Trap Line

“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.

  In the Winnebago on the fringes of the spectacle, Drake Boone was adamant. Tomas Cruz ricocheted between incredulity, anger, and stupor.

  “One last time, Boone,” Tom said, “this will all blow over. Forget it.”

  “I’ve had it. You and Manolo can get yourselves another lawyer.”

  They stared at one another for a long moment—Tom gummy-eyed; Boone glacial. Outside, the sun was dying. The tourists watched in rapt silence. When it vanished, they would clap; every night the tourists clapped.

  “OK have it your way,” Tom said at last. “One hundred thou it is. Small bills?”

  “I don’t care. You got it here?”

  “Yeah.” He had much more than that. “But turn around while I get it. If you ain’t a part of the team anymore, then I don’t want you seeing where my bank is.”

  “Just put it in the briefcase, OK?”

  Drake Boone turned. From behind a cushion, Tomas Cruz pulled the silenced Beretta and shot Drake Boone twice in the back.

  On the seawall outside, the tourists applauded.

  “HOW MUCH IS that shell there?” He nudged it with his boot. It was a queen conch, a beauty.

  “Ten dollars,” she said without looking up. “It may sound expensive, but it’s real cheap. That’s a Queen of the Sea, comes from over a hundred feet deep.”

  “Not as deep as all that, Peg.”

  “Hello, Breeze.”

  It hurt to look at her. Once, her eyes had flashed a sensual yellow fire. Now, as she peered up at him from under a floppy straw hat, they were lost in the swollen face and as colorless as the gin that had destroyed them.

  “How’re things, Peg?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “You haven’t been around to see Ricky lately.”

  “I keep meanin’ to, honest. But you know how it is. Besides, he stopped by the other day. He’s so big, Breeze. And Veronica, she’d be nearly fourteen. Veronica.”

  “Yeah.” Albury had come to tell her about Ricky’s arm. He decided not to.

  “Where did it all go, Breeze? Us, and the island? It was so good, once. Then it went someplace, all of it, all rotten. Can you tell me where it all went?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fast. It all went so fast. Like my little girl. And now, what’s left? This place, my office.” She gestured. The sun had left. Shadows speckled the tiny shingle of sand and the fading red-and-white sign that proclaimed it “Southernmost Beach in the U.S.”

  “These are hard times, Peg,” Albury said gently.

  “No good times.” Then she smiled. “It was so bright, like the sun on a summer day, so hot it makes you feel good all over. Remember? We saved and bought that house. The kids loved that backyard, and then you said one good season and you’d build a Florida room on the back with air conditioning, but you never built it. Only a tree house in that ugly old ficus, and me scared to death the kids would fall out. ‘Course, you didn’t know that because you were out fishin’, and you were going to buy another boat and then one day a fish house so you could be home more.”

  She poked at the cool sand with dirty toes. Then she looked up.

  “I’m sorry, Breeze.”

  “Me, too.”

  Albury took the heavy ivory-and-pink conch shell and left her a twenty-dollar bill.

  He was nearly back to the car when she called, a figure lost in shadow.

  “Take care of my boy, Breeze. Take care of my Ricky, hear?”

  “I will, Peg,” he replied softly, “Oh, I will.”

  BREEZE ALBURY found Tomas Cruz sprawled on the Winnebago’s burgundy leather sofa. A pistol lay on the carpet alongside an empty champagne bottle. Tom watched him through hooded eyes.

  “Hey, Tom, how they hangin’?”

  “What’s that you’re carryin’?” Tom
asked warily.

  “This? A queen conch. I’m going to take it to Ricky at the hospital. A get-well present.”

  “Ricky, oh yeah, sorry about that. You know how it is.” Tom shrugged. “Make yourself a drink.”

  “Thanks, I will. I can see you’ve had a few already.”

  “A couple. Want a pop? They’re over there.” Tom gestured toward the cutlery drawer.

  “No, thanks. I’ve only got a few minutes, got to get to the hospital. Those nurses are damn strict about visiting hours.” Albury poured himself three fingers of Bourbon.

  Tom fished a gold lighter from his jeans pocket and lit a cigarette. “I’m glad you finally came to your senses, bubba. Tomorrow we deal and it’s all over—no hard feelings. I get my square groupers, you get your money, Manolo gets off my ass, and everybody goes home happy.”

