Wambaugh, Joseph - Floaters

by Floaters (lit)

  The older one said, "Gotta go, dude. Our boat's parked in a handicap zone."

  Blaze hadn't begun to get ready for her evening yet. She'd just finished a workout on her exercise bike and was still in her leotard when Dawn arrived at 4:45, carrying the answering machine and looking more harrowed than ever.

  "So, you gonna tell me what's going on?" Blaze asked.

  "I been sleeping wherever I could for the past few days," Dawn said. "I moved outta my apartment on Wednesday."

  "Why?"

  "Oliver's looking for me."

  "So? He's your old man, last I heard."

  "I been avoiding him for more than a week. Finally he gets mad and phones me. He goes, Stay in your apartment till I get there! That was on Wednesday. I split."

  "Why?"

  Dawn took a half-eaten bag of M&M's from her purse and popped a few. "I think I know why he's looking for me."

  "I know you want to tell me, Dawn, so just spit it out."

  "I think he found out somehow that I made a police report."

  "What kind of report?"

  "Pimping. Naming him as my pimp."

  "Kee-rist!" Blaze said. "Why'd you do that?"

  "He beat me up."

  " Lots of men have beaten you up! He's done it before, hasn't he? More than once."

  "It's a long story. I got no choice. The cops put a twist on me. I had to do it to save my baby."

  "You are leaving town, right?"

  "Tomorrow" she said. "I jist need one more good Saturday night. I need a stake."

  "You need more drugs, is what you mean."

  "Whatever. But I ain't going up to El Cajon Boulevard. I'm gonna work down on Midway Drive. Oliver won't look for me down there."

  "Where're you sleeping tonight?"

  "Here?"

  "Goddamn, Dawn!"

  "Only tonight!" Dawn pleaded. "I won't even get here till maybe four A.M. Jist lemme sleep a few hours, then I'll be gone for good. I'm scared to sleep in motels. I been beat up and even stabbed in motel rooms. I couldn't ever sleep in one by myself!"

  "I'd loan you a couple hundred if I had it," Blaze said, "and tell you to get your bony ass outta town. But I don't have it to spare. I haven't been doing much outcall lately, but I've got a deal I'm working with one of my old clients tonight."

  "I wouldn't ask you, Blaze, if I wasn't desperate. You been too good to me already. Kin I stay?"

  "Just till tomorrow morning," Blaze said, "I don't care how many speedballs you shoot up tonight, you're getting outta here tomorrow. I mean it. Trust me."

  "I trust you, Blaze," Dawn said. "You're the only one in this miserable fucking town I do trust! I'm gonna find a new life in West Hollywood."

  "Dawn, honey," Blaze said, "Richard Gere isn't out there. You're just gonna find a whole lot of Oliver Mandeberrys."

  For the Saturday-evening cocktail party that he was obliged to attend, Ambrose chose a navy-blue tie with green and white diagonal stripes: the old rep tie of the Oxford University Sailing Club. His mother would have approved.

  There was at least one significant party every few nights during the challenger and defender series, and it would get even more hectic during the finals. Ambrose was afraid he might be bedridden by then if his nerves got any worse.

  He'd nicked his upper lip while trimming his gray mustache and had plastered tissue on the wound. He couldn't keep his hands steady and hadn't been able to do so since the first day he'd formulated the plan, repeatedly reminding himself that he owed Blaze Duvall five thousand dollars even if he were to call it off. But he was past the point of no returnhe was sure of that much, even though he was more scared than ever. His hands could hardly manage a Windsor knot.

  It was late enough in the spring to wear white trousers he thought. He chose pleated doeskin flannelscuffed, of coursewith a knife crease so meticulously pressed that he felt obliged to sit on the bed and pull them on both legs at the same time. It made him think of the sports cliché: "We put our pants on one leg at a time." He'd heard a helmsman say it on ESPN in reference to the challenger series. But not Ambrose Lutterworth, not if one wanted creases sharp enough to cut a wedding cake. Once his sister had asked why he didn't get a block and tackle and just lower himself into his pants.

