"OK, Peg, you keep the money. Just keep it."

"It's for Charlie, G.o.dd.a.m.nit."

"Yeah. And stay away from the trailer. I'm changing the locks tonight, so your key's no good anymore."

Peg's hand moved tremulously to her neck, where the key hung like a charm from a rusty necklace.

"G.o.d, Peg, you're a mess," Albury said in a whisper.

She was scrabbling in the sand for her bottle as he turned away.

ALBURY HAD a couple of stops to make, one at a sporting goods store, the next at the grocery. Then he parked at Key Plaza and hurried, six-pack under arm, across to the ball park. The lights were on already, and Albury was afraid the game had started. He arrived just in time to see Ricky walk to the mound. a couple of stops to make, one at a sporting goods store, the next at the grocery. Then he parked at Key Plaza and hurried, six-pack under arm, across to the ball park. The lights were on already, and Albury was afraid the game had started. He arrived just in time to see Ricky walk to the mound.

It was a game of no particular consequence, and it had attracted only about a hundred people, mostly parents and girl friends. Albury slid into the bleachers behind home plate next to an angular black man in sandals and a white cotton shirt.

"Evenin', Enos. How about a beer?"

"Thanks, Breeze. You cut it pretty close tonight, uh?"

"Been a poor day." Albury gave a half-embarra.s.sed wave to Ricky, who rewarded it with a big grin and a doff of his maroon cap.

Ricky didn't look sharp. Some of his deliveries were higher than they should have been, the ball not moving as well as it might. Still, the first three batters went out weakly, and Albury felt himself beginning to relax. He leaned back, elbows propped on the bleacher behind him, savoring a tentative breeze that had sprung up off the Gulf.

"G.o.d, that feels good."

"Yeah," Enos said. "You know, that boy of yours is some kind of pitcher."

"I think he can go all the way."

"I believe you're right."

In the second, Buddy Martin, Enos's son, stung Ricky with a sharp single off a curve n.o.body else on the field would have hit. Albury snorted.

"Maybe they could go all the way together. I'd rather have Buddy on the same team than hittin' against Ricky."

Enos laughed politely at the compliment.

"As long as he goes, Breeze. I don't really care if it's to baseball, to college, or to the Army. As long as he goes."

"You and your boy fightin'?"

"h.e.l.l, no. I just don't want him to grow up in this town, that's all. There's nuthin' here, Breeze. It's all the same as when we was kids, only less of it. And there wasn't nuthin' then. I don't know why you came back. You had a good job."

"Several," Albury said.

"All places change, don't they? It ain't like we were still kids, fishin' for grunts all day. You could live in this town then, Breeze. That was why I stayed. That was why you came back, too. At least you could live here, then. Now, well..."

"Now we got no excuse, Enos. No f.u.c.king excuse."

They watched the game while they talked. Buddy Martin stole second, but died there as Ricky got the last out on a rifling fastball.

"You're lucky, Breeze. You go out fishin' every day. That's all right. I wouldn't mind that. But if you want to know what's really happened to the island, come with me for a day, hauling the U.S. mail. Just one day. You'd see s.h.i.t you wouldn't believe."

"I'm sure." Albury felt like telling Enos about his traps, but he couldn't bring himself to talk about it.

They drank another beer in companionable silence as Ricky's team, the Padres, scratched two runs off the chunky rival pitcher, a lefthander.

"You know the Fletcher place on Frances Street?"

"Near the cemetery."

"Yeah, right," Enos said. "Garrett sold it for a hundred and thirty thousand yesterday."

Albury sat up.

"Cash," Enos whispered bitterly.

"s.h.i.t. It's full of termites. They couldn't get seventeen five for it eight years ago."

"The guy that bought it was twenty-two."

Albury shook his head. "Say no more."

"I hate all this, Breeze."

"Yeah."

"I want out. If I can't leave, then my boy will. I swear."

In the fifth inning, Ricky's control deserted him briefly. He walked the leadoff batter and lost the second man to a crisp single. Then it was time to face Buddy Martin.

"Low and away," Albury yelled.

Ricky threw a fastball, letter high on the inside corner. The bat slashed forward, and Albury felt the "crack" in the fillings in his teeth. The ball rocketed into the alley in left center and smacked the Merita Bread sign on the first bounce. Both runners scored, and Buddy Martin cruised into third with a stand-up triple.

Enos beamed. "Way to stroke, Bud," he called to his son.

Ricky called time, and Albury winced in shame when he saw Ricky and his coach yoking Ricky's right spike together with a piece of friction tape.

"d.a.m.n," Albury said, "I got a new pair for him in the car. Be right back."

"I'll watch the beer," Enos said.

Albury strode across to Key Plaza, where he had parked the car. He broke into a trot when he saw the figure inside the Pontiac, stretched across the front seat, probing the glove compartment. The man never looked up until he felt the huge hands around his left leg. Albury yanked once and spilled the thief onto the pavement, his s.h.a.ggy head hitting the asphalt like a brick.

Dazed, the young man foggily surveyed his attacker: sharp, angry green eyes; nut-brown face capped with short salt-and-pepper hair; the mouth a thin, icy slash; the neck thick, veined with rage.

"Easy, grandpa," said the kid. His long hair was thick, flicked with dirt and leaves. His face was milky and pocked. Albury scowled down at him.

"Where's the toolbox?" he demanded. "And the bag from the sports shop? Where'd you stash 'em?"

"Man, I don't know what you're talking about."

