Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [86]
“Oh, no,” the police chief groaned. “Don’t stop now, it’s just the bridge.”
The Chrysler stopped three feet from the red-and-white gate. A green sign said: Mile Marker 45. Barnett clutched himself and started to rub.
“Chief, look,” Laurie said anxiously. Her eyes flashed toward the rearview mirror. “You better stop.”
Barnett gave an irritated glance at the mirror, and his houndlike eyes turned cold. Directly behind the Chrysler was a gray-over-black Chevrolet Blazer. On its roof was a blue police light, flashing at the precise rate of one per second.
“What’s going on?” Barnett mumbled, to no one in particular. He retrieved his lust-dented Stetson off the floor but made no move to get out of his car.
Until he heard the siren.
“What the fuck!” With an anguished roar, Huge Barnett uncorked himself from the driver’s seat and swung onto the pavement.
At the side of the Blazer stood Mark Haller in his crisp Marine Patrol uniform and black cap. He wore a pair of amber Polaroids that made him look like a tomcat when he smiled.
“How’s it goin’, bubba?” Haller said pleasantly.
“What’s with the fucking light and siren?” Barnett demanded.
“Chief, why don’t you, ah, arrange yourself a little bit. There’s a church bus from Macon about three cars back, and I got a feeling they didn’t come all the way down the Keys just to see your skinny dick.”
Barnett said, “Jesus Christ.” He spun away from the long line of traffic and tucked his flaccid organ out of sight. He hoped that Haller hadn’t noticed the drip spots on his trousers. In front of Barnett, the turntable bridge now was fully open, and the wobbling antenna of the crawfish boat marked its passage under the span.
“Chief, I’m going to ask you to open the trunk of your car,” Haller said smoothly.
“What the hell for, Haller?”
“Please.”
“You got a goddamn warrant?”
Haller patted his pockets. “Yep, right here. And I also got a crowbar.”
“Fuck you.” Barnett produced the key. “This is gonna cost you your phony little job, Haller. Ride around in a fucking motorboat all day catching crawfish thieves and poachers. A real fucking Eliot Ness, you are.”
“Bubba, you best open the trunk. Now.”
Barnett scowled. “OK, Mr. Grouper Trooper.”
The Chrysler’s trunk contained a peculiar inventory: two spare blackwall tires (the left side always seemed to blow out in tandem), an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle; five pornographic video cassettes; a scarlet bikini; a two-pound box of chocolate cookies; a deep-sea fishing rod; fifty feet of nylon rope; a shoebox with approximately three thousand dollars inside; and, finally, a large rectangular package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and postal twine.
The package was the only item Barnett had not expected to see. It was the only item in which Mark Haller expressed an interest.
“What is it?”
“Never saw it before.”
“Never?”
“Somebody put it there.” Barnett was sweating from a thousand nervous little faucets. “Somebody must have put it there.”
“I see.” Haller wrestled the parcel out of the trunk and lay it on the pavement of the bridge. Passengers and children from the other cars had emerged to form a curious half-circle around the little ceremony.
The crawfish boat was now safely through the channel. Barnett wondered why somebody didn’t close the bridge.
Mark Haller pointed the toe of his boot to the lettering on the brown paper. “Who is Rella P. Barnett?”
The chief said, “My mother.”
“And does your mother happen to live at Four-seven-seven Sailfish Drive in Homestead, F-L-A?”
Barnett leaned over and examined the address. “So help me, I have no idea what the hell this is, or how it got in—”
“Let’s see.” Haller smoothly ran a pocketknife down the length of the package. He inserted both hands in the wound and held the pungent contents up for Huge Barnett to smell.
“Your momma like to smoke, does she?”
“Fuck you, Haller.”
“She knows her blend, that’s for sure.”
A few persons in the crowd began to laugh. A man with stork legs and a