  The single-breasted blazer with the patch pockets wouldn't do tonight, not at an America's Cup party in La Jolla, where everyone would be dressed nautical style. His double-breasted blazer with side vents was just the ticket for this party. He had six special brass buttons on that blazer, each with an America's Cup crest. He'd designed the buttons himself and had them made in London. Sadly, nobody at the San Diego Yacht Club had noticed the buttons until Ambrose called attention to them. That's the kind of yacht club it was.

  But that's the kind of city it was. The nation's sixth-largest city, yes, but only its twenty-fourth-largest media market, with still just one daily nonstop flight from Kennedy airport. Ambrose's late father had always said that San Diego was a lovely place to live because everyone with big ideas had inevitably failed .

  His mother had genuinely hated the San Diego Yacht Club. She thought it ridiculous when compared to the New York Yacht Club, repository of the Cup since Queen Victoria's reign. And, of course, she thought that the New York club was a pretender when compared to any sailing club in the British Isles.

  The first time she'd entered the San Diego club she'd said, "Where do you buy the live bait?"

  And she used to complain endlessly about people dining at the club in jeans and T-shirts. Even in second-rate San Diego restaurants (and they were all second-rate, she thought) people did not dine in jeans and T-shirts. His mother was from Boston and her family had summered on Nantucket Sound.

  Ambrose's father had often advised his mother to learn to throw a Frisbee and just enjoy the wonderful climate. Inevitably adding, "It's not a city, my dear. It's a huge resort."

  The shirt Ambrose chose was a blue cotton broadcloth with a white Windsor collar and white cuffs. He started to step into the slip-ons he'd laid out for himself but changed his mind. It was a regatta party, so he needn't be subtle. He decided to wear two-tone brogans made of linen and cordovan leather, purchased in London on New Bond Street.

  He tied his brogans by resting each leg on the upholstered bench at the foot of his bed so as not to wrinkle his flannels, then stood in front of the full-length mirror for inspection. There was still a needle of dried blood on his lip, but it was almost invisible. Yes, he looked all right, but he fretted about the blazer crest he'd recently added to the ticket pocket. It was handwoven with twenty-four-karat thread, an anchor and a wreath. But was it over the top?

  His mother would say yes, that it was so San Diego. So American. As though her native Massachusetts was not in the continental United States.

  Ambrose unbuttoned the blazer. Maybe it was over the top. Perhaps he should have had the crest sewn on to his single-breasted blazer. After all, that was a more casual coat and had a patch pocket. He wondered if anyone in the New York Yacht Club would apply a crest to a ticket pocket on a double-breasted blazer? Suddenly it seemed way over the top!

  Then he realized he was breathing fast and gulping air. He sat on the bench seat and tried to control himself, determined to concentrate on his appearance rather than on old memories and fears.

  Ambrose stood up and breathed slowly, expelling all the air before he took the next breath. Slow, measured breathing always calmed him. He rebuttoned the double-breasted blazer, posing for, a moment. Then he stepped back, did a half-turn, and examined the entire ensemble.

  Ambrose Lutterworth told himself he didn't give a damn what an old dead woman would have said. Nor any of the poseurs and prigs from an East Coast yacht club. Ambrose Lutterworth knew who he was: He was Keeper of the Cup!

  But before he left home he put a white handkerchief in the ticket pocket, hoping it might somehow modulate the effect of the golden crest.

  Ambrose arrived at the party thirty minutes after the cocktail hour had started
. Like all San Diego parties, it was an early one, and sunset was still an hour away when he parked the old Cadillac in front of a minimansion on La Jolla's Gold Coast. Ambrose knew that during the regatta, when so many party goers were working on the race committee, this would end very early, thank God.

  A valet-parking girl, in a white shirt with a black bow tie and black trousers, took his car, saying, "You won't need a ticket, sir."

  Which meant that the do wouldn't be as big as some he'd had to attend lately. Another small blessing.

  He was met at the door by Madge Stoker, wife of Grant Stoker, who, like Ambrose, was a second-generation yacht dub member, and would probably be the next commodore.

