Trap Line (23 page)

They were both standing now. Boone, the shorter of the two, was so red that his head trembled and bobbled, as if his neck itself were a spring.

Christine thought that he might punch her, but she delivered the clincher. “The money you gave Irma Clayton is now the property of the state of Florida,” she said. “Twenty-five thousand dollars in two envelopes. Mrs. Clayton saved them. Don’t bother to deny it, your fingerprints were all over them. Sloppy. Very sloppy. You’ll be hearing soon from the IRS about your charitable contribution.”

“All right!” Boone charged around the desk. He spoke in a dark whisper. “What do you want? How much? I got forty thousand in a wall safe. I can get more.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Boone.”

“Wait, please wait.” He held her arm. “It’s not money, is it? You want somebody. Who, Cruz? I’ll give you Cruz. If you keep my name out of it, I will deliver Winnebago Tom.”

Christine removed his hand from her elbow and eyed him. “Not enough,” she said. “But maybe we can work something out.”

“Tell me.”

“I want everybody. Everybody you know. Starting with Cruz and working up.”

Boone stepped back. “I can’t. That’s impossible, it’s suicide,” he blubbered. “They’ll kill me, damnit!”

“See you in Tallahassee,” Christine Manning said.

Drake Boone locked the office door behind her. Slumped at his chair, he pawed listlessly through the desk until he found a bottle of white pills. It was empty. He gulped another glass of scotch and closed his eyes.

Boone’s heart pounded louder but slowly, so slowly that he found himself inserting completely formed ideas between each beat. One of the ideas was suicide. Another was murder. Yet another was to pick up the telephone.

No, Miss Manning had not yet returned to her office.

Drake Boone left his name and number

He shambled to a wall, lifted a Monet print, and fumbled with the office safe. He piled the contents in his arms and returned to his desk.

My, my, my. He was wrong about the money. There was only thirty-four thousand here. Suzanne? “Suzanne!” No one answered.

Boone pushed the cash to one side and leafed through some photographs. They were Polaroids. He frowned at the quality. The focus was oily—or was it his vision? There was pretty Julie on the charcoal sofa, her wrists taped together over her head, her legs spread apart, held apart. From her body you could never have guessed her age. Boone could not discern from the photograph whether Julie was smiling or shouting something. He was in the picture, too, on top of her. Sort of. That Daisy took lousy fucking pictures.

Julie had been such a lovely girl. In one of the snapshots, she was stretched out on her tummy on the same sofa. Boone noticed something around her neck, and he squinted at the picture to see. It was one of his own belts, beige beneath an indigo stripe. Julie didn’t mind that part, as long as he didn’t make it too tight. Boone smiled narcotically. The goddamn Polaroids had given him an erection.

The phone rang. Christine Manning. Miss Bigtime Prosecutor.

“What is it, Drake?”

“I know who attacked the Albury kid. Gimme a break and I’ll tell you.”

“I already know,” Christine said. “It was Winnebago Tom.”

“Yeah, but wait, sugar. Wait a minute,” Boone slurred. “You don’t know who ordered it.
I
know who ordered it. I know who runs the goddamn Machine. I really do, lady lawyer. I know who.”

That’s my boy, Christine thought triumphantly. “Meet me later at the Pier House,” she said. “About ten.”

IT WAS THREE-FIFTEEN
and Huge Barnett’s stomach, a considerable force in his life, growled. Barnett fired the big Chrysler through a red light at Duval and Petronia, made a right on Whitehead Street, and coasted to a stop in front of the Cowrie Restaurant.

“Whose fucking El Dorado is this?”

A microwave salesman from Michigan, sitting with his plump wife at a corner table, dropped half his egg-salad sandwich at the sight of a lantern-jawed blimp with a badge on his chest, filling the doorway.

“It’s my car, officer,” the salesman replied. “I thought I put plenty of money in the meter.”

“That’s a police emergency zone you’re parked in, pal. Better move it.”

“Can I at least finish my lunch?”

Barnett’s fist came down on the counter and the salesman’s ass came out of his chair. The police chief got his parking space.

Barnett took a table for four, by the window. He would have preferred a place at the counter, where it was easier to flirt with the waitresses, but a single stool could not contain his tonnage.

“Darling!” Barnett called to Laurie Ravenel. “Could you bring me a pitcher of Budweiser, please?”

Barnett studied Laurie salaciously as she crossed the floor of the restaurant: tight jeans, a feathery tank top, her dark red hair tied back with a ribbon.

She set the beer next to a chilled glass mug on Barnett’s table. “What would you like to eat, chief?”

Barnett winked.

