One thing was certain; and Ambrose just had to keep reminding himself of it: Neither Peter Blake nor his helmsman and skipper, Russell Coutts, nor anybody else, could win this race in a boat that was not fast enough. Not when the boat that was fast enough lies broken in a heap in a Shelter Island boatyard.
Ambrose let the newspaper fall onto the floor by his feet, feeling a bit light-headed and drowsy. He closed his eyes, hoping for a refreshing little doze. He almost removed his tie but decided against it. For the elegance of a smoking jacket to have an effect, the shirt and tie had to be as neat as it was when one conducted important business.
It was hard to get rid of Simon Cooke, especially after Miles, the giant Kiwi, spotted them in the booth together. Miles strode across the barroom and the crowd fell back as crowds do for extremely large people. He was wearing a black T-shirt in honor of their boat, Black Magic . Below the too-short cuff of his jeans, red socks showed. Red socks were worn by Peter Blake for good luck, and had become the hottest apparel item in New Zealand. Everyone from politicians to nuns was wearing red socks, New Zealand television reported, and that included Border collies and sheep.
Emblazoned in crimson across the front and back of the T-shirt was: BLACK MAGIC RULES THE WAVES. DENNIS CONNER WAIVES THE RULES.
"Hi, Miles!" Blaze said when he reached the table.
"Evening, love," he replied. "Been out on the water to see our lads doing business?"
"Haven't had a chance," she said. "I guess you know Simon Cooke?"
"Taught me how to operate the travel-lift," Miles said, shaking hands halfheartedly with the little man.
"Taught him in less time than a guy'd need to take a shnap," Simon said. "How's it behaving?"
"Right as rain," Miles said. In his paw the beer mug looked like a whiskey glass.
"Well, it's good to see ya," Simon said to Miles, and turned to Blaze as though to resume their conversation.
Miles didn't take the hint. He continued to smile at Blaze, exposing a gap where an eyetooth was missing. His white-blond hair was as short as any boot camp swabbie's.
Blaze said, "Can I buy you a beer Miles?"
Only then did he glance at Simon and say, "I better go join my mates at the bar. Have to keep them out of mischief. Why don't you join us ?"
"In a bit," Blaze said with a smile that made Simon Cooke want to get up and kick that big ape in the balls.
But then of course he'd be on the spot when the leg that did the kicking was torn from his torso and thrown into San Diego harbor.
After Miles was gone, Simon said, "I never liked that guy. Of course I never liked any a the Kiwis, especially"
"The one that married your sister," Blaze said in that way of hers that made Simon's heart flutter.
"Yeah," he said, "especially him."
"How bad has he treated you?" Blaze asked, and signaled to the cocktail waitress again with two fingers up.
"Real rude, the arrogant cocksucker!" Simon said. "Pardon my French. One time I says to him, 'When you and my sis go to New Zealand and have your first kid, I'm gonna come down and visit.' Know what he says to me?"
"What?"
"He says, 'That's a terrifying thought.' I says, 'Why is it a terrifying thought?' He says, 'That you might use our towels' The prick! No offense,"-
"Guys like that should get what's coming," Blaze said.
"I'll say."
"I wonder how he'd like to go back to New Zealand a loser?"
"He won't," Simon said. "They're gonna beat anybody the Yanks throw up against them."
"Not necessarily," Blaze said. "Just think, about it. All the money they've spent? All the months of hard work and sacrifice? All the fame and goodies they think they're gonna get when they go home with the Cup? All of it down the drain if they lose."
"Yeah!" Simon said. "Works for me!"
"Could happen," Blaze said. "If they have to race in their thirty-eight boat. I tell you the thirty-eight just isn't as good as their thirty-two."
"Well, they're gonna race the thirty-two boat," he said, "if that's the fastest one."
"Not if it's outta the water lying on its back like a dead turtle."
"I don't get it."
"Not if it's dropped from a travel-lift!" Blaze said, then lowered her gaze.
Simon didn't respond. He stared at her, and when she looked up with those heart-stopping eyes, he said, "Miles? He's gonna drop the boat?"
"I didn't say that."
"Blaze!" Simon moved his arm away even though she was touching it with those satin fingers. "What's going on here? Are you really writing a story or what?"
"Yes," she said, "but while I've been working on it and doing the research, I've met lots of people. I know a man" She put her hand back on his arm tentatively. He didn't move away, so she said, "Can I trust you? I mean, completely trust you?"
"Sure. Why?"
"I know a man who wants to see that thirty-two boat on the ground . And he's willing to pay for it."
"Who?"
"I can't say who. But I can tell you he's serious."
"But why's he telling this to you?"
"Because I told him that I know you. He understands how the Kiwis run their security. And about things like the travel-lift. He already knows about you."
"About me ? What about me?"
"That your the best crane operator in San Diego. That you taught the Kiwi operator everything he knows about the travel-lift. That you've been crapped on by the Kiwis even though you and your boatyard always treated them real good. I told him that I know you very well because I could see I was talking to a very serious player."