  Madge was the daughter of an Imperial Valley farmer who'd become wealthy growing truck crops. She was overweight, loud, and so comfortable with herself that she made Ambrose nervous. Madge looked people right in the eye, something Ambrose found vaguely

  distastfull. And her fingernails were cracked and split from working alongside a pair of undocumented Mexican laborers whom she employed full-time, tending her gardens and trees. She jauntily reported that she'd never contributed to their Social Security benefits, therefore could never be appointed to Clinton's cabinet.

  "Hello, Ambrose, baby!" Madge said when he entered the marble foyer underneath a thirty-foot ceiling.

  The foyer and living room contained several rococo mirrors, Queen Anne lacquered antiques, and eighteenth-century Japanese screens. The doorways and windows and all of the upholstered furniture were overscale, including a pair of wool damask sofas that could seat half of La Jolla. The floor-to-ceiling glass patio doors were framed with taffeta. Ambrose had never entered the Stoker home without wanting to burn it to the ground.

  Madge didn't turn her cheek and buss the air like most hostesses on the party circuit. She planted one on him. Her lipstick was already smeared and would be all over her face by the time the last guests arrived. And if any lady discreetly called her attention to it, Madge Stoker would usually reply, "As Clark Gable never quite said, Frankly, m'duck, I don't give a fuck."

  After greeting Madge, Ambrose got himself a glass of white wine at one of the two bars that were set up and strolled onto the terrace, where guests could watch the sun drop into the Pacific.

  Chablis. He might have known. Drinkable, but only just. A real vintner wouldn't use it to make salad dressing. Yet the scotch, vodka, and gin were the best money could buy. So like Madge Stoker.

  Grant Stoker approached Ambrose on the terrace and shook hands vigorously even though they'd seen each other at the club that afternoon. "So glad you could make it, Ambrose," he said. "You had me worried when you said you weren't sure. Wouldn't be a party without you."

  "I cleared my calendar for you," Ambrose said, realizing they were both lying. Two boating bullshitters.

  Grant Stoker was taller and younger-looking than Ambrose, by virtue of being robust and athletic. Unlike Ambrose, he had all of his hair, wearing it slicked back like a yuppie. It was rumored that he'd had affairs with at least three yacht club wives over the years but had always been discreet so it probably wouldn't hurt his chances of becoming commodore.

  "Come on over and meet some of our friends from north county," he said.

  North county meant Del Mar, Rancho Santa Fe, and Fairbanks Ranch, pricey bedroom communities where wealthy San Diegans lived whose hobbies were more likely horses and golf than boats.

  About sixty guests had arrived by then, and most of the men were wearing blazers or poplin summer sport coats. There were plenty of Ferragamo neckties with nautical motifs, but Ambrose would never wear nautical neckties. They were over the top, no question about it.

  "This is Ambrose Lutterworrth, the Keeper of the America's Cup," Grant Stoker said to a cluster of seven people, four men and three women, in casual cocktail attire.

  A middle-aged woman with a trim figure, in a mint-green St. John knit, put her hand out and Ambrose shook it.

  She said, "My name's Sam. I saw you on television in Tokyo when you brought the Cup there."

  " Did you?" Ambrose was delighted. He knew these people weren't yachtsmen, but, after all, it was a regatta party. Though they might not be sailing enthusiasts, they were probably going to be on spectator boats at some time or another, watching the race on a television screen in the salon, thus having an excuse to get hammered at one o'clock in the afternoon.

  "Well, I've taken the Cup to quite a few places in the past few years," he began, smiling shyly. "That's why I was on Japanese TV."

  "What does the Keeper of the Cup actually do?" Sam asked.

  "He travels with the America's Cup!" her husband said. "Whadda ya think? He takes it to" Then he turned to Ambrose and said, "Where besides Tokyo?"

  "I've been to a lot of places," Ambrose said, forcing himself to drink the chablis, fending off a sudden impulse to flee.

  "We're all landlubbers," another man explained. He was younger than the rest, wearing a pale blue pinfeather sport coat that Ambrose admired. "Tell us some America's Cup gossip ."

  "What sort of gossip?" Ambrose asked.

  "Excuse me, everyone," Grant Stoker said. "I'll run along and help Madge at the door so I don't have to hear Ambrose telling you where all the bodies are buried."

