Trap Line

by Carl Hiaasen

  BARNETT JAMMED a ten-dollar bill into the gas station man’s hand and squeezed his bulk into the Chrysler.

  “Where’d that damn truck go off to?”

  “Who cares?” Laurie said, moving close. “Let’s just go.”

  Barnett acceded with a grunt and wheeled back on the Overseas Highway, heading east toward Marathon. At the Exxon, the gas station man went to his CB radio and passed a brief message.

  As the police car crossed the Bahia Honda bridge, Laurie pressed a soft hand to Barnett’s crotch.

  “You’re sweet to buy me that lotion.”

  “It’s for both of us, right?”

  Laurie smiled. “My, my. This must be how you got your nickname.” She played with Barnett’s cowboy shirt until it came out of his pants. She struggled to unhitch the belt buckle, a brass star with his name embossed in the center.

  “What are you doing, darlin’?”

  “Don’t mind me.”

  “I’m trying to drive here … Lord!”

  Laurie rubbed Barnett’s marbled belly with both hands. She leaned over and traced circles with her tongue, lower and lower on his midriff. With one hand she unzipped his trousers.

  “Lord Jesus!”

  Laurie sat up. “You want me to stop?”

  “No, honey. Don’t stop.” Barnett hooked her around the neck with his arm and pulled her back down, but not before Laurie got a glimpse of the sign which announced the Seven Mile Bridge.

  Huge Barnett’s head spun euphorically; he felt himself grow achingly hard as Laurie kneaded him gently. The disasters of the day—Boone’s murder, Tom’s disappearance—dissolved with his own tumescence. Barnett kept one meaty hand on the wheel, the other on the back of Laurie’s neck, guiding, encouraging. Her tongue tickled and teased, but would not go where he wanted.

  Barnett navigated the narrow, pitted bridge with only half a mind to the task. Campers, tanker trucks, and tourist cars flew at him, a hairbreadth away. Barnett’s squad car domineered the roadway, listing to port, weaving as he throbbed. The occasional horn of a terrified southbound car barely disturbed his trance. Twenty feet below, a stippled carpet of water stretched out to all horizons.

  “Be careful, hon,” Laurie whispered from the folds of Barnett’s trousers, realizing all that lay between certain orgasm and certain death were the peeling, corroded railroad ties which constituted the sole guardrail. Laurie fought back her revulsion. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Come on darlin’,” Barnett urged huskily. “I think he wants to come out and play now.”

  Three miles ahead, in the bridge tender’s house a friend of Councilman Bobby Freed received a radio call. From his perch, the bridge tender could see a lobster boat in Moser Channel, waiting to pass from the Gulf side to the Atlantic. He pressed a button and bells rang along the Seven Mile Bridge; two sets of red-and-white barrier gates descended on each side of the turntable bridge. Slowly, the cumbersome iron span began to pivot. The bridge tender looked toward the line of traffic approaching from the south. The lead car was a big white Chrysler with a bubble on top. It appeared to be carrying only one person.

  Huge Barnett watched the gates come down through half-closed eyes. Laurie heard the warning bells and sat up, brushing the hair from her face.

  “Oh, no,” the police chief groaned. “Don’t stop now, it’s just the bridge.”

  The Chrysler stopped three feet from the red-and-white gate. A green sign said: Mile Marker 45. Barnett clutched himself and started to rub.

  “Chief, look,” Laurie said anxiously. Her eyes flashed toward the rearview mirror. “You better stop.”

  Barnett gave an irritated glance at the mirror, and his houndlike eyes turned cold. Directly behind the Chrysler was a gray-over-black Chevrolet Blazer. On its roof was a blue police light, flashing at the precise rate of one per second.

  “What’s going on?” Barnett mumbled, to no one in particular. He retrieved his lust-dented Stetson off the floor but made no move to get out of his car.

  Until he heard the siren.

  “What the fuck!” With an anguished roar, Huge Barnett uncorked himself from the driver’s seat and swung onto the pavement.

  At the side of the Blazer stood Mark Haller in his crisp Marine Patrol uniform and black cap. He wore a pair of amber Polaroids that made him look like a tomcat when he smiled.

