“How do you know he’s a boatyard guy?” Letch wanted to know. “He tell you where he works?”
“When you’re around the water you get to know,” Fortney said. “He looks like a boatyard worker to me. Anyway, he was there again last night and I talked to him.”
Leeds looked hurt, saying to Fortney, “You never tell me nothing. Michael Jackson has more meaningful conversations with Bubbles the chimp.”
“What’d you talk to him about?” Anne asked.
“About Blaze Duvall. Of course, I didn’t know her last name then.”
“Why’d you talk about her?”
“You ever seen her?”
“Once,” Anne said.
“Then you know,” Fortney said.
“I should’ve figured,” Anne said. “So what did the guy have to say?”
“Claimed he knew her real well. Sort of hinted they were real tight, the lying dirtbag.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“When you see him you won’t believe it either,” Fortney said.
“My partner had a thing for her,” Leeds explained to Anne. “But she was a freak-show fan. She liked big ugly Kiwis and smelly little wharf rats. Fortney can’t handle it.”
When Leeds said “smelly,” he glanced at Letch Boggs. What Fortney had told him about the guy was true.
“So now I get it,” Letch said. “Mick here has himself a crush on a murdered masseuse and figures he knows who killed her. I saw this once before in an old black-and-white movie called Laura. Well, sorry, folks, but a pimp named Oliver Mantleberry killed her. Just like he killed another hooker named Dawn Coyote.”
“Not just like,” Anne reminded him.
“So he didn’t have his knife with him last night,” Letch said. “He probably tossed it in the bay the night before.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Letch,” Fortney said. “I’m not trying to tell her about homicides. And I’m not trying to tell you about hookers. What do I know? I just drive a boat.”
“You’re entitled to an opinion,” Anne said.
“All I can say is, a streetwise pimp isn’t gonna drop a body in a little channel under the north Ingraham Street bridge, seems to me.”
“Who would drop a body there?” Anne Zorn wanted to know. “Got an opinion on that?”
Fortney said, “Someone not streetwise. A geek, not some brother that’s already offed another babe before doing this one.”
“Where do I find the New Zealand sailors?” Anne asked. “I don’t know diddly about America’s Cup sailboat racing.”
“Nobody does,” Leeds said. “The rules’re harder to follow than a Mafia hit man.”
“So where’s New Zealand’s headquarters?”
“Shelter Island,” Fortney said, “but it’s best to catch them at their unofficial headquarters. They’ll be there for sure tonight because today they just sunk the Aussies and won the Louis Vuitton Cup. That means they get to challenge for the big one.”
“I don’t understand all that sailing crap,” Letch said.
“Nobody does,” Leeds said. “It’s about as exciting as a cricket match between Argentina and Western Samoa.”
Fortney said, “It means they’ll be powering down the brews tonight. Meet me at seven o’clock and I guarantee we’ll find you the big Kiwi and the little germ. You tell me if you can understand her taste in men.”
“Got anything better to do tonight, Letch?” Anne Zorn asked the skeptical vice cop.
“This is a waste,” Letch said. “Oliver Mantleberry could be in Hong Kong by now, getting measured for a cashmere sport coat.”
—
By the time Ambrose woke up it was late afternoon. For a moment, a wonderful moment, he thought it had all been a dream. The moment didn’t last.
He dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the shower. He didn’t want to look at his face in the mirror, but he had to shave. After showering he tried it, discovering that it was possible to shave without looking at one’s own eyes. He held the little mustache trimmer in both hands, almost growing accustomed to the tremor. He was beginning to feel as if he’d never had steady hands.
There was a new, very startling change: He was numb. It wasn’t the kind of numbness that one might associate with excessive drinking or drug use. He was truly numb. He felt as though his heart had stopped pumping. He actually put his hand there to reassure himself. And he wasn’t frightened anymore, wasn’t particularly sad or even depressed. He was just numb.
When he got up the courage to look at his eyes, he saw that they’d sunk. His cheekbones jutted under the lusterless eyes of a very old man.
