Trap Line (27 page)
“W
HAT A BEAUTIFUL
morning!” Bobby Freed signaled for another piece of Key Lime pie and smiled at Laurie, who sat before the remains of a gargantuan brunch. “We did it,” she said.
“The reign of King Barnett is over. He’s finished; humiliated, even if he doesn’t go to jail. The rest of them will be easier. Will you help me get them, Laurie?”
“Yes, Bob, I will.”
All night she had been manic, laughing at the memory of Barnett’s jostling rolls of fat as he tried to zipper his pants before hundreds of gawking motorists. Then, unaccountably, she had wept. For Albury, Freed knew.
“Let’s take a walk,” he urged. “I like this town again.”
They walked arm in arm, paralleling the water. Some of the passersby in tight jeans and manicured chests looked slyly at Freed. He would be back, their glances seemed to say. Freed doubted it—but then, two weeks ago, who could have predicted this? He’d stopped trying to figure it out—he was just going to enjoy it. The stares didn’t bother him at all. Once, on impulse, he darted across the street and bought an exquisite conch shell from an old woman in a floppy straw hat.
On Caroline Street, they strolled to the water’s edge and clambered out along some rocks. It was a lovely view. The whitewashed island lay before them, with its shops and pale old houses, its unmistakable harbor. Like Key West itself, it was teeming: boats of every description, diving gulls, a small school of striped grunts lazing into the shadows.
“This is what it’s really about,” Bobby Freed proclaimed. “I love it.”
He gestured toward a tall shrimp boat, inward bound, nets streeling like two outstretched webs in the sea.
As the shrimper pushed into the harbor, its steel arms suddenly lifted from the sea, jerking the first fingers of glistening net from the water.
“Beautiful, a poem,” Laurie murmured,
“A ballet,” said Freed.
The boat was almost abeam now, the arms rising in a long vertical sweep, the net following faster.
“You could almost reach out and touch it,” said Freed. “But I’d rather touch you.”
He held her before him, his back to the sea, and then watched in a sickening instant as the love in her eyes faded to horror.
Laurie screamed.
From the starboard net, spread-eagled like a snared starfish, the bloated corpse of Winnebago Tom mocked them.
(From the deposition of Augustin Quintana, taken on the ninth day of October 1982, before Christine Manning, special counsel to the Governor. Also present was court reporter Mary Perdue.)
M
ISS
M
ANNING
: Augie, when was the last time you saw Breeze Albury?
M
R
. Q
UINTANA
: What’s the difference, lady? He’s gone.
Q: It’s extremely important for this investigation.
A: Oh, really?
Q: Yes, Augie. The Governor expects a final report by the end of this month. There are many, many loose ends. Captain Albury is one. I think you know something about the others, too: the death of Tomas Cruz—
A: A tragic accident.
Q: The murder of Drake Boone, the lawyer—
A: Tom’s work, of course.
Q: And there’re those six unidentified Colombians in the morgue freezer up at Key Largo.
A: They are known to be terrible drivers.
Q: Augie, I don’t have any more time for games. You know where Albury is, and I’m asking you, under oath. Tell me.
A: I don’t like games either, lady. This is the second time you hauled me in here, and I still don’t see the point. Breeze Albury is gone, and you can tell that to the Governor. I don’t see the problem. They sent you down here as a special prosecutor, right? Well, now you got somebody to prosecute. He’s fat and he’s famous and his name is Barnett, and he’s sitting in the Monroe County stockade right this minute. So go prosecute. Forget about Breeze Albury.
Q: Augie, did you know that the federal marine documentation on the fishing vessel
Diamond Cutter
was altered? That the boat is now registered to yourself and James Cantrell, Jr.? The signature of Captain William C. Albury ratifies the transfer of ownership. Would you care to see for yourself? How did that happen?
A: Breeze is a generous man. Me and Jimmy will take damn good care of that boat. It’s a fine boat, lady.
Q: All right, Augie, one more time—
A: No. No
one more time.
I’m gonna tell you again. I’m a fisherman, not a goddamn private eye. I don’t know where the hell Breeze is, and I don’t know why you won’t give up on it. I’ll tell you about the last time I saw him. It was at the Seven Mile Bridge. I forget the exact night. We were all in the boat; me, Jimmy, Ricky, Breeze, and the girl, Laurie. Just out for a ride. One more run, Breeze said. He took her under the old turntable bridge at half-speed and split the seam between two nasty coral heads. It was sweet the way he ran that boat, lady. He took her straight out about two miles till we got to a line of lobster pots. Then he hopped down out of the pilothouse and turned the wheel over to Jimmy. He said it was time to go. I said, “Where to?” Breeze pointed back toward a little island about two-thirds of the way out, right under the old Seven Mile Bridge. That’s where he wanted to go. He told Jimmy to take the
Diamond Cutter
up close and let him and Ricky off there. Breeze said it was the perfect spot for him, and we all laughed our asses off. The name of the island is Pigeon Key.
Q: And you haven’t seen him since?
A: Or heard from him. I wouldn’t bother sending out a search party, either. He’s just one Conch fisherman who made up his mind to get off the Rock. I know you want to find him, but I won’t help. Forget about Captain Albury yourself. And now I gotta go, lady.
