by Carl Hiaasen
“If you stay off bicycles you don’t know how to ride, for Chrissakes.”
Albury scoured himself in a melancholic shower. He made coffee and called Crystal.
“Hey, sunshine, any mail for Smilin’ Jack?”
“Hi, bubba, how’s Ricky?”
“Doin’ fine. What do you hear?”
“There’s a picture postcard from our favorite asshole. He says he hopes you got his message. He means Ricky, I’d say.”
“What else does our friend say?”
“He says he’ll pay twenty thou F.O.B. for the merchandise, and—get this—no hard feelings.”
“Friendly soul, isn’t he?”
“Asshole.”
“Tell him I accept. I’ll make contact with him.”
“You crazy? You know how much that stuff is worth,” Crystal spluttered. “And what makes you think he’ll really pay?”
“He sure doesn’t want any more trouble, and neither do I.”
“I’ll tell him, if you’re sure …”
“I’m sure. One more thing: Can you find out for me where a lobster boat called El Gallo docks?”
“I already know. Up at Big Coppitt. The captain is some scumbag Marielito friend of the man you’re doing business with.”
“Right, thanks. I’ll see you around.”
“Hey, wait a minute, mister businessman.”
“What?”
“You’re liable to get killed, you know.”
“I’m not looking for any more trouble. I told you.”
“All this sweetness and light is very noble, Breeze, but I’ve known you since I was a kid.”
“So?”
“So remember ole Crystal. He can’t run much anymore, but he can drive a car and he can outshoot any asshole doper in town and talk on the radio at the same time. Teal and Spider and a couple of the others already called this morning to say more or less the same thing. And ole catch-’em-quick Haller was around here at dawn in his Marine Patrol uniform, sayin’ how much he’d admire to drink a beer with Breeze Albury. I guess they all heard about Ricky.”
“I read you, bubba, loud and clear. Tell ’em I said thanks.”
ON A RICKETY and old manual typewriter that was all the town fathers had said they could offer the Governor’s representative—“Sorry, ma’am, things are tight around here”—Christine Manning pecked out her case against Drake Boone. Of his guilt she was certain. He had seduced a minor, fed her pills that had blown her circuits, and then tried to cover up. That was the working hypothesis. It would be enough to see that Drake Boone never practiced law again. It should be enough to cost him his freedom. And it could be the key she needed to unravel the whole mess. Squeezed, Drake Boone would talk.
Christine Manning felt feverish. One moment the words before her were sharp, incisive, and her mind hopscotched through a dozen prosecutorial tricks she could use against Drake Boone. The next instant she seemed floating in space. She allowed herself a luxurious shiver and pressed her legs tight together. Christine had not had a man for almost six months, and she had never had a man like Breeze Albury. Three times her hand, unbidden, reached for the phone. Three times she intercepted it. Was he still asleep? Perhaps he had already gone. Would he come back? Did she want him to? What could she say? Thanks for making me feel like a woman again, Breeze; too bad I have to put you in jail. That’s not a very nice morning-after hello, is it?
Christine lay her head against the cool black metal of the typewriter. It was resting there when the visitor walked in.
“Good morning, remember me?”
Christine jerked up, guiltily.
“Oh, oh, Miss Ravenel, uh, Laurie, yes, hello.” Christine felt the blood rush to her face.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“No, no, please sit down.”
They exchanged pleasantries, Christine battling for composure. How could Laurie know? Only if Breeze had told her. Maybe he had called her from Christine’s own phone, her own bed. Maybe they had joked about how easy it had been for the big fisherman to make her. Christine felt mortified. For one paranoid instant she loathed Breeze Albury.
“We have something important to talk about,” Laurie said.
“Yes,” Christine said grimly.
“Last night…”
“Look, Laurie, what I…”
“Last night there was a big meeting, maybe an historic meeting for Key West. I think you should know about it. Unofficially, of course.”
“Oh. Well.” Christine toyed with a pencil.
“Bob Freed and his friends have decided to fight back. They are fed up with the harassment and the corruption around here, and they’re going to do something about it.”
