Wambaugh, Joseph - Floaters

by Floaters (lit)

  While he was in the bathroom cleaning up and apologizing, she was out the door, running upstairs to number 13. She unlocked the door, rushed into the room, and froze in her tracks. Leaning against the bathroom door was a bearded guy with a stud earring, a vice cop who'd busted her six months earlier. And sitting on the bed with her nine-month-old son, Billy, was Letch Boggs, grinning his rat-tooth grin and cootchy-cooing her baby.

  "He likes Uncle Letch," the old vice cop said.

  Ten minutes later it was Dawn who was on the bed, on her stomach, crying her eyes out. Letch sat beside her, still playing with the baby, who was getting cranky, no longer finding Letch's funny face so amusing.

  "Atta girl, Dawn," Letch said. "Let it all out. You'll feel soooo much better."

  When she sat up, her lips were black from mascara. She dashed into the bathroom and closed the door. The cops heard her retching a couple of times.

  "Needs a pop," Westbrook said. "What's she do, heroin?"

  "Speedballs," Letch said. "This little cub's' gonna be an orphan before long."

  When Dawn emerged, her makeup was gone, making her look like an anorexic high-schooler. Her left eye was badly bruised underneath, and without the lipstick they could see she had a swollen upper lip.

  "I jist left him here a few minutes ago," Dawn said, sobbing. "I jist couldn't find nobody to watch him tonight. My roommate kicked me out all of a sudden."

  "That's a pretty bad shiner," Letch said. "Oliver hit you with his fist or what?"

  "Oliver who?" Dawn said.

  "Any special instructions for the Polinsky Children's Center?" Letch asked.

  "What's that?"

  "The place we're gonna take Baby Snooks to after we book you for child endangering."

  "I only left him for a few minutes!" Dawn wailed.

  "You can tell it to Child Protective Services," Westbrook said. "And we'll tell them how we saw you bring two Johns into a hot-bed motel room. And how this pup was alone for thirty minutes one time and forty-five the next. Left all alone in a motel frequented by hose monsters."

  Dawn Coyote sat on the floor beside the bed and sobbed so violently she could hardly breathe.

  "You're hyperventilating," Westbrook said, worried by her honks of pain. "And I ain't about to give you mouth-to-mouth if you pass out."

  Dawn pulled herself up on her knees and said, "I'll do anything? Want me to do you ? I'll do you both right now!"

  "Get real," Westbrook said, dragging a chair over by the window. "Even Letch ain't that horny." Letch showed his hamster grin and Westbrook added, "Maybe I spoke too soon."

  "I'll do anything!" Dawn said to Letch, who put the gurgling baby on his stomach. The infant had large blue eyes like Dawn's, and he reached out to his mother with chubby little hands.

  But Letch said, "Don't touch him till we deal."

  "Anything!" she said. "Anything you want!"

  "We're gonna make a report. It's gonna tell how Oliver Mantleberry's been working you for the past year, all about how he takes your money and kicks ass when it's not enough. And you're gonna have a telephone conversation with Oliver tomorrow that we'll listen to so we can corroborate the pimping. And you're gonna testify against him in court."

  "He'll kill me!" Dawn said. "You don't understand! He'll kill me!"

  "That part's your problem," Letch said. "I'd advise you to move someplace where he can't find you. Outta town'd be best. Come back to testify. I'll see that nobody bothers you. You try to stiff me and I go straight to Child Protective Services and I get a warrant."

  "Lemme give you somebody else!" Dawn said. She thought for a moment and said, "I can give you this girl does outcall massage. Names Blaze Duvall. Lives in Mission Valley up in the hills. You don't know about her. I'll give her up! She keeps her answering machine in my apartment. I'll let you listen to her calls anytime you want. Lemme give her up instead of Oliver, okay?"

  "You can give her up and Oliver," Westbrook said. "What's her name? Blaze what?"

  Letch said, "We gotta have Oliver Mantleberry. Period. I ain't much concerned with outcall masseuses." Then he switched on his laptop memory and said, "That apartment in the hills? she wouldn't be in number Two-A, would she?"

