Wambaugh, Joseph - Floaters

by Floaters (lit)

  "What's happened?" Blaze asked. "What's going on?"

  Silence. Then in a whisper: "It's him! He just passed me on his way to the restroom. He's wearing a filthy blue sweatshirt. On the short side and scrawny. Dirty hair with gel all over it. He'll be on the right end of the bar as you enter. Hurry!"

  "How old is he?"

  "Hard for me to judge anymore. About forty or so."

  "Gimme a few minutes to make a Saturday date with my other crane operator," Blaze said. "Have the bartender give him a drink."

  "I can't risk this man seeing me," Ambrose said. "If he leaves I'll follow him to his next stop and call your beeper again."

  Ambrose was away from the telephone by the time Simon Cooke emerged from the restroom, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The crane operator reached in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He looked at it sadly. His last .

  It wasn't exactly a coincidence that Leeds and Fortney were leaving at the same time as Blaze Duvall. Leeds was still miffed by her lack of interest, but Fortney said they might as well go across the street to eat because there was no hope of getting a plateful of anything unfermented in this joint. Besides, he wanted to see if she looked as good when she was on her feet.

  "She does," he said when he and Leeds followed her down the stairs.

  "I'm still too steamed to look," Leeds said, but he did, even more intently than Fortney. "She ain't the best thing I've seen all year."

  "You lie," Fortney said. "How you lie."

  "Too many freckles."

  "Yeah, of course. How could I have been so foolish not to notice."

  When they got to the street, they were surprised to see that she didn't head for the parking lot. Walking across Shelter Island Drive, she had to dodge cars driven by guys who jumped on their brakes for the tall redhead in white shorts.

  "She's going to the same place we are!" said Fortney. "Wanna try again or are you in too much of a snit?"

  "My needs moved up my body," Leeds said. "I'd rather eat. Besides, she prefers slobs. That Kiwi was so fat you coulda shot him a whole bunch a times and never hit anything important."

  "I'm glad you got over her," Fortney said. "I think she must have at least two grams of cellulite on her thighs. Did you notice it when you were giving her the twice-over?"

  "Those sailors?" Leeds said. "They were handing out business cards like a bunch a Japs. Maybe I oughtta start handing out business cards."

  The cops opened the door to the slightly less crowded Shelter Island restaurant. Fortney glanced around at the stained-glass windows, fake teak flooring, nautical artifacts, potted greenery, and teak veneer on wooden handrails. He said, "A person could OD on the teaky-tacky decor. Death by fern and colored glass. Let's sit down and sample their version of potato skins Gothic."

  The cops had to wait ten minutes for a table and lost sight of Blaze Duvall when she squeezed through the crowd at the bar, getting next to a little guy in a blue sweatshirt. When they were being seated they couldn't see her initiate a conversation with the guy who suddenly looked like he'd just hit five straight Lotto picks. And they weren't paying attention at all when she and the guy got up from the bar.

  They only spotted the redhead with the amazing body when she and the guy, who had all the markings of a lowlife wharf rat, passed their table on the way to a booth.

  Leeds dropped his fork melodramatically when he overheard Blaze say, "So tell me, Simon, whadda you do for a living?"

  "I don't believe it!" Leeds said to Fortney. "She prefers that dirtbag with moo goo gai pan on his hair?"

  "Look at his nicotine fingers," Fortney said. "Guy smokes like a maternity-ward waiting room."

  "This can't be!" Leeds said.

  Fortney said, "Don't let it ruin your appetite, Junior. When you get to be my age, life is just food and drink and lots of bed rest Everything else is footnotes."

  "I don't get it!" Leeds said, after Simon Cooke and Blaze were seated. "Will you just look at the dude? He's dribbling and drooling on her shoulder! And Holy shit!"

  That made the older Aussie couple at the nearest table turn sharply toward the two cops, the man saying, "Steady on, mate."

  "What'd he do, grope her?" Fortney asked.

  "No, but she paid the waitress for their drinks!"

  "Could be we're not dressed right," Fortney said, starting on his salad while Leeds continued gawking. "Sure, he looks like the troll that guards the bridge, but he's wearing socks under those run-over moccasins. You and me, we're stylin', so we don't wear socks. Maybe she likes guys in socks."

