Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [17]
Albury envied Jimmy his excitement. He had spent the previous day in methodical preparation, paying off his bills and enriching the checking account with what was left of the ten grand. Tomorrow afternoon he would drive up to Miami and look for a place.
Jimmy sat on the gunwale, hanging his legs over the side so his bare feet tickled the water. His white T-shirt seemed to glow against the indelible outdoor brownness of his arms and neck; the starlight gave his blond hair a silvery cast. To Albury, the twenty-five years that lay between him and the mate stretched out as dull and hot and halting as U.S. 1. He couldn’t find a lesson anywhere that he wanted to share with the kid.
The sound of the big outboard sprang out of the mangroves on Ramrod Key. The whine grew louder, but Albury could see no boat, which meant it was running with no lights. His watch said ten minutes past twelve.
The outboard was only about a hundred yards away when the driver cut the engines. Albury went to the console and flicked his lights four times. Jimmy started to say something, but Albury shook his head sharply and put a finger to his lips. The outboard started once, then stalled out, then started again. The driver idled toward the Diamond Cutter, and Albury was able to identify the boat as a twenty-one-foot T-craft. It was basically nothing but a broad hull with a flat open deck, powered by an absurdly oversized Mercury. A boat with only one function.
“Captain?” called a voice from the T-craft.
“Yeah.”
“You and your mate are supposed to come with me.”
Jimmy glanced apprehensively at Albury.
“What about my boat?” Albury demanded.
“I’ll take good care of it, pardner.” It was the voice of the second man in the T-craft.
Albury put it together quickly. He asked anyway, “Why can’t I run my boat?”
The T-craft came alongside. “This ain’t the Diamond Cutter,” muttered the second man.
“Yeah, it is. I just hung a new name on the transom.”
“What for?” asked the driver.
“For looks, asshole,” Albury said. “Now, why can’t I run my own boat?”
“Tom said we’re switching captains. Captain Smith here is gonna run your boat and you’re gonna run his,” the driver explained. “If either of you gets taken down, the other guy reports his boat stolen. That way Customs or the Marine Patrol can’t seize the damn thing. They gotta give it back. It’s for your own goddamn good, so quit complaining and hop in.”
“Is that right, Breeze?”
Albury nodded, but he didn’t get in the T-craft right away. “So if something happens to the Diamond Cutter …”
“Tell ’em it was stolen. Tell ’em Captain Smith must have stole it from the fish house.”
Albury snorted. “Captain Smith. Jesus.”
He and Jimmy stepped into the T-craft. Albury didn’t recognize the slender man who climbed out, but the sight of the other captain in the wheelhouse of the Diamond Cutter stabbed him, like watching a stranger trying to fuck your girlfriend.
Before Albury could issue a warning about the mortal importance of treating his boat properly, the T-craft was skimming through the chop toward Big Pine Key, its graceless hull slapping and plowing alternately. Albury and Jimmy framed the driver, each on one side of the console and he in the center, all hanging on with certitude. Albury made out the silhouette of another crawfish boat at anchor. The driver of the T-craft took one hand off the wheel and pointed. “There she is,” he shouted.
As soon as he got the anchor up, Albury knew that he and the borrowed boat would not get along. The name on the stern was Miss Alice. It was cranky, old, and too damn slow to be a dope boat. Albury expected radar. Most of the grass boats carried the best; this one had none.
“You ever seen this boat?” Jimmy asked as Albury steered toward the coordinates provided by the T-craft’s driver.
“No, I haven’t,” Albury said. “But it’s a Marathon boat. I don’t know a lot of the guys up there.”
The Machine was smart. On nights of a run, it would deliberately plant false intelligence with the police, usually through a