Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [77]
“I don’t want to talk about Albury, Tom. It’s that Julie Clayton business … it’s all coming to pieces.”
“Good ole Julie. She sure did love Demon Pill, didn’t she? But she was overrated. Never could understand what you saw in her.” Tom yawned.
“Listen, asshole, I’m not going down the tube for Julie Clayton or anybody else.”
“Oh, c’mon. You’re not going down the tube, counselor. You got a problem, I’ll have Barnett fix it.”
“It’s not Barnett who’s after me. It’s that Manning woman, the Governor’s bitch. She’s got me cold, man.”
“We’ll fix it.” The Machine paid Drake Boone to be precise, but sometimes he was simply tedious. Tom decided to pop another pill.
“We won’t fix this one, Tom. Look, we’ve run this town for almost ten years. It was fun, but it’s over. I’m leaving for St. Thomas—now and for good.”
“Horseshit.”
“It’s the truth. And do you know something? I think Manolo has the same idea. Is he really away on business? Or did he split? Manning is after me. The queers are crazy for Barnett’s blood. Albury ripped off a load. Maybe Manolo just read the tea leaves and walked away while he still could.”
“No, no way. Manolo’s coming back.”
“OK, Tom, if you say so. I’m leaving town, and I want a hundred thou to go with me. I’ll take cash.”
“Are you out of your gourd?” Tom was becoming agitated. He wished Manolo was around to handle Boone.
“Let’s call the money a parting gift. A silence gift, like all the ones we have paid to patsies over the years, OK?”
“No, it’s not OK.”
“Hey, baby, if I go down, I don’t go alone, remember that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it says. Remember where Julie’s pills and everybody else’s pills come from. That’s you, ain’t it, Winnebago? And the pot, the enforcement, and all the other little things you’d rather your ole mama never read about you in the newspaper. It costs a hundred grand for me to forget all that. For good. Otherwise, I meet the lady prosecutor. Tonight.”
“That’s not funny.”
They quarreled for another forty-five minutes, while the sun dropped ever lower, as though on a pulley, and the tourists gathered along the seawall to celebrate its departure.
At sunset, the broad concrete promenade at Mallory Docks is street theater the way Fellini would stage it. That night a juggler-comedian with a wispy mustache and a pink jump suit played the star. Around him, as he tossed flaming rods and evil-looking machetes, stood several hundred people: cruising homosexuals and shagged newlyweds; bemused straight tourists in white shoes and matching belts; an eccentric piano teacher from Akron with a broken arm cast in praying-mantis position; a creature of indeterminate sex in a knee-length white fur coat, mirror sunglasses, and a rainbow-colored wig. About the periphery, a frizzy-haired woman bicycled in a green dress and high-topped leather boots. “Guava cookies, carrot cookies, Key West sweet, Key West treat, warm and chewy,” she sang to the strains of an off-key black bongo drummer. Alone on an elevated pump housing, smiling benignly, stood a barefooted gray-bearded man in white duck trousers of an Otavalo Indian and a poncho cut from an army blanket. Around the Rock, people called him Moses.
In the Winnebago on the fringes of the spectacle, Drake Boone was adamant. Tomas Cruz ricocheted between incredulity, anger, and stupor.
“One last time, Boone,” Tom said, “this will all blow over. Forget it.”
“I’ve had it. You and Manolo can get yourselves another lawyer.”
They stared at one another for a long moment—Tom gummy-eyed; Boone glacial. Outside, the sun was dying. The tourists watched in rapt silence. When it vanished, they would clap; every night the tourists clapped.
“OK have it your way,” Tom said at last. “One hundred thou it is. Small bills?”
“I don’t care. You got it here?”
“Yeah.” He had much more than that. “But turn around while I get it. If you ain’t a part of the team anymore, then I don’t want you seeing where my bank is.”
“Just put it in the briefcase, OK?”
Drake