Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [66]
“I saved the clipping from the paper. Somehow I had a feeling it was your boat.”
“It was, but I’ll deny it. If it comes to that, I’ll lie. In fact, I’m afraid there’s not much of what I’ve told you that could be put in a file. It’s true, all of it, but it’s no good to you, Christine.”
“You could give me some names.”
“No way.”
“I know a few.”
Albury laughed derisively.
“Tomas Cruz?”
“Brilliant work,” Albury said. “And what will you do with the names? Put them in a file. What will you do with the file? Add it to the other files. And then what?”
Albury could see the sarcasm sting, but Christine pressed on. “What did you do,” she asked, “after the shootout on Key Largo?”
Albury crumpled an empty beer can. “Simple. I stole something that belonged to somebody else. Somebody who owed me a lot of money, and more. I told him he could have his property back when I got paid. His answer is there.” Albury jerked a thumb in the air. “In the hospital. My boy.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Do you ever stop with the questions?”
“I’m worried about you,” Christine said.
Albury slid closer on the couch. “What I’m going to do now,” he said, “is stop answering your questions. I’ve told you what happened. The good parts, anyway. If you want to know what’s going to happen tomorrow or the day after, try Madame Zuzu over on White Street. Five bucks for a thirty-minute reading, and you don’t even have to get her drunk.”
“Are you drunk, captain?”
“I suppose so, Miss Manning. I’m drunk and I’m tired and I hurt all over. The thing I care about most is lying in the fucking hospital with his arm pretzeled by some asshole Cuban. The thing I care about second is anchored out on some mangrove island with nothing but an antique bilge pump and two hare-brained boys between her and the bottom of the Gulf. The thing I care about third is probably doing crosswords or writing couplets about spoonbills to keep from worrying about me anymore. And, before you have a chance to ask, the reason I moved closer is that you smell so good and look so wonderful in your dress and your nylons—”
“Jesus.”
“You’re the one who wanted to talk.” Albury leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Christine pulled away until she felt his hands on her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” she said crossly.
Albury took her hands and stood up. “We’re going upstairs,” he announced.
Tentatively, Christine followed him out of the apartment, up two peeling flights to the roof. They stepped outside to a small wooden platform, framed on four sides by a hand-carved railing.
“It’s called a widow’s walk,” Albury said. “In the old day, Conch wreckers would come up here to search for ships on the rocks. You can see the reef from here.” He pointed east, out to sea, where a long slick curl of water shouldered the coral shelf. “The storms would throw the ships up on the rocks, and Key West would empty like a whorehouse on a Sunday morning. Boats out of every harbor, racing for gold or guns or rum. Whatever they could salvage.”
“Your relatives, too?” Christine said.
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“Did they find any treasure?”
“You bet,” Albury said. “Found it and lost it a dozen times over. It must have been a hell of a time. A regular tropical Klondike.”
Christine found his hands and moved them to her waist. “Are you sorry things have changed down here?”
“But they haven’t. Not really,” he said with a dark laugh. “Come up to the widow’s walk some night when a shrimp boat runs aground with a load of grass. The crew will start heaving those bales overboard to lighten her up, and pretty soon you’ll see the boats. From here you can see ’em racing out to scoop up anything that’s floating out there. Just like the old days. The spirit is the same.”
Christine pressed closer and Albury felt her hair against his cheek. “I can’t blame you for being so bitter,” she said.
“I would rather watch the moon,” he said, turning her around by the shoulders. His fingers found the top button of the forest-green dress. “You’ll never see a moon quite that color in