Trap Line (17 page)
“I’ll let you know,” said Tom’s man, walking away.
Fontaine climbed into one of the Winnebagos to look for a place to lie down, but the insides of the camper had been stripped to the bare aluminum. Fontaine hopped out and sat on the corner of a bumper. Across the water, in the distance, was the Seven Mile Bridge. The only lights along the blackened ribbon were trucks and cars; the only sounds in the night were their engines.
Eddie Fontaine took another sip of whiskey. The real question was whether to tell his wife about the money. He couldn’t just go out and buy a speedboat and not expect her to ask questions. She was no damn fool. The kid needs braces; that would be noted, too. The other times he had managed to stash a little and lie about the rest. Shit, she never cared where it came from. Throw in a gold necklace or a new color TV, and she all of a sudden forgot what she wanted to ask about.
A shoe box, Fontaine decided with a sour belch. That’s where tonight’s wad was going. Fuck Junior’s rotten teeth.
He got up and weaved a few yards to the edge of a mangrove clump, where he unzipped his jeans and began to urinate. He yelped when a voracious horsefly scored a direct hit on his pecker.
“Eddie!” shouted another off-loader. “The boat’s comin’.”
The men swarmed to the end of the jetty. One of them began to light Coleman lanterns. The belabored sound of a diesel rode the breeze up the channel. Huffing, Eddie Fontaine joined the others, watching from shore.
“For Christ’s sake,” grumbled Tom’s man. “Tuck yourself in, willya, Eddie?”
A crawfish boat with three men aboard hung fifty yards off No-Name Key. Tom’s man could see the bales stacked to the gunwale. With an obliging wind you could have smelled the stuff all the way to the mainland. He lifted a lantern and swung it like a pendulum for several seconds. A spotlight winked back at him from the fishing boat; the captain aimed its bow toward the jetty.
“OK, let’s keep it short and sweet,” said Tom’s man, addressing the group. “We load up as fast as we can, the Winnebagos last. Then give the drivers thirty minutes to get out of here.”
“When do we get paid?” someone asked.
“After the load is gone,” answered Tom’s man. “And if I catch one of you bastards ripping off even a handful of weed, you’ll be swimming.”
The boat nestled up to the jetty. A porky man on the bow tossed a rope to one of the off-loaders; the others formed a makeshift fire brigade from the boat to the beer truck. The first fifty-pound bale was on its way when the shotgun punctured the summer night.
“Fuck me,” whispered Eddie Fontaine, dropping the bale.
Tom’s man raised hands, imploring silence, like the marshal at a big golf tournament. The other men turned their eyes north, to Little Pine Key and a new sound. Another boat.
“Let’s get out of here,” one of the off-loaders murmured.
“No!” barked Tom’s man. “No, not yet. Maybe it’s just trap robbers or something. Sit tight for a second.” He snuffed the lantern he was holding.
The boat came anyway, rounding the point of Little Pine, faster and faster, the rasping of its engine followed by the sound of pushing water.
“That fucker’s crazy,” Fontaine said.
Tom’s man strained to see the new boat. “Where are his goddamned lights?”
Then there was one; blue, whirling ominously in the wheelhouse, firing cool beams every second into the sweaty faces on the shore of No-Name Key. The shotgun roared again, and this time the off-loaders scrambled for their cars. The smugglers cannonballed off the grass boat and hit the water swimming.
Eddie Fontaine lurched through the mangroves to the spot where he thought he had parked the pickup. He was off the mark by forty yards; half-running, half-stumbling, he made it to the truck breathless and nearly sick. The mangrove roots had shredded his jeans and left bloody tracks along both shins.
Fontaine turned the key and gunned the truck in the general direction of escape. As it barreled down the dirt road, another fugitive exploded from the mangroves. Fontaine spun the steering wheel and swerved off the road. The pickup came to a stop at a dump site, crashing into an old Frigidaire.
“Hey!” the runner called. “Gimme a lift.”
Fontaine waved and opened the passenger-side door. It was Tom’s man. His face was damp. The scarlet remnants of an Izod shirt hung from his neck. Fontaine told him to get in.
“Thanks, Eddie. My car’s up the road about half a mile. It’s the El Dorado.”
“Shit.” Fontaine backed his truck out of the trash heap and punched the accelerator. “What happened, man? Who the hell called the Marine Patrol?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it Haller? Could you see?”
