Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [58]
“This is no game, Ricky. Where is your father?”
“What do you want him for?”
“He stole something belonging to me. Where is he?”
“I thought you said you were going to take me to him.”
“Don’t play games with me, shithead. Where is he?”
“Tampa … he said he was going to Tampa to check out a bigger boat he wants to buy. Or was it Galveston? He took a Greyhound bus.”
“Dale.” Tom’s voice cracked in fury.
The Cuban named Willie came at Ricky with the tire iron held like a baseball bat. Ricky leaned back against the transom, as though huddling in fear. His kick caught the Cuban full in the stomach and drove him back toward the wheelhouse. Ricky sprang after him. He was reaching for the tire iron when Winnebago Tom clipped him along the side of his head with the butt of the pistol.
Pain awakened Ricky. Greater pain than he had ever known. His arm was on fire. He hung suspended by his pitching arm from the lobsterboat’s winch. He tried with all his might but could get no purchase. His toes grazed the deck. He bit back a scream.
Winnebago Tom held the tire iron now. He stood in front of Ricky, shouting.
“… like your father, a patsy, a stupid Conch patsy.”
Ricky could smell the rum on his breath. He tried to make his left hand come up to hit Tom. It would not move. He groaned and was ashamed.
“… a real prospect, huh? Well, Mr. Smartass Prospect, you tell your fucking patsy father that nobody fucks with Winnebago Tom. Nobody, hear me?”
Like a demented batter, Winnebago Tom slashed the tire iron across Ricky’s upper arm. Ricky screamed, and then he fainted. He never felt the second blow.
Chapter 16
“I’M SORRY, sir, we’re closed tonight. Private party.”
“Oh.” The tourist shuffled uncertainly on the sidewalk.
“If it’s seafood you want, I’d recommend El Pulpo on Duval Street. And if you come back here tomorrow night, we’ll make up for the inconvenience with a free cocktail. Just ask for me. My name is Laurie.”
She closed the door and looked toward the back of the restaurant, where the owner of the Cowrie sat at the edge of a table, legs swinging. Facing him sat about thirty men. Laurie was the only woman. She sighed to herself: many of the men, like Bobby Freed himself, were very good-looking. What a waste. They had come from all over the Lower Keys at Freed’s urging. A marshaling of forces, he had called it.
“Somebody asked me why we are here,” Freed said suddenly in a voice that silenced the room. “We are here because we’ve had enough. It’s time we started dishing it out.”
There were a few cheers, a whistle.
“Some of you were asking over dinner about my friend Neal. Let me tell you about Neal. He was beaten and robbed in full sight of a so-called policeman just a few blocks from here.
“I complained to the police and to the mayor and to the council, but nobody cared. He went to the hospital and came out scared of his own shadow. Neal couldn’t make it. He was too weak. Yesterday I put him on the plane. Neal is gone for good.” An excited murmur coursed through the room. Neal and Bobby had been together a long time. “Neal is gone …” Freed milked a dramatic pause “… and I say ‘good riddance.’”
There was rapt silence. From her post at the door, Laurie’s eyes shone in admiration.
“I say ‘good riddance’ because Neal was afraid and he couldn’t cope with his fear. Well, a lot of us are afraid. Some of us have been beat up, like Neal. I don’t mind confessing that I’ve been afraid, too. But I am not leaving. I am staying here and I am going to fight.”
Several men started talking at once then, and the loudest among them, a motel operator from Lower Matecumbe, asked the question for them all.
“Shit, Bobby, what can we do? Buy guns? Get bodyguards? Hire a hit man?”
“I think Neal had the right idea,” said an architect from Caroline Street. “These Conchs suck.”
“No, you’re wrong,” Freed insisted. “The Conchs would live and let live, I know they would. It’s the system that’s bad here, not the people. If we show the Conchs we are worth their respect—stop being punching bags