Trap Line by Carl Hiaasen

Tom can buy his latest mama a new Seville.”
    “Speaking of which, there’s a guy sitting in a Caddy out on MacDonald Street,” Laurie said.
    “My baby-sitter.”
    “What for? What’s he want?”
    Albury had decided not to tell her the terms of his release. She would never understand the Andros trip.
    “I don’t know what he wants,” Albury said, brushing a curtain aside and peering toward the road. “Maybe Tom’s afraid that I’m still pissed off, and that I might talk.”
    “Tom doesn’t know you very well.” Laurie sat cross-legged on the sofa and pulled him toward her for a wet kiss. “I sure am glad you’re out of jail.”
    Albury hugged her tightly and whispered, “You have a delightful neck. Did I ever tell you that?”
    Laurie laughed huskily and leaned all the way back. “What time is Ricky’s game?”
    “Seven sharp,” Albury said. “And he’s going right to the ball park after work.”
    “Now, there’s wonderful news,” Laurie said, playfully shedding her blouse.
    TAVERNIER BEAT Key West 4-2. Ricky Albury pitched the last three innings in relief, striking out four batters and giving up a meaningless double in the top of the seventh. Generally, he looked sharp, Albury thought. The new spikes helped on his follow-through, though the mound, as always, was too rocky.
    Teal was in the bleachers, rooting for his wife’s little brother, an outfielder for Tavernier.
    “I didn’t know you liked baseball,” Albury kidded him.
    “I don’t. It’s boring as hell,” Teal said. He was a local flats guide, the best in Key West. He was the only one who ever got invited up to Islamorada for the bonefish tournaments. By and large, the Middle Keys guides thought the Key West guides were a wretched bunch. By and large, they were right.
    “I’m only here because Susan’s brother is playing. Ricky looks damn good.”
    “Thanks.”
    Teal looked absolutely dapper in a yellow Izod golf shirt and tan boat pants. His skin was the color of polished mahogany.
    “How’s fishing?” Albury asked.
    “Fishing is great. Too bad there’s no tourists here to enjoy it. I’m only booked two or three times a week.”
    “You charter guides are always bitching,” Albury said.
    “Yeah, well, if I had a bigger boat, I could run them square grouper like you. Pay off my house.” Teal and Albury laughed together.
    “Well, if you ever try it,” Albury said, “I hope you have better luck than me. I swear, Teal, when things go to hell they go in a hurry.”
    Teal scratched at his arms. The mosquitoes were in fine form. “Breeze, there was something I meant to tell you … let me think…”
    Albury was accustomed to waiting on Teal. All day in an open boat, Teal could be excused for his jumbled thoughts. The sun off the mud flats could putty your brain.
    “I know what it was,” Teal erupted. “Your traps!”
    “They got cut.”
    “Right, right. But I found a bunch of markers.”
    “Where?”
    “On a flat off Boca Grande. I was out there on a permit charter two days ago.”
    “How many?” Albury asked, his mind working. It was a good forty miles from the Cobia Hole to Boca Grande.
    “Breeze, there must have been a couple hundred. The water was orange with them,” Teal said. “It was a helluva sight. I knew they were yours.”
    “Whoever cut me must have dumped ’em there.”
    “I saw a boat leaving, too,” Teal volunteered. “Now, I didn’t get a name, but it was a crawfish boat, a fast one.” Teal said he thought it was a Key West boat, possibly a Torres.
    “Radar?” Albury pressed.
    “I think. I think so.” Teal was straining now, brow furrowed, eyes framed by deep crow’s-feet. “I didn’t chase it or anything.”
    “Probably one of Tom’s boys,” Albury muttered.
    “The reason I tell you is that they are probably still out there. The wind hasn’t blown much, and if they float up against the islands you got a chance of getting ’em back. I know it’s not as good as finding the