Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [10]
“I suppose,” Tom said enigmatically. “Not many crawfish boats have radar, Breeze.”
“Not many need radar, Tom. Just a few. Fact, I can tell you the names of a half-dozen fishermen who do. And they all worked for you, one time or another.”
Tom fingered a thick gold chain on his left wrist. He stared at Albury through hooded eyes. “I said it wasn’t me. I got work to do now.”
Tom was at the door when Albury stopped him.
“Tom, if you say you didn’t, I’ll accept that.”
“Good.”
Albury was standing now, and he had a good six inches on the taut little Cuban. “When we talked on the phone the other day, you said the offer was good for a week.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll make the run.”
Tom stepped back and played at fixing another drink. He said nothing for several minutes. Albury stayed by the door; he felt hot and vaguely sick to his stomach.
“One minute you threaten to murder me and the next you want to do business,” Tom said reproachfully.
“It’s the nature of things.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know anymore.”
Albury said, “Tom, your people need a boat as big and fast as mine. That’s what you said the other day. More than that, you need a captain who’s not going to spook or run aground. These waters are my business. What happens afterwards is yours. You’re in charge of delivery.” That was how Winnebago Tom had gotten his nickname. Pack the stuff in campers, five and six tons each, and send it to Miami on U.S. 1. State troopers don’t often stop a Winnebago; got to be nice to the tourists. Tom was a clever man.
“I’ll let you know. What’s the name of your boat again? The Peggy—Peggy something?”
“Diamond Cutter,” Albury corrected. “And she’ll do twenty-eight knots.”
“You got in trouble a few years ago, didn’t you?”
“Not right away.” They hadn’t caught him until the stuff had been unloaded. Albury stung at the memory.
“Yeah, I remember. But if you have trouble one time, it’s real easy to have trouble again.”
“It was real quiet trouble, Tom.” In jail he had not told them anything, and Tom knew it.
“Yeah, I remember that, too, Breeze.”
Albury felt soiled, like he had wet his pants or sicked up in church.
“I’ll be going now, Tom. You know where to find me.”
“Right, Breeze. I’ll let you know.”
Wearily, Albury backtracked down Whitehead and parked the car outside the Cowrie Restaurant. When Laurie got off work just after eleven, she had to wake him up behind the wheel.
Chapter 3
HUNCHED CROSS-LEGGED on the rumpled bed, Laurie distractedly ran the pencil along the side of her neck. Deep in thought, she scratched the underside of her breast.
“Aha!” she exclaimed at last. “Got you. ‘Russia’s foe is not the land of the rising sun.’ Four letters, Breeze.”
“Hmmm.” He was buried in the box scores.
“It’s ‘West.’ Japan is the land of the rising sun, but the sun rises in the east; and if it isn’t the east it must be the west. Russia’s foe is the West. Got it?”
It looked to Albury as though the Orioles would not catch the Yanks.
Laurie swiped at his ribs with her elbow. “Breeze, pay attention. Improve your mind.”
Of course, if the Red Sox could ever put their pitching together it could make a difference. That would cause some trouble.
“Goddamnit.” Laurie snatched the sports page away and levered up to sit crossways on his chest, pencil poised. His horizon shrank to one chunk of milky thigh, more Rubens than Modigliani.
“Get off, willya?”
She stared down at him sideways, not a beautiful woman—too heavy for that—but definitely not homely either.
“Now don’t get cross.” She tossed the paper onto the floor, jettisoned the pencil, and pivoted ninety degrees to deliver a slurpy kiss to his dong. Her knee, coming over, clipped his jaw. He saw stars for an instant, and then only an ample bottom cleft by frizzy red hair. He swatted her on the ass.
“Breakfast,” Albury demanded.
“Later,” she called. “Besides,