  Leeds turned to Fortney and said, "Partner, he ain't wearing socks. His ankles're so filthy, they match his slimy sweatshirt!"

  Fortney was truly more amazed by the redhead's choice than amused by his partner's response to it. He squinted across the room he was too vain to wear glasses and said, "Some babes love vinegar douches. Whatever floats your boat."

  Leeds replied sadly, "A scuzzball like that gets to skizzle those freckles off? The babe's gotta be tacky as wet paint. I'm gonna put her outta my mind."

  Fortney noticed the plates being brought to the couple at the next table and said, "This joint serves food you should send to our forensics lab."

  Before Fortney and Leeds had finished their fish and chips, Blaze was bidding a fond farewell to Simon Cooke, who was crushed that she was going home after only two drinks. Drinks that she had bought.

  "Can't you stay awhile longer, Blaze?" Simon begged. "Maybe you'd like to go across the street and meet my brother-in-law? He'll introduce you to the New Zealand sailing team."

  "Been there, done trial," Blaze said. "I've already met Auckland and Wellington. And a week from Saturday I expect to meet the rest of the island nation."

  Simon Cooke just thought this was too good to be true. "You like sailors, huh?"

  "I like men . Period," Blaze said with dial grin again.

  Simon's spirits soared. "Don't go home yet," he pleaded. "Me, I can sail better than my brother-in-law. You think just because a guy's sucked his way on to a sailing team he's a real sailor? All he knows is how to crank a winch. A goddamn organ grinder could do what he does, Listen, I can borrow my boss's boat on Sunday and take you sailing!"

  "Tell you what, Simon," Blaze said "Why don't you meet me a week from Saturday night? That'll be a lay day when they're not sailing."

  "Where'll I find you?"

  "Just look for the Kiwis. I promised the boys I'd hunt them down and challenge them to a darts game, and I always keep my promises."

  Simon was getting cranky. He needed a smoke in the worst way, but it was another goddamn nonsmoking joint. The town was full of fascist smoke police. And he needed another drink. But at the moment he wanted Blaze more than both of his addictions. He'd never in his life had a woman like this come on to him.

  "Blaze," he said bleakly, " you sure you're gonna be there that night? Where the Kiwis are?"

  "Sure I'm sure," she said; "I'll tell you a secret. I'm hoping to write an article and sell it to San Diego Magazine about what the challengers do on their off time. But when you see me a week from Saturday night, I don't want you to mention it to anyone, not even your brother-in-law. It might make them guarded around me."

  Simon was ecstatic to be taken into her confidence. "Him? I can't stand the cocky bastard! You a freelancer?"

  "You can say that again," she said.

  "Does it pay good?" he asked. "Freelancing?"

  "It's just part-time. I also do public relations for one of the defender syndicates."

  "Yeah, which one?"

  "I'd rather not say till I get to know you better."

  "Yeah? Why the secrecy?"

  "Can I really trust you, Simon?"

  "Of course, Blaze!" Simon scooted closer and she hid a wince when a plume of stale sweat hit her.

  "Well, my boss wouldn't mind if I learned a few of the Kiwis' secrets. You know, about their keel and tactics? Stuff like that. Intelligence, you might say."

  "I'll
be damned!" His grin exposed a row of small brown teeth. "You're kind of a spy for a syndicate!"

  "Not a spy," she said. "But if I could learn a few secrets "

  "I'll find you a week from Saturday night!" he said. "If there's anything I can do to help, you can count on me. I'd love to see the Kiwis get beat so my sister'd stop crowing about how her husband's team's gonna kick ass and take names. I get sick a that shit!"

  She stood. "A week from Saturday night, then? Can I buy you another round?" She dropped a five-dollar bill on the table.

  "You shouldn't do that," he said, but he let her do that.

  Blaze wiggled her fingers back at him while walking away. She wasn't halfway across the restaurant when he picked up the five and slipped it in his pocket.

  When Blaze was passing the table where Fortney and Leeds were sitting, the boozy young cop couldn't contain himself He said to her, " Tell me you know that guy from somewhere! He's your dog walker, am I right? You're just discussing his wages, am I right?"

