Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [51]
“I talked with a friend of mine,” Albury said. “He said there’s a load coming in at Bahia Honda tonight.”
“So what do you want from me? I told you I ain’t got a boat with any gas in it.”
“Just tell me, is it Tom’s load?”
“That’s what I heard,” Haller said. “Five tons. If I knew exactly where they were bringing it in, I’d go sit there in my truck and cut loose a few rounds when the boats came.”
“Well, I know exactly where,” Albury said. He told Haller his plan, and he told him what he needed.
“You’ve got magnesium balls,” the Marine patrolman sighed. “John Cotter is on air-patrol duty this week. His truck is parked at the Exxon station in Marathon. What you need is in there, under the front seat. Don’t get caught.”
Albury asked Haller to pass the word to Ricky and Laurie that he was alive.
“Where are you?” Haller asked.
“Moving,” Albury said. “Fast.”
“I got some news about your crawfish traps, if you’re still interested. I know it’s pretty dull stuff for a big-time smuggler. Just fishermen’s gossip.”
“I’m interested,” Albury said impatiently.
“There’s a boat called El Gallo. Captain’s a Cuban named Willie Bascaro. Forty-six feet. Radar. A dope boat. Willie works for Winnebago Tom.”
“That’s the boat that cut my traps?”
“Willie got drunk the other night at the Casa Marina and started bragging in Spanish about it. Some of the Key West Cubans heard. Tom was there. Had one of his goons slap the shit out of the guy. I checked the story with a couple of captains I know, and they heard the same thing. It’s not much consolation, Breeze, but at least you know. There’s not enough to file charges yet.”
“You did good just to find out,” Albury said. “Thanks, Mark, thanks for everything.”
Haller was right: learning the truth was no consolation, but it certainly enhanced the clarity of Breeze Albury’s situation.
He untied the Diamond Cutter from the diesel docks at Bud N’ Mary’s and motored quietly, almost serenely, seaward past Teatable Key. Jimmy opened three cans of cold beer, and Augie constructed huge sandwiches from fresh cold cuts.
It was an overcast morning, the sky gray and shrouded with the distant purple promise of an afternoon squall. A three-foot chop followed the fishing boat south-southwest, toward Vaca Key and the town of Marathon.
Four hours later, Augie Quintana was using an eight-inch screwdriver to pop the locks on a gray-over-black Chevrolet Blazer, property of the Florida Marine Patrol, that was parked at a Marathon gas station.
Back in Key West, Crystal’s wife was escorting another visitor into the muggy workshop.
Tomas Cruz gave Crystal’s massive hand a perfunctory squeeze, then pressed an envelope into the palm. “Three thousand even,” Winnebago Tom said. “Just like I told you: one boat only, coming in through the Bahia Honda channel about midnight.”
“Fine,” Crystal said neutrally. “Your people will be listening on channel eleven, as usual.”
“That’s correct.” Tom wore a silk shirt, open to the breastbone. Crystal counted four gold chains on his brown neck.
“Since when are you guys running aliens?” Crystal asked. “Shorty Whitting told me about the mess up the Keys.”
“It’s a long story,” Tom said.
“It was stupid. You guys don’t know when to quit.”
“We pay you for your ears, not your lip.” Tom pretended he was kidding. He flashed his teeth and cuffed Crystal on the shoulder. “You gonna count your money?”
“Nope.”
“Well, OK. You don’t think there’s gonna be any problems with the law tonight, huh?”
“No problems,” Crystal said. “I’ll take care of it. If I hear anything, your boys will be the first to know. I’ll use the police scanner, the single sideband, the VHF, the works.”
“As long as you got the cops covered.”
“Don’t worry, Tom,” said Crystal. No cops, he thought, but you’re going to wish there were.
Chapter 13
THERE WAS a light knocking on the office door. Christine Manning folded that morning’s edition of the Key West Citizen and placed it on a corner of the desk. As usual, she wasn’t expecting anybody.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in?” It was a woman, tall, with dark