Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [60]
“Who for? Did he say?”
“Nope.”
Albury was puzzled. He had told Crystal that the Diamond Cutter was holed up in the Mud Keys, but he had not told him exactly where. A search party could look for days and still not find the narrow channel, snaking through the mangroves, where Albury had hidden the two fishing boats, his and the Machine’s. Yet Crystal, who knew the confusing vagaries of the Keys, was sending a messenger; the mud flats had grounded many a Coast Guard search boat at night. An amateur stood no chance at all.
Something was wrong. Maybe Crystal was in trouble. It had, after all, been his task to make sure the coast was clear for the off-loading at No-Name Key; Tom Cruz would have been counting on it. And, of course, when Tom’s crew had seen the Diamond Cutters bogus blue light, they had been sure it was cops. The load of grass had been lost. No doubt Crystal would have had some serious explaining to do.
“Jimmy, can you swim over and help Augie move the other boat farther up the creek?” Albury stretched his arms on deck. The grass boat was anchored thirty yards away, its white prow tucked into the tangled red roots. Augie waved amiably at Albury from the stern.
Jimmy peeled down to his underwear and dove in. Phosphorescent plankton scattered in bright green shreds as he stroked up the creek toward the hijacked crawfish boat.
Albury rubbed hard at his chin and cheeks to get the blood moving. He longed for a jarring cup of Cuban coffee.
He and Crystal had worked out the scenario over the radio. After the pot was stolen, Winnegabo Tom would arrive in Crystal’s trailer in a fury; he would demand to know what had gone wrong. How could the cops have found out about the operation? Good money had been spent to make sure that wouldn’t happen.
Crystal was to tell him the truth, that the boat with the blue light did not belong to the Marine Patrol or Coast Guard; that it was not a bust but a ripoff in the Big Spanish Channel. Who? Tom would shout. Crystal would tell him.
Then Tom Cruz would understand. His next question would be a simple one: how much?
But now, instead of an offer, a visitor. It was a twist that worried Breeze Albury. He climbed to the pilothouse and played the dials on the radio. Again and again he called for Smilin’ Jack, but only static answered. Albury believed that Crystal was listening. This time of night, Crystal always listened.
Up current, the grass boat’s diesel hacked and came to life as Jimmy and Augie guided the boat deeper into the green arms of the tiny island. Albury flipped the VHF to channel 12 and called his mates.
“Hey there.” It was Jimmy’s voice; he loved to talk on the radio. “This boat’s a cow, captain. A pregnant old cow.”
Albury said, “Take her up around the first bend. Tie her off in the trees and swim back. Augie, too.” To leave the boys on the boat with all that dope would be a mistake, especially with company on the way.
Two hours later, the three of them were stretched out on the deck of the Diamond Cutter, dozing under a sliver of yellow moon. The Remington lay at Albury’s side. The fishermen were far enough from the mainland that the howling truck noises on the Overseas Highway were smothered by the sounds of the Keys—insects, herons, gulls, the trill of raccoons, the gentle percussion of wavelets on the wooden hull. Albury was dreaming of an old man, steering a slow old boat from a bleached whiskey crate, following a rich trap line west.
A faint noise at his feet made him open one eye. A stranger’s shadow blocked the moon. Albury sat up, stiffened by a volt of fear. His right hand groped for the shotgun.
“Breeze,” said a voice from the stranger. “It’s me. Teal.”
“Jesus!”
Augie stirred and rolled to his side. Jimmy snored placidly.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Albury said.
“Crystal wanted me to find you,” said the tawny flats guide. “Breeze, I’m taking you back to Key West. We’d better go right now.” Teal motioned to his bonefish skiff, tied to a cleat on