  “How’s it goin’, bubba?” Haller said pleasantly.

  “What’s with the fucking light and siren?” Barnett demanded.

  “Chief, why don’t you, ah, arrange yourself a little bit. There’s a church bus from Macon about three cars back, and I got a feeling they didn’t come all the way down the Keys just to see your skinny dick.”

  Barnett said, “Jesus Christ.” He spun away from the long line of traffic and tucked his flaccid organ out of sight. He hoped that Haller hadn’t noticed the drip spots on his trousers. In front of Barnett, the turntable bridge now was fully open, and the wobbling antenna of the crawfish boat marked its passage under the span.

  “Chief, I’m going to ask you to open the trunk of your car,” Haller said smoothly.

  “What the hell for, Haller?”

  “Please.”

  “You got a goddamn warrant?”

  Haller patted his pockets. “Yep, right here. And I also got a crowbar.”

  “Fuck you.” Barnett produced the key. “This is gonna cost you your phony little job, Haller. Ride around in a fucking motorboat all day catching crawfish thieves and poachers. A real fucking Eliot Ness, you are.”

  “Bubba, you best open the trunk. Now.”

  Barnett scowled. “OK, Mr. Grouper Trooper.”

  The Chrysler’s trunk contained a peculiar inventory: two spare blackwall tires (the left side always seemed to blow out in tandem), an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle; five pornographic video cassettes; a scarlet bikini; a two-pound box of chocolate cookies; a deep-sea fishing rod; fifty feet of nylon rope; a shoebox with approximately three thousand dollars inside; and, finally, a large rectangular package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and postal twine.

  The package was the only item Barnett had not expected to see. It was the only item in which Mark Haller expressed an interest.

  “What is it?”

  “Never saw it before.”

  “Never?”

  “Somebody put it there.” Barnett was sweating from a thousand nervous little faucets. “Somebody must have put it there.”

  “I see.” Haller wrestled the parcel out of the trunk and lay it on the pavement of the bridge. Passengers and children from the other cars had emerged to form a curious half-circle around the little ceremony.

  The crawfish boat was now safely through the channel. Barnett wondered why somebody didn’t close the bridge.

  Mark Haller pointed the toe of his boot to the lettering on the brown paper. “Who is Rella P. Barnett?”

  The chief said, “My mother.”

  “And does your mother happen to live at Four-seven-seven Sailfish Drive in Homestead, F-L-A?”

  Barnett leaned over and examined the address. “So help me, I have no idea what the hell this is, or how it got in—”

  “Let’s see.” Haller smoothly ran a pocketknife down the length of the package. He inserted both hands in the wound and held the pungent contents up for Huge Barnett to smell.

  “Your momma like to smoke, does she?”

  “Fuck you, Haller.”

  “She knows her blend, that’s for sure.”

  A few persons in the crowd began to laugh. A man with stork legs and a “Southernmost Sunset” T-shirt stepped forward to snap a picture with his Instamatic.

  “Get back in your fucking cars!” Barnett yelled. The tourists retreated, eyeing the police chief as if he were rabid.

  “You on your way to Homestead?”

  “No, damnit. I was just going up to Marathon for a drink. Ask the lady.” Barnett waved his Stetson at the car.

  Haller peered. “What lady is that, chief?”

 
; The Chrysler was empty. Barnett surveyed his squad car with a simple, disbelieving expression.

  “She was here,” he offered faintly.

  With a screech, the turntable bridge finally began to close again. Across the chasm, near the bridge tender’s house, southbound cars had begun to honk. Huge Barnett had nowhere to run.

  “Chief, would you please turn around?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Haller went to his Blazer and withdrew a small short-barreled shotgun. He walked back to Barnett, pulled the hammer, and held the gun to the chief’s cascading midsection.

  “Spread your cheeks, bubba.”

  Barnett felt dizzy. He turned and fastened his chalky hands to one of the railroad ties. It was scalding to the touch, but he did not flinch. He felt Haller’s hands patting him down in the coarse, perfunctory way of veteran cops. Barnett’s ears filled with the pounding of his own bloody rage. Somewhere in the stalled traffic, the children on the church bus from Macon sang “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” in rounds.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Mark Haller recited.

