Trap Line (13 page)

“Breeze, I see a raft,” Augie called. “About thirty yards off the freighter’s stern.”

Albury opened a hatch and withdrew another pair of binoculars, a heavy Zeiss. Quickly he sighted the raft; inside were three men and a young boy, who stood rubber-legged, waving. The crew of the Argentine freighter was waving back; a skiff was dropping from its portside davits. It was obvious that the
Darlin’ Betty
had gone down.

Albury watched from afar as the shivering survivors clambered into the Argentine skiff. The boy, wearing an orange slicker, went first; Hawk Trumbull, his head swathed in a makeshift bandage, was last.

“Que hacemos?”
It was the Colombian named Oscar.

“He wants to know what we’re doing,” Augie said.

Albury lowered the binoculars. “Tell him to shut the hell up and get down.”

He fed power to the big diesel, and the
Diamond Cutter
stole away like a thief.

When he was certain that his boat was safely anonymous, northward bound in a lazy predawn procession of marine traffic, Albury gave the wheel to Jimmy. Then he made his way toward the stern until he could no longer be seen from the pilothouse and vomited into the sea.

THE RIDE IN
went smoothly after that in a gray smuggler’s void, an oily swell, a fine drizzle that became fog near the coast.

Albury felt empty. His arm ached. Sandpaper scoured his eyelids. Otherwise, he was numb. Even when Augie returned from the quick foray aft to report that the Colombians were quiet except for the gut-shot one, who was missing, Albury felt nothing.

His chore was precise and mechanical now. There could be no threat of pursuit, or any danger from the sea. All he had to do was to find Dynamite Docks, discharge his cargo, and escape. He would hide the
Diamond Cutter
someplace quiet. He would sleep and try to forget. He anticipated no problems from the Colombians. Not after the beating they had taken in the squall. They would limp ashore like whimpering kittens. Jimmy and his Remington would oversee their departure. Good riddance.

The channel leading to Dynamite Docks is tricky, even in daylight. Shoals to north and south are deviously marked by ugly metal rods that look as though they have been borrowed from a construction site. Coming in off the open sea in the hour before dawn,
Diamond Cutter
made a landfall that would have made any sailor proud. Twin red flashes appeared fine on the starboard bow; lights atop a Bell microwave dish that were a warning to fliers, and to sailors, a welcome. Albury, who had no pride left, nodded silently when he saw them. They were just where they should have been.

“Nice goin’, Breeze,” Augie remarked.

“Now look for the channel markers. They begin about a half-mile out. Don’t use the searchlight unless you have to.”

They found the markers, and Albury nudged
Diamond Cutter
between them at dead slow. There were no lights from shore: the docks weren’t used much, except by smugglers and the occasional fisherman, and at this hour, Albury expected them to be deserted.

When the Colombian named Oscar appeared in the wheelhouse, his swaggering machismo had vanished. He seemed shrunken and haggard, his fancy red shirt soggy with sweat and salt rime.

“He wants to know if we are there,” Augie relayed.

“Tell him we will arrive in a few minutes. Ask him what to expect on the docks.”

“He says there will be two or three big cars waiting. I think he means Winnebagos.”

“How about the money?”

“One of the drivers will have it, he says. I guess he’ll bring it out onto the dock.”

“Tell him that I hold him responsible. He will be the last to leave. If there is trouble for me, I’ll make big trouble for him.”

“He says there will be no trouble.”

“His people are to leave in an orderly way. A few at a time. No mobs. No running. He goes with the last group. Him and Lover Boy and one or two others. Make sure he understands that he doesn’t leave until the money is on board.”

“He says he will do as you say.”

As the limestone jetty slid into view through the fog, Albury could hear Oscar talking to the Colombians. Beside him at the wheel, Jimmy fidgeted. The first magenta blush of dawn teased the horizon.

“You believe him, Breeze? That it’s all gonna go smooth?”

It was Augie who answered.

“When a shark smiles, man, don’t look at the grin, look at the teeth.”

“You watch them with the Remington, Jimmy. I checked it; it’s all ready to go.” Albury was judging the glide of the boat toward the shrouded docksite. “Augie, you reckon any of them is good enough to take a knife away from you?”

“Sh-it.”

As the
Diamond Cutter
eased against the rocks, a muffled figure appeared. He wore a dark windbreaker and slacks, sneakers, and a New York Yankee baseball cap. He carried an attaché case, which he slipped under his arm to deftly catch the bowline and make the
Diamond Cutter
fast.

