Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [68]
“Hurts, huh? But I took a look last night, and it didn’t seem too bad to me,” Albury lied. “Pain’ll go away quick.”
“Where are you, dad? I called the trailer and you weren’t there …”
“You must have scared the shit out of Laurie, telling her about the arm.”
“She wasn’t there, either.” Nor had she been long past midnight when Albury had called from the kitchen phone of a sleeping Christine Manning. “Dad, it’s my pitching arm. I asked the doctors this morning if I could pitch as good as ever once the cast is off, and they just shrugged.”
Ricky was fighting back tears. Albury watched his knuckles whiten against the plastic receiver.
“That’s no sweat, man. I talked to the chief doctor, and he said you’d be good as new. Then just to be sure, I called this guy in Boston—I was in the Navy with him—and his brother is the doctor who takes care of the Red Sox, a specialist. He wants to look at you as soon as they let you out of there. We’ll fly up.”
“The Red Sox?”
“I know they ain’t the Orioles, but they ain’t bad, either. You just got to be careful in Fenway that the right-handed batters don’t pull you over the wall—the Monster, they call it.”
“Yeah. Dad, they want to know if we’ve got insurance.” Ricky’s voice was fading.
“Sure, we do. The best. I’ll stop by and straighten that out when I come see you, maybe later today. Tomorrow for sure.”
There was a long pause, and Albury thought Ricky might have dozed off.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“I will be able to throw again, won’t I?”
Tears stung the fresh cut on Albury’s cheek. He tried to keep his voice firm.
“If you stay off bicycles you don’t know how to ride, for Chrissakes.”
Albury scoured himself in a melancholic shower. He made coffee and called Crystal.
“Hey, sunshine, any mail for Smilin’ Jack?”
“Hi, bubba, how’s Ricky?”
“Doin’ fine. What do you hear?”
“There’s a picture postcard from our favorite asshole. He says he hopes you got his message. He means Ricky, I’d say.”
“What else does our friend say?”
“He says he’ll pay twenty thou F.O.B. for the merchandise, and—get this—no hard feelings.”
“Friendly soul, isn’t he?”
“Asshole.”
“Tell him I accept. I’ll make contact with him.”
“You crazy? You know how much that stuff is worth,” Crystal spluttered. “And what makes you think he’ll really pay?”
“He sure doesn’t want any more trouble, and neither do I.”
“I’ll tell him, if you’re sure …”
“I’m sure. One more thing: Can you find out for me where a lobster boat called El Gallo docks?”
“I already know. Up at Big Coppitt. The captain is some scumbag Marielito friend of the man you’re doing business with.”
“Right, thanks. I’ll see you around.”
“Hey, wait a minute, mister businessman.”
“What?”
“You’re liable to get killed, you know.”
“I’m not looking for any more trouble. I told you.”
“All this sweetness and light is very noble, Breeze, but I’ve known you since I was a kid.”
“So?”
“So remember ole Crystal. He can’t run much anymore, but he can drive a car and he can outshoot any asshole doper in town and talk on the radio at the same time. Teal and Spider and a couple of the others already called this morning to say more or less the same thing. And ole catch-’em-quick Haller was around here at dawn in his Marine Patrol uniform, sayin’ how much he’d admire to drink a beer with Breeze Albury. I guess they all heard about Ricky.”
“I read you, bubba, loud and clear. Tell ’em I said thanks.”
ON A RICKETY and old manual typewriter that was all the town fathers had said they could offer the Governor’s representative—“Sorry, ma’am, things are tight around here”—Christine Manning pecked out her case against Drake Boone. Of his guilt she was certain. He had seduced a minor, fed her pills that had blown her circuits, and then tried to cover up. That was the working hypothesis. It would be enough to see that Drake Boone never practiced law again. It should be enough to cost him his freedom. And it could be the key she needed to unravel the whole mess. Squeezed, Drake Boone would talk.
Christine Manning felt feverish. One moment the