“Oh.”
“You OK? You’re sweating.”
“No. Yes, thank you. Please go on.”
“They have a list of targets, and they are going to investigate them systematically. They are going to trace the course of corruption—up to the top—and then they are going to root it out…. Can I get you a glass of water? I can come back another time….”
“No, no, I’m fine, really. What exactly would they do with the information they acquire?”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Tell me.”
Laurie spoke for ten minutes with great animation, a righteous Valkyrie. Christine took great care not to look her in the eye, but the lawyer in her was intrigued by what she heard.
“I think that is fascinating, Laurie,” she said at last, “but one thing I must caution you against is trying to take the law into your own hands.”
“That’s a joke. You know the law around here as well as I do.”
“I know, but the second you start behaving like the people you’re after, I can’t help you anymore.”
“I am sure we can find some common ground.” Laurie smiled, and it occurred to Christine what a handsome woman she was.
“At least let’s talk again. I appreciate your coming.”
Laurie rose to go.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask before. How’s Ricky?”
“Oh, he’s fine, thanks, eats and breathes baseball.”
Laurie’s hand was on the doorknob.
“No, I mean his arm. How is his arm?”
“His arm? What’s wrong with his arm?”
“It’s broken, didn’t you know? He’s still in the hospital, isn’t he?”
Laurie paled, staggered a step.
“Hospital? God, I didn’t … the meeting lasted so late I stayed with … Oh, Ricky.”
“I’m sorry.” Christine reached across the desk to comfort Laurie.
“Oh, God, I’ll go there right now…. Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m sorry,” Christine said again, uselessly. Even then she didn’t realize her mistake.
Laurie turned again for the door. Then she stopped.
“How do you know about Ricky’s arm?”
“Breeze told me,” Christine Manning said in the voice of a little girl.
“Breeze told you!”
“I …”
“You’ve seen Breeze.” It was an accusation. “How? Why? I’ve been worried sick about him. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I talked to him, that’s all. He’s been helping me….”
“Breeze? Helping you?”
They stood there for a long, strained moment, two strong, confused women, each realizing that the other had no secrets, each loving and hating a battered fisherman. Crying, Laurie fled. Alone, Christine dialed her apartment. There was no answer.
THE SMALL BOAT came with the twilight, a bonefisherman with its engine throttled back. It made no wake and disturbed no one. An egret fishing on a mud flat paused momentarily to stare. A school of mullet ran perfunctorily toward some mangroves to escape its path and then, sensing no threat, darted back to play in the mottled shadows around the dock. The bonefisherman nudged gently against the dock and tied up around a piling draped with a fading orange-and-blue bumper
sticker. “Florida Fishermen Have Bigger Rods,” it said.
Willie Bascaro never noticed. He lay on a chaise longue in the lee of his wheelhouse, snapping his fingers to salsa piped through headphones from a cassette deck on his belt. He felt a thump on his deck and looked up incuriously. Then he sat straight up and yanked off the headphones. Before him, silhouetted by the sun, was the figure of a man, arms crossed, waiting. Bascaro shaded his eyes but could see only a black bulk. It reminded him of a ghost. Reflexively, he crossed himself.
“Willie Bascaro?”
“Si.”
“My name is Albury. I have come to burn your boat.”
Bascaro only half-understood the words. That was enough. He jackknifed from the lounger and sprang to the rail. He had learned many things in the streets of Havana, and the most important was knowing when to run. In another second he would have jumped.
Albury grabbed him from behind and lifted him off the rail as though he were a baby.
“No, Willie. No running this time. Now is the time to pay the bill, Willie. Pagarla cuenta, comprende?”
Albury rifled through the Marielito’s pockets for the engine keys. He shoved Bascaro into the fetid litter of his cabin and locked the door. In the new darkness, a few minutes later, El Gallo headed out to sea, skiff towing merrily behind.
Albury drove without thinking, pointing east toward the vastness of the Gulf Stream. From the cabin came the piteous babble of Spanish. Breeze Albury ignored it. He spoke only to himself.
