Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [8]
“Shit. It’s full of termites. They couldn’t get seventeen five for it eight years ago.”
“The guy that bought it was twenty-two.”
Albury shook his head. “Say no more.”
“I hate all this, Breeze.”
“Yeah.”
“I want out. If I can’t leave, then my boy will. I swear.”
In the fifth inning, Ricky’s control deserted him briefly. He walked the leadoff batter and lost the second man to a crisp single. Then it was time to face Buddy Martin.
“Low and away,” Albury yelled.
Ricky threw a fastball, letter high on the inside corner. The bat slashed forward, and Albury felt the “crack” in the fillings in his teeth. The ball rocketed into the alley in left center and smacked the Merita Bread sign on the first bounce. Both runners scored, and Buddy Martin cruised into third with a stand-up triple.
Enos beamed. “Way to stroke, Bud,” he called to his son.
Ricky called time, and Albury winced in shame when he saw Ricky and his coach yoking Ricky’s right spike together with a piece of friction tape.
“Damn,” Albury said, “I got a new pair for him in the car. Be right back.”
“I’ll watch the beer,” Enos said.
Albury strode across to Key Plaza, where he had parked the car. He broke into a trot when he saw the figure inside the Pontiac, stretched across the front seat, probing the glove compartment. The man never looked up until he felt the huge hands around his left leg. Albury yanked once and spilled the thief onto the pavement, his shaggy head hitting the asphalt like a brick.
Dazed, the young man foggily surveyed his attacker: sharp, angry green eyes; nut-brown face capped with short salt-and-pepper hair; the mouth a thin, icy slash; the neck thick, veined with rage.
“Easy, grandpa,” said the kid. His long hair was thick, flicked with dirt and leaves. His face was milky and pocked. Albury scowled down at him.
“Where’s the toolbox?” he demanded. “And the bag from the sports shop? Where’d you stash ’em?”
“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Albury placed a booted foot on the man’s neck and shifted his weight slowly until the face turned red and a grimace bared every tooth. “You’re a prick,” Albury said. “And I’ll snap your goddamn neck if you don’t answer my question.”
The thief flailed on the pavement and directed his bulging eyes across the parking lot, to where a battered red VW sat alone. Albury hauled the young man to the car. In the back seat were his toolbox and the bag containing Ricky’s new spikes. He retrieved them and walked back to the Pontiac, the thief in tow.
“You gonna call the cops?”
“Where you from?”
“Atlanta.” The young man began brushing off his jeans and picking the gravel off his shirt. He thought it was over.
“What are you doing down here?” Albury asked evenly.
“Visiting.” The young man used his hands like a comb, straightening his hair and sweeping it out of his face.
“Visiting,” Albury repeated.
The kid nodded. Albury wordlessly slammed him in the stomach with a straight right, then cracked him in the nose with an abbreviated left cross. The kid fell, blubbering, the dark blood shining in the pale lumination of the streelights.
Albury locked the toolbox in the trunk of the Pontiac and hurried back to the ball park with the spikes. The game was already over. The Padres had won, 6-2.
“Nice game, champ,” Albury said to Ricky as he came off the field.
“Yeah. You see the slider I got Buddy with in the seventh?”
“Naw, I missed it.”
“So did Buddy.” It was Enos, laughing. “Breeze, I got worried about you, so I polished off the six-pack.”
“Some dirtbag broke into the car. I caught him before he got away. Here.” Albury handed Ricky the spikes. “I should have brought ’em with me in the first place.”
Ricky opened the box. Buddy Martin looked over Ricky’s shoulder as he inspected the new spikes.
“Dad, these must have cost forty bucks.”
“It’s OK,” Albury said. “Had a good catch today.”
Enos gave him a doubting glance. Albury wondered, could he know about the traps already?
“Get your jacket on, champ. Let’s get going before the whole car gets stolen. Enos, Buddy, we’ll see you.”
It took Albury