  Blaze paused and looked quizzically at Leeds, then remembered him from the other saloon as the nonsailor who had tried to put a move on her.

  She eyed his hands wrapped around the beer glass. His left was deeply tanned except for a white band of flesh on his ring finger.

  Blaze said to him, "You better put your wedding ring back on before you forget and go home like that. I'm sure you only married her to keep her from testifying, am I right?"

  Then she grinned, winked at Fortney, and strolled toward the door in those white shorts and that candy-striped little tee.

  Leeds was speechless, staring at his naked left ring finger.

  Fortney said, "If that babe isn't a cop, she oughtta be. I'd ask her to become my third wife instantly. No prenuptials. Nothing. I'd give that girl my Jet Ski!"

  The vice cops promised they wouldn't arrest Oliver Mantleberry until Dawn had time to settle her affairs and go. There was no question of her staying in San Diego, not after Oliver found out she'd agreed to work with the cops and had made a transcribed phone call where Oliver had reassured her that she was his top bitch but demanded to know why she couldn't catch as many dates as Alice, his bottom bitch. When she'd asked if she could cash her welfare check he'd said, Fuck, no. He'd cash it like he always did.

  Listening to that had made Letch Boggs break into an extra-big rat-tooth grin.

  Her baby. At least Billy was safe with her mom and sister in L.A., and the cops promised they'd keep her mom's address a secret. That's where she was going temporarily. Then she was going to get a job and clean herself up. She'd told that to the vice cops. They'd said sure.

  And they said when she got her own apartment she should check in with her mother twice every day in case her subpoena arrived. Dawn had asked the vice cops, What do you take me for? I'll be going there every day to check up on the baby! The vice cops said, Sure .

  Most of Dawn's belongings were boxed and ready to go even if she wasn't. Her clothesexcept for those she used in her businesswere already at her mother's house, where they'd remain until she found an apartment in West Hollywood. That'd be a good location for her, West Hollywood. Close to Sunset Boulevard, where she could turn a few dates until she found a straight job and cleaned herself up

  She couldn't just white-knuckle it, could she? She'd need to be in a neighborhood like West Hollywood where she could get speedballs. How could she turn dates without speedballs? But only until she got on her feet.

  A knock at the door. Not Oliver's knock. He kind of scratched at the door like a dog. And he seldom stopped by, thinking it was safer to meet away from his place and hers. And he never came by this late. If it was Blaze, she'd knock' four times, pause, and knock again. No, this knock sounded like somebody who expected, demanded , admittance; It was either her landlady or a cop.

  When she looked through the peephole her heart went icy. She opened the door for Letch Boggs, who leered at her with those scary rat teeth.

  God! Maybe he came expecting her to do him? A friendly little half-and-half before you go away, Dawn? For auld lang syne or something? God!

  "Hi, Mister Boggs," she said warily. "Where's your sidekick?"

  "Working alone tonight," he said. "I work alone whenever it ain't dangerous. You ain't dangerous, are you?"

  He did want to get laid. She just knew it.

  "I'm almost ready to call a mover," Dawn said. "Maybe in a week or ten days?"

  "Won't need much of a truck. This all you got?"

  "My clothes're already at my mom's. At the address in L.A. I gave you. You probably checked it out, huh?"

  "Of course," he said. "We don't wanna lose you."

  Letch Boggs was dressed pretty much like he always dressed, in one of those Hawaiian shirtsthis one a bright yellowwhich hung over his belly outside his pants so it would cover up the gun and handcuffs. Most of the vice cops she knew wore jeans or Dockers, but this old dork wore those wide-wale corduroy pants that her father had had on the last time she'd ever seen him, when he abandoned his wife and three kids and was never heard from again.

  "I wouldn't try to bum you . Mister Boggs," she said.

  "Sure," he said, "but I couldn't just turn you loose up there in that big bad city without knowing how to find little Billy. Love that kid. So cute, just like his mom."

  Here it comes! Take your clothes off, Mom. And get on the bed for a quick one before the movers take it away.

  But Letch Boggs only said, "You got money?"

