Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [88]
On Caroline Street, they strolled to the water’s edge and clambered out along some rocks. It was a lovely view. The whitewashed island lay before them, with its shops and pale old houses, its unmistakable harbor. Like Key West itself, it was teeming: boats of every description, diving gulls, a small school of striped grunts lazing into the shadows.
“This is what it’s really about,” Bobby Freed proclaimed. “I love it.”
He gestured toward a tall shrimp boat, inward bound, nets streeling like two outstretched webs in the sea.
As the shrimper pushed into the harbor, its steel arms suddenly lifted from the sea, jerking the first fingers of glistening net from the water.
“Beautiful, a poem,” Laurie murmured,
“A ballet,” said Freed.
The boat was almost abeam now, the arms rising in a long vertical sweep, the net following faster.
“You could almost reach out and touch it,” said Freed. “But I’d rather touch you.”
He held her before him, his back to the sea, and then watched in a sickening instant as the love in her eyes faded to horror.
Laurie screamed.
From the starboard net, spread-eagled like a snared starfish, the bloated corpse of Winnebago Tom mocked them.
Chapter 24
(From the deposition of Augustin Quintana, taken on the ninth day of October 1982, before Christine Manning, special counsel to the Governor. Also present was court reporter Mary Perdue.)
MISS MANNING: Augie, when was the last time you saw Breeze Albury?
MR. QUINTANA: What’s the difference, lady? He’s gone.
Q: It’s extremely important for this investigation.
A: Oh, really?
Q: Yes, Augie. The Governor expects a final report by the end of this month. There are many, many loose ends. Captain Albury is one. I think you know something about the others, too: the death of Tomas Cruz—
A: A tragic accident.
Q: The murder of Drake Boone, the lawyer—
A: Tom’s work, of course.
Q: And there’re those six unidentified Colombians in the morgue freezer up at Key Largo.
A: They are known to be terrible drivers.
Q: Augie, I don’t have any more time for games. You know where Albury is, and I’m asking you, under oath. Tell me.
A: I don’t like games either, lady. This is the second time you hauled me in here, and I still don’t see the point. Breeze Albury is gone, and you can tell that to the Governor. I don’t see the problem. They sent you down here as a special prosecutor, right? Well, now you got somebody to prosecute. He’s fat and he’s famous and his name is Barnett, and he’s sitting in the Monroe County stockade right this minute. So go prosecute. Forget about Breeze Albury.
Q: Augie, did you know that the federal marine documentation on the fishing vessel Diamond Cutter was altered? That the boat is now registered to yourself and James Cantrell, Jr.? The signature of Captain William C. Albury ratifies the transfer of ownership. Would you care to see for yourself? How did that happen?
A: Breeze is a generous man. Me and Jimmy will take damn good care of that boat. It’s a fine boat, lady.
Q: All right, Augie, one more time—
A: No. No one more time. I’m gonna tell you again. I’m a fisherman, not a goddamn private eye. I don’t know where the hell Breeze is, and I don’t know why you won’t give up on it. I’ll tell you about the last time I saw him. It was at the Seven Mile Bridge. I forget the exact night. We were all in the boat; me, Jimmy, Ricky, Breeze, and the girl, Laurie. Just out for a ride. One more run, Breeze said. He took her under the old turntable bridge at half-speed and split the seam between two nasty coral heads. It was sweet the way he ran that boat, lady. He took