Ambrose Lutterworth dressed by rote. He knew what to do. He’d been doing it properly all his life. But he took no pride, no satisfaction when he chose the correct necktie, a university stripe: navy and silver white. It’d look fine with a blue blazer, but any fool would know that. And he chose a blue pinpoint shirt with a straight collar. What could be simpler? Then gray slacks and oxblood loafers.
He wondered how long one could live in this numbed state. Would his taste buds be numb? Could he work? Could he do his job as a Point Loma realtor when everything about him was absolutely numb?
By the time he arrived at his office, there was only one other agent there, Helen Keys. He’d known Helen for ten years, when she’d started there right after her divorce. She’d had to begin working again, trying to earn a living along with an army of part-time local realtors in the same situation.
He’d even dated her a few times last year. She’d been a pleasant dinner companion and she was attractive, but he’d known at once that there could never be anything sexual between them. Today it seemed strange to think that he’d recently felt the need for sexual experience. He couldn’t imagine it now. He couldn’t imagine ever again wanting a sexual encounter.
When he thought of Blaze Duvall, he was not overcome with sadness or remorse. This was a great improvement. He was numb.
“Hello, stranger,” Helen said to him.
“Hello, Helen,” he said, thinking, Why do people call other people stranger when they haven’t seen them for a while? Is it to instill guilt that you haven’t been attentive enough? Guilt wouldn’t work on him anymore. It didn’t work on numb people.
“I haven’t seen you around lately,” she said. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine,” Ambrose said.
“Well, I guess there really isn’t much point in coming around here,” she said. “It’s been dead.”
“Dead,” Ambrose said. “Yes. Dead.”
“If business doesn’t pick up soon, I’m going to have to hunt for a rich husband,” Helen said, looking at Ambrose hopefully.
“Shouldn’t be hard for you,” he said, and he felt himself smile.
“You look a bit tired, Ambrose,” Helen said. “Are you sure you’re not catching something?”
“Possibly,” he said. “There’s a virus going around.”
“You’re probably keeping late hours with the ladies,” Helen said coquettishly.
Ambrose knew that Helen had hoped their relationship would develop, but he’d never tried to encourage her. Today he didn’t know what to say. He just smiled. He knew he was smiling now. He could feel his face muscles contract.
“You just look tired,” she repeated.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Uh-oh,” Helen said, when she spotted a pair of middle-aged looky-loos reading the real-estate ads in the window. “I’ve got floor time today, but I have to get home. My daughter’s bringing the grandkids over. Would you be a doll and take care of them if they come in?”
“Sure,” Ambrose said, knowing that he was still smiling. “You have a nice day.”
Helen grabbed her purse and kissed her fingertips, patting them on his forehead. Then she ran out the back door to the parking lot.
Ambrose sat there and waited for the looky-loos. They opened the door diffidently. The man, who was dressed regatta-casual, popped hi
s head in and said, “Still open?”
“Come in,” Ambrose said.
The woman was wearing a new sweatshirt with AMERICA’S CUP ’95 emblazoned across the back above a silk-screened racing sloop heeling in the wind.
“Hoping to find out if you have anything in our price range,” the man said. “Down from Oregon. Here for the regatta. Fell in love with San Diego. Don’t know if we can afford it, though.”
“Love to have a condo here,” his wife said.
She was an overweight redhead, but not with fiery hair like Blaze Duvall’s. Of course, he’d seen Blaze naked and knew she wasn’t a true redhead. Still, her beauty salon had always done a wonderful job with her hair. Yes, wonderful.
“Don’t know if we came too late in the day for a look-see,” the man said.
How curious, Ambrose thought. Their speech was utterly devoid of pronouns, just like that of former President Bush.
He tried it himself: “Love to show you a few condos. Don’t know if you’ll like them. Won’t know till we look.”
They didn’t catch on. They didn’t smile at all. Ambrose wondered if they were numb, too.
The man said, “Don’t wanna see anything like the house we heard about from friends on the spectator boat. Heard a big real-estate developer leased a house for thirty thousand a month just for the America’s Cup races. Heard he spent a hundred thousand just to light his paintings.”
“Heard they were museum quality,” his wife said. “Wonder if you know the place?”
