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.They had polished off the bottle, and when Albury had pushed himself off the bench to get another, the gun had come with him.Crystal had pretended not to notice.It was so long ago that it made Albury feel old.On the eve of Albury’s run, Crystal was a different person, high as a kite, bragging about his kids, showing off his new Bearcat scanner.Albury told him what he needed.“Easy,” Crystal said.“It’ll be good to hear a familiar voice out there.Want a drink?”They drank, and across town the Machine hummed with practiced efficiency.A weary Winnebago Tom ran down the soiled list for a final time and committed it to the flame of his lighter.Done, by God, and done well.Times like this he felt like a general, moving supplies, giving orders, summoning the troops to the right place at the right time.Smooth as silk.Tom rifled through the pile of coins on the gray metal shelf, inserted one, and made a telephone ring in a fine old Conch house on White Street.The phone annoyed Manolo.It had been an annoying day.The Reds getting two runs in the ninth had cost him two grand.A horse in the eighth at Belmont that was supposed to have been a sure thing ran fifth.Two grand more.Manolo laid down his book, a biography of Walt Whitman, reduced Mahler’s ninth to a whisper, and waded through the wall-to-wall mauve carpet to his Ethan Allen desk.“Yes.” It was not a question.“Everything’s ready,” Winnebago Tom reported on the other end.“Details?”“Momma’s coming on schedule.” He meant the big ship.It had landed in Cartagena on schedule.“Very well.”“We have three hawks and one pigeon.”“Fine.”Tom asked, “Still sure about the pigeon? It’s gonna cost us two tons.”“It is the one we discussed?”“Yes.Of course.I went to a lot of trouble for this.”“I can appreciate that,” Manolo said frostily.“So is it too much to ask why? This is out of the ordinary.It’s a big risk.”“Tom, do you get paid to worry?”“Please …”“Answer me!”“No,” Tom said, not feeling much like a general anymore.In the house on White Street, Manolo turned up the music and resumed reading.With any luck, tomorrow would be less trying.Chapter 4THE DIAMOND CUTTER went fishing the next morning as usual.When there were other boats nearby, Jimmy and Albury pretended to pull traps.To be on the cautious side, they even iced down a hundred pounds of fresh crawfish; Albury said it would look better for them in case something went wrong.His instincts were good.At noon the Diamond Cutter was overtaken by a twenty-six-foot Cigarette boat, screaming like a stock car.Albury had watched it coming for miles.“This our man?” Jimmy asked nervously.“No way.” Albury suppressed a laugh.The Cigarette was a smuggler’s special that had been seized by the Marine Patrol two years earlier.The driver was Mark Haller, a tough old Conch, one of the grittiest sonofabitches the patrol ever had the good sense to hire.Albury had been his friend for years, but this was the first time it might count for something.Haller pulled up and tied to a cleat on the Diamond Cutter’s stern.“Hey, bubba,” Albury said with a wave.Haller nodded and hopped from the cockpit of the speedboat to its bow, playing the swells perfectly.He wore highway patrol-like sunglasses; Albury couldn’t be sure where he was looking.“How you doing?” Haller called.Albury shrugged.“Lousy.”Jimmy slipped below for a beer; the sight of a man in uniform was too much, right now.“You want to come aboard?” Albury moved to the stern to give Haller a hand, but the chunky Marine Patrol officer motioned him off.“That’s OK,” he said.“Breeze, I heard about your traps.”“I guess everybody has,” Albury said with a sour laugh.“Well, I intend to find the fuckers that did it,” Haller said.“We can’t have that kind of shit down here.”“I’d sure appreciate it if you did, Mark.Have you heard anything yet?”“A little.” Haller stood with his burnished hands on his hips, peering at another crawfish boat about three miles off.Albury noticed he was carrying a.357.“Breeze,” he said after a few moments, “if you find out who did it, call me.Don’t try to handle it yourself.”“I can’t make a promise like that.You know how it goes.”Haller wore a thin smile as he untied the Cigarette and fired the huge engines to life.“Mark, don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what you’ve heard?” Albury shouted.“When I know more,” Haller yelled back.“I promise.” Then he was gone.Jimmy looked up inquiringly from below deck.“Do you think he knows?”“About tonight? Of course not,” Albury said.“Then why’d he stop us?”“Routine.Haller stops everybody.That’s what makes him Haller.Cubans can’t stand him.He’ll board their boats and talk for an hour, and he doesn’t speak a goddamned word of Spanish.He’ll do it just to make a point.”Jimmy tossed a beer to Albury.“That kind of thing makes me nervous,” he said.Albury stripped off his clothes.“Time for a swim,” he declared, perching himself on the side of the boat.For a delicious instant he hung in the air, then crashed feetfirst into the blue sea.He paddled for about a minute, then floated effortlessly on his back.Albury heard the whoosh as Jimmy hit the water in a clean dive, and for an instant he felt like laughing aloud.At dusk, they anchored off Looe Key, waiting.A northeasterly breeze carried pesky clouds of no-see-ems towards the boat from the island.Albury and Jimmy basted themselves in Cutter’s insect spray.At about nine, Crystal checked in over the VHF radio.“Lucky Seven, this is Smilin’ Jack.Your weather for the evening is clear with light winds out of the northeast.Seas three to four feet, increasing around midnight.”Albury gave him a ten-four.Midnight was the key.He lifted a hatch and pulled out two plywood boards.The words “Elizabeth Marie Tampa” were freshly painted on each.One went on the bow and the other on the transom; Jimmy slipped into the water to help attach them.Albury was no artist and the bogus name obviously was hand-lettered, but it covered the legend Diamond Cutter and the registration number.If there was a chase, and if a name was all the cops could see at night, it would give Albury an edge.It never hurt to have an edge
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