Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [14]
The phone annoyed Manolo. It had been an annoying day. The Reds getting two runs in the ninth had cost him two grand. A horse in the eighth at Belmont that was supposed to have been a sure thing ran fifth. Two grand more.
Manolo laid down his book, a biography of Walt Whitman, reduced Mahler’s ninth to a whisper, and waded through the wall-to-wall mauve carpet to his Ethan Allen desk.
“Yes.” It was not a question.
“Everything’s ready,” Winnebago Tom reported on the other end.
“Details?”
“Momma’s coming on schedule.” He meant the big ship. It had landed in Cartagena on schedule.
“Very well.”
“We have three hawks and one pigeon.”
“Fine.”
Tom asked, “Still sure about the pigeon? It’s gonna cost us two tons.”
“It is the one we discussed?”
“Yes. Of course. I went to a lot of trouble for this.”
“I can appreciate that,” Manolo said frostily.
“So is it too much to ask why? This is out of the ordinary. It’s a big risk.”
“Tom, do you get paid to worry?”
“Please …”
“Answer me!”
“No,” Tom said, not feeling much like a general anymore.
In the house on White Street, Manolo turned up the music and resumed reading. With any luck, tomorrow would be less trying.
Chapter 4
THE DIAMOND CUTTER went fishing the next morning as usual. When there were other boats nearby, Jimmy and Albury pretended to pull traps. To be on the cautious side, they even iced down a hundred pounds of fresh crawfish; Albury said it would look better for them in case something went wrong.
His instincts were good. At noon the Diamond Cutter was overtaken by a twenty-six-foot Cigarette boat, screaming like a stock car. Albury had watched it coming for miles.
“This our man?” Jimmy asked nervously.
“No way.” Albury suppressed a laugh.
The Cigarette was a smuggler’s special that had been seized by the Marine Patrol two years earlier. The driver was Mark Haller, a tough old Conch, one of the grittiest sonofabitches the patrol ever had the good sense to hire. Albury had been his friend for years, but this was the first time it might count for something. Haller pulled up and tied to a cleat on the Diamond Cutter’s stern.
“Hey, bubba,” Albury said with a wave.
Haller nodded and hopped from the cockpit of the speedboat to its bow, playing the swells perfectly. He wore highway patrol-like sunglasses; Albury couldn’t be sure where he was looking.
“How you doing?” Haller called.
Albury shrugged. “Lousy.”
Jimmy slipped below for a beer; the sight of a man in uniform was too much, right now.
“You want to come aboard?” Albury moved to the stern to give Haller a hand, but the chunky Marine Patrol officer motioned him off.
“That’s OK,” he said. “Breeze, I heard about your traps.”
“I guess everybody has,” Albury said with a sour laugh.
“Well, I intend to find the fuckers that did it,” Haller said. “We can’t have that kind of shit down here.”
“I’d sure appreciate it if you did, Mark. Have you heard anything yet?”
“A little.” Haller stood with his burnished hands on his hips, peering at another crawfish boat about three miles off. Albury noticed he was carrying a .357.
“Breeze,” he said after a few moments, “if you find out who did it, call me. Don’t try to handle it yourself.”
“I can’t make a promise like that. You know how it goes.”
Haller wore a thin smile as he untied the Cigarette and fired the huge engines to life.
“Mark, don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what you’ve heard?” Albury shouted.
“When I know more,” Haller yelled back. “I promise.” Then he was gone.
Jimmy looked up inquiringly from below deck. “Do you think he knows?”
“About tonight? Of course not,” Albury said.
“Then why’d he stop us?”
“Routine. Haller stops everybody. That’s what makes him Haller. Cubans can’t stand him. He’ll board their boats and talk for an hour, and