Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [30]
Q: Augie, what did Breeze—Captain Albury—what exactly did he do to stop Oscar?
A: You know the answer to these questions.
Q: Please, Augie, this is legal testimony now, for the record. Tell me what happened at the dock in Key Largo.
A: I’m supposed to meet my cousin at the dog track. I didn’t realize it was so late.
Q: Augie!
A: The thing to remember is that Oscar lied about everything. The guns, the money, everything. We didn’t know the rules, me and Jimmy and Breeze. And when we found out, the nature of the thing changed. The fifty grand was the least of our worries. And when the rules changed, and when Breeze knew it, there was nothing left to happen but what did happen. It was dark and the water was low and mosquitoes were so thick you swallowed them every time you took a deep breath. And, lady, I took some mighty fucking deep breaths that night at Dynamite Docks.
Q: Just a few more questions—
A: What I can’t figure out is why you’re so interested in all this. It’s over and done.
Q: It’s very important for the investigation.
A: Cristo, look at the time. I’ve really got to run.
Chapter 9
AUGIE BURST INTO the wheelhouse with an infectious grin and a cold can of beer. Water pooled at his feet.
“Three nice crawfish and a couple of beautiful little yellowtails.”
Albury grunted and eased back from the counter where he had unfolded the chart. He massaged his eyes with twin knuckles and worked his back.
“Cook ’em up, I’m starved.”
Augie surrendered the beer and scanned the chart. “You been at it for hours, Breeze. You trying to memorize the damn thing?”
“Something like that.”
“Lotta shallow water. The tide will be important.”
Albury nodded grimly. He noticed Jimmy dog-paddling abreast of the anchor rope, nudging their supper before him in a white net bag. “We’ll talk after dinner,” he said to Augie and turned to the chart for one last hard look.
Williams Island, a flyspeck cay off the northwest coast of Andros Island, had been a private rendezvous for quiet men of the sea since the days of Blackbeard; then, as now, a rogue’s haven, no place for the uninvited. Because Williams was one of those places that suited smugglers, it meant two things: either the Bahamians would watch it closely, or they would ignore it.
Albury marked a sandbar that would block his exit from the westernmost beach; the only way out was south, and around, and that route was guarded by a nasty curving reef shrouded by a treacherous seven feet of water at high tide. Augie was right. The tide was everything.
IT WAS ONE of those tropical twilights that poets proclaim and rich men squander. The Diamond Cutter lay at peace in a cove of crystal water on the west coast of Andros. Albury coaxed a last white piece of crawfish from its shell and reflected, not for the first time, that if people ever found out how good fresh-caught seafood really was they would never set foot in restaurants.
Sprawled on a hatch cover, he made no effort to stifle an appreciative belch. When Augie brought three steaming mugs of coffee, Albury arranged the crawfish remnants into a makeshift map on the hatch cover.
“All right, we are here, right off the coast. The pickup is Williams Island. There’s a small beach here on the western side. We’re probably an hour, ninety minutes, at the most, away. One of these assholes will have a big flashlight, so we should see a signal when it’s clear to come in.” Albury pointed with a brittle length of lobster antenna.
“There’s no moon. I want to go in an hour after high tide, just as it’s starting to fall. That means we load fast. The bottom is soft marl, so the prop shouldn’t take a beating. I’ll motor in to maybe thirty yards of the beach, turn us around and keep her in neutral, just in case.”
“You want me to go ashore?” Augie asked.
“It depends. These people might have a small boat. Then we wait, let them do the work. If not, Augie, you swim in with a tow rope, tied to our stern. They get wet, so what? And,