Trap Line (18 page)

“He’ll tell me, huh? Big-shot Breeze Albury will tell me. You tell him I’ll get back to him.”

Crystal had nodded and for the first time looked up from the radio he was fixing.

“One more thing, Tom.”

“What?”

“Breeze didn’t say it right out, but I think that after this deal goes down you’d better haul ass out of Key West.”

“Ain’t that too bad? You tell him he’ll hear from me. A message he can understand …”

Tomas Cruz wheeled the Corvette off the highway onto a gravel track that led to a dilapidated marina a few miles north of Key West.

El Gallo
lay at its berth. It seldom left, for Willie Bascaro never fished. At first glance,
El Gallo
seemed a spanking-new Key West crawfisherman, ready for sea. Tom knew better. The engine wheezed before its time. The brightwork was pitted, a deck seam needed caulking, the bottom was fouled, and the radar had quit working two weeks after it was installed. Easy come, easy go. Willie had earned enough for the boat in one night’s work. He was a Marielito, one of the tens of thousands of misfits Castro had flushed from Cuba to South Florida in a fit of pique. He was unskilled, barely literate, a slob. But he had lived long enough around the Havana docks to learn to run a boat, more or less, and sometimes he was useful. Tom picked his way across the littered deck and went into the cabin to awaken the captain of
El Gallo
from a rum-fueled siesta.

“
AT LEAST TELL ME
what kind of trouble my dad is in. I’m not a kid.”

“Ricky, take it easy, OK?” Tomas Cruz eased the Corvette through the afternoon traffic toward Stock Island. “He told me to pick you up after work and bring you to see him. That’s all he said, OK? He didn’t say anything about trouble.”

“He must be in trouble.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Or else he would have come himself. Or maybe sent Jimmy. He wouldn’t have sent you.”

“You think your dad doesn’t like me, don’t you? Well, you’d be surprised. Him and me, we’ve done a lot of business together. And I know all about you: best right-handed prospect in the state of Florida, that’s what he says about you. A real prospect.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Wait and see.”

Cruz maneuvered slowly along a pier littered with fishermen’s debris: traps, buoys, lines, a discarded anchor, a stove-in dinghy. He stopped alongside a lobster boat, its engine idling.

“This is not the
Diamond Cutter,”
Ricky protested.

“No shit. Your dad’s waiting offshore. We’re going out to see him.”

Instinctively, Ricky shied.

“That’s OK, Tom. I’ve got someplace to go. I’ll wait till my dad comes in.”

The Beretta appeared in Tom’s fist. A silencer glared from the end of the barrel.

“Get in the boat, kid.”

They rode in silence for about twenty minutes until they were alone on the sea. Ricky could see only the angular back of the man who was running the boat. Winnebago Tom lounged on the engine cowling. His gun never wavered.

“Basta?”
called the man in the wheelhouse.

“Basta,”
Tom replied.

Ricky felt the engine go into neutral. The helmsman walked back to join Tom. He was a short, wiry man with sharp features and three missing teeth on the right side of his jaw. Ricky thought of him as Rat Face.

“This is my friend Willie, kid. He doesn’t speak much English, but he’s a mean sonofabitch, believe me. He likes to hurt people. You answer some questions for me or I’ll let Willie hurt you. Understand, Ricky?”

Rat Face saluted with a tire iron. Ricky licked his lips.

“Fuck you, Tom, and fuck your Rat Face friend, too.”

Tom fired once. Ricky flinched. The bullet twanged past his head like an angry bee.

“This is no game, Ricky. Where is your father?”

“What do you want him for?”

“He stole something belonging to me. Where is he?”

“I thought you said you were going to take me to him.”

“Don’t play games with me, shithead. Where is he?”

“Tampa … he said he was going to Tampa to check out a bigger boat he wants to buy. Or was it Galveston? He took a Greyhound bus.”

“Dale.”
Tom’s voice cracked in fury.

The Cuban named Willie came at Ricky with the tire iron held like a baseball bat. Ricky leaned back against the transom, as though huddling in fear. His kick caught the Cuban full in the stomach and drove him back toward the wheelhouse. Ricky sprang after him. He was reaching for the tire iron when Winnebago Tom clipped him along the side of his head with the butt of the pistol.