“Saw it after he moved in,” Ambrose mimicked. “Had no taste, none at all. Horrible lighting. Made the Monets and Picassos look like a pile of shit.”
Suddenly he wasn’t numb anymore. He looked at their startled expressions and started to snicker. In a moment he was giggling. Then he was guffawing.
After that he was laughing hysterically. Tears streamed down his face. He had to fold his arms on his desk and bury his face. When he stopped, the looky-loos were gone.
Ambrose Lutterworth was struck with overwhelming sadness. He wasn’t numb anymore.
—
When they finished up late that afternoon, Leeds said to Fortney, “You can handle this one on your own. I go to bars to drink and pick up women, not to look for murder suspects.”
“You pissed off at me?”
“I think it’s pretty weird you didn’t mention you saw that woman last night. I mean, what’d you think I’d do? Suspect you killed her or something?”
“I was just shocked, is all,” Fortney said. “Since I saw her down there in the water, I’ve been in a state of shock. I wasn’t thinking about last night.”
“You wouldn’t even tell me where you were last night.”
“That was the hangover. I felt miserable. I’m still miserable and my day isn’t over yet.”
“There’s such a thing as being too tight-lipped. It’s insulting, is what it is.”
“I’m sorry,” Fortney said. “You want the truth?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
“I was embarrassed to say I saw her last night. That I went out looking for her.”
“You went looking for her?”
“Letch got it right without even trying. I did kinda have the hots for her. Sorta. But before she was dead, not afterwards like the cop in the movie. I was ashamed to tell you I actually went looking for her. Pretty sick, huh?”
Thinking it over, Leeds said, “Hell, I wish I had a dime for every bimbo I went looking for.”
“Sure you don’t wanna come tonight?”
“I better run along home,” Leeds said. “That way I can get away with pub crawling tomorrow night. Anyways, I agree with Letch. That pimp’s the one who strangled that babe.” Then he added, “What a waste of pussy!”
—
Letch and Anne had a pretty good head start on Fortney, having consumed an order of potato skins and six oysters on the half shell by the time Fortney drove his Honda Civic into the parking lot. Letch was bummed that they didn’t have any garlic cloves, but he was on his third mug of beer, and Anne had drunk two margaritas by the time Fortney walked in.
Letch waved when he saw Fortney looking for them in the growing crowd of Kiwi celebrants.
Anne checked him out: sweatshirt, jeans with the roomy fit, deck shoes, no socks. Predictable.
Fortney shot a peek at her legs before he sat. Her skirt had hiked up, but she caught him gawking and pulled it down.
“Place is filling up already,” Fortney said. “I guarantee a full-moon crowd in less than an hour. Howling Kiwis.”
“How’s the food here?” Anne asked.
Fortney looked at the empty plates and said, “Looks like you found out.”
“No, I mean in the dining room. Not pub grub.”
“It’s okay,” Fortney said.
“I’m almost a vegetarian,” Anne said. “And I can’t find an affordable restaurant in San Diego that serves any veggies except cauliflower and broccoli. If I could ever get a side order of green beans or spinach I’d stand up and cheer.”
“I agree,” Letch said, belching. “You ever try eating garlic on cauliflower?”
“Far as I’m concerned, cauliflower’s the Bob Dole of vegetables,” Fortney said.
Letch chugalugged, wiped his mouth on his shoulder, and said, “Mick, remember that little cowboy joint where we used to get the ribs?”
“Yeah,” Fortney said. “As charming as an ER. Made you wonder who hosed down all the blood and body parts on Sunday morning. Remember the time the drunken cook pulled a knife on his boss? I jump up and point my piece but he won’t drop it. Then Letch sticks his fingers in his own ears. And the guy sees him and throws down the knife and puts his hands up.”
“Works every time,” Letch said. Then to Anne, “Mick worked Vice with me back in, was it seventy-nine?”
“Seventy-eight,” Fortney said. “I was young and impressionable, but not enough to wear Hawaiian shirts and eat garlic.”
“That’s your first name?” Anne asked. “Mick?”
“Everybody calls me Fortney,” he replied.
