Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [50]
Whitting’s face turned the color of fish flesh.
“I’m sorry, Shorty. I can’t help it if the guy makes me puke. What does he want?”
“Were you on the radio yesterday morning?”
“When?”
“Early. Around dawn.”
Crystal shook his head no and gave a roar of a laugh. “No, sir. Yesterday morning about that time I believe me and the old lady were rolling around in the sack. I didn’t put my ears on till about ten or so.”
Whitting asked, “You’re sure?”
“Positive, captain. Why?”
“There was some shooting up in Key Largo. Supposed to be a crawfish boat involved. Chief Barnett heard about it from Tom Cruz—”
Crystal wheeled himself over to small refrigerator. “Wonder how Tom knew so fast. Want a beer, Shorty?”
“No thanks,” Whitting said. “Apparently several people were killed. The sheriff’s office hasn’t identified the bodies yet. A truck blew up and some of them got fried.”
“Where did this happen?” Crystal asked, popping a Miller Lite.
“A place called Dynamite Docks. It’s a little jetty on a piece of private property up there off Card Sound Road.”
“Sounds like dopers,” Crystal said.
“That’s what the chief thinks. He also thinks the boat might be the Diamond Cutter.”
“He’s crazy. You guys just busted Breeze Albury last week. He’s not dumb enough to try again so soon. Tell your lardass boss he’s crazy. No way was it the Diamond Cutter.”
Crystal could tell that Shorty was damn uncomfortable with this errand.
“Just the same,” Whitting pressed, “the chief wondered if you could ask around on the radio today. See if anybody heard anything or saw anything up there. Albury’s boat isn’t docked at the fish house, and most of the guys haven’t seen it for a couple days. If you hear anything, maybe you could call me over at the office.”
“Sure,” Crystal said. What a poor sap this guy was. “But I really don’t see what the big deal is. It happened a hundred miles away, Shorty. It’s not a Key West case, is it?”
“The chief is interested,” Whitting replied curtly. As he moved toward the door, a suitcase-sized radio mounted over the workbench crackled to life.
“Smilin’ Jack, this is Lucky Seven, do you copy, over?” The signal was weak, but the voice was distinct. Crystal swiftly rolled himself across the workshop.
“Smilin’ Jack? Can you copy, please? This—”
Crystal twisted the volume control to zero. The voice died in the speaker box.
“Who’s that?” Shorty asked curiously.
“Some fuckin’ crank. He’s been jamming up the radio all morning. The Coast Guard ought to throw his sorry ass in jail.”
Whining studied the sophisticated VHF radio. “How far can you listen with this thing?”
“Depends,” Crystal said. “Depends on the atmosphere.”
Crystal waited until he heard Whitting’s patrol car roll out of the gravel drive. He turned back to the radio, playing the dials like a maestro.
“Lucky Seven, this is Smilin’ Jack, over. Can you copy?” he asked urgently.
“It’s about time, you lazy sonofabitch,” came the voice of Breeze Albury.
A few minutes later Albury came down from the pilothouse. Jimmy and Augie were scrubbing the mess from Key Largo off the fishing deck.
“Anchors up,” Albury said. “We got trouble.” He told them of his conversation with Crystal. Word was out about the fiasco with the Colombians. Tom knew about it; Barnett already was asking questions.
Albury took the Diamond Cutter to Bud N’ Mary’s to gas up. Jimmy and Augie went for groceries, Albury for a telephone.
“Good morning,” said Mark Haller on the other end.
“I was afraid you’d be out rousting trap robbers,” Albury said.
“Naw. I used up my gas allotment for August, so I can’t take the boat out. How d’you like that shit—a Marine patrolman who can’t go out on the water?”
“The State of Florida strikes again,” Albury said. “Mark, I need a favor. I was around Key Largo yesterday …”
“You weren’t involved with those damn Colombians?”
“What Colombians?”
“Christ, Breeze, I remember back when you were a decent fisherman.”
Albury grimaced. Jimmy stood outside the phone booth and pointed to the palm of his hand. Albury opened the glass door and handed him a damp