Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [89]
Q: And you haven’t seen him since?
A: Or heard from him. I wouldn’t bother sending out a search party, either. He’s just one Conch fisherman who made up his mind to get off the Rock. I know you want to find him, but I won’t help. Forget about Captain Albury yourself. And now I gotta go, lady.
Q: If you should hear from Breeze—
Epilogue
CHRISTINE MANNING stared at the telephone. These past few weeks, it hadn’t stopped ringing. Groggily, she reached across the pillow and grabbed it.
“Christine! You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Thank you, Governor.”
“Seventeen indictments. But what’s this I hear about you leaving?”
“In a week or two, sir. Just as soon as I get the files in shape for the new prosecutor.”
“You can’t be serious. This is one of the biggest cases we’ve ever had. The police chief, six officers—my God, it’s a damn miracle. Barnett’s yakking his head off. Seventeen indictments in Key West!”
“Nobodies, sir. The big one got away.”
“You mean the fisherman?”
“No, not him. I mean the one who ran the Machine, the one they call Manolo.”
Yes, I mean the fisherman.
“Somebody always slips through the cracks,” the Governor said. “That’s no reason to be discouraged, Christine. We need you on our side when we go to court with these guys. Don’t quit now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For God’s sake, it’s an election year. Stick with it. Please. After November, I’ll have a slot for a new deputy attorney general. What a homecoming to Tallahassee that would be, huh?”
“Well, thank you, but a quiet private practice seems very attractive. I’ve heard from a couple of good firms.”
“In Florida? They can wait. I’ll speak to them….”
“No, one is in Chicago, the other in Boston.”
The best surgeons were in Boston. That was what he had said the second night, their last night, as they embraced under a waning moon on the roof of her old Conch house. Boston, he had said.
“DAD, WHEN YOU WERE in the Navy, was it integrated?”
Breeze Albury had been staring out the window. Beyond the city lay the busy harbor. He had found the fishing port without trouble, between the Navy yard and a marina for pleasure boats. They were trawlers, bluff, rough-cut boats that looked as though they could take whatever the sea demanded. The men who ran them would be of the same breed.
“Integrated? Sure, I guess so. Why?”
“You told me back on the Rock that this doctor was the brother of a guy you were in the Navy with. I don’t remember you ever mentioning any black sailors, that’s all.”
“Did I ever tell you I told you everything?”
Ricky laughed, a big, tanned, and rawboned kid about to become a man. He looked good, except for the cast on his arm. He had been thrilled by his first plane ride and the appraising attentions of a couple of young stewardesses. The hotel and its indoor swimming pool had equally impressed him. First-class, all the way to the World Series, Albury had promised him.
“Doctor will see you now.”
The surgeon’s handshake was dry and firm. Albury liked him instantly. He cut off the cast and spent a long time examining Ricky’s arm.
“Exactly how did this happen?” The question caught Albury unaware. The doctor seemed angry.
“Well, I was riding my bike …” Ricky began.
“No, Rick, I’ll tell him.”
Albury told him the truth. The doctor ran a palm across his forehead.
“Had to be something like that. There’s damage to the rotator cuff and the whole shoulder, as well as to the lower arm itself.”
Then he turned to Ricky.
“You’re a fastball pitcher, son?”
“Yeah.”
“His slider is real good, too,” Albury interjected.