Pain awakened Ricky. Greater pain than he had ever known. His arm was on fire. He hung suspended by his pitching arm from the lobsterboat’s winch. He tried with all his might but could get no purchase. His toes grazed the deck. He bit back a scream.

Winnebago Tom held the tire iron now. He stood in front of Ricky, shouting.

“… like your father, a patsy, a stupid Conch patsy.”

Ricky could smell the rum on his breath. He tried to make his left hand come up to hit Tom. It would not move. He groaned and was ashamed.

“… a
real
prospect, huh? Well, Mr. Smartass Prospect, you tell your fucking patsy father that nobody fucks with Winnebago Tom. Nobody, hear me?”

Like a demented batter, Winnebago Tom slashed the tire iron across Ricky’s upper arm. Ricky screamed, and then he fainted. He never felt the second blow.

Chapter 16

“
I’M SORRY
, sir, we’re closed tonight. Private party.”

“Oh.” The tourist shuffled uncertainly on the sidewalk.

“If it’s seafood you want, I’d recommend El Pulpo on Duval Street. And if you come back here tomorrow night, we’ll make up for the inconvenience with a free cocktail. Just ask for me. My name is Laurie.”

She closed the door and looked toward the back of the restaurant, where the owner of the Cowrie sat at the edge of a table, legs swinging. Facing him sat about thirty men. Laurie was the only woman. She sighed to herself: many of the men, like Bobby Freed himself, were very good-looking. What a waste. They had come from all over the Lower Keys at Freed’s urging. A marshaling of forces, he had called it.

“Somebody asked me why we are here,” Freed said suddenly in a voice that silenced the room. “We are here because we’ve had enough. It’s time we started dishing it out.”

There were a few cheers, a whistle.

“Some of you were asking over dinner about my friend Neal. Let me tell you about Neal. He was beaten and robbed in full sight of a so-called policeman just a few blocks from here.

“I complained to the police and to the mayor and to the council, but nobody cared. He went to the hospital and came out scared of his own shadow. Neal couldn’t make it. He was too weak. Yesterday I put him on the plane. Neal is gone for good.” An excited murmur coursed through the room. Neal and Bobby had been together a long time. “Neal is gone …” Freed milked a dramatic pause “… and I say ‘good riddance.’”

There was rapt silence. From her post at the door, Laurie’s eyes shone in admiration.

“I say ‘good riddance’ because Neal was afraid and he couldn’t cope with his fear. Well, a lot of us are afraid. Some of us have been beat up, like Neal. I don’t mind confessing that I’ve been afraid, too. But I am not leaving. I am staying here and I am going to fight.”

Several men started talking at once then, and the loudest among them, a motel operator from Lower Matecumbe, asked the question for them all.

“Shit, Bobby, what
can
we do? Buy guns? Get bodyguards? Hire a hit man?”

“I think Neal had the right idea,” said an architect from Caroline Street. “These Conchs suck.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Freed insisted. “The Conchs would live and let live, I know they would. It’s the system that’s bad here, not the people. If we show the Conchs we are worth their respect—stop being punching bags—then they will respect us.”

Laurie could control herself no longer.

“Bobby is right. Listen to him,” she begged. “Use your brains.”

“There is strength in numbers,” Freed said. “There are thousands around here who feel the same way we do about life. Thousands who resent living like second-class citizens because of what they believe. Collectively, we know a lot, and there are many things we can do. We need to pool our talents, band together.”

“That’s an interesting proposition, Bobby,” said a Miami lawyer who had just moved his practice to Key West. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

Freed told them.

“We aren’t vigilantes,” the lawyer objected.

“No, that’s the beauty of it. We don’t have to be. We can make the circumstance speak for itself.”

“It has possibilities,” the lawyer observed.

“I like it,” said a teacher.

“So do I,” said a bridge tender from Marathon.

“Do it, do it!” Laurie clapped her hands in excitement. “Make a list of all the assholes. Get them one at a time. It’s great!”

“A list,” someone cried in a room suddenly alive with righteous enthusiasm. “A hit list.”

“Can we agree on who is to head the list?” Freed asked.

“Fatso Barnett,” came the unanimous shouted reply.

When the last of the men filed out of the Cowrie near midnight, Laurie leaned against the door with a contented sigh. Bobby Freed sat alone, staring vacantly at a yellow pad.

“Bobby, you’re wonderful. I’m so proud.” Impetuously, Laurie leaned over the table and planted a kiss on Freed’s lips.

