Harbor Nocturne

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  The three bums looked blankly at the cops and at one another, so Jetsam said, “It’s real easy. We’ll pick a category of questions and we’ll ask you for answers. But you gotta give the answer in the form of the question.”

  Jetsam said, “You’ll get the hang of it. So, Daniel, Spencer, and Jerome, what’ll we choose for our first category?”

  More blank looks. Flotsam said, “I got it. Any of you guys been in the navy?”

  Spencer said, “Army,” but the other two just shook their heads.

  Jetsam said, “Okay, so you’re all equally ignorant about seagoing vessels. Our category is Name the Ships. First question to you, Daniel. This ancient wooden vessel in the Bible was, like, all crammed full of farting, shitting, stinking animals and birds and fleas.”

  Daniel looked like he wanted to just lie down in the parking lot and go to sleep, but Jerome said, “I got it!”

  “No, not your turn, Jerome,” Jetsam said. “How about you, Spencer? Any idea?”

  “Noah’s ark,” Spencer said.

  “Okay,” Flotsam said, “but you gotta give your answer in the form of a question. You gotta say, ‘What is Noah’s ark?’ Get it?”

  “What is Noah’s ark,” Spencer said, lurching again, this time into Daniel, who yapped at him.

  Jetsam said, “Okay, settle down for the next question about a boat or vessel. This ship became the name of a song that a cute little movie star with big dimples used to sing about maybe a hundred years ago, when you guys were in the third grade and probably still sober most of the time.”

  No answers whatsoever, so Jetsam said, “Okay, I’ll give you a hint because you guys are really dumb contestants. The name of the boat in the song is the good ship . . . ? Any guesses?”

  Nothing, except that now all three drunks looked like they wanted to lie down in the parking lot, so Jetsam said, “Lollipop! Goddamnit, the good ship Lollipop! What the fuck’s wrong with you guys?”

  “We’re drunk!” Daniel said.

  “Next question,” Jetsam said. “There was this big humongous boat that, like, crashed into an iceberg and went all swirly before it nose-dived right down the fucking drain. They made a movie outta the story starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, who happens to be a babe I, like, really get off on every time I lay eyes on her.”

  “I know it!” Jerome said.

  “Not your turn, Jerome,” Flotsam said.

  “Why not?” Jerome said. “When’s it my turn?”

  Jetsam said, “Daniel, what’s the name of the big boat?”

  Daniel didn’t have a clue, so Jerome said, “The Titanic.”

  Jetsam shook his head. “You gotta give the answer in the form of a question, so you’re disqualified, Jerome.” Then he stepped in front of Daniel, who was reeling, and said, “Now you try it.”

  Daniel pulled himself together just enough to mumble, “The Titanic.”

  “He’s disqualified too!” Jerome said.

  “Give it in the form of a question!” Jetsam said.

  “Give what?” Daniel mumbled.

  “This is depressing me,” Flotsam said.

  “Wait a minute,” Jetsam said, grabbing Daniel by the shirtfront because the codger was reeling again. “Here’s another one. This ship went to Tahiti and the crew went all, like, titty crazy. And they drank moonshine in their coconut milk, and smoked ganja or something, and, like, danced the hula and boogaloo. And they pulled a big mutiny led by Marlon Brando before he stuffed cotton in his jowls and made people deals they couldn’t refuse.”

  “I know the answer,” Jerome said.

  “Dummy up, Jerome,” Flotsam said.

  Jetsam was getting desperate now, so he said, “Maybe we got the wrong category going here, but I’ll give this thing one more try.” He got in Daniel’s face again and said, “Remember the question about the good ship Lollipop and the little girl actor with the dimples? In fact, her last name almost rhymes with ‘dimple’ and ‘pimple.’ Well, they named a drink after her, and it’s a drink you can find to this day anywhere they serve booze. I gotta believe that a guy like you who’s lived in saloons will know the answer to a goddamn drink question!”

  Daniel said, “A Bloody Mary?”

  “That’s pretty close,” Jetsam answered despondently, “but no cigar.”

