Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [79]
“That’d be fine, Tom.”
Albury’s fingertips showed white against the conch. He was surprised he hadn’t broken it. He looked at his watch. Another few minutes.
“Let’s do the trade up around Ramrod Key,” said Tom. “I’ve got it all figured out.”
“That’s fine, Tom. Only one problem—you’re not paying enough. I want more money. Maybe we should wait till Manolo gets back.”
Tom pushed himself upright on the sofa.
“What kind of shit is this? First all the hassle with the rip, and now you’re trying to fuck me over money, too?”
“Hassles, Tom? No hassles, just business.”
“Jesus! Don’t you ever learn? Keep up with this shit, Albury, and I’ll break your fuckin’ kid’s head the next time.”
“Does Manolo know how cheap you’re trying to be?”
“Manolo has nothin’ to do with this. Nothin’, goddamnit!”
“All the same, I think we should wait till he gets back.”
“No!” Tom was roaring now. “You stole my load and you’re goin’ to give it back to me tomorrow, the way I told you.”
“That’s not how it’s goin’ down,” Albury said quietly.
Crystal’s timing was perfect. Tom was scrabbling on the floor for the pistol when the CB radio above the driver’s seat burst to life.
“Ajax, this is Neptune. I have an urgent message from Thor. Do you copy?” Tom glanced reflexively at the radio. He was Ajax. Manolo was Thor.
Almost casually, Albury kicked the gun from Tom’s hand. He came out of the chair with the controlled fury of a jungle cat. Tom had no chance.
Albury leaned against the bar to catch his breath, and Tom wailed up at him from the floor
“Jesus! My arm, you broke my fucking arm.”
Albury watched, impassive.
“I’ll take my money now, Tom.”
“No.”
“The money or the other arm.”
“OK, OK. The money. Oh, Christ, it hurts.”
“Where is it?”
“In the closet … a false panel on the floor. There’s a suitcase … Take the money and get me to a doctor, OK, Breeze? For Chrissakes.”
“Show me the money.”
Albury followed Tom toward the sleeping area of the camper’s rear. From the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky shadow and whirled to confront it. He jerked open the glass door of the shower stall and Drake Boone fell out.
Albury looked at the corpse.
“My, Tom, you have been busy.”
“Look, just take your money and go, OK? This is not your business. You didn’t see anything. OK? You’re right, I was tryin’ to cheat you on the money. Take what you want and we’ll call it square.”
Clutching his arm, Tom pointed at the closet. Albury grunted at the weight of the suitcase. He dumped it onto the bed, more money than he had ever seen. It smelled like wet dirt.
Albury eyed the cash speculatively. Tom lay half on the bed, his feet on the floor, babbling. It would be so easy: there for the taking. Albury sighed.
“I figure you owe me fifty-three thousand dollars, Tom—fifty for the Colombians and another three for my traps. Count it out.”
“My arm … I can’t.”
“Count, and I’ll get you something for your arm.”
Albury walked back into the camper’s living area and rummaged through the cutlery area. Returning, he tossed four plastic bottles onto the bed. Tom wrenched the child-proof cap off one of them with his teeth and swallowed a handful of fuse-shaped capsules.
“Keep counting,” Albury commanded.
Tom moaned. He sniveled. He cried. With painful, jerky movements, he labored to assemble a pile of pills on the edge of the bed.
“There,” he said at last. “Take it.”
Albury distributed the money among his pockets. He saw the pills ignite in Tom’s eyes and watched with scorn as Tom began shoveling the large pile of remaining bills into the suitcase.
Albury went forward and started the camper engine. He maneuvered the boxlike vehicle until it pointed down the concrete promenade. Sunset had emptied the dock. The few passersby on the still night stared incuriously as Albury drove along the seawall until the Winnebago was about seventy-five feet from the end.
“Where we goin’, Breeze? What’re you doin’?” Tom whimpered.
“I get out here, Tom. Where you go is up to you. You get a fighting chance. That’s more than you gave Ricky.”
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