Trap Line (19 page)

Crystal was to tell him the truth, that the boat with the blue light did not belong to the Marine Patrol or Coast Guard; that it was not a bust but a ripoff in the Big Spanish Channel. Who? Tom would shout. Crystal would tell him.

Then Tom Cruz would understand. His next question would be a simple one: how much?

But now, instead of an offer, a visitor. It was a twist that worried Breeze Albury. He climbed to the pilothouse and played the dials on the radio. Again and again he called for Smilin’ Jack, but only static answered. Albury believed that Crystal was listening. This time of night, Crystal always listened.

Up current, the grass boat’s diesel hacked and came to life as Jimmy and Augie guided the boat deeper into the green arms of the tiny island. Albury flipped the VHF to channel 12 and called his mates.

“Hey there.” It was Jimmy’s voice; he loved to talk on the radio. “This boat’s a cow, captain. A pregnant old cow.”

Albury said, “Take her up around the first bend. Tie her off in the trees and swim back. Augie, too.” To leave the boys on the boat with all that dope would be a mistake, especially with company on the way.

Two hours later, the three of them were stretched out on the deck of the
Diamond Cutter
, dozing under a sliver of yellow moon. The Remington lay at Albury’s side. The fishermen were far enough from the mainland that the howling truck noises on the Overseas Highway were smothered by the sounds of the Keys—insects, herons, gulls, the trill of raccoons, the gentle percussion of wavelets on the wooden hull. Albury was dreaming of an old man, steering a slow old boat from a bleached whiskey crate, following a rich trap line west.

A faint noise at his feet made him open one eye. A stranger’s shadow blocked the moon. Albury sat up, stiffened by a volt of fear. His right hand groped for the shotgun.

“Breeze,” said a voice from the stranger. “It’s me. Teal.”

“Jesus!”

Augie stirred and rolled to his side. Jimmy snored placidly.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Albury said.

“Crystal wanted me to find you,” said the tawny flats guide. “Breeze, I’m taking you back to Key West. We’d better go right now.” Teal motioned to his bonefish skiff, tied to a cleat on the
Diamond Cutters
stern. “The tide’s up. I can take you straight in.”

Teal’s mahogany tan made him look like a Cuban in the night. “Wake the boys,” he said. “Tell them you’re leaving.”

Teal climbed into his skiff and started the outboard engine. Jimmy and Augie wobbled to their feet. Albury told them he was going to Key West.

“Stay with the
Diamond Cutter,”
he instructed. “Give me a couple days. If I’m not back, you get out of here.”

“What about the grass?” Jimmy asked.

“Fuck it. Leave it on the other boat. If I’m not back in two days, you guys take the
Diamond Cutter
up the Keys and lay low for a while. There’s a couple hundred bucks left in the cabin.”

“What’s the story?” Augie asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Teal, what’s going on?” Augie called. “How come Breeze has got to go back?”

Teal shrugged and said something that was swallowed by the growl of the engine. Jimmy and Augie watched Albury lower himself into the skiff; he waved at them once as Teal punched the throttle. The lightweight bonefish boat planed off quickly and cut a creamy stitch in the sleepy Gulf. Teal found an invisible channel and followed it along the edge of the flats toward the mainland. An unlit cigarette poked from one corner of the old guide’s mouth. Though tearing from the wind, his eyes never left the dark water.

Albury smiled. Crystal must have known. Only Teal could have found the
Diamond Cutter
, could have navigated by instinct through the serpentine flats. Teal hunted the Mud Keys for bonefish every spring; if anyone, he would know where to look for an old Conch captain and two hot lobster boats. Crystal had picked the perfect scout.

Ahead of them, the mainland took form. Albury recognized the brontosaurus profiles of construction cranes along Highway One on Stock Island. Then Key West itself, where one of the ball parks was lit up. Probably the men’s softball league.

After a few more minutes, Teal found the channel into Garrison Bight and throttled back to accommodate the no-wake signs posted along the shore. As the skiff approached the bridge by Trumbo Point, Teal turned off the engine and let the boat drift. He lit a fresh cigarette and held out the pack. Albury shook his head.

“I’ve known you your whole life,” Teal said awkwardly.

“We caught some fish together, didn’t we?” Albury said. “I’ll never forget that one trip to the Tortugas. The twenty-eight-pound permit on six-pound mono. Remember?”

“Yeah. On a goddamned dead shrimp.” Teal hacked ferociously. “You made a good cast on that fish.”