“Why, uh, thanks, Laurie. I hope … I hope it works.”

“Work? Sure it will work. Let’s celebrate. I’m going to open a bottle of champagne, OK?”

“Sure.”

Their glasses clinked.

“To justice,” said Laurie.

“Amen,” said Freed.

They drank in companionable silence for a time, until Freed spoke at last.

“Laurie, I don’t think I could have done it without your help and …”

“Of course you could.”

Freed seemed suddenly unsure of himself, perplexed. He drank deeply.

“Look, Laurie, I meant what I said about Neal. He’s not coming back. I bought him out. And I wondered, you know, I thought you might be interested in becoming my partner. You know, a business like this is easier with two people….”

“Oh, Bobby, you are sweet. I’d love it. But you know I’m broke.”

“Oh, the money wouldn’t matter,” Freed said quickly. “It’s just that … well, I like having you around. I mean, you already make a lot of the decisions. Besides, I …”

“Besides what?”

“Well, Laurie, I’ve never related to women well, but, what I mean is … I find you tremendously attractive.”

“Bobby, you’re blushing.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything.” He looked away.

“Bobby, I think you are one of the sweetest and most gentle and strongest men I have ever met.”

He looked back. “It’s more than that, Laurie. It’s not that I find you attractive as a person—I mean, I do, of course—but you’re attractive to me as …” He took a breath. “Jesus, this is funny to say. As a
woman.”

He leaned over then and hesitantly, awkwardly, kissed her on the lips.

Laurie sat back, startled.

“Oh, Bob.”

“Did you like that?”

“Well, yes. You surprised me, that’s all.”

“I’m surprising myself, too, Laurie.”

She smiled.

“Then do it again.”

They kissed then, in earnest, and embraced with a heat that eventually carried them off the table onto the floor, where Laurie led Bobby Freed through quick pathfinder’s love.

Chapter 17

THE MUTED THUMPS
of bare feet on the deck aroused Breeze Albury from sleep. Jimmy stood in the doorway to the cabin, a lean silhouette in the twilight.

“Breeze,” he whispered. “Breeze, you awake?”

Albury propped himself up on the bunk and massaged the fatigue from his forehead. “Yeah, I’m up. What’s going on? Everything OK with the other boat?”

Jimmy nodded. “Augie flicked the lights about an hour ago. He’s fine. Someone just came on the radio for you.”

“By name?”

“No. Lucky Seven. Same as before.”

Crystal, Albury thought. Winnebago Tom is ready to talk. He’s sending his answer through Crystal.

“I’ll go call him back,” Albury said, rising.

“He doesn’t want you to, Breeze. The message was real short. He said to wait. Someone is coming out to meet us. We’re just s’posed to wait.”

“Who for? Did he say?”

“Nope.”

Albury was puzzled. He had told Crystal that the
Diamond Cutter
was holed up in the Mud Keys, but he had not told him exactly where. A search party could look for days and still not find the narrow channel, snaking through the mangroves, where Albury had hidden the two fishing boats, his and the Machine’s. Yet Crystal, who knew the confusing vagaries of the Keys, was sending a messenger; the mud flats had grounded many a Coast Guard search boat at night. An amateur stood no chance at all.

Something was wrong. Maybe Crystal was in trouble. It had, after all, been his task to make sure the coast was clear for the off-loading at No-Name Key; Tom Cruz would have been counting on it. And, of course, when Tom’s crew had seen the
Diamond Cutters
bogus blue light, they had been sure it was cops. The load of grass had been lost. No doubt Crystal would have had some serious explaining to do.

“Jimmy, can you swim over and help Augie move the other boat farther up the creek?” Albury stretched his arms on deck. The grass boat was anchored thirty yards away, its white prow tucked into the tangled red roots. Augie waved amiably at Albury from the stern.

Jimmy peeled down to his underwear and dove in. Phosphorescent plankton scattered in bright green shreds as he stroked up the creek toward the hijacked crawfish boat.

Albury rubbed hard at his chin and cheeks to get the blood moving. He longed for a jarring cup of Cuban coffee.

He and Crystal had worked out the scenario over the radio. After the pot was stolen, Winnegabo Tom would arrive in Crystal’s trailer in a fury; he would demand to know what had gone wrong. How could the cops have found out about the operation? Good money had been spent to make sure that wouldn’t happen.