  "They're buried at sea, of course," Ambrose said, and everyone laughed vigorously at the little joke. He realized they were already half smashed.

  Ambrose really didn't have to answer a single inquiry. They provided their own America's Cup gossip, and his headache went from a dull throb to a painful thump.

  Nobody understood what the Cup meant to real yachtsmen; not even all club members understood. How could he tell these people? How could he explain the honor? He excused himself and went out on the terrace. The sun was about to set and guests waited, hoping for the green flash.

  It was caused when an atmospheric change in air density created a bending of the light when it crosses from cool to warm, as in a giant prism. Blue and green refract more than red and yellow, the blue scattering more vigorously, and if the green is properly positioned, the red fireball may permit a magnified rim of burning emerald as it drops into the sea. Hence, the green flash.

  Ambrose had heard of the Scottish legend that promised love and eternal happiness to all who sighted the green flash. It was a lovely thought.

  Madge Stoker startled him by whispering in his ear.

  "Know why all the broads at these parties stand so close to each other when they talk? Their eyesight's not up to checking out cosmetic surgery from a distance."

  By the time he turned from Madge and looked out to sea, the sun had vanished. Without a green flash.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BLAZE ARRIVED AT THE WATERFRONT RESTAURANT AT six o'clock and headed straight for the bar. There was already an assortment of Aussies and Kiwis present who outnumbered the Yanks and certainly outdrank them.

  She was wearing an emerald tube top, white Bongo jeans, and boat sneakers. The tube top would slip an inch each time she waved at one of the sailors, and she made it a point to wave frequently as she pranced across the barroom.

  In a moment they were circling like sharks on a blood slick.

  "Blaze!" an Aussie called out.

  "Here, Blaze!" This one was a Kiwi.

  "Over here, Blaze!" said another. "You gave those blokes all the attention last time."

  "White wine, Blaze?" an Aussie trimmer asked. "I anticipated your arrival and ordered a bottle chilled."

  "Good on ya, Charlie!" Blaze said.

  The restaurant was one of several with Polynesian decor, mostly bamboo veneer and floral design. And there were paintings on the walls that Gauguin might have done if he'd been dead drunk. But the dining area had a sweeping view of the harbor, including the skyline, the

  North Island Naval Air Station, and the Coronado bridge.

  Not one of the professional sailors gave a shit about the view. They couldn't stop looking at Blaze Duvall and her green tube top. Her eyes a vivid
green against the tube.

  The restaurant manager got worried that competing sailors might come to blows over this cuppie, so he told his bartender to keep an eye on the action and let him know if things got ugly.

  After Blaze perched herself on a bamboo barstool, she looked around and said, "Did Miles get a better deal this evening?"

  "Still had a few loose ends back at the compound," a Kiwi told her. "Never fear, he hasn't walked past a boozer in ten years without popping in."

  After lights went on in the high-rise buildings downtown and on the sweeping curve of the Coronado bridge studded by lamps, Simon Cooke showed up. Filled with high hopes that Blaze would keep her word, he was as well groomed as he ever got. Which meant he was wearing fresh blue jeans, sneakers that were not caked with grease, and a semiclean sweatshirt with a kamikaze surfer on the back who was hanging five and flipping the bird to the world. Simon Cooke had even washed his ankles.

  Blaze said to the sailors, "Excuse me, lads. Keep my seat warm."

  She slid off the stool, much to the distress of the sailors, who started moaning and mooing like cattle, and twisted through the mob to greet a beaming, semisober Simon Cooke.

  "I can't believe it!" he said. "You're here! You really like me!"

  "Easy, Simon," she said. "You sound like Sally Field at the Academy Awards."

  Blaze selected one of the bamboo booths away from eavesdropping, sailors and schmoozed Simon with America's Cup gossip until he'd finished his first drink. She waited for his second to arrive before she said, "Simon, I'm getting closer to finishing that article, but I need technical help. For example, remember the French boat that got dropped by the crane operator?"

  "Sure," he said. "Everyone knows about that fiasco. I think the guy wasn't their regular operator."

  "It can happen to any team, right?"