“Quick Mick!” Letch said with a boozy chuckle.
“Why’s he call you Quick Mick?” Anne wanted to know.
Fortney laser-stared Letch, but the vice cop grinned and said, “One night we had young Mick working the massage joints. So he goes into this Korean massage parlor—”
“Is this necessary?” Fortney glared.
Anne had enough tequila in her to say, “I wanna hear!”
“So he goes in posing as a customer,” Letch continued. “And he has this pocket wire. And we’re listening out in the van. And Mick takes off his clothes and hangs them on a hook—”
“This is not necessary,” Fortney said.
“—and the pocket wire’s working real good for once,” Letch said. “And we hear this little gook come in and say, ‘Oooooooh, you wanneee rub?’ And Mick here, he says, ‘Sure.’ And she says, ‘Ooooooooooh, you wannee numbah one rub?’ And Mick here says—”
“Somebody shoulda shot you a long time ago,” Fortney said. “Any halfway compassionate juror would vote to acquit.”
“Go on, Letch!” Anne cried, wearing a salt mustache from the margarita.
“And they agree on twenty bucks and she starts the massage. And we hear our boy here go, ‘Ow wow wow!’ And she says, ‘You like?’ And he says, ‘Ow wow wow!’ ”
Fortney yelled to the cocktail waitress, “A double scotch! And bring my pals another round.”
“Then what, Letch?” Anne asked eagerly.
“Then Mick here goes ‘Wow! Wow! Wow!’ And the gook masseuse goes, ‘Ooooooh, you quick! You velly quiiiiick!’ Mick comes out hoping the pocket wire don’t work. But we all grab the corners of our eyes and draw them up and say, ‘Oooooooh! You quiiiiiick. You quick, Mick!’ ”
Letch collapsed onto the table and Anne had to put her hand over her mouth to suppress her own giggles. Fortney looked around the barroom hoping to spot the big Kiwi or the
boatyard termite—anything to save him from further misery.
When they quieted down, Letch said to Fortney, “You ain’t the only one with a handle. Know what they call her? Anne of a Thousand Names. She gets married every other payday.”
Fortney grinned and said, “Tell me about it.”
But Anne turned serious and said, “I gotta go to the john. Save my chair. Or don’t.”
While she was gone, Fortney bought a round for three young marines at a nearby table. They all had identifying whitewall haircuts and one wore a T-shirt that said: JOIN THE MARINES, SEE THE WORLD, MEET INTERESTING PEOPLE AND THEN KILL THEM.
Fortney said to Letch, “When I was in the corps our T-shirts used to say ‘Kill a Commie for Mommy.’ ”
“Now we sell the commies Pepsi and multicolored condoms,” Letch said. “It’s a crazy world.”
The waitress brought another round and Letch said to her, “Bring me a double scotch next time, honey. And you might put some garlic powder in it. What kind a kitchen don’t have garlic cloves, I’d like to know.”
The cocktail waitress replied, “Garlic makes gas. Ginseng root makes virility.”
Shaken by the waitress’s quick read, Letch said to Fortney, “You down to sleeping with anatomically correct inflatable bimbos these days?”
“There’s a Warren Beatty inside me dying to get out,” Fortney said. “But I’m still recovering financially from number-two divorce.”
“Yeah, I know how it is,” Letch said. “I was married to this flight stew for a while. Had a few too many air miles on her, but, oh, could she stir your beverage.”
Anne returned then and was half impressed that Fortney sort of raised up in his chair. But then he looked at Letch to see if he was being a pussy. Just like every cop she’d dated or married—scared that acting like a gentleman was effeminate.
“I won’t call you Anne of a Thousand Names,” Fortney said, “if you don’t call me Quick Mick.”
“I won’t call you anything,” Anne said. “We’re here to interview witnesses.”
Well, fuck her! Fortney thought. She can dish it out, but she can’t take it. No wonder everybody divorces her.
Letch said, “I’m glad my job don’t take me around Mission Bay. I’d OD on all the Speedo and Sideout T-shirts with matching trunks. And all the Guess sunglasses. Don’t you get sick of it, Mick? Everybody posing?”
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