“Couldn’t tell.”
“Fuck me,” Fontaine said, scowling. “Tom said the cops were taken care of.”
“That’s what he promised,” said Tom’s man, glumly.
The intruders waited twenty minutes. By then, the frightened crew of the grass boat had scrabbled ashore and escaped with the other smugglers. All that remained at the jetty was the boat; its cargo; the Winnebago campers, deserted forever; and two Coleman lanterns aglow against the tangled mangroves.
Breeze Albury guided the
Diamond Cutter
toward the island. Augie knelt on the bow, cradling the shotgun. Jimmy stood shirtless at his side, holding a coiled rope.
Effortlessly, Albury sidled the
Diamond Cutter
up to the grass boat, Tom’s boat. The pirates worked swiftly.
(From the deposition of James E. Cantrell, Jr., taken on the sixth day of October 1982, before Christine Manning, counsel to the office of the Governor. Also present was court reporter Mary Perdue.)
M
ISS
M
ANNING
: Jimmy, can you tell me how you knew that load of marijuana would be coming into the Big Spanish Channel that night?
M
R
. C
ANTRELL
: Breeze found out, somehow. On our way back from Key Largo, we gassed up the boat in Islamorada. Breeze got off and made a couple phone calls. When he came back, he told us that Tom had a load coming in.
Q: That would be Tomas Cruz?
A: Right. After that, we brought the
Diamond Cutter
down to Marathon. Augie got out near the Vaca Key Bridge. I guess he was gone an hour or so before he came back with this police bubble. You know, the light they flash at you when you’re supposed to stop. Like the troopers have on top of their cars. I don’t know where Augie got it, and I don’t want to know.
Q: What did Captain Albury say?
A: Nothing. He just hooked it up to the twelve-volt we had in the pilothouse. This was after we already anchored behind Little Pine Key.
Q: While you were waiting to ambush the other boat?
A: Ma’am, I wouldn’t call it an ambush. All we had was the blue light.
Q: And the shotgun.
A: Yes, ma’am. That was my idea, firing the Remington into the air. I figured it would speed things along.
Q: Did Captain Albury ever explain why he wanted to hijack the other lobster boat?
A: He didn’t have to. Part of it was the money, the fifty grand Winnebago Tom owed us. Breeze needed something to bargain with. And let me tell you, five tons of weed is good for openers.
Q: Jimmy, what took place after the hijacking at No-Name Key?
A: Breeze took the dope boat around to the Mud Keys. Me and Augie followed in the
Diamond Cutter.
Made good time, too. Then Breeze got on the radio to somebody and passed the word. He told them to let Tom Cruz know that we had his five tons.
Q: Isn’t that blackmail?
A: Is it? It seemed pretty damn polite, compared to what those fuckers put us through. Tom should have given us the money. The right thing to do was pay us, like he promised. Breeze didn’t want his fucking grass.
Q: So Mr. Cruz learned what had happened to his boat?
A: Oh, yeah.
Q: And he knew what Breeze Albury wanted?
A: I’m sure he did.
Q: Did he give Captain Albury an answer?
A: Yes, ma’am. It was quite an answer, too. Just about the worst thing I ever heard of. Nothing surprised me after Winnebago Tom did what he did. Not a goddamned thing that happened after that really surprised me. Not the least.
THE GIRL
sat cross-legged on the bed, the lute’s fretted neck leaning gently against her left breast:
Come by sea, come by flight;
Bring it to me by the crate.
Fly by day, sail by night,
But honey please don’t be late
’Cause I gotta have my Florida freight.
Bring me speed,
Bring me weed.
Bring me snow,
I love it so.
Florida freight, oh Florida freight,
I jes’ gotta have my Florida freight.
Propped on an elbow, Manolo raised his glass in silent toast.
“An improvisation,” she smiled. “I call it ‘Smuggler’s Lullaby.’”
“Amusing.”
“Actually, there is another very good line.” She sang: “Float a Donzi, drive a Porsche … but the trouble is I can’t think of anything to rhyme with ‘Porsche.’”
“The next time, perhaps.”
“Shall I go?”
“I am afraid so; I am expecting guests.”
“At this hour?”
“Irritating, but unavoidable.”
When he arrived a half-hour later, Tomas Cruz headed straight for the bar. He drained off three ounces of scotch and then splashed some onto his hands and across his face.
