Trap Line (7 page)
ARCHIE WAS
a drunk. He mewled, he hawked, he spat. His Adam’s apple fluttered like a trapped moth. When he started singing, Breeze Albury rattled the bars and demanded a new cell.
He had stayed on the salty wheelhouse floor for what had seemed a long time, keeping his head down long after the gunfire had ended. Albury had noticed the thud of a small boat alongside and instantly been bathed in a police spotlight. He’d heard the wheeze of a fat man.
“Breeze Albury, goddamn,” Huge Barnett had exclaimed. “We got your ass,” Barnett had chuckled, gas escaping from a balloon.
“A couple of tons, at least, but nobody else on board,” had come a disembodied voice.
“Where’s your crew?” Barnett had demanded.
“What crew?”
“The crew that was helpin’ you run this dope, shithead.”
“What dope?”
They had hauled him away, lights and sirens, then fingerprints and a quick photo session, in handcuffs, for the dreary local press. By the time they had let Albury sleep, it was almost dawn.
He awoke with a hot knot in his guts. Every time he thought it through, it made less sense. Albury had made his contact with Winnebago Tom. Tom worked for the Machine. The Machine had set him up, QED. Why? Albury chewed over the question for hours. They went to a hell of a lot of trouble; they lost a boat and a couple of tons and, not insignificantly, one of the last decent Anglo boat captains on the island.
Albury had lost his ticket out. Maybe for good. A foul taste rose in his mouth. He thought about Ricky.
NEAL BEEKER WALKED
out of the El Cacique restaurant at about nine-thirty and headed east on Duval Street, still savoring his wake-up orange juice. The studio was only five blocks away, and Beeker walked leisurely. The morning sun cast a dappled blanket of light over the Conch houses in Old Town. Beeker waved warmly at a young man selling shark’s teeth to tourists outside Sloppy Joe’s. He cut over to Simonton Street, stopping to pet a family of gaunt stray cats near a garbage bin. That was his mistake.
The three teenagers caught Beeker at Simonton and Fleming. They shoved him into an alley and clipped his legs out from under him. Two of them were fat, dull-eyed, with thick flat noses. The third was tall and black, with rust-colored hair. Beeker knew what came next. He got up and offered his leather purse. They emptied it, scrabbling for the loose change. The tall one snatched Beeker’s wallet off the pavement and expertly looted it for credit cards.
“How about jewelry?” demanded one of the porcine kids.
Beeker said he wasn’t wearing any. The teenager kicked him savagely in the chest. Beeker’s lungs emptied in a raw wheeze.
“You faggots always have gold,” said the rangy black kid, sneering.
The second fat kid seized Beeker by the scalp and wrapped a pudgy, hairless arm around his neck. Beeker gulped for air. His face was moist with sweat and tears.
“Come on, princess,” the black kid taunted, “you got some gold, I
know.”
He ripped Beeker’s T-shirt.
“No necklace? What kind of faggot are you?”
Beeker’s chest was imploding. Desperately he sank his teeth into the kid’s arm and bit madly. The kid fell back, wailing. Beeker screamed.
The black kid slugged him twice, once in the gut, once in the testicles. Beeker went down again. His last image was of a Key West cop standing at the mouth of the alley, one hand on his hip, a look of thin annoyance on his ruddy young face.
Two hours after Beeker was delivered to the emergency room of Duval Memorial Hospital, Bobby Freed was in Huge Barnett’s office, demanding to know how the hoodlums had gotten away. Free’s face was flushed, his neck and veins taut with rage. Neal Beeker was his lover. Huge Barnett only smiled.
ALBURY WAS NOT
surprised by the Machine’s choice of attorneys. It was the same man who had defended him the last time, an oily creep with crooked front teeth that reminded Albury of a moray eel. Drake Boone, Jr., was his name. He showed up at the arraignment with the peremptory air of an important man on a trivial errand. The crisp gabardine suit made no concession to the heat. The colorful necktie, and probably the shirt beneath it, was silk.
Boone shook hands politely with his new client, nodded at the judge, and said absolutely nothing when bond was set at $75,000. When Albury touched the lawyer’s sleeve and whispered protests, Boone waved him off. “We’ll talk later,” he promised.
Boone came down to the jail in late afternoon. He and Albury were ushered to a windowless, oblong room with two scarred chairs and a Formica table. The lawyer opened his black briefcase with a click and withdrew a manila file.