  "How do you know ?" Dawn gasped. "How could you know that?"

  Letch giggled and nudged the anxious infant into the arms of his mother.

  Westbrook said, "Don't ask. the Shadow, he just know things. The Shadow knows ."

  "Can yu inagine how my life changed?" Ambrose asked Blaze for the third time, if she was counting.

  "I can only guess," she said, deciding not to accept any more wine. she was getting shit-faced.

  "I've travled the world, not as a tourist but as the Keeper of the Cup. I've met kings . Sometime I'll tell you about Princess Anne. She was the loveliest person. Not regal, a real person. I found Prince Rainier to be regal, though."

  She had just enough alcohol boiling in her belly that she was getting irritable, something she tried to avoid with clients. "Let's talk business, ambrose. How about it?"

  "I want to remain Keeper of the Cup," he said. "I don't want it to end yet. Not yet."

  "Thats talking business?"

  She plumped up a throw pillow behind her back. A sofa spring was on the verge of breaking through the fabric. She wanted to go home.

  "Pour yourself another glass," he said. "I'll be right back."

  Against her better judgement she poured half a glass, emptying the second bottle. Blaze figured he'd gone to the can. Guys his age, they were always runing to the can. Prostate problems, they said, as of she didn't know. She'd massaged a lot of prostates in her time. Blaze Duvall fugured she could be a pretty fair urologist if handling prostates had anything to do with it. Most of her clients expressed admiration for her long, graceful fingers. Of course she kept her nails clipped short.

  When Ambrose returned, he had a folder full of papers, photos, and clippings. He opened it on the coffee table.

  "See this," he said, pointing to the newspaper photo of a sailboat crunched on the ground.

  "Yeah?"

  "That's an America's Cup boat. Belonged to the French, who also had problems with their backup boat. That other one lost a keel and rolled over like a harpooned whale."

  "So?" Blaze looked at the photo, then back at Ambrose, who at last had loosened his tie.

  "I don't know for sure who going to the defender, but I know for sure who's going to be the challenger: New Zealand. The Kiwis. and they're the opposite of the French syndicate. All business. Ruthlessly efficient and professional. They've got two fast boats. And no American defender is going to beat one of those-boats."

  "You don't say."

  "The Kiwis have NZL thirty-two and NZL thirty-eight. In nineteen eighty-seven they won thirty-eight victories to only one defeat through the trials, yet they ended up losing, four races to one to Dennis Conner in Stars and Stripes . In ninety-two the Kiwis were one win away from the challenger trophy, yet they lost four straight to the Italians. This time they're hungry and they vow it won't happen."

  "Okay, Ambrose," Blaze said, her patience gone. "Our business deal has something to do with the America's Cup. What the hell is it?"

  "It's this. The Kiwis' thirty-two boat is better, much better than their thirty-eight boat. The defender will have no chance against the thirty-two boat. But we'd have a chance, a good chance in my opinion, against the thirty-eight boat. I've done my homework. I'm well-enough connected to have gathered good intelligence. I feel in my gut that the thirty-eight boat can be beaten."

  "And what do you expect me to do? Exactly what?"

  "I want you to help me. It's not personally risky, mind you, but I want nothing less than the destruction of the thirty-two boat. They'll have to race the thirty-eight in the finals. I think our defender can beat the thirty-eight."

  "And how would I be able to help you wreck a boat?" Blaze asked. The guy was loony! A loony old geek whose life revolved around a dumb trophy.

  "The Kiw
is have seven people in their syndicate who they call designers," Ambrose continued. "Sail and hull designers, appendage designers who crafted their keel, and analytical designers, They have a meteorologist. They stop at nothing to ensure that all the people in their syndicate are loyal, dependable, dedicated. They even brought their own crane operator with them."

  Despite her cynicism, Blaze was getting slightly interested. He looked so serious, and he was cold sober, unlike her. "They must have security people guarding those boats," she said.

  "The Italians had fifteen last time. And a dozen TV monitors. Even dogs. The Kiwis have only two men, but they're police officers. Real police officers. Brought them all the way from Auckland on leave from the New Zealand Police. They're well protected in their compound."

