Trap Line (21 page)

“I thought we were going to fall off this thing,” she whispered.

Albury moved a hand absently along her bare back, the skin like cool velvet under his calloused fingers. It struck her that he had been silent, as they had made love, not in the shy or preoccupied way of some men, but in a manner totally dispossessed—all muscle and mouth and movement, without the smallest sigh or groan. And she was quite sure that his eyes had been open, fastened hard on the deep blue light of the sea’s horizon. Still, there had been a tenderness to it, a melancholy need every bit as urgent as the frantic passions of other lovers.

Christine nuzzled at his ear and smiled when she felt his light kiss. She rocked back, holding him by the shoulders, as he supported her full weight with a single hand under her buttocks.

“Let me down now,” she said. “I’ve got one more question. Now, don’t shake your head like that; just one more and then I’ll quit for the night.”

“OK, counselor.”

“Why do they call this a widow’s walk?”

“That’s easy,” Albury replied. “Because the sea is a widow-maker.” His eyes were fixed beyond the reef, and in the moon’s light, Christine was startled to see that they were not weary or cold, but almost exultant.

“It’s not the sea itself,” he went on, “but the chances that it makes a man take. Full of promise one moment, fury the next. It won’t often surprise a keen and reasonable man, but even after years it will make him take extraordinary risks. Not all the widows who watched from these roofs lost stupid fools out on that reef. Some of their men were fine, courageous. They just took a chance and lost. The sea itself behaved as it always has, and it didn’t really kill those men as much as it made them believe … made them believe they could do something that they could not.”

Christine spoke in a small voice that seemed to drop off the edge of the old house. “Is that what happened to you?”

“More than once,” Breeze Albury said, “but never again.”

Chapter 19

QUARRELING BLUE JAYS
woke Albury. He felt stiff, and stale. Scrabbling for a cigarette, he encountered the note: “You sure beat hell out of a sleeping pill, but you’ll have to make your own breakfast, anyway.” Signed with a bold “C.”

Breakfast would have to wait. Albury reached for the bedside phone.

“Hey, champ, how they hangin’?”

“Hey, dad.” Ricky’s voice sounded faraway, as though through a gauze. Probably was still doped up.

“Hurts, huh? But I took a look last night, and it didn’t seem too bad to me,” Albury lied. “Pain’ll go away quick.”

“Where are you, dad? I called the trailer and you weren’t there …”

“You must have scared the shit out of Laurie, telling her about the arm.”

“She wasn’t there, either.” Nor had she been long past midnight when Albury had called from the kitchen phone of a sleeping Christine Manning. “Dad, it’s my pitching arm. I asked the doctors this morning if I could pitch as good as ever once the cast is off, and they just shrugged.”

Ricky was fighting back tears. Albury watched his knuckles whiten against the plastic receiver.

“That’s no sweat, man. I talked to the chief doctor, and he said you’d be good as new. Then just to be sure, I called this guy in Boston—I was in the Navy with him—and his brother is the doctor who takes care of the Red Sox, a specialist. He wants to look at you as soon as they let you out of there. We’ll fly up.”

“The Red Sox?”

“I know they ain’t the Orioles, but they ain’t bad, either. You just got to be careful in Fenway that the right-handed batters don’t pull you over the wall—the Monster, they call it.”

“Yeah. Dad, they want to know if we’ve got insurance.” Ricky’s voice was fading.

“Sure, we do. The best. I’ll stop by and straighten that out when I come see you, maybe later today. Tomorrow for sure.”

There was a long pause, and Albury thought Ricky might have dozed off.

“Dad?”

“I’m here.”

“I will be able to throw again, won’t I?”

Tears stung the fresh cut on Albury’s cheek. He tried to keep his voice firm.

“If you stay off bicycles you don’t know how to ride, for Chrissakes.”

Albury scoured himself in a melancholic shower. He made coffee and called Crystal.

“Hey, sunshine, any mail for Smilin’ Jack?”

“Hi, bubba, how’s Ricky?”

“Doin’ fine. What do you hear?”

“There’s a picture postcard from our favorite asshole. He says he hopes you got his message. He means Ricky, I’d say.”

“What else does our friend say?”

“He says he’ll pay twenty thou F.O.B. for the merchandise, and—get this—no hard feelings.”