“I suppose the police report is accurate?” he began without introduction.
“They had to send you, huh?” Albury said, lighting a cigarette. “I guess I should feel lucky they’re giving me a lawyer.”
“That part is always understood. You know that.”
“Why you again?”
Boone scowled. “Why not?”
“Eleven months in Raiford is why not.”
“It was a locked case,” Boone reminded. “They got you cold on a boat. Just like this time, apparently.”
“This time was no accident,” Albury said. “I was set up.”
Boone made a palms-up gesture. “I wouldn’t know about that, Breeze. I get a call that a boat’s been taken down, I come down here to see you. That’s all I know.”
“Shit. Did Tom call you?”
“That I can’t say.” Boone studied the arrest form in the file. “A little more than two tons. And you were alone?”
Albury said nothing.
“Well,” Boone said, rising, “we’ll try the usual. I’ll file a motion tomorrow to have the dope suppressed as evidence. We’ll argue that Barnett boarded the boat illegally. Might work.”
Albury rose and seized the pudgy lawyer by one arm. “What about the
Diamond Cutter?”
Boone shook free and slammed the briefcase shut. “Safe and sound. It’s over at Ming’s fish house.”
“Clean?” Albury demanded.
Boone nodded. “The fake name, too. It’s been removed.”
“What about my bond?”
“I’ll post it tomorrow morning. Cash.”
Albury stubbed the cigarette into the Formica. “You gonna talk to Tom?”
“Yep. Tonight.”
“Find out what happened.”
Boone rang for the jailer. “I’ll try.”
Albury snorted. “You’re my lawyer, Drake. Try real hard.”
The lawyer would not meet his eyes. “I’m getting you out tomorrow,” he said in a reedy voice.
The jailer opened the door and Boone sidled into the hallway.
“Don’t just get me out,” Albury called, “get me
off!”
Through a window, he could see Boone shaking his head disgustedly. “Hey, Breeze, you’re welcome,” the lawyer said acidly through the door. “Think nothing of it.”
Laurie and Ricky showed up at supper time. She wore a pale blue sun dress and sandals; her hair was done back in a lush ponytail. The kid was dressed for baseball practice; he carried his glove and the new cleats. They sat at the same Formica table as Drake Boone. Laurie had brought a carton of Camels, but half of them had been skimmed off by one of the jailers. Albury smoked nervously.
“How are you doing?” Laurie asked tentatively.
“Marvelous,” Albury said. He noticed sadly how Ricky was staring down at the table. “I’m sorry, buddy,” Albury said. “They giving you a rough time?”
“Naw.”
Albury forced a smile. “I had some rough luck with my traps,” he began. “I wasn’t trying to be greedy, I was just tryin’ to get some of it back, you know … it seemed like a decent idea at the time.”
Laurie said, “Ricky understands, Breeze …”
“I’m talking to him, honey.” The words stopped her as surely as if Albury had pointed a gun at her head.
Ricky looked up. “It’s OK, Dad.”
“They set me up!”
Ricky nodded. “I figured that’s what it had to be. You woulda never got caught in a straight race. I figured it was an ambush.”
Albury smiled. “Right. You know, I think I could have got away in the
Diamond Cutter.
They gave me some old piece-of-shit Marathon boat.”
Albury glanced at Laurie. She started to giggle. Ricky was perking up.
“I heard they shot at you,” he said.
“Over my head is all. A grandstand act,” Albury said. “That fucking Barnett.”
“The paper said you rammed one of the police boats?”
“Just nicked it,” Albury said. “Those kids can’t drive.”
“It wrecked in the mangroves,” Ricky said.
“Really? No shit.” Albury cackled. “That was not necessary.”
“Yeah,” Laurie cut in cheerily. “The driver fell out and busted his collarbone.”
Ricky covered his mouth and laughed. Albury clapped his hands. “Well, damn,” he exclaimed, “I gave ’em a moment or two, right?”
“I guess so,” Ricky said, almost admiringly.
“I’m supposed to get my bond tomorrow. I should be out in time for the game with Tavernier.”
“Good, Dad. I was hoping.”
Albury squeezed Laurie’s hand. “How about you? You OK?”
“Sure. Bobby made a couple remarks at the restaurant. Nothing major. He said he didn’t know you ran a grass boat, too, and I said you didn’t….”
“Stupid fruit.”