  Flotsam said, “Step off, pard. Lemme break it down to him.” The tall cop stood in front of Daniel, whose nose came up to the cop’s badge, and looking down at the old drunk, Flotsam said, “Listen, hobbit, they make this kiddie drink by squirting cherry juice or some red shit into it, and they give it to any brats that happen to be in the gin mill while their parents sit at the bar slapping the shit out of each other and regretting the day they ever got married.”

  Jetsam added, “It’s the drink that can be given to sissies of all ages, for chrissake!”

  Daniel said, “Oh, you mean the Shirley Temple?”

  “Say it like a fucking question!” Flotsam yelled.

  “What is a Shirley Temple?” Daniel cried.

  “Thank you, Daniel!” Jetsam said, patting the geezer’s cheek with his gloved hand.

  “That’s got nothing to do with boats and ships! Take him to jail!” Jerome said.

  “Who the fuck you think sang the song about the good ship Lollipop then?” Flotsam said. “There’s a direct connection with boats here.”

  “It’s your turn now, Jerome,” Jetsam said.

  “About time,” Jerome said.

  Jetsam said, “For a daily double, this Japanese aircraft carrier took more casualties than any Nip ship in the Battle of Midway.”

  “What kinda question is that?” Jerome demanded. “You asked them about ships like Noah’s ark and the Titanic and the good ship Lollipop!”

  “Time’s up,” Jetsam said. “Your answer shoulda been, ‘What is the Kaga?’ Okay, Jerome, get in the backseat. You other two, shuffle off into the night, and may the force be with you.”

  “This is a fucking sham!” Jerome protested. “I was the smartest contestant!”

  But he was taken to Hollywood Station and booked, not for being drunk in public but on the old arrest warrant for an unpaid traffic ticket that he could not remember ever having received. That was because when he’d gotten the ticket, he’d been, as usual, drunk in public.

  Hector Cozzo did not fall asleep until 3:00 a.m., despite the zannies he’d washed down with vodka. He’d received three calls on his cell late in the evening. When he saw that one was from Markov and two from Kim, he knew they wanted a report on his first day of looking for Lita Medina. He did not respond to the calls but, instead, spent the late-night hours devising a plan where he could safely put his demands to them. He was sure that Kim would want to kill him, but they’d pay. They had no choice. Never once, prior to sleep overtaking him, did he doubt that he’d find her the next day at the Babich home in San Pedro.

  NINETEEN

  Hector Cozzo thought he’d better get out of bed early and head for Pedro before they were finished with breakfast at the Babich house. He was half-asleep when he made the drive south on the Harbor Freeway in terrible traffic that got him to San Pedro by 8:45 a.m.

  But by that time, Brigita and Dinko Babich and Lita Medina were already at the Catalina Terminal, preparing to board the Catalina Jet, one of four sleek white catamarans in a fleet of eight, this one a three-decker that could transport 450 passengers to Avalon Harbor at thirty-five knots per hour. It happened to be leaving from Pedro that day rather than from Long Beach or Dana Point.

  “I have much excitement!” Lita said, squeezing Dinko’s hand in both of hers, giddy with the thrill of it.

  “Wanna sit up on the open-air deck?” Dinko asked his mother.

  “That’s for kids like you,” Brigita said. “Not for old broads that just spent an hour with a curling iron.”

  “They advertise a reverse windscreen,” Dinko pointed out.

  “Sure,” Brigita said. “I really wanna see the loose skin on my face blowing for
ward.”

  “I don’t think that’s what it means,” Dinko said with a chuckle, overjoyed to see Lita totally lost in the experience, her troubles forgotten, her lovely face beaming in the morning sunlight.

  “I’ll take the inside airline seats, thank you,” Brigita said. “Besides, the snack bars’re down there. Breakfast was pretty skimpy.”

  “Whatever you like,” Dinko said, glad that he and Lita could then sit topside and snuggle, which they were both uneasy about doing in front of Brigita. “After all, it’s your sixty-six fifty.”

  “That’s your price,” she said. “It’s sixty bucks for seniors, and I’m gonna get my money’s worth in comfort. But you’re buying the lunch, buster.”

