Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [56]
“Christ, the mosquitoes almost ate me alive up there. What a mess … an all-time blue-ribbon fucking mess.”
Manolo, in a knotted dressing gown, sipped Cointreau from leaded crystal.
“Help yourself to a drink, Tom; no sense being shy.”
“Yeah, thanks, I’ll have another one. Jesus, we’re really screwed this time.”
“Short and to the point, if you don’t mind. It’s late.”
Tom trailed mud across the white carpet and hunkered onto a suede sofa, scratching his ankles.
“OK, look, it’s a routine run, right? Five tons, one boat, a drop-off we’ve used before. Three vans, eight off-loaders, and by dawn the stuff is already in Miami, right? Sweet and simple. Then it all went to shit.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“At first, I thought it was the cops—the Marine Patrol, blue light ‘n all. It wasn’t.”
“Let me guess. It was Breeze Albury.”
“Jesus, Manolo, you’re really sharp. How’d you know that?”
“A desperate captain in a rogue boat. Who else would try something like that?”
“Who woulda figured it? Breeze Albury, and him like all the rest: lean on them a little bit and they keel over like it was a hurricane. You shoulda seen him when we cut his trap line, like a little kid who’d lost his puppy.”
“The next time we need a patsy, Tom, I think you should look harder.” Manolo sipped at his drink. “If there is a next time.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“If Albury was a patsy like you say, he never would have left Dynamite Docks alive, would he? Your patsy comes snapping back and rips us off for ten thousand pounds. Some patsy.”
“Yeah, that’s what he is, a potbellied patsy Conch. I ain’t afraid of Breeze fucking Albury.”
“That’s good, Tom, because I expect you to deal with him. The business at Dynamite Docks has upset our Colombian friends. They are mad at Breeze Albury. That is enough. I want the load back, and I don’t want any more trouble from him. We need to make an example before he gives other people ideas. I want you to deal with it.”
“I’ll take care of him, all right. Just tell me where to find the motherfucker.”
“He will tell you himself, Tom.”
“Huh?”
Manolo stifled a sigh.
“Think, Tom. Think every now and then, and you might learn to like it. What do you suppose Albury is going to do with five tons of grass?”
“I dunno. Sell it, I guess.”
“That’s right. He will sell it—to us. What else can he do with it? He will offer to swap it for the money due from the Key Largo run, plus a little more, maybe. And he will do it quickly because that much grass is going to be spotted, sooner or later.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna pay to get our own grass back.”
“Of course not. But you must encourage Albury to negotiate. Make him see that it is not merely a question of money.”
Tom Cruz tossed down the scotch with a smile. “Damn, that’s good. I like it. I’ll make him want to negotiate.” He rolled the syllables around in his mouth.
“You had better leave now, but remember one more thing, if you can. Our business is built on control, Tom. We have lost control because of your patsy. We must reestablish it. If we do not, think of how it will appear. I shall be forced to tell our Colombian associates that you are the one who was responsible.”
With satisfaction, Manolo watched Tom Cruz scramble anxiously for the door.
HE WAS WINNEBAGO TOM, but there were times when a lumbering camper, his symbol of status, would not do. Tomas Cruz dropped the Corvette into third and whipped past a tractor-trailer. Ahead, the Overseas Highway gleamed starkly in the afternoon sun. He fed it to the Corvette.
“Shithead legless bastard,” Tom muttered into the slipstream. Manolo must be right. He must be losing control. Or else he would have checked into the post office first thing. And the crippled radio jockey wouldn’t have been such a wiseass.
“Message for you, Tom, from Breeze Albury.” Crystal had delicately laid the glowing tip of a soldering iron to a tangle of transistors.
“Where is he?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You could tell from