An excited chorus rose from the cargo. Oscar quelled it savagely. Then the Colombians were gone in untidy groups that scrambled onto the dock and reeled away into the fog. At the end of the jetty Albury could see the sidelights of four vans, customized with smoked-glass windows.

“Four left, Breeze. Oscar, Lover Boy, and two others,” Augie called softly.

“Get the money.”

The figure on the dock had not moved. Now Oscar called to him, and, in a smooth underhand motion, the man tossed the briefcase.

“Have him bring it up here,” Albury ordered.

Oscar stiffly climbed the short ladder to the wheelhouse, followed by the twin barrels of the Remington. He placed the attaché case on the chart table and undid the twin catches.

“You will see, captain. It is all here,” the Colombian said.

“Your English has certainly improved,” Albury noted.

The Colombian smiled.

“There are times, you see, captain, when it is convenient not to speak English. And other times when one must speak it.
Comprende
?”

Intuitively, Albury reached for the attaché case, but he was too late.

The stubby black revolver slid into the Colombian’s hand, and with a downward slash, barrel first, it caught Albury on the side of his head. He staggered back, blood gouting from his scalp. The Colombian kicked him hard in the stomach, and Albury went down. The Colombian struck the way a shark strikes, silent and overpowering.

Albury writhed on the wheelhouse deck. The Colombian kicked him again.

“Hijo de puta,”
the Colombian cursed, and then, in English, he called down to the deck: “Throw down your gun, or I will shoot your captain.”

“Breeze!” Through a haze of pain Albury heard Jimmy’s shocked cry.

“Do what he says, Jimmy,” he heard Augie say.

The Remington clattered to the deck, and the Colombian they called Lover Boy hopped forward to retrieve it. The other two vaulted ashore and ran with the man in the Yankee cap toward the last of the four vans.

Albury groped to his feet. One eye was closed. Blood coursed down his cheek and ran onto the deck. His belly churned. His arm was bleeding again.

“Tell him if there is trouble, I will make trouble,” the Colombian mocked. “Come on and kill me. Make your big trouble.
Gringo de mierda.
It was you who was the dead man. From the very first, this was a one-way trip for you,
puto.
I am only sorry that I do not have time to do it with a knife.”

Albury concentrated with every fiber to make the wheelhouse stop swimming. He raised both arms, as if in exhaustion or surrender, until the hands rested on a tubular aluminum object latched with hooks to one of the roof beams. It was smooth and cool to his touch.

“Look, please …”

“Beg,
gringo
, beg.”

“Not for me. But for my mates. They are only kids, like sons to me. They can’t hurt you.” Albury lurched back half a step. The object was free now in his hands.

“They are shit,
mierda
, like you. And they will die first because it will hurt you to see them die. And then you, not with one shot, but with many,
como en la Guajira.”
Foam flecked the Colombian’s lips. His eyes burned like a madman’s fire. “Luis,” the Colombian yelled.
“Dales. Ahora!”

He grimaced, like a man about to ejaculate, waiting for the twin booms from the Remington.

But from the deck came only two muted clicks, and only Albury was ready for them. In a blurred half-second, he saw the Colombian turn aft in perplexity. He heard Jimmy sob and Augie roar like an angry panther.

Then Albury’s arms were moving, coming down from the rafters with the bang stick, and he was thrusting like a demented swordsman against the Colombian’s chest. In a single frenzied motion, Albury pulled back the rubber sling and let go. The long tube shot forward.

The bang stick is meant for sharks, not men. The twelve-gauge deer slug exploded on impact and blew a hole the size of a softball in the Colombian’s belly and out his back. The dead man flew one way. Deafened, only half-conscious, Albury collapsed against the opposite bulkhead.

He lay there for what seemed like eternity but could only have been a few seconds. He jerked upright at the sound of pounding feet and the sight of Augie bursting into the pilothouse, a bloody fish knife in his fist.

“Shells, man. Where are the fucking shells?” he demanded.

“My right pocket,” Albury mumbled. His last thought before he passed out was that he had been right not to trust Jimmy with the shotgun.

Later, it was Jimmy who told him how Augie had fired both barrels at the last of the Colombians’ vans, and how one of the shots must have hit the gas tank because the van had exploded in a ball of fire and screams. That was Jimmy’s story. Augie wouldn’t talk about it.