  Barnett leaned with all his might on the guardrail, grinding his teeth. Before him, stretched out in alternating aqua and indigo hues, was the Atlantic. It was serene and empty to the horizon, except for the crawfish boat, which had slowed in the channel not far from the Seven Mile Bridge.

  “If you can’t afford a lawyer,” Haller was saying, “one will be appointed for you. However”—then the handcuffs, sharp on the wristbones—“I suspect you can afford a lawyer, chief.”

  Barnett was hearing, but not listening. Something about the lobster boat had seized his attention. He blinked several times to make sure he was not imagining it: the vision of a woman, buxom and statuesque, her dark hair slick, her blouse damp and clinging. She stood on the deck of the boat, dabbing at her face with a towel.

  As the boat’s big diesel came to life and the bow swung around to meet the Atlantic, Huge Barnett swallowed the dry ashes of his fury. The dying sun caught the boat perfectly in its coral light, and the name seemed to glow from the stern.

  “Let’s go, chief, we’re blocking the bridge,” Mark Haller said, steering him by the elbows. “Time to go back to the Rock.”

  Chapter 23

  IT WAS a good hotel overlooking the ocean on Miami Beach, not tasteful perhaps, but less plastic than most. The dark businessman in the corner suite on the eighth floor was a prime tipper, so the waiter was careful to include a newspaper each morning with breakfast.

  That day a headline midway down the front page caught the businessman’s eyes:

  KEYS “SWIM-IN” COP

  JAILED AS POT SMUGGLER

  It took the businessman only one phone call then to arrange the rest of his life.

  “I’d like a first-class seat on this afternoon’s flight to Paris.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “One-way, please.”

  “And are you an American citizen?”

  “My passport is Canadian.”

  Before he left the hotel, Manolo used a razor blade to meticulously clip the newspaper article. He would carry it in his wallet as vaccination against ever going back.

  “WHAT A BEAUTIFUL morning!” Bobby Freed signaled for another piece of Key Lime pie and smiled at Laurie, who sat before the remains of a gargantuan brunch. “We did it,” she said.

  “The reign of King Barnett is over. He’s finished; humiliated, even if he doesn’t go to jail. The rest of them will be easier. Will you help me get them, Laurie?”

  “Yes, Bob, I will.”

  All night she had been manic, laughing at the memory of Barnett’s jostling rolls of fat as he tried to zipper his pants before hundreds of gawking motorists. Then, unaccountably, she had wept. For Albury, Freed knew.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he urged. “I like this town again.”

  They walked arm in arm, paralleling the water. Some of the passersby in tight jeans and manicured chests looked slyly at Freed. He would be back, their glances seemed to say. Freed doubted it—but then, two weeks ago, who could have predicted this? He’d stopped trying to figure it out—he was just going to enjoy it. The stares didn’t bother him at all. Once, on impulse, he darted across the street and bought an exquisite conch shell from an old woman in a floppy straw hat.

  On Caroline Street, they strolled to the water’s edge and clambered out along some rocks. It was a lovely view. The whitewashed island lay before them, with its shops and pale old houses, its unmistakable harbor. Like Key West itself, it was teeming: boats of every description, diving gulls, a small school of striped grunts lazing into the shadows.

  “This is what it’s really about,” Bobby Freed proclaimed. “I love it.”

  He gestured toward a tall shrimp boat, inward bound, nets streeling like two outstretched webs in the sea.

  As the shrimper pushed into the harbor, its steel arms suddenly lifted from the sea, jerking the first fingers of glistening net from the water.

  “Beautiful, a poem,” Laurie murmured,

  “A ballet,” said Freed.

  The boat was almost abeam now, the arms rising in a long vertical sweep, the net following faster.

  “You could almost reach out and touch it,” said Freed. “But I’d rather touch you.”

  He held her before him, his back to the sea, and then watched in a sickening instant as the love in her eyes faded to horror.

  Laurie screamed.

  From the starboard net, spread-eagled like a snared starfish, the bloated corpse of Winnebago Tom mocked them.

