing it in, I’d go sit there in my truck and cut loose a few rounds when the boats came.”

“Well, I know exactly where,” Albury said. He told Haller his plan, and he told him what he needed.

“You’ve got magnesium balls,” the Marine patrolman sighed. “John Cotter is on air-patrol duty this week. His truck is parked at the Exxon station in Marathon. What you need is in there, under the front seat. Don’t get caught.”

Albury asked Haller to pass the word to Ricky and Laurie that he was alive.

“Where are you?” Haller asked.

“Moving,” Albury said. “Fast.”

“I got some news about your crawfish traps, if you’re still interested. I know it’s pretty dull stuff for a big-time smuggler. Just fishermen’s gossip.”

“I’m interested,” Albury said impatiently.

“There’s a boat called
El Gallo.
Captain’s a Cuban named Willie Bascaro. Forty-six feet. Radar. A dope boat. Willie works for Winnebago Tom.”

“That’s the boat that cut my traps?”

“Willie got drunk the other night at the Casa Marina and started bragging in Spanish about it. Some of the Key West Cubans heard. Tom was there. Had one of his goons slap the shit out of the guy. I checked the story with a couple of captains I know, and they heard the same thing. It’s not much consolation, Breeze, but at least you know. There’s not enough to file charges yet.”

“You did good just to find out,” Albury said. “Thanks, Mark, thanks for everything.”

Haller was right: learning the truth was no consolation, but it certainly enhanced the clarity of Breeze Albury’s situation.

He untied the
Diamond Cutter
from the diesel docks at Bud N’ Mary’s and motored quietly, almost serenely, seaward past Teatable Key. Jimmy opened three cans of cold beer, and Augie constructed huge sandwiches from fresh cold cuts.

It was an overcast morning, the sky gray and shrouded with the distant purple promise of an afternoon squall. A three-foot chop followed the fishing boat south-southwest, toward Vaca Key and the town of Marathon.

Four hours later, Augie Quintana was using an eight-inch screwdriver to pop the locks on a gray-over-black Chevrolet Blazer, property of the Florida Marine Patrol, that was parked at a Marathon gas station.

Back in Key West, Crystal’s wife was escorting another visitor into the muggy workshop.

Tomas Cruz gave Crystal’s massive hand a perfunctory squeeze, then pressed an envelope into the palm. “Three thousand even,” Winnebago Tom said. “Just like I told you: one boat only, coming in through the Bahia Honda channel about midnight.”

“Fine,” Crystal said neutrally. “Your people will be listening on channel eleven, as usual.”

“That’s correct.” Tom wore a silk shirt, open to the breastbone. Crystal counted four gold chains on his brown neck.

“Since when are you guys running aliens?” Crystal asked. “Shorty Whitting told me about the mess up the Keys.”

“It’s a long story,” Tom said.

“It was stupid. You guys don’t know when to quit.”

“We pay you for your ears, not your lip.” Tom pretended he was kidding. He flashed his teeth and cuffed Crystal on the shoulder. “You gonna count your money?”

“Nope.”

“Well, OK. You don’t think there’s gonna be any problems with the law tonight, huh?”

“No problems,” Crystal said. “I’ll take care of it. If I hear anything, your boys will be the first to know. I’ll use the police scanner, the single sideband, the VHF, the works.”

“As long as you got the cops covered.”

“Don’t worry, Tom,” said Crystal. No cops, he thought, but you’re going to wish there were.

Chapter 13

THERE WAS
a light knocking on the office door. Christine Manning folded that morning’s edition of the
Key West Citizen
and placed it on a corner of the desk. As usual, she wasn’t expecting anybody.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?” It was a woman, tall, with dark red hair and eyes both shy and alert. She wore blue jeans and a tissue-thin pullover that clung to her breasts. Christine Manning knew who she was: Breeze Albury’s girlfriend.

Laurie Ravenal introduced herself and sat down stiffly.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“Oh my, no.” Christine smiled. “I don’t get many visitors. Not many of the locals would be caught dead talking to me.”

“They don’t like interference, especially from Tallahassee,” Laurie said. “You shouldn’t take it personally. The Governor himself would get the cold shoulder down here.”

The special task force had been formed a year earlier in the Pavlovian politics that logically followed the embarrassing arrest of a number of Key West’s finest, who had been caught taking big bribes. The Governor declared that the new squad was going to root out the island’s most egregious scoundrels, but, in reality, most of its paltry budget had been squandered on publicity junkets before Christine Manning had even been handed her plane tickets.

Newly divorced, bored to numbness with sleepy Tallahassee, and admittedly hungry to make a crusading name for herself, Christine had accepted the Governor’s offer. The Key West locals had promptly given her the smallest office in the courthouse, a peeling desk that did not lock, and a telephone upon which half the civil servants in Monroe County could eavesdrop, if they wished.

For nearly eleven months, Christine had tried to make friends and cultivate dependable sources, quietly building up her files but accumulating almost nothing of prosecutorial value. In the meantime, she had watched enough sunsets at Mallory Square to last her a good long lifetime. She was ready to get off the Rock.

“Laurie, you’re obviously not here to give me the cold shoulder,” Christine said.

“No.”

“You want to talk about Breeze?”