“I should have got him stuffed.”

“Damn right. I could have used the commission.” The skiff hung in the channel, caught between the wind and the current, as if tied to the big bridge. Teal stared hard at the water, looking all the way to the bottom, or seeming to.

“Breeze,” he said, “the reason I came to get you, it’s your boy. Ricky.”

Albury’s ears filled with the sound of his own heart drumming.

“He got hurt,” Teal stammered. “Somebody hurt ‘im.”

“How bad?”

“I’m gonna leave you at the charter docks,” Teal said, turning the ignition. “You go to the hospital right away. He’s on the third floor. He’s not critical or nuthin’ that bad.” Teal was talking faster, in a cracking voice. He took the skiff under the bridge. “He’s not critical, Breeze, so don’t get all panicked.”

Albury grabbed Teal’s elbow. “How bad?” he groaned.

“Some broken bones. He’ll be all right. We’re here now. Grab onto that piling and pull yourself up.”

Albury bounded from the bow of the skiff to the docks, where a row of gleaming deep-sea boats rocked together.

“Breeze, I’m sorry,” Teal said, standing at the steering console, looking up at his old friend. “It’s all gone to hell, this place. We talked about it all the time. We talked about it but never imagined it would come to this. Goddamn, going after your boy.”

Albury’s shoulders sagged. His arms hung at his side, swinging slightly with his breathing. He dropped to one knee and bent forward over the edge of the dock.

“Teal,” he whispered plaintively, “who did it?”

“Go see your boy, Breeze,” said the fishing guide. “Before it gets too late.”

HALF-HOUR UNTIL
shift change. Lina Spurling gulped down her Tab and fumbled for a cigarette. Five-minute breaks—when was this hospital going to join the twentieth century? You can’t run your fanny off for nine hours with a five-minute break here and there. Then they wonder about the turnover. Jesus. Kathy called in sick tonight, as usual. Leave me with pediatrics
and
orthopedics. Terrific. Thanks, pal. Shit, Lina thought, I’d have called in, too. If I’d had a date. Just try to find a straight guy in Key West who doesn’t smell like fish guts. Just try.

Lina unlocked the pharmacy and loaded up the syringe. She lay it on her tray, next to the doctor’s prescription, and padded quietly to Room 307. On the way, she doused her cigarette in a bedpan in the hallway. Some wise guy put it there. Very subtle, Lina thought. Wait your turn, pal. Sick people can be so pushy.

Lina whisked into Room 307 and braked, her rubber soles squeaking on the floor.

“Sir?”

The man said nothing. He sat in a darkened corner, hunched in a chair. His skin was chestnut; a mottled rag was knotted around one arm. His salt-and-pepper hair was moist and matted; a purplish gash glared up from his scalp. He wore the white boots of a commercial fisherman. Lina Spurling could not see his face: it was buried in his arms. Nor could she see precisely how large a man he really was, for he was folded so compactly that his arms were on his knees. He appeared to be sleeping.

“Sir?” the young nurse repeated.

Breeze Albury raised his head. He looked lost.

“It’s past visiting hours,” Lina said.

“He’s my boy.”

“He’s going to be fine. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow when—”

“What’s that?” Albury was out of the chair, standing at the foot of Ricky’s bed. “Is that for him?”

Lina spun and headed for the door. Albury seized her elbows and lifted her off the floor. He put her down in the far corner, then closed the door quietly.

“I asked you a question.”

“It’s Demerol. To help him sleep.”

“He
is
sleeping.”

“He won’t be for long, not if you don’t lower your voice. Look, I know you’re upset. Why don’t you let me call the doctor? He’ll explain everything.”

Albury examined the syringe. “Seventy-five milligrams,” he read out loud. “This is for pain.”

The nurse looked at Ricky. The boy stirred slightly. His right arm, encased in plaster, hung from a pulley. His fingers, orange from the iodine, poked like carrot tips from the end of the cast.

“Sit down,” Breeze Albury said tiredly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Lina Spurling did not sit down. She held her ground, eyeing the intruder. He was a wreck. Looks like he went ten rounds with Joe Frazier. Contusions, lacerations, the look of the dead in his eyes. He could use a doctor himself, Lina thought. Suppose I could dress that cut on his head.

“Tell me what happened,” Albury said.

“I’ve got to give him the shot.” Lina moved to Ricky’s side and pulled back the blanket. Albury watchfully stood behind her as she inserted the needle into a pale hip.

“His arm is broken,” Lina said, “in two places.”

