Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [46]
Manolo Sprawled across the front seat and gratefully let the air conditioning wash over him. Unbelievable. The Colombians were not simply from another country but also from another century. Why couldn’t they just hire a man and pay for his labor? No, that would be too civilized. Now, because some hapless fisherman had apparently had the temerity to balk at his own execution, Jorge’s machismo was all out of joint.
Which left brother Manolo between a rock and a hard place, didn’t it? If he didn’t have Breeze Albury killed, then he himself might become a victim. If he did have Albury killed—Winnebago Tom and his gay band of Marielitos would relish that job, no doubt—that would scare off half the decent boat captains left on the Rock and leave the rest of the Conchs thirsting for blood. Manolo’s blood.
Manolo killed the engine and tumbled into the heat, keys in hand. It was a moment’s work to uncover the concealed compartment he had had built into the trunk. His escape kit. It was all there: a virgin Canadian passport that had cost him ten thousand dollars and two bank passbooks, one for the Bahamas, one for Luxembourg.
He studied the comforting columns of figures. The next shipment hence would swell them nicely. Then he would decide. If there was no graceful way out of his dilemma, then Paris would simply have to find room for one more aspiring artist.
“… TWO DAYS OF surveillance by detectives resulted in apprehension of two pushers and the seizure of two hundred and seventy grams—that is, nearly eight ounces—of high-grade marijuana.” Huge Barnett looked up. “Those college kids from up north think they can come down here and flout the law.”
He resumed reading.
“As a consequence of ‘Crusade ‘82’ your police department has broken the back of the underworld drug business. I am proud to report that the situation in Key West is now under control. Sincerely yours …” Barnett constructed a tired man’s sigh to follow a carefully timed pause. “That’s it, gentlemen. As you can see, we have been busy.” Too busy, he thought. He wished to hell he knew what had happened up at Dynamite Docks that morning.
“Thank you, chief, a nice report,” said the mayor.
“Move-we-accept-the-report-and-thank-the-chief,” intoned Councilman Biggs.
“Second,” muttered Councilman Dawson.
“All in favor …”
“Wait a minute!” Bobby Freed objected. “I want to ask some questions. This is just nickel-and-dime stuff. He hasn’t told us about the real drug business at all.”
“Possession of ounces or pounds of marijuana is real business to me, councilman,” Barnett said levelly. “Anybody with that much drugs is in real bad trouble with the law here.”
“Let’s talk about the law down here. The federal drug-enforcement agencies pinpoint Key West as a major entry port for marijuana—not ounces or pounds, but tons of it.”
“Look, the feds don’t live here. I do. I know what’s going on here, and as I have just told you, everything is under control,” Barnett replied.
“Is that so? I am not talking just about the DEA, but also Customs and the Coast Guard. They both say that drug smuggling is a major industry here. Let me quote one Customs report: ‘Its tentacles reach in all directions.’ Is that news to you, Chief Barnett?”
“News? It’s not news. It’s wrong. Those guys see a grunt and think it’s a shark. I know. I talk to them all the time.”
“Do you also talk to the Governor’s task force? Don’t you find it interesting that it should be here at all? Or that law enforcement—or the lack of it—is one of its concerns?”
“The Governor’s folks have been here for almost a year, councilman. They have made no accusations.”
“Let us hope some will be forthcoming.”
“Bobby, Bobby…” the mayor implored, not unkindly. Huge Barnett liked Mayor Gibbs. His wife was a skilled and determined shoplifter, but she would never have a record while the mayor was mayor and Barnett was chief.
“You gentlemen asked for a report on what we are doing to combat the evil of narcotics in this city, and I have given it,” Barnett said softly.