Wambaugh, Joseph - Floaters

by Floaters (lit)

  After she hung up, Blaze put on her swimsuit and went down to the hotel pool for a workout. She thought she might learn to enjoy swimming as an alternative to aerobics. Maybe soon she'd buy a little house with a swimming pool. This was the first day she felt secure enough to swim laps in broad daylight.

  When Blaze got back to her room, she dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers and drove away from the hotel to make another call, this one from a pay phone on Rosecrans. Anne Zorn was not in her office, but she reached Detective Sal Maldonado.

  "This is Mary Ellen Singleton and I'd like to speak to Detective Zorn sometime today."

  "Give me your number, Ms. Singleton," he said. "I'll have her call you as soon as she gets back."

  "Just take down my name and tell her I'll call later. If she wants to talk to me, she'll have to be there."

  "Just a minute," he said, "can't I have your" He was still talking when she hung up. Blaze was ravenous now that she was settling down. She drove back to the hotel and headed straight for the dining room for a proper lunch: spinach salad, grilled swordfish, baked potato, asparagus, and iced tea. She permitted herself a glass of wine even though she seldom drank alcohol before the dinner hour..

  When she was finished, she started back up to her room to nap but changed her mind and drove to a pay phone. A different phone, just in case.

  Blaze wished she had a lawyer. She needed answers, wondering if she was a material witness in the eyes of the law, and if so, could she be compelled by subpoena to appear at a criminal trial? Assuming they ever arrested the guy.

  Well, they couldn't compel anything if she hadn't seen anything. She took the card from her purse and dropped a quarter into the phone.

  This time Anne was there.

  "Detective Zorn."

  "It's Mary Ellen Singleton."

  "Thank you for calling!" Anne said. "I have to see you."

  "Look," Blaze said. "You know my real name and you know my work name. I'm sure you've discovered that I was arrested with Dawn in a vice raid a long time ago. Okay, I stayed friends with her over the years, but I didn't see her much. There's nothing I can tell you that'd help."

  "I think you saw her killer," Anne said. "I think you know who it was."

  "Listen, Detective, I saw nothing."

  "Dawn was coming to visit you or she was leaving your apartment. One or the other."

  "She might've been coming to see me," Blaze said. "I don't know. I was in bed sleeping."

  "How'd she get in the gate?"

  Cops! " Okay , she called me and I buzzed her in, but she didn't make it to my door. Whoever it was got her on the stairs where you found her. I don't know who it was!"

  "How well do you know Oliver Mantleberry?"

  "Who's that?"

  "I think you know."

  "I'm gonna hang up."

  "Okay, wait! Maybe you don't know him. But Dawn must've mentioned him at some time or another."

  "I don't know what she did in her life. Her miserable life. She was a prostitute, I'm not. Okay, I worked in a massage parlor when I was younger, but I don't live like Dawn lived."

  "How do you make a living now, Blaze?"

  "Fuck this! I am gonna hang up!"

  "I'm not a vice cop!" Anne said quickly. "I don't give a damn about your private life or your business life. But we're gonna stop this guy before he butchers another Dawn Coyote. I don't think you're the kind of person who wants that to happen."

  "I didn't see him! I heard her cry. Now I know it was her, not a gull. I went out. I looked down. I ran to the phone"

  "Whose bathrobe did we find?"

  "I told you it"

  "With blood on it? Dawn's blood on it?"

  "You think it's mine."

  "Isn't it?"

  "Okay, so it's mine! She borrowed it from me. She was returning it."

  "At that hour of the night?"

  "She was a hooker! And a junkie! Her whole fucking life was topsy-turvy! I don't know why she was returning my robe at that time of night! I don't know why she did any of the things she did! I just felt sorry for her and now I wish I'd never laid eyes on the dumb little"

  "If I guaranteed we'd protect you, wouldn't you consider doing what's right?"

  "Why do you think I'm on the phone? I'm trying to do what's right. I like San Diego. I don't wanna run away. But I don't want cops giving me subpoenas and trying to make me say things I can't say!"

  "We have some excellent evidence already. Evidence against Oliver Mandeberry. With your testimony, your truthful testimony about what you saw that night, he might even get the gas chamber."