“The same bone?”

“Two different bones. The ulna and the humerus. Right about here.” The nurse touched Albury’s forearm lightly, then his upper arm, midway between the elbow and the shoulder. Jesus, she thought, he’s certainly got the arms of a boxer. Be nice if he’d change his shirt every couple weeks.

“Were the police called?”

“What for?” Lina replied. “It was an accident. That’s what your son told the ambulance driver. Fell off his bike or something. Didn’t anyone call you when it happened?”

“I was out of town,” Albury muttered. “Just got back.”

“Sir, I have to go now. I’ve got thirty-one other patients on this floor, and I’m supposed to look in on all of ’em before I get off…”

Albury nodded toward the door. “Sure. Sorry if I scared you.”

Lina Spurling scampered out.

“Is it all right if I sit with him?” asked Albury to no one. He moved a chair to the left side of Ricky’s hospital bed. He reached under the blanket and took his son’s hand in his own. The boy’s rhythmic breathing filled the yellow room.

They were alone for fifteen minutes before Ricky shifted and moaned. Albury stiffened.

“Ricky?”

The boy’s eyes opened and he saw his father through a Demerol gauze. “Hey,” he said with a weak smile. “You’re back.”

Albury squeezed the kid’s hand.

“So how was fishing?” Ricky asked.

“Shitty.”

“My throat’s so dry.”

Albury filled a styrofoam cup with ice water and held it to Ricky’s mouth. Half of the water dribbled down his hospital gown.

“You too tired to talk?”

“Naw,” Ricky said. “Just feel a little weird. They gave me all kinds of drugs. What time is it, dad?”

“I don’t know. What the hell happened? Some nurse gave me a horseshit story about you falling off your bike.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“What’s left of your bike has been rusting under the trailer for two goddamn years,” Albury said. “Tell me what happened.”

“Coupla guys grabbed me after work. Didn’t say much except that you cheated ’em out of something. I figured it was money, but they didn’t say.”

Albury asked, “Who?”

“Tom Cruz and some other guy. They took me over to some crawfish boat on Stock Island.
El Gallo
, it was called.”

Ricky told Albury exactly how they had mangled his arm.

“My God.”

“It hurt, sure, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Think I passed out before it was over.” The words came like syrup. Ricky took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Dad, can I take a rest?”

Albury raised the blanket to his son’s neck. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he whispered. Before leaving the hospital room, he refilled the cup with ice water and left it on the nightstand where Ricky could reach it with his good arm.

LINA SPURLING
punched her timecard into the wall clock. Great, she thought, only ten minutes late tonight. Could have got off on time, for once, if it weren’t for Captain Ahab back in 307. She thought about what to do next and decided on the Casa Marina; there was a rock band down from Fort Lauderdale. All oldies. Supposed to be pretty good.

“Excuse me, are you Miss Spurling?” The question came from a tall, attractive woman. She wore a forest-green dress that buttoned at her neck under a small bow. Here was another one who didn’t belong in a hospital in the middle of the night.

“My name is Christine Manning,” said the woman, holding out some kind of glossy identification card. “I’m with the Governor’s office.”

“Are you a cop or something?”

“No. An investigator is more like it,” Christine said. “I have some questions about one of the patients on the floor.”

“Lemme guess. The boy in three-oh-seven?”

Christine shook her head. “No. I don’t know anything about him. It was another patient. A young girl.”

Lina pointedly glanced at her Timex. “I’d like to help you, lady, but I’m already late getting off. I got a date, believe it or not—”

“Her name is Julie Clayton,” Christine said.

“Lord.” Lina walked to the nurses’ lounge. Christine followed her inside.

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to say,” Lina began. “The hospital has got rules. Privacy rules.”

“And the state of Florida has laws,” Christine interjected. “Obstruction of justice is one of my favorites …”

Lina raised a hand. “Save the speech. I don’t know that much. The ambulance from Miami showed up this afternoon. Said they were supposed to move the girl to a hospital up there. Thing is, Mrs. Clayton, the mother, didn’t know anything about it. She started crying that she wouldn’t be able to visit the girl if they moved her from Key West. There was a big stink. The administrator, Jenks, he finally came up to the floor and took Mrs. Clayton to his office. A few minutes later, Mrs. Clayton comes out and says it’s OK. Jenks hands me the discharge papers, but I tell him the girl’s doctor hasn’t signed her out yet. Jenks says he’ll handle it. The ambulance is waiting downstairs, he says.”