  "I hope you're not going to say you think I can get to one of them ?"

  "Impossible," Ambrose said. "Those people have national pride in winning the Cup that Americans can't even imagine. Auckland's called the City of Sails because they have more sailboats than cars. There's half an hour of live coverage on their major television channel every night during the challenger trials alone. But there's a weak spot in their program. In every program. A boat can simply be dropped when it's being lifted in or out of the water, and the lifting happens almost every day. Their boat can be dropped just like the French boat was dropped. They're loaded into the water in basically the same fashion, either by crane or by travel-lift. A crane operator can make a mistake. It happened to the French, it can happen to the Kiwis."

  "I'm not much at operating cranes," Blaze said. She felt like saying the only machines she could work were electric: a toothbrush and a dildo, which she used on her clients, not on herself. Instead she added, "You want to bribe the guy that does the lifting, is that it?"

  Ambrose smiled. "You truly are a bright young woman, Blaze. You're on the right track."

  "What? Tell me, Ambrose!"

  "I want to incapacitate the New Zealand crane operator who runs the travel-lift. I want it to happen on the last day of the challenger trials when they're racing the Aussies. When they're on the verge of finishing off the competition. They'll have to replace their man without notice. They'll be forced to turn to the boatyard they rent their space from."

  Blaze tried to keep her mouth shut. This guy was so anal, he had to get around to everything in his own time, but she had to ask. "Do you know the boatyard guy?"

  Ambrose nodded. "There're three crane operators working there, but one of them is the brother of an American woman who's married to a Kiwi sailor. He'll be the one they'll go to on such short notice because his brother-in-law's a New Zealander and because he's very experienced and worked for racing syndicates in the last America's Cup regatta. I used to be a client of that boatyard. He's hauled out my sailboat many times. I know that man will be the one who gets the job."

  "You're saying that something's gonna happen to the New Zealand crane operator."

  "Yes."

  "Like what?"

  "I'd like you to meet him. I know where he and all the Kiwis will be this Thursday evening. Where they are every Thursday evening: at the AC/DC party."

  "What's that?"

  "The America's Cup Drinking Club. A different bar in town hosts a party once a week. Nobody knows where it'll be until the morning of the party, when the organizer sends a fax to each syndicate. The crane operator will be there, and if you accept my proposition you'll be there, too. He'll leap at the chance to have a drink with a girl like you. Who wouldn't?"

  "And then?"

  "Nothing yet . You have drinks. You get acquainted. You become friends. The important thing is, you'll also be wherever he is the night before they're to clinch the challenger series."

  "What would I do to incapacitate him?"

  "You'll put some medication in his Steinlager."

  "In his what?"

  "It's the New Zealand beer that sponsors them. Their holy water. They all drink it. The drug is something I've kept since my mother's last days. It won't do him any real harm, but he won't be in shape to go up on a travel-lift the next morning. The Kiwis will be panicked. They'll have to call for help."

  "You plan to bribe the substitute crane guy, is that it?"

  "I'm hoping you'll take care of that. That's what the business proposition is all about. Making a deal with Simon Cooke, the crane operator."

  "Why me?"

  "I know Simon Cooke. Loves women, loves to drink, loves to go to Tijuana and gamble on the jai alai. Loves to talk. He's a perfect candidate to make a deal with a beautiful girl. After he gets to trust you."

  "Wait a minute!" Blaze said, more soberly. "You want me to get next to this guy Simon? And get to know him? I think I know what that means. And then ask if he'll drop the New Zealand boat? Drop it on the ground?" She sat up, staring at the picture of the French sloop with its keel poking through the hull.

  "Yes," Ambrose said. "For ten thousand dollars. That's a lot of tax-free cash for a guy who makes fifteen dollars an hour. I know he'll do it."

  "How many jobs can he get after he drops a boat?"

  "He'll think of something to blame it on. An excuse as to why it wasn't his fault. Nobody can ever prove anything when things, like that happen."

  "Why don't you make the guy the offer?"

  "I don't dare get anywhere near this. Do you know what would happen to me if I got connected to a plot to sabotage a challenger's boat?"