  “That’s a deal,” Dinko agreed, and he and Lita climbed to the top deck and found seats.

  When the catamaran’s engines began to rumble, Lita’s eyes widened and he said, “The distance to Catalina is about the same as it is to downtown L.A. Twenty-five miles, more or less. But the trip to downtown L.A. in any kind of traffic takes a lot longer than the one hour we’ll need to fly over the waves.”

  “We shall fly!” Lita said, putting her head on his shoulder and grabbing his arm as though for an anchor.

  And it seemed to Lita Medina that they did fly. The Pacific was calm, and the boat could easily handle its thirty-five-knot cruising speed. They had to speak loudly to hear each other over the rush of wind and the roar of engines.

  While she was gazing out at the approaching island, he kissed her on the cheek and said, “How do you feel? Not seasick, are you?”

  She looked at him with a sparkle in her amber eyes that he had not seen before. “I have very much excitement, Dinko!”

  “You are excited,” he reminded her.

  “I am excited,” she said.

  “You are loved,” he said.

  “I am loved,” she said.

  Where the fuck can they be at this hour of the morning? Hector Cozzo wondered. The garage door had been left open, and the car was gone. One of the residents on the hilly street where the Babich family lived was leaving for work, and he gave Hector a glance before getting into his car and driving away. But a brand-new Mercedes SL, even one with ugly scratches across the hood, even one driven by a man with a mullet haircut, was not the kind of thing that would arouse suspicion.

  Hector didn’t recognize the guy as one of the Italians he’d known on this street when he was a kid. He figured the guy for a Croat, and that was a good thing about being an “ich” or a dago in Pedro. The cops only came in contact with you during landlord-tenant or business disputes. The Croatians and Italians were the landlords, not the tenants, and they were the proprietors of the businesses, not the customers. He supposed that if one of the residents did get suspicious of his car being parked there for hours, he could still come up with enough Italian or Croatian family names to satisfy any cop from Harbor Station.

  After two hours of sitting and waiting, he had to take a leak and was dying for a cup of coffee. He started up the Mercedes and drove down the hill and east, toward the harbor, remembering that when commercial vessels would come to the fuel dock back in the day, the dock manager happened to be a crook who turned back the rollers on the tanks and sold the red maritime fuel in ten-gallon “blister bags” very late at night to any of the locals he could trust. He certainly sold to Hector Cozzo, especially after Hector lied and said he was a cousin of the Italian family whose business checked all of the catches of fish coming into the harbor, and had been doing so before Hector’s father was born, back when most of the fishermen were Italians.

  Passing the Scandinavian Hall, he heard the loudspeakers playing an anthem for one of the Viking countries, and sure enough, he saw the flag of a Danish cargo ship steaming into the harbor. Then he drove straight to Point Fermin and Walker’s Café, a bikers’ hangout where he knew he could get a good cup of coffee and a bite to eat at a reasonable price.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Brigita Babich told Dinko when he suggested motorboating or kayaking around the Catalina coastline. “Next thing you’ll want me to do the zip-line tour and fly around the cliffs clinging to a rope like Tarzan.”

  “No, you gotta book those in advance,” Dinko said. “But how about bike riding?” Then he turned to Lita and asked, “Can you ride a bike?”

  “Of course, Dinko,” Lita said. “I come from Mexico, not from the moon.”

  “Don’t tell me you can play golf, too?” Dinko said.

  Lita said, “No, but I shall learn if you teach me.”

  “Next week,” he said. “You can use Mom’s clubs.”

  “How about if this old lady goes shopping?” Brigita said. “I can stroll around Avalon all day and check out the shops and load up on souvenirs for suckers. You two go ahead and do your bike ride.”

  Dinko and Lita rented mountain bikes and cruised the streets of the little town and then ventured up into the hills on trails. There they could be alone except for groups of hikers, some with backpacks, and the occasional biker returning to Avalon.

  Nature had bestowed scores of endemic plant species on Santa Catalina Island and nowhere else on earth, such as the Catalina ironwood tree, and Saint Catherine’s lace, a blossom that begins its life white in color but changes to light brown during the summer. And they saw the island’s only succulent, a delicate growth with the vainly optimistic name of Catalina live-forever. A wildfire four years earlier had done damage to much of the flora, but scores of native species could still be seen from the trails.