“This is a shit boat, Willie, a real dog. Engine needs an overhaul, the compass is off, and it steers like a scow. I wouldn’t give you a nickel for your chances in a real sea. You probably don’t know how it is in the Keys, Willie. Maybe you can steal a Conch’s woman, but if you cut his traps, you’re a dead man. You should have figured that sooner or later I’d come for you.
“But not you, Willie. Muy macho, huh? You bragged in a bar about cutting the traps, and you even stole the buoys. Saw a whole pile of them up there on your dock, orange-and-white buoys. Been in the Albury family a long time. Those are the last ones, though. I’m leaving the Rock, Willie. Me and Rick.”
Albury broke his monologue to listen. The babbling from the cabin had stopped a few minutes before. Albury lit a cigarette and waited, relaxed at the wheel.
Willie Bascaro erupted from the cabin just as Albury was pitching the butt into the sea.
Albury turned to meet him with a savage smile.
“I knew you’d be coming, Willie. It’s better that way. What is it you’ve got, macho, a gun? No, a tire iron. Is that what you used to cripple my boy, Willie? Come and cripple me, motherfucker.”
With a ferret’s scream, Willie Bascaro lunged, the iron pointed like a sword. He was younger and too quick for Albury. The metal rod caught him in the gut. He felt something tear.
Albury staggered back against the wheel, winded.
“Cobarde de mierda,” he gasped.
Bascaro attacked again in a frenzy. Albury ducked under a roundhouse, the tire iron grazing his ear. He caught the Cuban with a left hand to the face and a right above the heart. Bascaro sagged against the curved coping where the open wheelhouse ran toward the deck. Albury got inside his next weak swing. He seized Bascaro’s arm with all his strength and pushed it back against the coping. Back, back, until finally, with a sickening snap, it broke. The iron fell into the sea. The Cuban screamed. Albury released him to slide onto the deck and poked gently at his own belly. It hurt like hell.
When his head cleared, Albury pulled in Teal’s boat and tied it off close to the stern. From it he took two jerrycans of gasoline. Bascaro lay moaning on the deck.
Albury went into the cabin and came back with a life jacket. It was covered in mildew. He threw it at Bascaro’s feet.
“Put it on or not, it’s up to you.”
Methodically, Albury drenched the engine compartment and the wheelhouse with gasoline. Bascaro watched from the deck with dead man’s eyes.
Albury stepped over the rail into the skiff.
“Adios, Willie.”
“No, no, par favor. No quiero morir. Por favor.”
The Cuban scrambled to his feet and staggered toward the skiff, beseeching. A trickle of urine ran down his pant legs and onto the deck.
Albury watched him coldly for a full minute.
“No, I’m not going to kill you, Willie. Not yet. Come aboard.” He gestured to the bow of the skiff. Willie Bascaro stumbled into the skiff. He fell heavily onto his broken arm and screamed. Then he cowered quietly in the bow, like a beaten dog.
From twenty-five yards away, Albury fired El Gallo with a shell from Teal’s flare pistol. It burned like a wrecker’s beacon on the dark sea. Then he turned the skiff toward shore.
“Policia, Willie, mucha policia,” said Albury. He put a hand around his neck and squeezed. A noose.
Six miles off the coast, the skiff came abreast of a drumstick-shaped island. Albury reduced speed as the water shoaled to less than two fathoms. Albury saw that his prisoner had noticed the shallow water and was gauging the distance to shore. Albury left the wheel and bent in the stern, fiddling with the outboard engine.
Willie Bascaro went overboard in a clumsy dive. He found his feet and began slogging toward the beach.
Albury laughed out loud. Willie had snapped at the bait the way a crawfish tears at horse meat.
“One more monkey,” Albury grinned.
The island was called Loggerhead Key. The University of Miami ran it as a research center for the study of the rhesus monkey. There were at least a thousand of the noxious, quarrelsome beasts on the mangrove island. And nothing else. They had taken over.