Albury placed a booted foot on the man's neck and shifted his weight slowly until the face turned red and a grimace bared every tooth. "You're a p.r.i.c.k," Albury said. "And I'll snap your G.o.dd.a.m.n neck if you don't answer my question."

The thief flailed on the pavement and directed his bulging eyes across the parking lot, to where a battered red VW sat alone. Albury hauled the young man to the car. In the back seat were his toolbox and the bag containing Ricky's new spikes. He retrieved them and walked back to the Pontiac, the thief in tow.

"You gonna call the cops?"

"Where you from?"

"Atlanta." The young man began brushing off his jeans and picking the gravel off his shirt. He thought it was over.

"What are you doing down here?" Albury asked evenly.

"Visiting." The young man used his hands like a comb, straightening his hair and sweeping it out of his face.

"Visiting," Albury repeated.

The kid nodded. Albury wordlessly slammed him in the stomach with a straight right, then cracked him in the nose with an abbreviated left cross. The kid fell, blubbering, the dark blood shining in the pale lumination of the streelights.

Albury locked the toolbox in the trunk of the Pontiac and hurried back to the ball park with the spikes. The game was already over. The Padres had won, 6-2.

"Nice game, champ," Albury said to Ricky as he came off the field.

"Yeah. You see the slider I got Buddy with in the seventh?"

"Naw, I missed it."

"So did Buddy." It was Enos, laughing. "Breeze, I got worried about you, so I polished off the six-pack."

"Some dirtbag broke into the car. I caught him before he got away. Here." Albury handed Ricky the spikes. "I should have brought 'em with me in the first place."

Ricky opened the box. Buddy Martin looked over Ricky's shoulder as he inspected the new spikes.

"Dad, these must have cost forty bucks."

"It's OK," Albury said. "Had a good catch today."

Enos gave him a doubting glance. Albury wondered, could he know about the traps already?

"Get your jacket on, champ. Let's get going before the whole car gets stolen. Enos, Buddy, we'll see you."

It took Albury ten minutes to reach Whitehead Street, after dropping Ricky at the trailer with an injunction to let his arm dangle a long time in the hot shower. Albury was supposed to pick up Laurie in an hour. Time enough.

IF THE GREEN LANTERN had any distinction at all, it was as the only bar in Key West that never claimed to have fueled Ernest Hemingway. The bar was a chintzy dive of plasterboard and shadows in what was supposed to be a nautical motif. had any distinction at all, it was as the only bar in Key West that never claimed to have fueled Ernest Hemingway. The bar was a chintzy dive of plasterboard and shadows in what was supposed to be a nautical motif.

It seemed like every time Albury went in, there was a different parrot harping in a bamboo cage over the cash register. The regulars would sometimes turn the nightly dart games on the birds, when things got loose.

Albury nursed a beer and looked quietly around. "Have you seen Winnebago Tom?" he finally asked a bartender named Pete.

"He was here. Probably out back."

"Out back" meant upstairs in a supposedly private room reached by a stairway guarded by a tough, tattooed young Cuban. People said he had once been a commando.

Albury gestured toward the stairs with his head. The guard nodded slightly and let him pa.s.s without a word. Upstairs, about ten men formed a smoky circle on the linoleum floor, playing poker.

Winnebago Tom leaned nonchalantly against the wall, watching the action with almost scornful disinterest. Albury knew he was the house. Tom was wiry, slick, one of those savvy Key West Cubans whose family had been around so long they had all but forgotten Spanish. Tom worked for the Machine. A linkman, they said.

"Well, hey, bubba." Tom prised himself off the wall. He gestured toward the knot of men on the floor around a nucleus of dirty ten-and twenty-dollar bills. "Looking for a game?"

"Can we talk?"

Tom shrugged. "These are my friends."

Albury lit a cigarette to camouflage his dislike. "It's business," he said.

"Business!" Tom exclaimed with artificial brightness. "Why didn't you say so? Why don't you go down and wait for me in the camper? Help yourself to a drink. I won't be long."

Parked behind the bar, Tom's Winnebago was the most luxurious in all Monroe County. It was cool and quiet, the air conditioner barely audible. It smelled of wood and real leather. Albury counted eight stereo speakers inset into the walls. He poured himself a stiff scotch from one of two dozen bottles in a long cabinet behind the bar. The gla.s.s was crystal, Albury noted. Tom liked to boast that his camper had cost fifty thousand dollars.

After fifteen minutes Tom came in, humming "Help Me Make It Through the Night." He poured himself three ounces of Chivas, drank off half of it with a smack, and smiled at Albury.

"Yessir, business. What can I do for you, Breeze?"

"What do you know about my traps?"

"Orange-and-white. Everybody knows that. Family colors, always have been."

Albury stood and helped himself to another scotch.

"I heard you lost a few," Tom ventured.

"A few hundred," Albury said harshly. "Tom, you lived here your whole life. You know what this kind of thing means. You know the rules."

"I know there's a law against cutting traps."

"You know the rules. Forget the f.u.c.king law."

Tom ran a manicured finger around the edge of his gla.s.s until it squeaked.

"You called me two, three days ago," Albury said.

"Did I?"

Albury slammed down his gla.s.s.

"OK, I called you. I'm a businessman. You said no. I said OK. A man can say no," Tom said. "Even in this town, a man can still say no. I respect you for that, Breeze. Lots of fishermen woulda jumped at the chance for that kind of money. You said no. I respect that. 'Course, you weren't hurtin' then quite as badly as you are now."