  “They have buffalo on this island,” Dinko told Lita when they stopped for a rest on a hillside overlooking Avalon. When she looked puzzled, he got off his bike and did an impression of a lumbering bison walking slowly along the trail.

  Still seated astride her mountain bike, she hadn’t the faintest idea of what sort of animal he was miming, and she burst into laughter, not stopping until she could hardly catch her breath.

  Her infectious laughter made Dinko start, and they held on to each other, laughing like children. They gradually settled down when he wiped her tears away with his hand, and kissed her left cheek and then her right.

  “You are very silly, Dinko,” Lita said. “You are my silly boy.”

  Their foreheads touched as a cloud shadow passed over the entire twenty-two-mile length of the island, the solar rays momentarily blocked by the gusting alabaster efflorescence directly overhead. Dinko looked up and then back at her and caught a scent of . . . lilac? Was there lilac growing wild here or was it only his imagination?

  “I’m glad the priest couldn’t see us till tomorrow,” Dinko said. “This is a lot more fun than dealing with God stuff, isn’t it?”

  “God is here in this place, Dinko,” Lita said. “Do you not believe this?”

  “You can make me believe anything,” Dinko said. “Would you like to come here for our honeymoon? Or should we go to Guanajuato and be with your family?”

  “Here, Dinko,” she said. “I wish to come to this island with you.”

  “Sure,” he said. “There’s plenty of time later to take you home and meet your family.”

  “Home.” Lita said the word as though it was foreign not just in sound but in meaning. With the vast blue ocean stirring from sea winds, and with the throb of blood singing in their ears, she said, “I am home when you are near to me. And I wish to be home with you for always.”

  At the end of what Lita Medina tried to explain repeatedly to Brigita and Dinko was the most glorious day she’d ever experienced, they decided to stop for a meal before returning to the house. Brigita insisted that she wanted to buy them dinner, so they went to Ante’s Restaurant for some sarma, minced meat wrapped in cabbage, grape, or chard leaves, and cevapcici, more minced meat on a flat bread with onions, sour cream, cottage cheese, and Croatian spices, and the inevitable mostaccioli. By the time they got home, nobody wanted to do anything but sleep. They were laughing and joking about bulging tummies when Dinko parked in the garage and they
walked to the back door of the house.

  None of them saw the man standing across the street, a cigarette cupped in his hand so that the glow did not reveal his presence.

  The man clearly heard Lita Medina say to Brigita and Dinko, “This is the most perfect day of all my life.”

  “In all nineteen years and four months?” Dinko asked, blissfully.

  “Soon will be nineteen years and five months,” Lita said. And then to both of them: “Thank you, thank you, thank you for this day!”

  When they were inside the house, the shadow figure snuffed out the cigarette and walked quickly back to the Mercedes SL parked two blocks away. He never saw the old Italian widower watching him suspiciously from his home across the street from the Babiches. As he started up the car he spotted another black-and-white cruising very slowly by the Babich house, and he thought, Yeah, the cops know all about her seeing Kim with Daisy. The Mexican dancer’s already dimed him.

  After he got home to Encino, his bladder and bowels almost failed him on the front stoop. In the doorjamb was a business card from Detective Albino Villaseñor of Hollywood homicide, with a message on the back. It said, “Call me ASAP.”

  TWENTY

  Sleeping had become nearly impossible for Hector Cozzo. When he did sleep it was fitful, for only thirty minutes at a time, and he dreamed of dancing. It was strange dancing, the kind he’d never done, like movie dancing. He’d have a female partner without a face and then he’d be alone. He’d dance in toward a line of other dancers of both genders and then he’d dance back, always feeling safer when he retreated, because he didn’t really know the dance steps he was supposed to be doing, the way the other faceless dancers did. Each time he awakened the bedsheets were soaked with sweat. In the morning, when he dragged himself out of bed, he was exhausted, and he felt more fear about the plan he’d formulated than he’d ever felt in his life.