Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [80]
Albury jammed the queen conch shell between the accelerator and the brake pedal. The engine raced. He slipped the camper into gear and jumped lightly from the cab. He walked away without looking back, ignoring the shout of alarm from the carrot-cake lady as she dove from the Winnebago’s path. Albury was already lost in the shadows of the Old Town when he heard the splash.
Chapter 22
PEG ALBURY fortified herself with three cups of black coffee from the hospital cafeteria. Customarily, she was not up and around like this at nine in the morning, but she had not slept well. She inserted a stick of spearmint gum in her mouth, adjusted her hair with trembling fingers, and bravely made her way to the nurse’s station on the third floor.
“Richard Albury’s room, please.”
A lovely Jamaican nurse picked up the telephone, smiled, and turned her back on Peg Albury. Moments later a starched, pinch-faced man appeared. He introduced himself as Mr. Jenks, the administrator.
Peg Albury groped for a chair. “My God. Not Ricky,” she murmured. “Not Ricky, too. Is he dead?”
“You’re Ricky’s mother?”
Peg nodded.
“He’s not here,” Jenks said with an irritated sigh. “Mr. Albury removed him from the hospital about thirty minutes ago. Against doctor’s orders, and against my orders. I told him the boy was not ready to travel. The arm needs another two days of traction.”
“Breeze got him?” Peg held her straw hat to her breasts. She chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought.
“Where is your husband?” Jenks asked sternly.
“He’s my former husband, and I’ll be damned if I know. I had to find out about Ricky’s accident from the shortstop on his team. Think of that, mister.”
“You must find Mr. Albury. A person cannot just waltz into this hospital and snatch a patient out of a room and waltz out again. There are rules, Mrs. Albury, and laws. One of our orderlies is down in the emergency room at this moment, having his face sewn up. I suppose it’s my fault. I told him to stop your husband down in the lobby. Apparently Mr. Albury was not of a mind to be stopped.”
Peg nodded absently. “He’s a contrary sonofabitch, all right.” She fitted the hat back on her head. “Did he say where they were going?”
“He did not,” Jenks replied. “He asked what his son’s bill was, and of course he wouldn’t wait while we added it up. He simply handed me five thousand dollars in cash and headed for the door. Just like that.”
“Too bad,” Peg Albury said, rising. “Ain’t that enough? Five grand ain’t enough?”
“It would have been, yes,” Jenks said caustically, “if your husband had not helped himself to one of our ambulances.”
Peg Albury aimed herself toward the elevator. “Former,” she clucked. “Former, former, former. Good morning, Mr. Jinx.”
IT WAS HUGE BARNETT himself who supervised the recovery of the Winnebago. He lined up two tow trucks, side by side, wheels chocked, near the end of the pier. He badgered a young mate from one of the tourist boats into diving through the clear green water to fasten the lines. A growing crowd watched in macabre silence from the seawall around the square.
“Together now,” Barnett bawled.
The trucks strained. The Winnebago lurched. A large bubble of air broke the surface, and in another minute, bits of debris floated up, swirling in the current.
They looked like rumpled bits of paper. By the time anyone realized what they were, hundreds of them floated around the docks.
“Holy shit, that’s money,” came a shout from the crowd.
People stripped on the seawall. They dove into the water the way Conch kids of Barnett’s era once dove for nickels thrown by tourists. Word raced through Old Town. In ten minutes, there were nearly three hundred people in the water, thrashing, yelling, punching, clutching for the bills. One woman almost drowned.
Huge Barnett lost his famous cool. Slack-jawed, he stomped furiously on the pier. Then he hit on a solution that would again earn him time on the evening news. One anchorman would