  Chapter 24

  (From the deposition of Augustin Quintana, taken on the ninth day of October 1982, before Christine Manning, special counsel to the Governor. Also present was court reporter Mary Perdue.)

  MISS MANNING: Augie, when was the last time you saw Breeze Albury?

  MR. QUINTANA: What’s the difference, lady? He’s gone.

  Q: It’s extremely important for this investigation.

  A: Oh, really?

  Q: Yes, Augie. The Governor expects a final report by the end of this month. There are many, many loose ends. Captain Albury is one. I think you know something about the others, too: the death of Tomas Cruz—

  A: A tragic accident.

  Q: The murder of Drake Boone, the lawyer—

  A: Tom’s work, of course.

  Q: And there’re those six unidentified Colombians in the morgue freezer up at Key Largo.

  A: They are known to be terrible drivers.

  Q: Augie, I don’t have any more time for games. You know where Albury is, and I’m asking you, under oath. Tell me.

  A: I don’t like games either, lady. This is the second time you hauled me in here, and I still don’t see the point. Breeze Albury is gone, and you can tell that to the Governor. I don’t see the problem. They sent you down here as a special prosecutor, right? Well, now you got somebody to prosecute. He’s fat and he’s famous and his name is Barnett, and he’s sitting in the Monroe County stockade right this minute. So go prosecute. Forget about Breeze Albury.

  Q: Augie, did you know that the federal marine documentation on the fishing vessel Diamond Cutter was altered? That the boat is now registered to yourself and James Cantrell, Jr.? The signature of Captain William C. Albury ratifies the transfer of ownership. Would you care to see for yourself? How did that happen?

  A: Breeze is a generous man. Me and Jimmy will take damn good care of that boat. It’s a fine boat, lady.

  Q: All right, Augie, one more time—

  A: No. No one more time. I’m gonna tell you again. I’m a fisherman, not a goddamn private eye. I don’t know where the hell Breeze is, and I don’t know why you won’t give up on it. I’ll tell you about the last time I saw him. It was at the Seven Mile Bridge. I forget the exact night. We were all in the boat; me, Jimmy, Ricky, Breeze, and the girl, Laurie. Just out for a ride. One more run, Breeze said. He took her under the old turntable bridge at half-speed and split the seam between two nasty
coral heads. It was sweet the way he ran that boat, lady. He took her straight out about two miles till we got to a line of lobster pots. Then he hopped down out of the pilothouse and turned the wheel over to Jimmy. He said it was time to go. I said, “Where to?” Breeze pointed back toward a little island about two-thirds of the way out, right under the old Seven Mile Bridge. That’s where he wanted to go. He told Jimmy to take the Diamond Cutter up close and let him and Ricky off there. Breeze said it was the perfect spot for him, and we all laughed our asses off. The name of the island is Pigeon Key.

  Q: And you haven’t seen him since?

  A: Or heard from him. I wouldn’t bother sending out a search party, either. He’s just one Conch fisherman who made up his mind to get off the Rock. I know you want to find him, but I won’t help. Forget about Captain Albury yourself. And now I gotta go, lady.

  Q: If you should hear from Breeze—

  Epilogue

  CHRISTINE MANNING stared at the telephone. These past few weeks, it hadn’t stopped ringing. Groggily, she reached across the pillow and grabbed it.

  “Christine! You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you, Governor.”

  “Seventeen indictments. But what’s this I hear about you leaving?”

  “In a week or two, sir. Just as soon as I get the files in shape for the new prosecutor.”

  “You can’t be serious. This is one of the biggest cases we’ve ever had. The police chief, six officers—my God, it’s a damn miracle. Barnett’s yakking his head off. Seventeen indictments in Key West!”

  “Nobodies, sir. The big one got away.”

  “You mean the fisherman?”

  “No, not him. I mean the one who ran the Machine, the one they call Manolo.”

  Yes, I mean the fisherman.

  “Somebody always slips through the cracks,” the Governor said. “That’s no reason to be discouraged, Christine. We need you on our side when we go to court with these guys. Don’t quit now.”