Every third day, Albury knew, a boat would come. Young researchers would quickly shovel a mountain of dog food onto the beach and hastily retreat. The monkeys would gulp the food and remain with nothing to do but fight and fornicate until the next boat came. Willie Bascaro would be a diversion.
With a phone call from Christine’s apartment, Albury had learned that the next food boat would not come for two days. That was time enough. For two days Willie Bascaro could grovel in the sand for leftover dog chow and battle one-handed with the monkeys for his clothes.
Unsuspecting, Willie was in knee-deep water now near the beach. He looked back, as though disbelieving his good luck.
“Adios, Willie,” Albury called. In the instant before he opened the throttle, Albury heard the monkeys shrieking their hatred for the intruder.
Chapter 20
LAURIE RAVENEL urged the old Pontiac down Whitehead Street, one eye on the temperature gauge. Breeze had often warned her about the radiator, which leaked itself dry every couple of days.
She parked across from a laundromat and brushed her auburn hair in the rearview mirror. The Cowrie was only two blocks away, and Laurie was early, an hour at least. But she knew that Bobby was already there, setting up for lunch. She checked her lipstick.
Suddenly the passenger door swung open and a bundled-up man slid into the car. Laurie instinctively grabbed for her purse. Then she saw who it was.
“Breeze! God, oh my.” They hugged each other in silence, awkwardly bunched on the front seat. Laurie kissed him wetly, lightly, on the lips and held him back by the shoulders. “I love the hat.”
Albury sheepishly snatched the blue knit cap off his head. “Borrowed it from a shrimper at the West Key Bar.”
“And the jacket? Looks like it might have fit you back in junior high school.”
The navy slicker belonged to Christine’s ex, though Albury didn’t say so. “I’m not much on disguises,” he said. “But I needed something so I could walk around town without being noticed.”
Laurie burrowed into his shoulder. The Conch Train clattered by, canary-colored boxcars loaded with children and tourists, lobster-skinned, bandoliered with Nikons. The driver was giving an animated monologue on the Hemingway House.
“Breeze, what happened to Ricky?” Laurie’s words were muffled in the folds o
f his jacket.
“A couple of the Cubans busted his arm.”
“Why?” she cried. “What for? He’s a boy.”
“He’s my son. They wanted to get back at me.”
“God,” Laurie sat up and fished in her purse for a Kleenex. Her eyes were moist, her voice tiny. “I spent an hour with him today. He’s a strong kid, thank God.”
“I’ve got to settle this. Then I’ll be leaving Key West.” Albury took her hand. “I won’t be able to stay.”
“Breeze, I won’t be able to go.”
He had seen the look before, not often, but enough to know it. This time he felt nothing but tired.
“Things are starting to happen, honey. Bobby’s getting a group together. Businessmen, shop owners, professionals. They’re going after the core of all this. Bobby says they’re going to work with the Governor’s office, the federal people, anybody who needs help down here. Eventually, I think they’re going to clean up the island. Think of it, Breeze.”
“You and Bobby gonna clean it up, huh?”
“It all started when Beeker got beat up and that cop just stood there, watching—”
“I remember,” Albury said. Laurie and Bobby, lovers. A soft touch and a fair-weather faggot. Why not? They were hopeless reformers, both of them. Maybe Laurie needed someone like that; together they could Save the Whales.
“You wouldn’t consider going with me?” Albury asked.
“Breeze, I love this place. It’s gorgeous. You … well, you’ve been here too long. You walk down Duval Street and all you see are the hustlers, bikers, and bums—”
“And who do you see? Mother Teresa? A dozen budding Picassos, maybe? Poppa’s ghost?”
“Breeze!”
Albury sighed. “You knew I was ready to get out.”
“And now I don’t blame you,” Laurie said gently, “but I can’t go. I think what Bobby’s doing is exciting. I know you don’t; you think it’s fanciful and naive.”
“Nothing will ever change here,” Albury said. “Nothing ever has.”
“You’ve been poisoned by the place,” she said. “You’ll never be able to see it, but it will change, honey. It will go on and change without you.”
Albury sat quietly for a time, his hand resting on her knee. Then he laughed.