  “Right.” Albury toasted Tom and drained the whiskey.

  “It’s too bad things went so wrong,” said Tom, “but I want you to know that we—me and Manolo—don’t bear any grudge. And next time somethin’ special comes along, somethin’ we need a really good captain for, we’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks. By the way, I hear Manolo’s out of town.”

  “That’s right, bubba. It’s my show till he gets back.”

  “No offense, Tom, but are you sure you’ll have the money tomorrow?”

  “Shit. It’s peanuts. I’ve got more than that on me right now. We’re a big-time operation, Breeze, really first-class. I tell you what: I’ll throw in a coupla extra thousand for the boy’s medical bills, how’s that?”

  “That’d be fine, Tom.”

  Albury’s fingertips showed white against the conch. He was surprised he hadn’t broken it. He looked at his watch. Another few minutes.

  “Let’s do the trade up around Ramrod Key,” said Tom. “I’ve got it all figured out.”

  “That’s fine, Tom. Only one problem—you’re not paying enough. I want more money. Maybe we should wait till Manolo gets back.”

  Tom pushed himself upright on the sofa.

  “What kind of shit is this? First all the hassle with the rip, and now you’re trying to fuck me over money, too?”

  “Hassles, Tom? No hassles, just business.”

  “Jesus! Don’t you ever learn? Keep up with this shit, Albury, and I’ll break your fuckin’ kid’s head the next time.”

  “Does Manolo know how cheap you’re trying to be?”

  “Manolo has nothin’ to do with this. Nothin’, goddamnit!”

  “All the same, I think we should wait till he gets back.”

  “No!” Tom was roaring now. “You stole my load and you’re goin’ to give it back to me tomorrow, the way I told you.”

  “That’s not how it’s goin’ down,” Albury said quietly.

  Crystal’s timing was perfect. Tom was scrabbling on the floor for the pistol when the CB radio above the driver’s seat burst to life.

  “Ajax, this is Neptune. I have an urgent message from Thor. Do you copy?” Tom glanced reflexively at the radio. He was Ajax. Manolo was Thor.

  Almost casually, Albury kicked the gun from Tom’s hand. He came out of the chair with the controlled fury of a jungle cat. Tom had no chance.

  Albury leaned against the bar to catch his breath, and Tom wailed up at him from the floor

  “Jesus! My arm, you broke my fucking arm.”

  Albury watched, impassive.

  “I’ll take my money now, Tom.”

  “No.”

  “The money or the other arm.”

  “OK, OK. The money. Oh, Christ, it hurts.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the closet … a false panel on the floor. There’s a suitcase … Take the money and get me to a doctor, OK, Breeze? For Chrissakes.”

  “Show me the money.”

  Albury followed Tom toward the sleeping area of the camper’s rear. From the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky shadow and whirled to confront it. He jerked open the glass door of the shower stall and Drake Boone fell out.

  Albury looked at the corpse.

  “My, Tom, you have been busy.”

  “Look, just take your money and go, OK? This is not your business. You didn’t see anything. OK? You’re right, I was tryin’ to cheat you on the money. Take what you want and we’ll call it square.”

  Clutching his arm, Tom pointed at the closet. Albury grunted at the weight of the suitcase. He dumped it onto the bed, more money than he had ever seen. It smelled like wet dirt.

  Albury eyed the cash speculatively. Tom lay half on the bed, his feet on the floor, babbling. It would be so easy: there for the taking. Albury sighed.

  “I figure you owe me fifty-three thousand dollars, Tom—fifty for the Colombians and another three for my traps. Count it out.”

  “My arm … I can’t.”

  “Count, and I’ll get you something for your arm.”

  Albury walked back into the camper’s living area and rummaged through the cutlery area. Returning, he tossed four plastic bottles onto the bed. Tom wrenched the child-proof cap off one of them with his teeth and swallowed a handful of fuse-shaped capsules.

  “Keep counting,” Albury commanded.

  Tom moaned. He sniveled. He cried. With painful, jerky movements, he labored to assemble a pile of pills on the edge of the bed.

  “There,” he said at last. “Take it.”

  Albury distributed the money among his pockets. He saw the pills ignite in Tom’s eyes and watched with scorn as Tom began shoveling the large pile of remaining bills into the suitcase.