  "Oh, sure," Blaze said. "How many people in this state been executed in the last thirty years? One, maybe? Two? Get real!"

  "Think it over. If you won't give me your number, then call me tomorrow."

  "I'll think it over."

  "Same time tomorrow?"

  "Okay."

  "She'd do it for you, wouldn't she?"

  "Who?"

  "Dawn."

  "Detective Zorn," Blaze said, "Dawn Coyote would've sold me out, and her mother, and her own baby, when she needed something to jam in her arm."

  "You call call me tomorrow?"

  "I said I would, didn't I?"

  Fortney did something so stupid on Wednesday afternoon that he promised himself he'd never tell a soul about it, not even Leeds. Especially not Leeds, since his partner was the only one who knew the source of that stupidity, Fortney, who'd been keeping up with the regatta, knew, that the Citizen Cup trials to decide the defender boat were still in doubt, but the Kiwis would probably wrap up the Louis Vuitton Cup tomorrow afternoon in Black Magic , thus earning the right to challenge, next month for the America's Cup.

  He had some interest in all this because by the time the marathon regatta finally ended in May, the city would have realized a $300-million economic boost. Anything that helped the city's budgetary woes might indirectly forestall the threatened shutdown of the Harbor Unit. He had good reason to pay more than passing notice to the America's Cup regatta.

  But not enough to justify the incredibly stupid decision he'd made at five that afternoon. Fortney had decided to join the sailors, and the sailing-stupids, and the cuppies, all of whom would be out there in the gin mills for sure. Because if past history meant anything, she'd be out there with them. The ultimate cuppie: the fiery redhead named Blaze whom he couldn't get out of his mind. If Leeds ever heard about this bit of middle-aged angst, this baby-boomer madness or whatever it was, he'd never hear the end of it.

  Fortney shaved closer than usual that afternoon. He even splashed on a little foo-foo cologne. He combed his graying hair with the help of a rear view mirror to arrange strands over the balding crown, but his curls wouldn't cooperate. He wore jeans he'd taken right from the dryer, checking to see if his butt was still holding up. He even wore a long-sleeved shirt.

  Simon Cooke thought, Fuck it! She was shining him! Okay, the deal sounded good and she talked a convincing game, but what guarantee did he have that he'd get paid after it was over? When you came right down to it, he didn't know Blaze Duvall. All he had was a phone number. And she hadn't answered that for the past few days, not until she'd called him today. How did he know she was for real?

  Simon dismissed the thought almost as fast as it popped in his mind. Blaze was too straight, too honest. The way she looked at him with those big green eyes of hers. But maybe she was just straight, too naive? Maybe she was being used by Mr. Moneybags. Simon still figured it was millionaire Bill Koch, boss of the mostly all-woman team. Yeah, Koch was the guy. Just the kind of rich asshole who'd take advantage of a decent kid like Blaze.

  He made a decision that afternoon identical to Fortney's. Simon Cooke was going out that night to hunt for Blaze Duvall.

  Ambrose Lutterworth didn't have to go hunting for Blaze Duvall. She showed up on his doorstep at 7:10 P.M., dressed not in the tailored look he preferred for their encounters and not in the sexy sailboat-casual she'd affected fo
r her cuppie appearances. Blaze was wearing a green, hip-belted leather miniskirt, a short-sleeved, black wool turtleneck sweater, and low-heeled black Gucci boots.

  For once she was dressed the way she wanted to dress rather than being costumed for men who, in one way or another, were all just clients.

  Ambrose pecked her on the cheek and said, "My, you look different."

  "Not your style, I know. But I felt like wearing it."

  "No! I mean, you look beautiful. You always look beautiful."

  "I'll wear a longer skirt for our dinner date," Blaze reassured him.

  "No, you look wonderful. Really."

  "Do you have the drug?"

  "Yes, let's sit down for a minute."

  Ambrose led the way into the living room, where he and Blaze sat side by side on the old sofa. Two bindles wrapped in notebook paper were on the coffee table. He opened one of them carefully and showed her the powder.

  "It took me a while to mash the tablets," he said. "If you empty one of these into his drink By the way, what does he drink?"

