Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [12]
When Laurie next appeared, she was composed and contrite. “Breeze, what are these?”
Albury glanced at the fistful of bills. Change-up followed by a fastball. She had gone, lickety-split, from impassioned poetess to hard-eyed business manager.
“Bills,” he said. “What the hell do you think?”
“Jesus, why haven’t you paid them?”
“No money.”
“No money?”
Christ, she was slow sometimes on the practical things. “It was a bad month. I had to overhaul the engine.”
“I remember.”
“And fishing was shitty,” Albury said.
“Breeze, there’s enough lobster around that we could serve it for breakfast down at the restaurant and still have a full freezer. Everybody’s loading up.”
“Not me.” It was time to find a reason for going down to the boat. He swiveled to his feet, growling.
“You haven’t been gambling or anything?” Laurie asked.
Albury laughed bitterly. “No. Since you won’t shut up, I’ll have to tell you. I lost a couple hundred traps. Somebody cut ’em off. Brand new crawfish traps, gone just like that.” He snapped his fingers in her face. She winced and took two apprehensive steps back. Her eyes began to flood.
“Oh, Breeze, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Albury’s anger evaporated. He ran a tired thumb and forefinger across his eyes. “It’s just one of those things. Nothin’ you can do about it. I’m just telling you so you won’t ask about the money. When you’re down three hundred traps, there’s no way.”
“Three hundred.” Laurie took a deep breath. “Who would have done it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out.” He walked to the bar and refilled his scotch. “If Ricky finds out about any of this—any of it—”
She nodded dumbly. “He’s bound to, Breeze. The kids at school are bound to be talking.”
Albury grunted. She was right.
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t know.”
“You act like you do.”
“I’m thinking is all.” Albury didn’t feel like talking anymore. He told Laurie he needed to go down to the fish house. She took two Amazonian steps forward and crushed herself to him, taking his wind away and tipping three ounces of fresh scotch onto the floor.
“Oh, Breeze,” she murmured against his chest. “This is terrible.”
“Exactly,” Albury said, taking her shoulders and moving her back so he could look at her face. “When this is settled, I’m taking off with Ricky.”
“Out of Key West?” Laurie asked.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m finished with it.”
THE PRELIMINARIES of the run began that night, simultaneous with the start of the nine o’clock movie. Laurie had taken to bed with a yellow legal pad and three crisply sharpened number-two pencils. Ricky lay on the floor, torn between John Wayne and an English essay. On the sofa, Albury had no pangs: he had seen the movie before; he would watch it again.
Ricky answered the phone and passed it across without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Captain Albury?”
“Yeah.”
“Check your mailbox.” The voice hung up.
Albury lay on the sofa and tensely smoked a cigarette. He waited for the first commercial so Ricky would not link his departure to the abbreviated phone call.
“Shitty movie,” Albury proclaimed at last. “Shut it down and finish your homework, OK? Get a good night’s sleep.”
When Ricky had wandered off, Albury slipped on his loafers and left the trailer.
Albury opened the bulky brown envelope in the dim roof light of the Pontiac. He counted the money first. A jumble of bills in two stacks, neatly banded. Used bills, tens and twenties only, not sequential. Ten thousand dollars. That would be about right. The other half would come later.
It was the Machine’s way of buying loyalty and silence. If a Conch got caught with a load, which happened, he didn’t talk. In return, the organization provided its own form of social security. Hadn’t Peg got an anonymous envelope in the mailbox every month while he was away? Sure, they had lost the house, but that was because of the medical bills. The Machine would have paid those, too, but Albury never considered