Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [40]
“Breeze, I see a raft,” Augie called. “About thirty yards off the freighter’s stern.”
Albury opened a hatch and withdrew another pair of binoculars, a heavy Zeiss. Quickly he sighted the raft; inside were three men and a young boy, who stood rubber-legged, waving. The crew of the Argentine freighter was waving back; a skiff was dropping from its portside davits. It was obvious that the Darlin’ Betty had gone down.
Albury watched from afar as the shivering survivors clambered into the Argentine skiff. The boy, wearing an orange slicker, went first; Hawk Trumbull, his head swathed in a makeshift bandage, was last.
“Que hacemos?” It was the Colombian named Oscar.
“He wants to know what we’re doing,” Augie said.
Albury lowered the binoculars. “Tell him to shut the hell up and get down.”
He fed power to the big diesel, and the Diamond Cutter stole away like a thief.
When he was certain that his boat was safely anonymous, northward bound in a lazy predawn procession of marine traffic, Albury gave the wheel to Jimmy. Then he made his way toward the stern until he could no longer be seen from the pilothouse and vomited into the sea.
THE RIDE IN went smoothly after that in a gray smuggler’s void, an oily swell, a fine drizzle that became fog near the coast.
Albury felt empty. His arm ached. Sandpaper scoured his eyelids. Otherwise, he was numb. Even when Augie returned from the quick foray aft to report that the Colombians were quiet except for the gut-shot one, who was missing, Albury felt nothing.
His chore was precise and mechanical now. There could be no threat of pursuit, or any danger from the sea. All he had to do was to find Dynamite Docks, discharge his cargo, and escape. He would hide the Diamond Cutter someplace quiet. He would sleep and try to forget. He anticipated no problems from the Colombians. Not after the beating they had taken in the squall. They would limp ashore like whimpering kittens. Jimmy and his Remington would oversee their departure. Good riddance.
The channel leading to Dynamite Docks is tricky, even in daylight. Shoals to north and south are deviously marked by ugly metal rods that look as though they have been borrowed from a construction site. Coming in off the open sea in the hour before dawn, Diamond Cutter made a landfall that would have made any sailor proud. Twin red flashes appeared fine on the starboard bow; lights atop a Bell microwave dish that were a warning to fliers, and to sailors, a welcome. Albury, who had no pride left, nodded silently when he saw them. They were just where they should have been.
“Nice goin’, Breeze,” Augie remarked.
“Now look for the channel markers. They begin about a half-mile out. Don’t use the searchlight unless you have to.”
They found the markers, and Albury nudged Diamond Cutter between them at dead slow. There were no lights from shore: the docks weren’t used much, except by smugglers and the occasional fisherman, and at this hour, Albury expected them to be deserted.
When the Colombian named Oscar appeared in the wheelhouse, his swaggering machismo had vanished. He seemed shrunken and haggard, his fancy red shirt soggy with sweat and salt rime.
“He wants to know if we are there,” Augie relayed.
“Tell him we will arrive in a few minutes. Ask him what to expect on the docks.”
“He says there will be two or three big cars waiting. I think he means Winnebagos.”
“How about the money?”
“One of the drivers will have it, he says. I guess he’ll bring it out onto the dock.”
“Tell him that I hold him responsible. He will be the last to leave. If there is trouble for me, I’ll make big trouble for him.”
“He says there will be no trouble.”
“His people are to leave in an orderly way. A few at a time. No mobs. No running. He goes with the last group. Him and Lover Boy and one or two others. Make sure he understands that he doesn’t leave until the money is on board.”
“He says he will do as you say.