Q: If you should hear from Breeze—
C
HRISTINE MANNING
stared at the telephone. These past few weeks, it hadn’t stopped ringing. Groggily, she reached across the pillow and grabbed it.
“Christine! You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Thank you, Governor.”
“Seventeen indictments. But what’s this I hear about you leaving?”
“In a week or two, sir. Just as soon as I get the files in shape for the new prosecutor.”
“You can’t be serious. This is one of the biggest cases we’ve ever had. The police chief, six officers—my God, it’s a damn miracle. Barnett’s yakking his head off. Seventeen indictments in Key West!”
“Nobodies, sir. The big one got away.”
“You mean the fisherman?”
“No, not him. I mean the one who ran the Machine, the one they call Manolo.”
Yes, I mean the fisherman.
“Somebody always slips through the cracks,” the Governor said. “That’s no reason to be discouraged, Christine. We need you on our side when we go to court with these guys. Don’t quit now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For God’s sake, it’s an election year. Stick with it. Please. After November, I’ll have a slot for a new deputy attorney general. What a homecoming to Tallahassee that would be, huh?”
“Well, thank you, but a quiet private practice seems very attractive. I’ve heard from a couple of good firms.”
“In Florida? They can wait. I’ll speak to them….”
“No, one is in Chicago, the other in Boston.”
The best surgeons were in Boston.
That was what he had said the second night, their last night, as they embraced under a waning moon on the roof of her old Conch house. Boston, he had said.
“D
AD, WHEN YOU WERE
in the Navy, was it integrated?”
Breeze Albury had been staring out the window. Beyond the city lay the busy harbor. He had found the fishing port without trouble, between the Navy yard and a marina for pleasure boats. They were trawlers, bluff, rough-cut boats that looked as though they could take whatever the sea demanded. The men who ran them would be of the same breed.
“Integrated? Sure, I guess so. Why?”
“You told me back on the Rock that this doctor was the brother of a guy you were in the Navy with. I don’t remember you ever mentioning any black sailors, that’s all.”
“Did I ever tell you I told you everything?”
Ricky laughed, a big, tanned, and rawboned kid about to become a man. He looked good, except for the cast on his arm. He had been thrilled by his first plane ride and the appraising attentions of a couple of young stewardesses. The hotel and its indoor swimming pool had equally impressed him. First-class, all the way to the World Series, Albury had promised him.
“Doctor will see you now.”
The surgeon’s handshake was dry and firm. Albury liked him instantly. He cut off the cast and spent a long time examining Ricky’s arm.
“Exactly how did this happen?” The question caught Albury unaware. The doctor seemed angry.
“Well, I was riding my bike …” Ricky began.
“No, Rick, I’ll tell him.”
Albury told him the truth. The doctor ran a palm across his forehead.
“Had to be something like that. There’s damage to the rotator cuff and the whole shoulder, as well as to the lower arm itself.”
Then he turned to Ricky.
“You’re a fastball pitcher, son?”
“Yeah.”
“His slider is real good, too,” Albury interjected.
“I hate fastball pitchers.”
Ricky looked at the doctor in alarm. The doctor smiled.
“Two reasons. One is that I never could hit a real fastball. Second reason I hate ’em is that the Red Sox never seem to have any. The pitching is pitiful, year after year.”
“Ricky’s going to pitch for the Orioles,” Albury said.
“If I thought that was true, I’d say let’s cut the damn thing off now and save us all a lot of grief later.”
Ricky laughed delightedly. He sobered when the doctor told him he would have to have an operation, spend several days in the hospital, and then begin lengthy therapy.
“Do it,” Albury commanded.
“Tomorrow morning,” the doctor said.
A nurse came and, over Ricky’s protest, installed him firmly in a wheelchair. Albury turned to leave as well, but the doctor called him back.
“Mr. Albury …”
“If it’s about money, don’t worry. I can give you a big deposit.”
“No, it’s not that. I just would like to know a little more about your son. For example, how important is baseball to him?”
“It’s his life.”
“I see.” The doctor seemed unsure how to proceed. “In that case, I think it’s important that you understand that the injury is acute. I think we can confidently say he will recover the use of his arm. Even full use. But as for pitching …”
“Ricky will pitch again.”
“I hope so; we’ll have to see.” The doctor said it in a way that meant it might never happen.
“Look,” Albury insisted. “You’re the best in the country, aren’t you? They told me you were the best.”
The doctor studied Albury levelly through quick black eyes.
“I’ll do the surgery. Then I can refer you to some good people in Miami to supervise the therapy and rehabilitation. It will be expensive.”
“Forget Florida. We’ll be living here from now on. You’re all the doctor Ricky is going to need. And a few years from now, on Opening Day, you and I will go together to watch him pitch.”
“But do you have a place to live … a job?”
“Not yet.” The money would last until he found something. He still remembered how to tie a Windsor.
“I would like to work with your son. I really would; it might make a difference. And I have some friends down at the wharf.”
“Fishing?” Albury laughed. “Why would you suggest that?”
“Well…” The doctor seemed embarrassed. “The accident happened on a fishing boat, didn’t it? You’re tanned, your hands are calloused … you look like you just came off the docks. I guess I just assumed …”
“I don’t know a damn thing about fishing,” Breeze Albury said quietly.
“Oh. Sorry.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1982 by Carl Hiaasen and Bill D. Montalbano
cover design by Karen Horton
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1067-3
This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
