Trap Line Read Online Free Page A

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 fucking 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 shit 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.
    “Shit. 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.
    “Damn,” 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 shaggy 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 prick,” Albury said. “And I’ll snap your goddamn 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.