“No!” Laurie blushed. That was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “It’s Drake Boone,” she added quickly. “What have you heard about Boone?”

“I suppose I’ve heard everything,” Christine said. “That he’s a bagman for a big smuggling operation, a fixer here at the courthouse, an errand boy for Chief Barnett. I’ve heard about his home on St. Thomas and his apartment in Manhattan. He’s a snake.”

“What about his personal life?” Laurie asked.

Christine shrugged. “He snorts coke, like everybody else in this town who can scrape up a dollar bill.” She decided not to mention how, after only one week in town and knowing full well who she was, Drake Boone had greeted her with a hug and a small amber vial of Peruvian flake. Terrific sense of humor.

Laurie fidgeted nervously. “There’s a young girl over at Duval Hospital that you ought to see. She can’t tell you why she’s there or what happened, but her mother might. What I heard was that it happened at a party at Drake Boone’s office.”

“What happened?”

“This kid ate about a dozen Quaaludes.”

“And she’s still alive?”

“That’s a matter of opinion. Go look for yourself. My boss heard about it from a friend who was a patient at the hospital. Says the girl’s a veggie. He says Boone fed her all those ‘ludes from a mason jar.” Laurie sighed and stood up. “I don’t know what else went on, but I think it’s just as well that the girl can’t talk about it.”

Christine asked, “How old is she?”

“Fifteen.”

“What’s her name?”

“Julie. Julie something. Bobby knows. My boss.”

Christine Manning began to write in a legal pad. “That would be Bobby Freed, the councilman.”

“Yes. He’s very upset.”

“Were there any other witnesses?”

“Probably,” Laurie said. “It’s awful. After I heard Bobby talking about it, I figured somebody ought to do something. Somebody ought to know, even though nothing will come of it.”

“You might be surprised,” Christine said.

“It’s awful,” Laurie said.

“It certainly is a nasty little yarn. I’ll pursue it, I promise,” Christine said. “While you’re here, tell me how Breeze is doing.”

Laurie smoothed the crease from the front of her jeans, picked her purse off the floor, and moved toward the door. “Oh, he’s fine,” she said earnestly. “He’s out on a fishing trip.” Then she was gone.

Christine Manning turned back to the newspaper on her desk. In red ink she underlined a short and sketchy front-page article under a headline: six die in shooting / van wreck at largo /
SMUGGLERS SOUGHT
.

Another nasty little yarn.

EDDIE FONTAINE
followed the convoy through Big Pine Key, past the federal prison, past the bleached waterfront cottages, past the Old Wooden Bridge Fishing Camp, and over a ten-million-dollar concrete bridge that would have been a scandal anywhere but the Keys. It was a bridge to nowhere, to an island called No-Name Key. No one lived on No-Name. There was no water, no electricity. The bridge and the highway existed only because some clever politician had a stake in such things. Bugs thwacked the windshield of Fontaine’s pickup and hung by the glue of their blood. A tiny Key deer, the size of a golden retriever, dashed between the speeding cars and disappeared into the red mangroves. There was only one reason on God’s earth that Eddie Fontaine would have pulled himself out of that pretty second-grade teacher, kissed her good-bye on the left breast, climbed into his old Army greens, and driven off into the ravenous night.

Eddie Fontaine smelled money. When Winnebago Tom called, Eddie came. He wasn’t proud. Ten thousand bucks was a new trailer, or a new truck, or maybe one of those Checkmate speedboats that Boog Powell was selling. Fontaine chuckled to himself and took another draft from a flask of Jack Daniels. There were a dozen ways to look at it, ten thousand dollars. Enough cocaine to keep that little teacher bucking for weeks.

Fontaine fixed his eyes on the taillights of the car in front of him. The road would be ending soon, not at a fishing village or subdivision, but at water’s edge. Ahead, the other cars slowed and brake lights winked red in the night. One by one, the drivers turned off a dirt road that cut a washboard trail to the loading site. Fontaine put the flask between his knees and used both hands to steer. A family of raccoons, hunkered down at a trash pile, gave a green-eyed stare to the caravan but never budged from its supper. Night swallows swooped through the glare of the headlights to snatch june bugs and mosquitoes.

A car’s horn sounded. The off-loaders cut their headlights and parked. The water of the Big Spanish Channel was visible through the mangroves; Eddie Fontaine and the others wordlessly picked their way through the roots and rocks to the shore. There, parked at the end of a man-made jetty, sat two Winnebago campers and a beer truck.

Eight men comprised the off-loading crew, including Tom’s lieutenant. From past experience, Fontaine knew that Tom’s man wouldn’t be doing much of the heavy lifting. Well, that was fine. As long as he brought the cash.

The men gathered at the tip of the jetty, murmuring, smoking, slapping at their arms and legs to kill the bugs. Fontaine knew four or five of them as neighbors, high school buddies; the rest he knew by sight. It was a small fraternity of regular faces. Tom said it was best that way.

Fontaine looked at his wristwatch. It was ten minutes past midnight.

“What kind of boat this time?” he asked Tom’s man.

“Just a boat,” the man said, frowning. Eddie had been drinking again. How many times had Tom warned him?

“What do we load first, the beer truck or the campers?” said Eddie Fontaine.