“That’s not on the menu.”

The chief chuckled. “Well, then,” he said in a wheezy voice, “how ‘bout some black beans and rice, and chicken? Bring me a couple breasts. White meat only.”

“Comin’ up,” Laurie said gaily.

“You sure look fine today, Miss Ravenel.”

“Thank you, chief,” said Laurie, offering a shy smile that lasted two seconds longer than Barnett had counted on.

Laurie placed the order with the kitchen, then popped her head into Bobby Freed’s private office. “Our fat friend is here,” she said. “Better keep your voices down.”

Freed nodded soberly and turned back to the men gathered at his desk: a truck driver from Sugarloaf Key, a bridge tender from Marathon, a gas station man from an Exxon up on Big Pine. They had been part of the crowd at Freed’s civic rally the night before; this afternoon there would be no cheers or applause, only grave talk.

“What about Mark Haller?” continued the trucker.

“Taken care of,” Freed answered.

“I can’t miss the car, can I?” said the gas station man.

“There’s only one like it in the whole world,” Freed said. “There’ll be an elephant driving.”

The men laughed together.

“
DON’T YOU EVER WONDER
how come I eat lunch here every day?” Huge Barnett was draining a second pitcher of beer.

“Because the food’s so good,” Laurie said.

“No, darlin’, because you’ve got the most delicious-looking pair of tits in Key West, that’s why.” Barnett chomped into a piece of hot chicken with such porcine vigor that the breastbone cracked in his mouth.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that around the customers.”

“Then let’s go somewhere by ourselves so I can talk the way I want.” Barnett lowered his voice. “Ever been for a ride in a police car?”

“Oh, please.” Laurie drifted to another table and started clearing plates. “You know, chief,” she scolded in a whisper, “you wouldn’t be half-bad if you weren’t always so … so crude.”

“Darlin’, I can be a gentleman.” He put down the remains of his chicken and looked up at her, panda-eyed. “You think I can’t be a gentleman if I want?”

Laurie carted the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and puttered around for a minute or two. Through the window in the swinging door she watched Barnett shifting at his table, craning with great effort to look for her. Slowly, she made her way back to the table.

“How about some Key Lime pie?” he said.

“All right. The usual two slices?”

“Right,” Barnett said. “How come you never go out with me?”

“Not so loud.”

“Is it Albury? Is it because of him?”

“Nope.”

“Why, then?”

“Shhh.” Laurie took her time cutting the pie.

“Why, then?” Barnett repeated when she returned.

’“Cause you don’t ask like a gentleman. You want a slice of lime on this?”

Barnett buffed his lips with a napkin. “Miss Ravenel, ma’am, could I have the pleasure of your company for a cocktail tonight over at the Casa Marina?”

“Ohh … all right,” she said. Then, bending over the table: “But not at the Casa, OK? I don’t want any of Breeze’s friends to see us. Can we go up the Keys? Marathon, maybe?”

“Abtholootely,” Barnett said enthusiastically through a mouthful of meringue.

“And not tonight,” Laurie added. “Tomorrow, ‘kay? I get off around five.”

Barnett’s crotch tingled as he wolfed down the Key Lime pie. She would want to get on top, of course. Most women did, except that fat hooker who worked the topless joint on Roosevelt. Yes, this would be the high spot of the weekend. Laurie was a lush-looking woman … experienced, he was sure … patient, artful even. Not like the stringy, hair-triggered hitchhikers he was always picking up. Sluts. Clumsy, too.

Barnett pushed the table away from his belly and rose, as if in slow motion. Laurie was crossing the restaurant with the check in one hand.

“Just put it on my tab, darlin’,” he called. “And this old gentleman would be grateful if you wore those jeans tomorrow night. Whaddya say?”

Chapter 21

TOMAS CRUZ
wheeled the big Winnebago into a handicapped-only zone and exchanged a cheery wave with the flaccid foot patrolman whose job it was to see that the tourists behaved themselves in the heart of Key West’s Old Town. Winnebago Tom often came to Mallory Docks to watch the tourists watch the sun slip into the sea. With the Winnebago as his traveling office, the docks at sunset were a good place to transact business, pick up snippets of information, and troll for fresh meat to be savored later on the pull-out double bed beneath the ceiling mirror. Tom gnawed at a boiled shrimp. He had two hours to kill before sunset; plenty of time to mellow out. From the cutlery drawer he extracted three pills from a shipment that had come from Colombia the month before. He washed them down with a long swig of champagne from the bottle. Then he slipped off his loafers and sprawled on the sofa in front of his Sony….

