Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [28]
“’Kay, Dad. Just be careful this time. More careful than before.”
ALBURY CALLED JIMMY and was relieved to hear that his mate had decided to go along. Whether it was the money or simple loyalty, Albury couldn’t be sure. Probably both.
He told Jimmy he might look for a third man, and Jimmy said fine, the more the better as far as he was concerned. Albury found Augie Quintana at a bolita house on Petronia Street. With Albury going light on the details and heavy on the salary, Augie took ten seconds to make up his mind.
“How long will we be gone?” was the young Cuban’s first question.
“Few days at most.”
“What do I tell my wife?”
“You’re going to the Tortugas.”
“And what do I tell my girlfriend?”
“You’re shopping for a new El Dorado in Miami.”
Albury slipped out of the trailer at four-thirty the next morning and sweet-talked the old Pontiac to life. Jimmy beat him to the fish house by fifteen minutes and was shoveling ice into the Diamond Cutter when Albury drove up. Together they hoisted a fifty-gallon fuel drum into the boat; Albury knew there would be no gassing up in the Bahamas. Then he saw Jimmy’s shotgun leaning in a corner on deck.
“You forget my rules?”
“No, Breeze. I ain’t goin’ unless we bring the Remington. Before you get all pissed, lemme tell you I’ve been talking to friends of mine about the Bahamas, and they said you gotta be crazy to go without the gun.”
“Christ, did you tell anyone why you were going?”
Jimmy shook his head. His face was moist from the shoveling. He swatted at the night bugs and told Albury not to worry. “But the gun is a good idea, Breeze. Really.”
“Get it under the deck,” Albury commanded. “If we get stopped by the Bahamians, the gun is the first thing to go over the side, understand? They got laws you wouldn’t believe, Jimmy. You could piss on the prime minister and do thirty days, but if they catch you with a gun …”
“Bring your knitting.”
“Right. Listen, Augie Quintana is coming with us.”
Jimmy nodded. That would make perfect sense. Augie was insurance, good muscle and a good hand; a lean, young Cuban built like a welterweight boxer. Jimmy was feeling better about the trip already. He went back to loading the ice and stacking some crawfish traps. Five minutes later a gold Cadillac pulled up to the dock. The passenger door opened, and the dome light revealed Augie Quintana kissing a beautiful, dark-haired latina.
“Did you get a farewell like that this morning?” Albury teased Jimmy. “I sure as hell didn’t.”
Augie hopped aboard the Diamond Cutter, slapped Jimmy on the shoulder, and pumped Albury’s hand. “You’re looking good, old man,” Augie said, “but not as good as this boat. Jesus, what a piece of work.”
“How’s your Spanish, chico?” Albury asked.
“My Cubish is just fine, thank you, but we’ll have to see about my Colombian.”
Albury had known the Quintana family for twenty-odd years. Augie’s father, Cristobal, was a fine Key West lobsterman—tough, knowledgeable, honest, and, occasionally, enterprising. His eldest son, Mike, worked the boat with him. Augie worked an uncle’s boat for years, went away to the University of Miami, got a degree in business, came back to the island, and went right back to work on a crawfish boat. In his spare time, he kept the books for two of the island’s more successful bolita houses.
Augie was bright and cocky and strong, and he owned a valuable intuition about trouble. One night he and Albury had been drinking beer at a Key West bar when Augie told him they had better leave. Albury had a quarter on the pool table, waiting his turn to beat some wiseass shrimper, so he wasn’t eager to walk out. Augie looked down the bar at a small black fellow and told Albury that the guy was about to explode. The black guy had been sitting there for three hours, sipping Myer’s rum, minding his own business, and largely