“Friendly soul, isn’t he?”

“Asshole.”

“Tell him I accept. I’ll make contact with him.”

“You crazy? You know how much that stuff is worth,” Crystal spluttered. “And what makes you think he’ll really pay?”

“He sure doesn’t want any more trouble, and neither do I.”

“I’ll tell him, if you’re sure …”

“I’m sure. One more thing: Can you find out for me where a lobster boat called
El Gallo
docks?”

“I already know. Up at Big Coppitt. The captain is some scumbag Marielito friend of the man you’re doing business with.”

“Right, thanks. I’ll see you around.”

“Hey, wait a minute, mister businessman.”

“What?”

“You’re liable to get killed, you know.”

“I’m not looking for any more trouble. I told you.”

“All this sweetness and light is very noble, Breeze, but I’ve known you since I was a kid.”

“So?”

“So remember ole Crystal. He can’t run much anymore, but he can drive a car and he can outshoot any asshole doper in town and talk on the radio at the same time. Teal and Spider and a couple of the others already called this morning to say more or less the same thing. And ole catch-’em-quick Haller was around here at dawn in his Marine Patrol uniform, sayin’ how much he’d admire to drink a beer with Breeze Albury. I guess they all heard about Ricky.”

“I read you, bubba, loud and clear. Tell ’em I said thanks.”

ON A RICKETY
and old manual typewriter that was all the town fathers had said they could offer the Governor’s representative—“Sorry, ma’am, things are tight around here”—Christine Manning pecked out her case against Drake Boone. Of his guilt she was certain. He had seduced a minor, fed her pills that had blown her circuits, and then tried to cover up. That was the working hypothesis. It would be enough to see that Drake Boone never practiced law again. It should be enough to cost him his freedom. And it could be the key she needed to unravel the whole mess. Squeezed, Drake Boone would talk.

Christine Manning felt feverish. One moment the words before her were sharp, incisive, and her mind hopscotched through a dozen prosecutorial tricks she could use against Drake Boone. The next instant she seemed floating in space. She allowed herself a luxurious shiver and pressed her legs tight together. Christine had not had a man for almost six months, and she had never had a man like Breeze Albury. Three times her hand, unbidden, reached for the phone. Three times she intercepted it. Was he still asleep? Perhaps he had already gone. Would he come back? Did she want him to? What could she say? Thanks for making me feel like a woman again, Breeze; too bad I have to put you in jail. That’s not a very nice morning-after hello, is it?

Christine lay her head against the cool black metal of the typewriter. It was resting there when the visitor walked in.

“Good morning, remember me?”

Christine jerked up, guiltily.

“Oh, oh, Miss Ravenel, uh, Laurie, yes, hello.” Christine felt the blood rush to her face.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, no, please sit down.”

They exchanged pleasantries, Christine battling for composure. How could Laurie know? Only if Breeze had told her. Maybe he had called her from Christine’s own phone, her own bed. Maybe they had joked about how easy it had been for the big fisherman to make her. Christine felt mortified. For one paranoid instant she loathed Breeze Albury.

“We have something important to talk about,” Laurie said.

“Yes,” Christine said grimly.

“Last night…”

“Look, Laurie, what I…”

“Last night there was a big meeting, maybe an historic meeting for Key West. I think you should know about it. Unofficially, of course.”

“Oh. Well.” Christine toyed with a pencil.

“Bob Freed and his friends have decided to fight back. They are fed up with the harassment and the corruption around here, and they’re going to do something about it.”

“Oh.”

“You OK? You’re sweating.”

“No. Yes, thank you. Please go on.”

“They have a list of targets, and they are going to investigate them systematically. They are going to trace the course of corruption—up to the top—and then they are going to root it out…. Can I get you a glass of water? I can come back another time….”

“No, no, I’m fine, really. What exactly would they do with the information they acquire?”

“That’s where you come in.”

“Tell me.”

Laurie spoke for ten minutes with great animation, a righteous Valkyrie. Christine took great care not to look her in the eye, but the lawyer in her was intrigued by what she heard.

“I think that is fascinating, Laurie,” she said at last, “but one thing I must caution you against is trying to take the law into your own hands.”

“That’s a joke. You know the law around here as well as I do.”