  "Beer. What else would those guys drink?"

  "Okay, one of these will do it. You said he's a very big man?"

  "Very."

  "I've done some discreet checking with my pharmacist and my late mother's doctor. I think a gram of this will guarantee that even a big man won't be ready to run machinery the next day."

  "What is it?"

  "Phenobarbital."

  "We don't wanna kill him."

  "It won't kill him, but he'll have the mother of all hangovers."

  "But he'll be okay, right?"

  "Do I look like a murderer?"

  Blaze hesitated, then said, "No, you don't look anything at all like any murderer I've seen lately."

  "Actually it's a little more than a gram," Ambrose said. "I crushed eleven of the hundred-milligram tablets."

  "What's in the other paper?"

  "Same thing. Just in case something goes wrong with the first one. But for God's sake, don't give him both!"

  "Don't worry."

  "And you have no fears about Simon Cooke?"

  "None at all. I own him,"

  "You didn't have to do anything with him, did you?"

  "Don't be silly, Ambrose. Can you imagine me in bed with someone like that?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Okay, I guess I'm ready."

  "I'll have the money tomorrow afternoon. Twenty-five thousand. You know, I'm surprised Simon didn't make a demand of good faith. Didn't he ever ask for some money up front to prove our reliability?"

  "I wouldn't have given him any front money. I don't trust him that much. But don't worry. I told you, I own him."

  "You could own a lot of men Blaze," Ambrose said.

  "Wait up tonight, darling," Blaze said. "I'll phone you with a detailed report as soon as I get back to my hotel."

  "Hotel?"

  "Oh, didn't I tell you? Termites. Thirteen hundred bucks a month and I have to cope with termites. We've all had to move out for two days while they fumigate."

  "Which hotel are you in?"

  "That darling little place on Shelter Island. I selected it so I could be close to the sailor hangouts." Then she added, "And close to you. I like being close to you, Ambrose."

  He was touched. He smiled and kissed her lightly, not wanting to smudge her lipstick. But he couldn't resist just touching her lips with the tip of his tongue. Blaze Duvall even tasted young.

  There was more smoke than usual in the Kiwis' favorite barroom. That meant there were more foreigners boozing it up on victory eve. Blaze could hardly breathe until she got past a group in the doorway, all of whom were puffing away. One man was even smoking a cigar, something a Californian rarely saw being done in public these days. Very few of the America's Cup sailors had arrived yet, but there were plenty of regatta fans, those who went out on the pricey spectator boats as well as the big cattle boats that didn't offer all the amenities but could haul a lot of sponsor pals to the racecourse off Point Loma. The non sailing tourists were actually dressed more like photo-op weekend sailors than real weekend sailors. Many wore Polo shirts, longish shorts, and belts patterned with signal flags. Most wore Top-Siders, no socks. Several had sweaters thrown over their shoulders. All very preppie.

  And very few, if any of them, failed to notice the tall girl in the green leather mini when she made her way through the crowd, heading for the bar.

  It was so easy: Blaze just bumped against a burly sailing-stupid sitting on a barstool. When he turned around, she said, "Oh! Sorry. Just trying to get the bartender's attention."

  "Let me help," the man said. He yelled, "Bart! Over here!"

  Blaze said, "White wine, please."

  The man said, "White wine, Bart. On my tab."

  "Thank you," Blaze said. "That wasn't necessary."

  "It's nothing," he said. "By the time tonight's over, I'll be buying drinks for half of New Zealand. One more won't matter. You a Kiwi by any chance?"

  "Afraid not." Blaze smiled.

  "Here, take my stool," he said, getting to his feet.

  "Thank you," Blaze said.

  Men. It was just that easy.

  Fortney finally found her at 8:10 P.M., sitting at the bar, her hair glowing like fire under a taste of overhead light filtered through cigarette smoke. She didn't have the usual Cup sailors swarming her, but Fortney realized that was only because they hadn't arrived yet. The crowd was composed of regatta enthusiasts and hangers-on.

  He didn't go directly to her end of the bar. Instead he got himself a draft beer, then saw he'd waited too long. A mob of twenty sailors came in with half that many cuppies in tow.

