Trap Line Part 20

"Are you drunk, captain?"

"I suppose so, Miss Manning. I'm drunk and I'm tired and I hurt all over. The thing I care about most is lying in the f.u.c.king hospital with his arm pretzeled by some a.s.shole Cuban. The thing I care about second is anch.o.r.ed out on some mangrove island with nothing but an antique bilge pump and two hare-brained boys between her and the bottom of the Gulf. The thing I care about third is probably doing crosswords or writing couplets about spoonbills to keep from worrying about me anymore. And, before you have a chance to ask, the reason I moved closer is that you smell so good and look so wonderful in your dress and your nylons-"

"Jesus."

"You're the one who wanted to talk." Albury leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Christine pulled away until she felt his hands on her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" she said crossly.

Albury took her hands and stood up. "We're going upstairs," he announced.

Tentatively, Christine followed him out of the apartment, up two peeling flights to the roof. They stepped outside to a small wooden platform, framed on four sides by a hand-carved railing.

"It's called a widow's walk," Albury said. "In the old day, Conch wreckers would come up here to search for s.h.i.+ps on the rocks. You can see the reef from here." He pointed east, out to sea, where a long slick curl of water shouldered the coral shelf. "The storms would throw the s.h.i.+ps up on the rocks, and Key West would empty like a wh.o.r.ehouse on a Sunday morning. Boats out of every harbor, racing for gold or guns or rum. Whatever they could salvage."

"Your relatives, too?" Christine said.

"Oh, I'm sure."

"Did they find any treasure?"

"You bet," Albury said. "Found it and lost it a dozen times over. It must have been a h.e.l.l of a time. A regular tropical Klondike."

Christine found his hands and moved them to her waist. "Are you sorry things have changed down here?"

"But they haven't. Not really," he said with a dark laugh. "Come up to the widow's walk some night when a shrimp boat runs aground with a load of gra.s.s. The crew will start heaving those bales overboard to lighten her up, and pretty soon you'll see the boats. From here you can see 'em racing out to scoop up anything that's floating out there. Just like the old days. The spirit is the same."

Christine pressed closer and Albury felt her hair against his cheek. "I can't blame you for being so bitter," she said.

"I would rather watch the moon," he said, turning her around by the shoulders. His fingers found the top b.u.t.ton of the forest-green dress. "You'll never see a moon quite that color in Detroit or Huntsville, Alabama."

Christine laughed softly. Albury's fingers moved to the second b.u.t.ton, then the third. "These islands have their own sky and their own moon," he said.

A soft gust rustled the royal palm trees and brought goose b.u.mps to Christine's shoulders. She glanced down and noticed that her dress was below her waist, and that somehow a pair of coa.r.s.e fisherman's hands had managed to solve the riddle of her bra clasp.

"Breeze?"

He had dropped to one knee, cursing the skintight jeans. "Was your ex-husband in the ballet?"

"No, he was just ... what are you up to?"

Albury found her nipples and moved his tongue from one to the other. Then he kissed her belly and played along the tan line. "These nylons have got to go."

"Come up here," Christine said, pulling at his shoulders until he rose to his feet. She stood on her toes and kissed him tenderly, her hands around his neck. "Let's go back to the apartment."

"I like it out here."

"But I'm chilly."

"I'll cover you with something warm." His hands dropped to her b.u.t.tocks and she drew against him tightly.

"Jesus, Breeze." She kissed at him feverishly, lips, neck, cheeks. "Where can we lie down?"

"We don't have to lie down," Albury said. "Can't see the water if you're lying down. Take off the stockings before you drive me crazy."

Later, with their clothes in a pale heap on the roof, he lifted her easily, kissing her the whole time, lowering her onto himself until her legs tightened on his hips. Under a milky half-moon they made love standing, harder and harder, until they were both drenched in sweat. He stopped moving only when Christine cried out twice. He held her around him until her breathing softened.

"I thought we were going to fall off this thing," she whispered.

