Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [42]
But from the deck came only two muted clicks, and only Albury was ready for them. In a blurred half-second, he saw the Colombian turn aft in perplexity. He heard Jimmy sob and Augie roar like an angry panther.
Then Albury’s arms were moving, coming down from the rafters with the bang stick, and he was thrusting like a demented swordsman against the Colombian’s chest. In a single frenzied motion, Albury pulled back the rubber sling and let go. The long tube shot forward.
The bang stick is meant for sharks, not men. The twelve-gauge deer slug exploded on impact and blew a hole the size of a softball in the Colombian’s belly and out his back. The dead man flew one way. Deafened, only half-conscious, Albury collapsed against the opposite bulkhead.
He lay there for what seemed like eternity but could only have been a few seconds. He jerked upright at the sound of pounding feet and the sight of Augie bursting into the pilothouse, a bloody fish knife in his fist.
“Shells, man. Where are the fucking shells?” he demanded.
“My right pocket,” Albury mumbled. His last thought before he passed out was that he had been right not to trust Jimmy with the shotgun.
Later, it was Jimmy who told him how Augie had fired both barrels at the last of the Colombians’ vans, and how one of the shots must have hit the gas tank because the van had exploded in a ball of fire and screams. That was Jimmy’s story. Augie wouldn’t talk about it.
Chapter 11
BOBBY FREED cosseted his patient with iced mountain chablis and a tingling back-and-front rub smoothed by liberal applications of coconut oil.
“The doctor says another ten days and you’ll be as good as new.” Freed rubbed gently. “Does this feel nice?”
Beeker lay impassively, hands folded behind his head, staring at the fan. After a time his back arched and a grunt forced its way through his teeth.
“Well, at least my favorite part of you has survived nicely,” Freed whispered.
“Sure. That will make everything right?”
“You’re all better now; the doctor says so. It’s over.”
“No, it is not over.”
“I know how you feel. But we’ll get even with Fatso Barnett. I promise.”
“I don’t care!” Beeker buried his head in a down pillow. “I’m leaving. This place sucks. I’m going, Bobby, I am.”
“Don’t be foolish. This is our home now. It could have happened anyplace … anyplace where people are still backward.”
“No, there is a special evil about this place. I want to go home to New York.”
“Absolutely. You get your strength back, and we’ll go back for a visit. Laurie could run the restaurant for us, no problem.”
“DO WE HAVE any pot?” Beeker asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“What?”
Beeker rolled onto his back.
“Pot. I want a joint.”
“You know I disapprove of pot, Neal; that’s part of the trouble with this town. It is run by pot.”
“You knew I was coming out of the hospital. The least you could have done was to buy a lid.”
“I will not buy it for you. You know that.”
Beeker hurled the pillow. It snagged on the rattan peacock chair and a cloud of feathers settled on the rough-weave peasant carpet they had bought in Mexico.
“You are so innocent,” Beeker spat.
“Really, Neal, I…”
“Innocent. You strut around like a big man at the council meetings and talk and talk, but you don’t really know what is happening in this anus place. You don’t know at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fatso Barnett, Fatso Barnett. That’s all you can think of. He’s only part of the problem. A fat little leech, a nobody. The real problem is bigger scum, like that lawyer Boone. They really run this town. Barnett is only their puppet. They laugh at us.”
“Drake Boone?”
“Scumbag.”
Freed was surprised. He had always thought of Beeker as the ethereal sort. Neal always signed the petitions and dressed well for the rallies, of course, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
“What do you know about Drake Boone, Neal?”
“Lots.”
“Tell me.”
“No, I just want to go away.”
“Please tell me. It could be important.”
“What’s the use?”
“It all fits together. Believe me, I know more than you think.” Freed stroked