“… two weeks in Aspen or the prize behind the green door. The choice is yours. Which will it be?”

Tom knew that scam. The green door was horseshit, nine times out of ten.

“Take the vacation,” he screamed.

The contestant chose the green panel and won a year’s supply of dog food.

“Air-headed bitch,” Tom scoffed.

When the door of the Winnebago sprang open, Tomas Cruz sat up sharply, upsetting the champagne onto the pile carpet.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Tom recovered the bottle, rubbed the lip on the sleeve of his T-shirt, and proffered it to Drake Boone.

The lawyer ignored it. He dropped a green attaché case onto the floor and stripped off his matching tie.

“Where’s Manolo? I need to talk to him right away.”

“Booney, baby, relax. Relax. Have a drink. Have a pill.”

“Christ, what are you on? Your pupils look like Frisbees.”

“What do you want Manolo for?”

“It’s important. I’ll tell him myself.”

“You’re talkin’ to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Manolo had to go out of town on business for a few days. He left me in charge. You got a problem, tell me.”

“Where did he go? When will he be back?”

Winnebago Tom didn’t notice the strain in Boone’s voice or the sweat that spotted his forehead despite the camper’s air conditioning.

“Where he went is Manolo’s business, and when he’ll be back is my business. You got somethin’ to say, say it or go away. I’m tryin’ to watch television.”

Exasperated, Boone flicked off the Sony.

“We got bad problems.”

“Keep it short and to the point,” Tom said, mimicking Manolo. “That prick Breeze Albury is comin’ by anytime now. He’s finally going to give us back the grass he stole. I sent him a little message, and he read it loud and clear.”

“I don’t want to talk about Albury, Tom. It’s that Julie Clayton business … it’s all coming to pieces.”

“Good ole Julie. She sure did love Demon Pill, didn’t she? But she was overrated. Never could understand what you saw in her.” Tom yawned.

“Listen, asshole, I’m not going down the tube for Julie Clayton or anybody else.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’re not going down the tube, counselor. You got a problem, I’ll have Barnett fix it.”

“It’s not Barnett who’s after me. It’s that Manning woman, the Governor’s bitch. She’s got me cold, man.”

“We’ll fix it.” The Machine paid Drake Boone to be precise, but sometimes he was simply tedious. Tom decided to pop another pill.

“We won’t fix this one, Tom. Look, we’ve run this town for almost ten years. It was fun, but it’s over. I’m leaving for St. Thomas—now and for good.”

“Horseshit.”

“It’s the truth. And do you know something? I think Manolo has the same idea. Is he really away on business? Or did he split? Manning is after me. The queers are crazy for Barnett’s blood. Albury ripped off a load. Maybe Manolo just read the tea leaves and walked away while he still could.”

“No, no way. Manolo’s coming back.”

“OK, Tom, if you say so. I’m leaving town, and I want a hundred thou to go with me. I’ll take cash.”

“Are you out of your gourd?” Tom was becoming agitated. He wished Manolo was around to handle Boone.

“Let’s call the money a parting gift. A silence gift, like all the ones we have paid to patsies over the years, OK?”

“No, it’s not OK.”

“Hey, baby, if I go down, I don’t go alone, remember that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it says. Remember where Julie’s pills and everybody else’s pills come from. That’s you, ain’t it, Winnebago? And the pot, the enforcement, and all the other little things you’d rather your ole mama never read about you in the newspaper. It costs a hundred grand for me to forget all that. For good. Otherwise, I meet the lady prosecutor. Tonight.”

“That’s not funny.”

They quarreled for another forty-five minutes, while the sun dropped ever lower, as though on a pulley, and the tourists gathered along the seawall to celebrate its departure.

At sunset, the broad concrete promenade at Mallory Docks is street theater the way Fellini would stage it. That night a juggler-comedian with a wispy mustache and a pink jump suit played the star. Around him, as he tossed flaming rods and evil-looking machetes, stood several hundred people: cruising homosexuals and shagged newlyweds; bemused straight tourists in white shoes and matching belts; an eccentric piano teacher from Akron with a broken arm cast in praying-mantis position; a creature of indeterminate sex in a knee-length white fur coat, mirror sunglasses, and a rainbow-colored wig. About the periphery, a frizzy-haired woman bicycled in a green dress and high-topped leather boots. “Guava cookies, carrot cookies, Key West sweet, Key West treat, warm and chewy,” she sang to the strains of an off-key black bongo drummer. Alone on an elevated pump housing, smiling benignly, stood a barefooted gray-bearded man in white duck trousers of an Otavalo Indian and a poncho cut from an army blanket. Around the Rock, people called him Moses.