Albury moved a hand absently along her bare back, the skin like cool velvet under his calloused fingers. It struck her that he had been silent, as they had made love, not in the shy or preoccupied way of some men, but in a manner totally dispossessed-all muscle and mouth and movement, without the smallest sigh or groan. And she was quite sure that his eyes had been open, fastened hard on the deep blue light of the sea's horizon. Still, there had been a tenderness to it, a melancholy need every bit as urgent as the frantic pa.s.sions of other lovers.

Christine nuzzled at his ear and smiled when she felt his light kiss. She rocked back, holding him by the shoulders, as he supported her full weight with a single hand under her b.u.t.tocks.

"Let me down now," she said. "I've got one more question. Now, don't shake your head like that; just one more and then I'll quit for the night."

"OK, counselor."

"Why do they call this a widow's walk?"

"That's easy," Albury replied. "Because the sea is a widow-maker." His eyes were fixed beyond the reef, and in the moon's light, Christine was startled to see that they were not weary or cold, but almost exultant.

"It's not the sea itself," he went on, "but the chances that it makes a man take. Full of promise one moment, fury the next. It won't often surprise a keen and reasonable man, but even after years it will make him take extraordinary risks. Not all the widows who watched from these roofs lost stupid fools out on that reef. Some of their men were fine, courageous. They just took a chance and lost. The sea itself behaved as it always has, and it didn't really kill those men as much as it made them believe ... made them believe they could do something that they could not."

Christine spoke in a small voice that seemed to drop off the edge of the old house. "Is that what happened to you?"

"More than once," Breeze Albury said, "but never again."

Chapter 19.

QUARRELING BLUE JAYS woke Albury. He felt stiff, and stale. Scrabbling for a cigarette, he encountered the note: "You sure beat h.e.l.l out of a sleeping pill, but you'll have to make your own breakfast, anyway." Signed with a bold "C." woke Albury. He felt stiff, and stale. Scrabbling for a cigarette, he encountered the note: "You sure beat h.e.l.l out of a sleeping pill, but you'll have to make your own breakfast, anyway." Signed with a bold "C."

Breakfast would have to wait. Albury reached for the bedside phone.

"Hey, champ, how they hangin'?"

"Hey, dad." Ricky's voice sounded faraway, as though through a gauze. Probably was still doped up.

"Hurts, huh? But I took a look last night, and it didn't seem too bad to me," Albury lied. "Pain'll go away quick."

"Where are you, dad? I called the trailer and you weren't there ..."

"You must have scared the s.h.i.+t out of Laurie, telling her about the arm."

"She wasn't there, either." Nor had she been long past midnight when Albury had called from the kitchen phone of a sleeping Christine Manning. "Dad, it's my pitching arm. I asked the doctors this morning if I could pitch as good as ever once the cast is off, and they just shrugged."

Ricky was fighting back tears. Albury watched his knuckles whiten against the plastic receiver.

"That's no sweat, man. I talked to the chief doctor, and he said you'd be good as new. Then just to be sure, I called this guy in Boston-I was in the Navy with him-and his brother is the doctor who takes care of the Red Sox, a specialist. He wants to look at you as soon as they let you out of there. We'll fly up."

"The Red Sox?"

"I know they ain't the Orioles, but they ain't bad, either. You just got to be careful in Fenway that the right-handed batters don't pull you over the wall-the Monster, they call it."

"Yeah. Dad, they want to know if we've got insurance." Ricky's voice was fading.

"Sure, we do. The best. I'll stop by and straighten that out when I come see you, maybe later today. Tomorrow for sure."

There was a long pause, and Albury thought Ricky might have dozed off.

"Dad?"

"I'm here."

"I will be able to throw again, won't I?"

Tears stung the fresh cut on Albury's cheek. He tried to keep his voice firm.

"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, suns.h.i.+ne, any mail for Smilin' Jack?"

"Hi, bubba, how's Ricky?"

"Doin' fine. What do you hear?"

"There's a picture postcard from our favorite a.s.shole. 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?"

"a.s.shole."

"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 El Gallo docks?" docks?"

"I already know. Up at Big Coppitt. The captain is some sc.u.mbag 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 n.o.ble, 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 a.s.shole 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. 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 s.p.a.ce. She allowed herself a luxurious s.h.i.+ver 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 h.e.l.lo, 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, h.e.l.lo." 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..."