Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [13]
Albury locked the cash in the trunk and unfurled the chart that had come with it. It was the standard NOAA marine map, showing the Lower Keys all the way up to Sombrero. In pencil someone had carefully drawn a small X near Looe Key, a tiny island in the deep water off Big Pine. Albury figured that the mother ship would be another seven or eight miles out. The X designated where he was supposed to lay up with the Diamond Cutter. In a corner of the chart was written the date and time—Tuesday at midnight.
ALBURY CRANKED UP the Pontiac and went to see Crystal.
His knock was answered promptly by a dusky girl with doe’s eyes and a hook nose. She carried a baby on her hip and another in her belly.
“Breeze! Que rico. Hace tanto tiempo.” She bussed him chastely on the cheek.
“Well, hell!” Crystal tossed a printed circuit onto the workbench and swiveled to face Albury, a gigantic grin igniting his Zapata mustache. Propelled by oaken arms that ended improbably in delicate watchmaker’s fingers, Crystal trundled down a wooden ramp and stopped at Albury’s feet. They shook hands. It was a ferocious game of grip that they played, and, as usual, it was Albury who surrendered.
“You’re not gettin’ any weaker!” he said to Crystal.
“Hell, I’m on top of the world. See what I’ve been up to since you were around last?” He gestured with pride at the girl’s belly. “This one’s a girl, I can feel it.”
Crystal was the post office. He fixed radios and he passed messages and made a good living out of both. From a console that looked to Albury like something borrowed from NASA, Crystal boasted that he could monitor every radio frequency for a hundred miles, from the Tavernier volunteer fire department to the José Martí control tower at Havana airport.
Albury believed him. Crystal was a genius. Everybody in Key West was proud of him. Ten years ago, in high school, the kid had won every science fair, even one in Miami. The Army had got him before he could get to college. In recognition of Crystal’s talents, the Army had made him a combat infantryman, and nine months later it had shipped him home from Saigon with no legs.
That was back when people still believed in the war, and plenty of folks had chipped in to help Crystal get started in a repair shop. Everybody said how well Crystal had adjusted and Albury believed it, too, until one night about six years ago when he had come in late one night with a marine radio that would send but couldn’t receive and had found Crystal slumped across the workbench, half-drunk, crying like a little boy, with a whiskey bottle by his head.
“Got one here not even you can fix, hotshot,” Albury had said, taking a slug from the bottle but not watching the bottle or the radio or even Crystal, watching only the pistol that lay on the bench a few inches from Crystal’s hand. “Probably have to send it back to the factory,” Albury had said as Crystal’s head came up, full of tears, Albury watching the pistol and ready to jump.
“Ain’t no radio I can’t fix,” Crystal had blubbered.
“Not this one. Fucked up six ways from Sunday.”
Then Crystal’s slender hand had flashed out and caught Albury’s broken radio and sent it banging down the workbench into a voltmeter. Albury, pretending to get out of the way, had let it go and eased around the other side of Crystal’s chair and got himself between Crystal and the gun. They had polished off the bottle, and when Albury had pushed himself off the bench to get another, the gun had come with him. Crystal had pretended not to notice.
It was so long ago that it made Albury feel old. On the eve of Albury’s run, Crystal was a different person, high as a kite, bragging about his kids, showing off his new Bearcat scanner. Albury told him what he needed.
“Easy,” Crystal said. “It’ll be good to hear a familiar voice out there. Want a drink?”
They drank, and across town the Machine hummed with practiced efficiency. A weary Winnebago Tom ran down the soiled list for a final time and committed it to the flame of his lighter. Done, by God,