Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [81]
“That’s evidence,” Barnett howled through his bullhorn. “Evidence in a crime. It must be handed over to the police. So don’t move, anybody!”
THE AMBULANCE barreled along Truman Avenue with lights flashing, but no siren. Ricky had agreed that a siren would be overdoing it. Through a Demerol fog, he watched his father at the wheel, weaving through the morning traffic with a sleepy, serene look on his face.
“How’s the arm?”
“Feels like a bus backed over it.”
Albury reached across and squeezed Ricky’s good hand. “We’re almost there.”
Teal had tied the skiff at the old Navy docks. He was sitting on a creosote stump, reading the morning Citizen, when the ambulance pulled up. Albury gingerly led Ricky to the bonefish skiff. Together he and Teal extricated the boy from his hospital gown and redressed him in a pair of jeans and a modified, one-armed rain jacket.
The skiff nosed into the northwest channel. Albury sat aft with an arm around his son.
As they passed Mallory Docks, Teal saw people leaping from the seawall into the channel. Others hovered above them, pointing, and one shirtless fellow slapped clumsily at the water with a long-handled shrimp net. The harbor was full of bobbing heads.
“Look at the fruitcakes,” Teal said.
Albury paid close attention to the chaos. He saw three city police cars, two wreckers, and the corpulent profile of Huge Barnett at the forefront of the gathering. Somewhere on the bottom of the roiling channel was the nicest Winnebago in town.
“Let’s go,” Albury said.
Teal’s keen eyes fanned the water. “God, Breeze, it’s money! That’s what they’re swimming after.” He pointed in the current, and Albury watched a soggy wad of hundreds float by.
“Use the landing net,” Ricky urged giddily.
“No, son.”
“It’s fuckin’ everywhere, Breeze. Must be thousands in here,” Teal said. “No wonder the crazies are jumping in.” He leaned over the side and scooped two fifty-dollar bills from a clump of kelp. “Look at this!”
“Let’s stop, dad. See what we can get.”
“No! Teal, we got work to do.”
At Mallory Docks, Huge Barnett decreed a search of all people leaving the water. A few were frisked, and two men—a gay couple from Los Angeles—were actually arrested as an example to other scavengers, most of whom simply trod water until Barnett’s deputies were occupied elsewhere. Then the swimmers thrashed to the seawall and handed fistfuls of money to accomplices on shore. It took all morning to restore order.
Huge Barnett carried to lunch with him seven thousand sodden dollars and a feeling of dread. He had recognized the submerged camper instantly. A pasty-faced coroner later had shown him the bullet holes in the corpse of Drake Boone, Esquire. Of Winnebago Tom Cruz there was no sign.
AFTER A THIRD NIGHT on the Mud Keys, Jimmy Cantrell had reached his limit of insects, isolation, and body stench. He proposed to take the Diamond Cutter inshore and find out what had happened to Albury.
“No way,” Augie replied. “Breeze said we head north, up the Keys.”
“And just leave him down here? Forget about him?” “Settle down, chico. They got telephones in Marathon, too. We’ll find out what happened.” Augie rocked on the gunwale, dangling his brown feet in the milt-colored water of the creek. A pair of translucent needlefish crisscrossed the creek, their gemstone eyes searching for minnows.
Behind him, Augie heard Jimmy climb to the pilothouse. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to call my wife on the radio.”
“The hell you are!”
Jimmy poised the microphone in his hand. “This is the vessel Black Star calling the marine operator in Key West.”
“Go ahead, Black Star, this is Key West.”
“I need a land line, number seven-four-two, six-one-three-six. Same area code.”
“We copy, Black Star; what are your call numbers, please?”
Jimmy hesitated, and before he could invent a number, Augie snatched the microphone and silenced the radio.
“Do you want every asshole in Key West to hear your phone call?”
“Augie, for Chrissakes, she’s pregnant.” Jimmy’s voice cracked. “She’s probably worried