Trap Line by Carl Hiaasen Page B

in the Bahamas. Then he saw Jimmy’s shotgun leaning in a corner on deck.
    “You forget my rules?”
    “No, Breeze. I ain’t goin’ unless we bring the Remington. Before you get all pissed, lemme tell you I’ve been talking to friends of mine about the Bahamas, and they said you gotta be crazy to go without the gun.”
    “Christ, did you tell anyone why you were going?”
    Jimmy shook his head. His face was moist from the shoveling. He swatted at the night bugs and told Albury not to worry. “But the gun is a good idea, Breeze. Really.”
    “Get it under the deck,” Albury commanded. “If we get stopped by the Bahamians, the gun is the first thing to go over the side, understand? They got laws you wouldn’t believe, Jimmy. You could piss on the prime minister and do thirty days, but if they catch you with a gun …”
    “Bring your knitting.”
    “Right. Listen, Augie Quintana is coming with us.”
    Jimmy nodded. That would make perfect sense. Augie was insurance, good muscle and a good hand; a lean, young Cuban built like a welterweight boxer. Jimmy was feeling better about the trip already. He went back to loading the ice and stacking some crawfish traps. Five minutes later a gold Cadillac pulled up to the dock. The passenger door opened, and the dome light revealed Augie Quintana kissing a beautiful, dark-haired latina.
    “Did you get a farewell like that this morning?” Albury teased Jimmy. “I sure as hell didn’t.”
    Augie hopped aboard the Diamond Cutter , slapped Jimmy on the shoulder, and pumped Albury’s hand. “You’re looking good, old man,” Augie said, “but not as good as this boat. Jesus, what a piece of work.”
    “How’s your Spanish, chico ?” Albury asked.
    “My Cubish is just fine, thank you, but we’ll have to see about my Colombian.”
    Albury had known the Quintana family for twenty-odd years. Augie’s father, Cristobal, was a fine Key West lobsterman—tough, knowledgeable, honest, and, occasionally, enterprising. His eldest son, Mike, worked the boat with him. Augie worked an uncle’s boat for years, went away to the University of Miami, got a degree in business, came back to the island, and went right back to work on a crawfish boat. In his spare time, he kept the books for two of the island’s more successful bolita houses.
    Augie was bright and cocky and strong, and he owned a valuable intuition about trouble. One night he and Albury had been drinking beer at a Key West bar when Augie told him they had better leave. Albury had a quarter on the pool table, waiting his turn to beat some wiseass shrimper, so he wasn’t eager to walk out. Augie looked down the bar at a small black fellow and told Albury that the guy was about to explode. The black guy had been sitting there for three hours, sipping Myer’s rum, minding his own business, and largely ignoring everybody, including a topless dancer with wonderful melon-sized breasts—another reason Albury hadn’t wanted to go. But no sooner had Augie whispered his warning than the little man got up from the bar, slipped a .357 out of his coat, and put a bullet in the tallow of the dancer’s thigh. Then he spun around and drew down on the shrimper, who had frozen in awe while lining up the sixteen-ball for a corner.
    Augie was on him swiftly. The pistol hit the floor like a hammer, followed by the snap of the man’s wrist breaking. It was the loudest sound in the bar that night. Augie never said a word.
    Albury had always admired instinct in a young man. The island was loaded with strong, dumb Conch kids; smart ones like Augie were a precious resource.
    They cast off an hour before dawn. Albury set the Diamond Cutter on an east-northeasterly course up the straits. It was a healthy two hundred miles to Andros, a couple days, at least. The coordinates for the pickup had arrived in a brown envelope from Tom. The morning turned up gray, and the sky hung over them like a damp membrane. The sea was smooth and the colors dull.