“Christ, the mosquitoes almost ate me alive up there. What a mess … an all-time blue-ribbon fucking mess.”
Manolo, in a knotted dressing gown, sipped Cointreau from leaded crystal.
“Help yourself to a drink, Tom; no sense being shy.”
“Yeah, thanks, I’ll have another one. Jesus, we’re really screwed this time.”
“Short and to the point, if you don’t mind. It’s late.”
Tom trailed mud across the white carpet and hunkered onto a suede sofa, scratching his ankles.
“OK, look, it’s a routine run, right? Five tons, one boat, a drop-off we’ve used before. Three vans, eight off-loaders, and by dawn the stuff is already in Miami, right? Sweet and simple. Then it all went to shit.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“At first, I thought it was the cops—the Marine Patrol, blue light ‘n all. It wasn’t.”
“Let me guess. It was Breeze Albury.”
“Jesus, Manolo, you’re really sharp. How’d you know that?”
“A desperate captain in a rogue boat. Who else would try something like that?”
“Who woulda figured it? Breeze Albury, and him like all the rest: lean on them a little bit and they keel over like it was a hurricane. You shoulda seen him when we cut his trap line, like a little kid who’d lost his puppy.”
“The next time we need a patsy, Tom, I think you should look harder.” Manolo sipped at his drink. “If there is a next time.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“If Albury was a patsy like you say, he never would have left Dynamite Docks alive, would he? Your patsy comes snapping back and rips us off for ten thousand pounds. Some patsy.”
“Yeah, that’s what he is, a potbellied patsy Conch. I ain’t afraid of Breeze fucking Albury.”
“That’s good, Tom, because I expect you to deal with him. The business at Dynamite Docks has upset our Colombian friends. They are mad at Breeze Albury. That is enough. I want the load back, and I don’t want any more trouble from him. We need to make an example before he gives other people ideas. I want you to deal with it.”
“I’ll take care of him, all right. Just tell me where to find the motherfucker.”
“He will tell you himself, Tom.”
“Huh?”
Manolo stifled a sigh.
“Think, Tom. Think every now and then, and you might learn to like it. What do you suppose Albury is going to do with five tons of grass?”
“I dunno. Sell it, I guess.”
“That’s right. He will sell it—to us. What else can he do with it? He will offer to swap it for the money due from the Key Largo run, plus a little more, maybe. And he will do it quickly because that much grass is going to be spotted, sooner or later.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna pay to get our own grass back.”
“Of course not. But you must encourage Albury to negotiate. Make him see that it is not merely a question of money.”
Tom Cruz tossed down the scotch with a smile. “Damn, that’s good. I like it. I’ll make him want to negotiate.” He rolled the syllables around in his mouth.
“You had better leave now, but remember one more thing, if you can. Our business is built on
control
, Tom. We have lost control because of your patsy. We must reestablish it. If we do not, think of how it will appear. I shall be forced to tell our Colombian associates that you are the one who was responsible.”
With satisfaction, Manolo watched Tom Cruz scramble anxiously for the door.
HE WAS WINNEBAGO TOM
, but there were times when a lumbering camper, his symbol of status, would not do. Tomas Cruz dropped the Corvette into third and whipped past a tractor-trailer. Ahead, the Overseas Highway gleamed starkly in the afternoon sun. He fed it to the Corvette.
“Shithead legless bastard,” Tom muttered into the slipstream. Manolo must be right. He must be losing control. Or else he would have checked into the post office first thing. And the crippled radio jockey wouldn’t have been such a wiseass.
“Message for you, Tom, from Breeze Albury.” Crystal had delicately laid the glowing tip of a soldering iron to a tangle of transistors.
“Where is he?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You could tell from the radio, couldn’t you—the direction finder?”
“No.”
“Don’t give me that shit. I know about radios, shortknees. You try and cover up for Albury and you’re in deep shit with me, hear?”
“I’m trembling, Tom, I really am. Do you want the message, or what?”
“Tell me, Stumpy. Give me the message from Mr. Breeze fucking Albury.”
“Breeze says you can have your grass back for fifty-three thousand …”
“Shi-it.”
“… that’s fifty you owe him for something—he didn’t say what—and another three for his traps. He says to let him know if you want to deal, and he’ll tell you when and how.”