Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [78]
On the seawall outside, the tourists applauded.
“HOW MUCH IS that shell there?” He nudged it with his boot. It was a queen conch, a beauty.
“Ten dollars,” she said without looking up. “It may sound expensive, but it’s real cheap. That’s a Queen of the Sea, comes from over a hundred feet deep.”
“Not as deep as all that, Peg.”
“Hello, Breeze.”
It hurt to look at her. Once, her eyes had flashed a sensual yellow fire. Now, as she peered up at him from under a floppy straw hat, they were lost in the swollen face and as colorless as the gin that had destroyed them.
“How’re things, Peg?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“You haven’t been around to see Ricky lately.”
“I keep meanin’ to, honest. But you know how it is. Besides, he stopped by the other day. He’s so big, Breeze. And Veronica, she’d be nearly fourteen. Veronica.”
“Yeah.” Albury had come to tell her about Ricky’s arm. He decided not to.
“Where did it all go, Breeze? Us, and the island? It was so good, once. Then it went someplace, all of it, all rotten. Can you tell me where it all went?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fast. It all went so fast. Like my little girl. And now, what’s left? This place, my office.” She gestured. The sun had left. Shadows speckled the tiny shingle of sand and the fading red-and-white sign that proclaimed it “Southernmost Beach in the U.S.”
“These are hard times, Peg,” Albury said gently.
“No good times.” Then she smiled. “It was so bright, like the sun on a summer day, so hot it makes you feel good all over. Remember? We saved and bought that house. The kids loved that backyard, and then you said one good season and you’d build a Florida room on the back with air conditioning, but you never built it. Only a tree house in that ugly old ficus, and me scared to death the kids would fall out. ‘Course, you didn’t know that because you were out fishin’, and you were going to buy another boat and then one day a fish house so you could be home more.”
She poked at the cool sand with dirty toes. Then she looked up.
“I’m sorry, Breeze.”
“Me, too.”
Albury took the heavy ivory-and-pink conch shell and left her a twenty-dollar bill.
He was nearly back to the car when she called, a figure lost in shadow.
“Take care of my boy, Breeze. Take care of my Ricky, hear?”
“I will, Peg,” he replied softly, “Oh, I will.”
BREEZE ALBURY found Tomas Cruz sprawled on the Winnebago’s burgundy leather sofa. A pistol lay on the carpet alongside an empty champagne bottle. Tom watched him through hooded eyes.
“Hey, Tom, how they hangin’?”
“What’s that you’re carryin’?” Tom asked warily.
“This? A queen conch. I’m going to take it to Ricky at the hospital. A get-well present.”
“Ricky, oh yeah, sorry about that. You know how it is.” Tom shrugged. “Make yourself a drink.”
“Thanks, I will. I can see you’ve had a few already.”
“A couple. Want a pop? They’re over there.” Tom gestured toward the cutlery drawer.
“No, thanks. I’ve only got a few minutes, got to get to the hospital. Those nurses are damn strict about visiting hours.” Albury poured himself three fingers of Bourbon.
Tom fished a gold lighter from his jeans pocket and lit a cigarette. “I’m glad you finally came to your senses, bubba. Tomorrow we deal and it’s all over—no hard feelings. I get my square groupers, you get your money, Manolo gets off my ass, and everybody goes home happy.”
“Right.” Albury toasted Tom and drained the whiskey.
“It’s too bad things went so wrong,” said Tom, “but I want you to know that we—me and Manolo—don’t bear any grudge. And next time somethin’ special comes along, somethin’ we need a really good captain for, we’ll give you a call.”
“Thanks. By the way, I hear Manolo’s out of town.”
“That’s right, bubba. It’s my show till he gets back.”
“No offense, Tom, but are you sure you’ll have the money tomorrow?”
“Shit. It’s peanuts. I’ve got more than that on me right now. We’re a big-time operation, Breeze, really first-class. I tell you what: I’ll throw in a coupla extra thousand