Chapter 11

BOBBY FREED
cosseted his patient with iced mountain chablis and a tingling back-and-front rub smoothed by liberal applications of coconut oil.

“The doctor says another ten days and you’ll be as good as new.” Freed rubbed gently. “Does this feel nice?”

Beeker lay impassively, hands folded behind his head, staring at the fan. After a time his back arched and a grunt forced its way through his teeth.

“Well, at least my favorite part of you has survived nicely,” Freed whispered.

“Sure. That will make everything right?”

“You’re all better now; the doctor says so. It’s over.”

“No, it is not over.”

“I know how you feel. But we’ll get even with Fatso Barnett. I promise.”

“I don’t care!” Beeker buried his head in a down pillow. “I’m leaving. This place sucks. I’m going, Bobby, I am.”

“Don’t be foolish. This is our home now. It could have happened anyplace … anyplace where people are still
backward.”

“No, there is a special evil about this place. I want to go home to New York.”

“Absolutely. You get your strength back, and we’ll go back for a visit. Laurie could run the restaurant for us, no problem.”

“
DO WE HAVE
any pot?” Beeker asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“What?”

Beeker rolled onto his back.

“Pot. I want a joint.”

“You know I disapprove of pot, Neal; that’s part of the trouble with this town. It is run by pot.”

“You knew I was coming out of the hospital. The least you could have done was to buy a lid.”

“I will not buy it for you. You know that.”

Beeker hurled the pillow. It snagged on the rattan peacock chair and a cloud of feathers settled on the rough-weave peasant carpet they had bought in Mexico.

“You are so innocent,” Beeker spat.

“Really, Neal, I…”

“Innocent.
You strut around like a big man at the council meetings and talk and talk, but you don’t really know what is happening in this anus place. You don’t know at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fatso Barnett, Fatso Barnett. That’s all you can think of. He’s only part of the problem. A fat little leech, a nobody. The real problem is bigger scum, like that lawyer Boone.
They
really run this town. Barnett is only their puppet. They laugh at us.”

“Drake Boone?”

“Scumbag.”

Freed was surprised. He had always thought of Beeker as the ethereal sort. Neal always signed the petitions and dressed well for the rallies, of course, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“What do you know about Drake Boone, Neal?”

“Lots.”

“Tell me.”

“No, I just want to go away.”

“Please tell me. It could be important.”

“What’s the use?”

“It all fits together. Believe me, I know more than you think.” Freed stroked Beeker’s hand. “Please tell me.”

Beeker sighed.

“Bring some ice for the wine, and I’ll tell you,” he surrendered.

Later that morning, with Beeker asleep, Bobby Freed walked alone to Singleton Docks to watch the shrimp boats come in. His mind was in turmoil, sickened. He would have to control his fury before the council meeting that night. Beeker had told him a story of a fifteen-year-old girl named Julie Clayton; it was the kind of thing you read about in the tabloids. But it had happened in Key West. And no one knew. Let me find some proof of what I have heard, Freed prayed silently. And the whole world will know.

Julie Clayton lay in Room 177 of Duval Hospital. She had been there for weeks, with a snake’s nest of tubes to feed her and drain her, and machines to preserve the pretense that she was still alive. Julie Clayton was a vegetable.

Once, the way Beeker told it, she had been a student at Key West High, a fun-loving girl who took her kicks wherever she could find them.

She had found one too many, and his name was Drake Boone.

She must have been a cinch, huh,
counselor?
What a change from slap-and-tickle with panting adolescents in seedy drive-ins: a blow-dried, big-shot lawyer with three-piece suits, a fancy car, and an office with its very own private entrance. What a wonderful secret for a fifteen-year-old girl, right, Drake? No band practice for Julie. No empty afternoons before soap operas in dingy trailers. For Julie, rather, after-school excitement, adventure, sex, perhaps even the illusion of love. Did you pretend it was love, Drake? Did you lovingly roll her joints? Was it you who introduced her to the wonderful high that comes from a couple of tiny pills? Was she
wild
, Drake, at those wonderful impromptu office parties? How many more like her were there? And where were you, Drake, you
hideous bastard
, the afternoon that Julie Clayton popped so many pills that they shut down her nervous system and left her a cabbage? Were you there, Drake, or could any fifteen-year-old wander in and help herself to joy juice at the private entrance of Drake Boone, Jr.,
attorney-at-law?