  People started yelling greetings from all over the barroom and the place came alive, the crowd swirling and swarming like so many sea snakes. In no time at all the sailors spotted Blaze.

  "Blaze!"

  "Charlie!"

  "Blaze!"

  "Matthew!"

  "Blaze!"

  "Robbie! I saw you on ESPN. Who did your TV makeup?"

  And so it went. Fortney was crestfallen. Blaze was surrounded by ebullient Kiwis as well as several Aussies, who were keeping up a brave front. The Aussies were probably resigned to annihilation tomorrow, but the dueling sailors usually talked about anything but the race.

  Fortney wondered if the regatta was on their minds, or if the same thing was on their minds as was on his: Blaze Duvall. By the time he had another brew, ten of the sailors and Blaze were wedged in a booth designed for six. She was pressed between a huge Aussie and an equally large Kiwi. Fortney noticed that as usual she chatted with everyone, but she often glanced anxiously toward the entrance.

  When he ordered his third pint of draft, Fortney felt more than stupid. This was midlife angst, nothing else could explain it He had about as much chance with this babe as the Aussies had against Black Magic . He was embarrassed. He felt like getting drunk. This kind of childish behavior could lead to another bad marriage if any decent female human being was halfway kind to him.

  He realized how pathetically lonely he'd become since his last divorce, and he felt humiliated. He often wished he'd fathered a kid somewhere along the way, somebody he could be with on lonely evenings like this. Now it was too late.

  When he next looked over at the booth, the huge Kiwi with the albino buzz-cut was moving toward his mates, blocking out Fortney's view of Blaze Duvall and half of the sailors. Fortney decided to have one more beer and go home.

  "Miles'" Blaze cried as the behemoth cruised through the crowd like the Kitty Hawk .

  "Blaze, my love!" He grinned, looming over the table, baring the space where an eyetooth should have been.

  "Aren't we gonna make room for a working man?" Blaze asked the sailors who had her sandwiched.

  They weren't about to move. "We're the bloody galley slaves!" a Kiwi said. "That bloke only has to put the slave ship in the water!"

  "Come on, guys!" Blaze said. "Let's play musical seats and give poor Miles a ch
ance to take a load off! After all, he has the biggest load, doesn't he?"

  After some grumbling and debates about whose turn it was to buy a round, two sailors got up and Miles wedged his wide-body into the booth next to Blaze. He'd just left the boatyard, was only half washed, and reeked.

  But Blaze smiled warmly and said, "How about a drink, big boy?"

  "My usual," he said to a frazzled barmaid with rivers of sweat running down her face.

  The only reason Fortney wasn't off the stool and out of there was that four beers and one tequila shooter on an empty stomach had severely unbalanced his body chemistry. What the hell, he figured, you go this far, might as well stick it in all the way. But while nursing his second tequila shooter he realized that the only one he was screwing was himself.

  Fortney used to work with a black cop named Sleepy Simpson who, every time he figured the world was sticking it to him, would go out and finish the screwing by getting himself shit-faced. Poor old Sleepy suffered from an on-duty head injury he'd got by chasing a Corvette on a police motorcycle, ending up like a pancaked roadkill with half his scalp flapping in the backwash of freeway commuters whizzing by on their way to work.

  Sleepy would go narcoleptic when he'd been boozing it, and if Fortney didn't watch over him, he'd fall asleep behind the wheel. One time Sleepy even left the shotgun on the roof of the patrol unit and drove off. To make matters worse, he never got enough rest because he owned property in Logan Heights and was up half the night doing slumlord collecting. When he finally got so sleepy that he dropped his uniform off at the cleaner's with $350 in the pocket, Sleepy figured that was it. Time to call it quits and apply for a medical pension from the old head injury.

  Well, Fortney didn't have an old injury, wasn't a slumlord, and had about enough cash in his bank account to feed himself and his goldfish as long as they didn't need gourmet fish food. Yet here he was getting even with the world by screwing himself, just like old Sleepy Simpson. Over a woman. A fantasy woman at that. A woman who preferred a big kahuna Kiwi who looked like he ought to be taken to a carwash bathed.