  Albury went forward and started the camper engine. He maneuvered the boxlike vehicle until it pointed down the concrete promenade. Sunset had emptied the dock. The few passersby on the still night stared incuriously as Albury drove along the seawall until the Winnebago was about seventy-five feet from the end.

  “Where we goin’, Breeze? What’re you doin’?” Tom whimpered.

  “I get out here, Tom. Where you go is up to you. You get a fighting chance. That’s more than you gave Ricky.”

  In belated alarm, Tom rolled off the bed in a shower of stinking money. He wriggled toward Albury, dragging his twisted arm.

  Albury jammed the queen conch shell between the accelerator and the brake pedal. The engine raced. He slipped the camper into gear and jumped lightly from the cab. He walked away without looking back, ignoring the shout of alarm from the carrot-cake lady as she dove from the Winnebago’s path. Albury was already lost in the shadows of the Old Town when he heard the splash.

  Chapter 22

  PEG ALBURY fortified herself with three cups of black coffee from the hospital cafeteria. Customarily, she was not up and around like this at nine in the morning, but she had not slept well. She inserted a stick of spearmint gum in her mouth, adjusted her hair with trembling fingers, and bravely made her way to the nurse’s station on the third floor.

  “Richard Albury’s room, please.”

  A lovely Jamaican nurse picked up the telephone, smiled, and turned her back on Peg Albury. Moments later a starched, pinch-faced man appeared. He introduced himself as Mr. Jenks, the administrator.

  Peg Albury groped for a chair. “My God. Not Ricky,” she murmured. “Not Ricky, too. Is he dead?”

  “You’re Ricky’s mother?”

  Peg nodded.

  “He’s not here,” Jenks said with an irritated sigh. “Mr. Albury removed him from the hospital about thirty minutes ago. Against doctor’s orders, and against my orders. I told him the boy was not ready to travel. The arm needs another two days of traction.”

  “Breeze got him?” Peg held her straw hat to her breasts. She chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought.

  “Where is your husband?” Jenks asked sternly.

  “He’s my former husband, and I’ll be damned if I know. I had to find out about Ricky’s accident from the shortstop on his team. Think of that, mister.”

  “You must find Mr. Albury. A person cannot just waltz into this
hospital and snatch a patient out of a room and waltz out again. There are rules, Mrs. Albury, and laws. One of our orderlies is down in the emergency room at this moment, having his face sewn up. I suppose it’s my fault. I told him to stop your husband down in the lobby. Apparently Mr. Albury was not of a mind to be stopped.”

  Peg nodded absently. “He’s a contrary sonofabitch, all right.” She fitted the hat back on her head. “Did he say where they were going?”

  “He did not,” Jenks replied. “He asked what his son’s bill was, and of course he wouldn’t wait while we added it up. He simply handed me five thousand dollars in cash and headed for the door. Just like that.”

  “Too bad,” Peg Albury said, rising. “Ain’t that enough? Five grand ain’t enough?”

  “It would have been, yes,” Jenks said caustically, “if your husband had not helped himself to one of our ambulances.”

  Peg Albury aimed herself toward the elevator. “Former,” she clucked. “Former, former, former. Good morning, Mr. Jinx.”

  IT WAS HUGE BARNETT himself who supervised the recovery of the Winnebago. He lined up two tow trucks, side by side, wheels chocked, near the end of the pier. He badgered a young mate from one of the tourist boats into diving through the clear green water to fasten the lines. A growing crowd watched in macabre silence from the seawall around the square.

  “Together now,” Barnett bawled.

  The trucks strained. The Winnebago lurched. A large bubble of air broke the surface, and in another minute, bits of debris floated up, swirling in the current.

  They looked like rumpled bits of paper. By the time anyone realized what they were, hundreds of them floated around the docks.

  “Holy shit, that’s money,” came a shout from the crowd.

  People stripped on the seawall. They dove into the water the way Conch kids of Barnett’s era once dove for nickels thrown by tourists. Word raced through Old Town. In ten minutes, there were nearly three hundred people in the water, thrashing, yelling, punching, clutching for the bills. One woman almost drowned.

  Huge Barnett lost his famous cool. Slack-jawed, he stomped furiously on the pier. Then he hit on a solution that would again earn him time on the evening news. One anchorman would report it wryly as the “Great Key West Swim-in.”