“I know, but the second you start behaving like the people you’re after, I can’t help you anymore.”

“I am sure we can find some common ground.” Laurie smiled, and it occurred to Christine what a handsome woman she was.

“At least let’s talk again. I appreciate your coming.”

Laurie rose to go.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask before. How’s Ricky?”

“Oh, he’s fine, thanks, eats and breathes baseball.”

Laurie’s hand was on the doorknob.

“No, I mean his arm. How is his arm?”

“His arm? What’s wrong with his arm?”

“It’s broken, didn’t you
know?
He’s still in the hospital, isn’t he?”

Laurie paled, staggered a step.

“Hospital? God, I didn’t … the meeting lasted so late I stayed with … Oh, Ricky.”

“I’m sorry.” Christine reached across the desk to comfort Laurie.

“Oh, God, I’ll go there right now…. Thanks for telling me.”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said again, uselessly. Even then she didn’t realize her mistake.

Laurie turned again for the door. Then she stopped.

“How do you know about Ricky’s arm?”

“Breeze told me,” Christine Manning said in the voice of a little girl.

“Breeze told you!”

“I …”

“You’ve seen Breeze.” It was an accusation. “How? Why? I’ve been worried sick about him. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I talked to him, that’s all. He’s been helping me….”

“Breeze? Helping you?”

They stood there for a long, strained moment, two strong, confused women, each realizing that the other had no secrets, each loving and hating a battered fisherman. Crying, Laurie fled. Alone, Christine dialed her apartment. There was no answer.

THE SMALL BOAT
came with the twilight, a bonefisherman with its engine throttled back. It made no wake and disturbed no one. An egret fishing on a mud flat paused momentarily to stare. A school of mullet ran perfunctorily toward some mangroves to escape its path and then, sensing no threat, darted back to play in the mottled shadows around the dock. The bonefisherman nudged gently against the dock and tied up around a piling draped with a fading orange-and-blue bumper sticker. “Florida Fishermen Have Bigger Rods,” it said.

Willie Bascaro never noticed. He lay on a chaise longue in the lee of his wheelhouse, snapping his fingers to
salsa
piped through headphones from a cassette deck on his belt. He felt a thump on his deck and looked up incuriously. Then he sat straight up and yanked off the headphones. Before him, silhouetted by the sun, was the figure of a man, arms crossed, waiting. Bascaro shaded his eyes but could see only a black bulk. It reminded him of a ghost. Reflexively, he crossed himself.

“Willie Bascaro?”

“Si.”

“My name is Albury. I have come to burn your boat.”

Bascaro only half-understood the words. That was enough. He jackknifed from the lounger and sprang to the rail. He had learned many things in the streets of Havana, and the most important was knowing when to run. In another second he would have jumped.

Albury grabbed him from behind and lifted him off the rail as though he were a baby.

“No, Willie. No running this time. Now is the time to pay the bill, Willie.
Pagarla cuenta, comprende?”

Albury rifled through the Marielito’s pockets for the engine keys. He shoved Bascaro into the fetid litter of his cabin and locked the door. In the new darkness, a few minutes later,
El Gallo
headed out to sea, skiff towing merrily behind.

Albury drove without thinking, pointing east toward the vastness of the Gulf Stream. From the cabin came the piteous babble of Spanish. Breeze Albury ignored it. He spoke only to himself.

“This is a shit boat, Willie, a real dog. Engine needs an overhaul, the compass is off, and it steers like a scow. I wouldn’t give you a nickel for your chances in a real sea. You probably don’t know how it is in the Keys, Willie. Maybe you can steal a Conch’s woman, but if you cut his traps, you’re a dead man. You should have figured that sooner or later I’d come for you.

“But not you, Willie.
Muy macho
, huh? You bragged in a bar about cutting the traps, and you even stole the buoys. Saw a whole pile of them up there on your dock, orange-and-white buoys. Been in the Albury family a long time. Those are the last ones, though. I’m leaving the Rock, Willie. Me and Rick.”

Albury broke his monologue to listen. The babbling from the cabin had stopped a few minutes before. Albury lit a cigarette and waited, relaxed at the wheel.

Willie Bascaro erupted from the cabin just as Albury was pitching the butt into the sea.