  "About enough for gas."

  He handed her a fifty-dollar bill and said, "This is my personal money. Pay it back when you return for Oliver's court date." .

  "Thanks," she said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  "While I'm here, you can do something for me."

  "Uh-huh," she said, hoping he'd settle for a fast head job. She didn't want this smelly old creep inside her.

  "Show me the answering machine that belongs to your pal, Blaze Duvall."

  "I thought you said you weren't interested in Blaze."

  "Never know when information like that might come in handy."

  "You said you'd settle for Oliver," Dawn reminded him.

  "I didn't say I was gonna try to make a case on Blaze, did I? I just wanna know who's working and who ain't. I just want to keep up."

  "Well, that's her answering machine," Dawn said, pointing to the machine on the sink counter. "I pay both phone bills and she pays me back." "How long you been knowing her?" Letch asked, walking over to the machine and pushing the message check. Blaze's voice came on and said, "Please leave a message after the beep." Nothing more.

  "I got busted with her back in, let's see, about eight years ago when I first came to San Diego. I was a seventeen-year-old runaway. Blaze is five or six years older than me."

  "Did she work the streets with you?"

  "I wasn't on the streets then. We both worked in this massage parlor. Some old-time hooker named Serenity owned the place. She taught me how to give massages. Sort of."

  "Serenity Jones?" Letch said. "I know her."

  "Yeah, well, after Serenity got busted along with four of us girls, she went outta business. Like, I did out-call for a while, but then I started messing with crystal meth. Then I went to jail two more times. Then I started doing heroin. Then I went to jail for ninety days. Then I started working the streets. Then I started doing speed-balls. Then I got knocked up and go, Fuck it! I'm having the baby. Then I met Oliver. And here I am."

  "And Blaze?"

  "I don't think she ever got busted after that first time. She's real smart. Just stuck with outcall massage."

  "When she was booked with you that time, what name did she use? Blaze Duvall's gotta be a humbug name."

  "I ain't sure," Dawn said. "Back then I was dumb enough to give my real name, Jane Kelly. I don't know what name Blaze used."

  "I'll check your old arrest report," Letch said.

  "I thought you said Oliver was enough for you? Why you gotta fuck-over Blaze?"

/>   Letch said. "I didn't say I was gonna fuck-over her."

  "She's gonna come by next week and get her machine. And I'm gonna say good-bye to her. And, like, I'd hate to think you're gonna work a case on her. She's been good to me."

  "Don't worry about it," he said.

  "And remember, I need ten days to close my business here. You can't arrest Oliver till then! Promise?"

  "Give your papoose a kiss for Uncle Letch," the vice cop said, walking toward the door.

  "That's all?" Dawn Coyote said. "That's it?"

  "Yeah, that's it," Letch said. "What else you expect?"

  "Nothing," Dawn said. It was the first time she ever smiled at him. "Thanks, Mister Boggs. Thanks for not busting me and taking my baby away. And thanks for the fifty bucks."

  When she opened the door, the garden patio down below was dark and quiet. Even though there were eighty-three units in the building there was seldom any foot traffic after ten at night. Only the walk lights were on.

  Letch stood on the second floor with his hand on the railing, facing the waiflike hooker. "I was you, Dawn," he said, "I'd go into treatment. You need at least sixty days in a drug facility." Then he started walking.

  "I'm gonna clean up, Mister Boggs!" Dawn Coyote called after him. "You'll see!"

  Letch Boggs descended the stairs and walked slowly toward his vice car parked on the street He passed an alcove by the community swimming pool. Inside the alcove was a machine that dispensed candy, pretzels, and potato chips, and beside it were machines for soda pop and ice.

  Stooped against the wall in the shadow cast by the soda machine was a tall black man. He wore a collarless, long-sleeved jersey that hugged his muscular torso. His head was shaved, but he had a heavy, droopy black mustache, along with a toothbrush patch of hair under his lower lip.. He stared up at Dawn Coyote's door.

  He'd changed his mind about visiting her to see if her flu was better and she was ready to work, or if she was just shining him about the flu, the lazy bitch. Instead he walked directly to his white Jaguar parked in the alley.