Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [22]
“Stupid fruit.”
“It’s all right, Breeze. He’s on the council. He’s got to talk like that.” She kissed Albury’s knuckles one by one until he pulled his hand away.
“The lawyer’s due in a couple minutes,” Albury lied. “You kids go on home. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.” He kissed Laurie hard but not long, then cuffed his son on the shoulder. “Work on that slider tonight, OK?”
SUPPER WAS UNMENTIONABLE. Breeze Albury remembered when he had been a boy. The whole sunbaked Rock seemed to live off the same unvarying diet: grits ‘n grunts. Grits because they were cheap and Key West was a cracker town then. Grunts because they were plentiful and easy enough to catch that any kid could fill a bucket in a couple of hours after school. And every Sunday, Key Lime pie, made from the tangy little yellow limes that grew only in the Keys. Albury shoved the jail slop away in disgust.
“Good evening,” the voice came from outside the bars. Jesus, now who? The door opened and a woman walked in.
“My name is Christine Manning. I’m a special prosecutor with the Governor’s office. I’d like to talk with you a couple of minutes.”
“I’m extremely tired,” Albury replied. She was tallish, about thirty-five, not badly shaped beneath a white blouse and a flared skirt. A light sprinkling of gray, unmolested in a thick black mane, bespoke a certain independence.
“I’d like to talk to you about your arrest last night,” she said. “I notice it’s not your first time.”
“What’s your interest?”
“Well, as you may know, the Governor appointed a special task force to investigate drug corruption in Monroe County …”
Albury stopped her with a soft laugh. “That was last year. You still around?”
“The executive order gave us two years,” Christine Manning said defensively.
“Miss Manning, you’re a very attractive lady, but I’m not going to talk to you. Not without my lawyer here.”
“I’m in an odd posture,” she said gently. “I asked around about you today, and in the good Conch tradition …”
Albury grinned. “You said it right. Most folks can’t pronounce it.”
“Conch, rhymes with zonk,” Manning said. “Anyway, in the upstanding tradition of this island, almost no one would say anything. Almost no one. Your ex-wife, however, was helpful.”
“Mother of God,” Albury groaned.
“And your girlfriend.”
“Shit.”
“Wait a minute. She was trying to help. She thought you were in trouble. Anyway they made you seem different. I thought you might be a reasonable man.”
Albury grunted.
“The first time you ran grass.” Manning stopped herself. “The first time you got caught, I should say, had to do with Veronica, didn’t it?”
Albury’s smile dissipated. “That was the first time I ever ran it. I had my reasons.”
“Veronica was ten at the time. To get a cancer at that age is very unusual, I know. The bills piled up, your little girl got sicker … Laurie said there was a hospital in Miami you were going to try.”
“Go away now, Miss Manning.”
“Breeze, you shouldn’t have done any time for that. If only you had let your lawyer tell the judge about Veronica—God, you could have gotten probation, easy. Not eleven months.”
“You don’t hear very well, yourself.” Albury had gone cold at the sound of his daughter’s name. He squinted hard, and again Key West appeared to him as it was thirty years ago. On an afternoon like this he would have taken the skiff all the way out to the reef without a worry. The water would be like glass. You could snorkel for two hours, load the boat with Nassau grouper, and never lay eyes on another human being, much less a starched and undoubtedly dried-up emissary from the Governor’s office. No one came. No one cared. It was marvelous. Now the island behaved like a dog, unpredictable and ugly in its old age, turning and biting again and again, long after the point had been made.
“What made you do it this time, captain?” Christine Manning asked. Her tone made it clear that she expected no answer. “Look, I’m going to be honest. We heard you got squeezed.