  "Yeah," Blaze said. "Same thing that'd happen to me. You'd go to jail."

  "That's the least of it," Ambrose said. "My reputationmy lifewould be . . .gone . I don't like to think about it. No, I can't be directly linked to Simon Cooke. Nobody must ever know about me."

  "And what do I get outta this business proposition?"

  "Just about everything I have in the world," Ambrose Lutterworth said. "Fifteen thousand dollars. My life savings. My annuity, you might say. You get it all, if you persuade Simon Cooke to do it. And if he does it."

  "And you get"

  "The Cup. I get to be Keeper of the Cup for another four years at least. Who knows? Maybe for a lot longer."

  "This is pretty nutty," Blaze said. "I gotta think about this."

  "There isn't much time," Ambrose said. "The last race between the Kiwis and the Aussies is only three weeks away. There's a lot to do before then."

  Blaze said, "Let's say I could give the New Zealand guy his sleeping pill. How do you know for sure they'd call Simon Cooke instead of somebody else? And what if he weasels out? What do I get for trying?"

  "You'll get five thousand, whether or not Simon bites. Whether or not he does the job. You know all about me now. You can trust me just as I'll have to trust you. I know Simon won't turn you down. I've done my homework, Blaze. This will work !"

  "Why'd you pick me, Ambrose?"

  "I've been waiting," he said, "for misfortune to strike the Kiwis like it's struck everyone else. A boat has been dropped. Another sunk. A keel fell off after being hit by a rogue wave. A mini-tornado even struck one of the compounds. An aircraft carrier almost cruised into the racecourse one foggy day. But nothing happens to the goddamn New Zealand boats! I can't afford to wait any longer. Something has to be done. The idea came to me a few days ago."

  "Why ?"

  "Because," he said, "you're smart and beautiful and discreet. And you're the only person I knowthe only person I've ever known in my entire lifewho works outside the law."

  "What I do is a misdemeanor if I'm caught," she said. "What you're suggesting is a heavy-duty felony."

  "It's only a matter of degree," he said. "There's nobody else in my life who can do it."

  "I'm going to sleep on it," she said. "And I get five hundred for tonight. Right?"

  "Of course. But I was wondering."

  "Wondering what?"

  "If you could give me a quick massage?"

  "Okay," Blaze said. "In the bedroom?"

  "Did you bring the warming cream?" Ambrose wanted to know.

  Ten mi
nutes later Ambrose Lutterworth was lying naked on the two large beach towels that Blaze Duvall had spread on his queen-size bed. She was standing beside the bed, squeezing some Icy Hot on her palms. She was naked except for Mack bikini panties. Blaze smiled professionally when she spread the cream over his buttocks, kneading the muscles gently.

  "That's wonderful, Blaze!" he said. "Just wonderful! You have splendid hands!"

  Blaze glanced into her bag, fearing she'd forgotten the condoms, but no, a package was lying there, along with the toys that clients requested: a feather for tickling their balls, a vibrating dildo for rectal stimulation. Toys.

  "Turn over, darling," she said, trying to speed things up so she could go home and think.

  "No, I don't need it this time," Ambrose said. "Just rub on some more cream, please."

  So at least she wouldn't have to blow the crazy old bastard.

  While she was rubbing in the Icy Hot, careful to avoid tender tissue, he said, "Blaze, move the lamp a bit to the right, please."

  She did it and saw that he wanted light shining on a framed photo on his dresser. In the photo Ambrose was standing by a sunny foreign harbor with a young woman in a white dress.

  "Cap d'Antibes," he explained. "She was just a girl I saw by the waterfront and I asked if she'd pose for a picture with me. Are you at all familiar with the South of France?"

  "No," Blaze said, working his right buttock so strenuously that he grunted in delight, finding her as sultry as a cheetahrubbing, purring, blowing her warm breath on him.

  Then he said, "It's between Nice and Cannes. After I got the picture taken I went up to my hotel room and sunbathed nude on the balcony. No problem if the people across the courtyard could see me. In the South of France nobody worries about such things." Then he said, "Blaze, I'd like to turn on my side, but please don't stop."