“It’s all right, Breeze. He’s on the council. He’s got to talk like that.” She kissed Albury’s knuckles one by one until he pulled his hand away.
“The lawyer’s due in a couple minutes,” Albury lied. “You kids go on home. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.” He kissed Laurie hard but not long, then cuffed his son on the shoulder. “Work on that slider tonight, OK?”
SUPPER WAS UNMENTIONABLE
. Breeze Albury remembered when he had been a boy. The whole sunbaked Rock seemed to live off the same unvarying diet: grits ‘n grunts. Grits because they were cheap and Key West was a cracker town then. Grunts because they were plentiful and easy enough to catch that any kid could fill a bucket in a couple of hours after school. And every Sunday, Key Lime pie, made from the tangy little yellow limes that grew only in the Keys. Albury shoved the jail slop away in disgust.
“Good evening,” the voice came from outside the bars. Jesus, now who? The door opened and a woman walked in.
“My name is Christine Manning. I’m a special prosecutor with the Governor’s office. I’d like to talk with you a couple of minutes.”
“I’m extremely tired,” Albury replied. She was tallish, about thirty-five, not badly shaped beneath a white blouse and a flared skirt. A light sprinkling of gray, unmolested in a thick black mane, bespoke a certain independence.
“I’d like to talk to you about your arrest last night,” she said. “I notice it’s not your first time.”
“What’s your interest?”
“Well, as you may know, the Governor appointed a special task force to investigate drug corruption in Monroe County …”
Albury stopped her with a soft laugh. “That was last year. You still around?”
“The executive order gave us two years,” Christine Manning said defensively.
“Miss Manning, you’re a very attractive lady, but I’m not going to talk to you. Not without my lawyer here.”
“I’m in an odd posture,” she said gently. “I asked around about you today, and in the good Conch tradition …”
Albury grinned. “You said it right. Most folks can’t pronounce it.”
“Conch, rhymes with zonk,” Manning said. “Anyway, in the upstanding tradition of this island, almost no one would say anything. Almost no one. Your ex-wife, however, was helpful.”
“Mother of God,” Albury groaned.
“And your girlfriend.”
“Shit.”
“Wait a minute. She was trying to help. She thought you were in trouble. Anyway they made you seem different. I thought you might be a reasonable man.”
Albury grunted.
“The first time you ran grass.” Manning stopped herself. “The first time you got
caught
, I should say, had to do with Veronica, didn’t it?”
Albury’s smile dissipated. “That was the first time I ever ran it. I had my reasons.”
“Veronica was ten at the time. To get a cancer at that age is very unusual, I know. The bills piled up, your little girl got sicker … Laurie said there was a hospital in Miami you were going to try.”
“Go away now, Miss Manning.”
“Breeze, you shouldn’t have done any time for that. If only you had let your lawyer tell the judge about Veronica—God, you could have gotten probation, easy. Not eleven months.”
“You don’t hear very well, yourself.” Albury had gone cold at the sound of his daughter’s name. He squinted hard, and again Key West appeared to him as it was thirty years ago. On an afternoon like this he would have taken the skiff all the way out to the reef without a worry. The water would be like glass. You could snorkel for two hours, load the boat with Nassau grouper, and never lay eyes on another human being, much less a starched and undoubtedly dried-up emissary from the Governor’s office. No one came. No one cared. It was marvelous. Now the island behaved like a dog, unpredictable and ugly in its old age, turning and biting again and again, long after the point had been made.
“What made you do it this time, captain?” Christine Manning asked. Her tone made it clear that she expected no answer. “Look, I’m going to be honest. We heard you got squeezed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pinched,” Manning said. “Blackmailed. Whatever term you choose. We heard you were
conscripted
into that run last night. And if that’s true … well, I took a chance that if that was true, you might be more of a mind to talk. I know you think the task force is a joke and that I’m a joke …”
“Not at all.”
“Good, because I’m not. There’s going to be a grand jury in a few weeks. Do you know what that means?”
“Another big payday for the Holiday Inn.”
“Shit, I am wasting my time,” Christine Manning said. “If something should change your mind and you feel the civic urge to testify about what you know, please call. I have an office at the courthouse.” Albury craned to watch her leave along the linoleum corridor. Her walk was intriguing.
“I have a feeling you could be very helpful,” she called, knowing she was being watched.
Albury felt no civic urges.