"Player in what?"
"In the America's Cup."
Then Simon's expression changed. His narrow lips widened to a blade and he said, "You were talking to Bill Koch, weren'tcha?"
"I can't say," Blaze replied with a cunning grin of her own.
"I know it was him!" Simon said.
"I really can't, Simon. Please don't ask."
"Or Dennis Conner? You coulda been talking to Dennis Conner?"
"I can't say."
"Anyways, it was one a the two," Simon said. "I, hope it was Koch. I don't think he's got more balls than Conner, but he sure got more money ."
"The point is, the man I talked to is serious."
"You must think I'm dumb," Simon said, and now the crafty look had vanished. He looked hurt.
"Of course I don't!"
"Now I see why you're friendly with that pus-gut Kiwi. You're gonna make him an offer, ain'tcha?"
"You've got it wrong, Simon," Blaze said, "but hold the thought."
The waitress set the drinks down on the table and picked up the empty glasses. When she was gone, Blaze said, "You've got it wrong. I could never trust Miles. I don't even like the Kiwis."
"I seen you playing up to them," Simon said. "You got yourself into something with Koch or Conner, whichever. You got yourself into the America's Cup spy game. That's what you done."
"Is it a mistake?"
"I knew guys around this harbor that did spy jobs during the last America's Cup. Some of 'em got paid good money, some of 'em didn't. It was to take pictures of the keel. I never heard a nobody getting paid to dump a boat out. And I don't think your pal Miles is gonna do it for you." Then he added, "No matter what you promised to do for him."
It was Blaze's turn to look hurt and to pout. She said, "I can't believe you think I'd promise something to that guy! Whadda you think I promised him? My body?"
"I didn't say that."
"I don't sell my body, Simon!"
"I didn't mean that. No offense!"
"What did you mean?"
"I think maybe you got yourself caught up in the spy game and you're gonna be a middleman and maybe offer some money to Miles. That's what I mean."
"To you" she said simply.
"What?"
"To you . I'm in a position to offer the man's money to you . If you do the job just the way you explained it to meon the da
y of Black Magic's last race with oneAustralia."
"This is screwy talk," Simon said. "You drunk or what?"
"Five thousand dollars," she said.
"Screwy talk."
"That's what I told him," Blaze said. "And then he said ten thousand. That's as high as he'll go. He said if you could do it just the way you told it to me, he'd pay ten thousand bucks."
"I told you it's impossible to even get in that yard, Blaze. Jesus, this is crazy!"
"Miles is not gonna be able to go to work on the day of the last race with the Aussies." Now she was gripping his arm, dead-staring him.
For a moment Simon felt afraid of this woman. Then he said, "Leapin' lesbos!" Too astonished to add, "Pardon my French."
"I don't think it'll be too hard," Blaze said. "Just a harmless little something in his beer the night before and he won't be going to work the next morning. Come to think of it, I might need an extra dose. He must go about three hundred pounds, wouldn't you say?"
"You got this idea jist from talking to people for a magazine article?"
"To be honest with you, Simon I've known the anonymous gentleman for a few years. I have a part-time job with a public relations firm downtown, and we handle his account. I've actually dated the man a few times. Nothing serious, but he trusts me."
"Tell me this. Is it Koch or is it Conner?"
"I really can't say."
"It's Koch," Simon said, satisfied. "Smaller balls but bigger bucks."
"Whadda you think, Simon? Interested?"
"I gotta think it over," Simon said. "Man, I never been to jail before except for drunk driving. I gotta think it over. This is heavy."
"You told me they'd never even know the sling was cut."
"I know, but"
"Ten thousand dollars," Blaze said. "Tax free. Cash. How long does it take you to earn that at fifteen bucks an hour?"
"How do you know what I make?"
"He told me what crane operators get paid."
Simon thought for a moment. Then he put on his game face and said, "I suppose you want half of it?"
"Nope," she said. "It's all yours."
"Whadda you get?"
"A chance to be in on something more exciting than anything I've ever done. Think of the story I'll write!"
"Not about me being in on it?"
"Of course not. We're in this together, you and me. But I'll have an angle for a story that won't have to end up in San Diego Magazine . My story'll be in a national magazine. How the Kiwis' bad luck hounds them. How they really lost the Cup due to a simple mechanical failure. The tragedy of New Zealand."
"My job? How about my job?"
"It'll look like an accident. Your boss isn't going to blame you. Does he like the Kiwis?"
"None of us like 'em."
"There you are, then."
"I gotta think it over," Simon Cooke said. "Maybe I oughtta stop drinking and go home and think."
"Good idea," Blaze said. "I'll give you my home phone number."
"You oughtta do some thinking, too," he said. "A kid like you? You don't know people like Koch and Conner. They'll use a kid like you and then they'll dump you."
"I promise," Blaze said, "to think it over, too. But you should think of something else ."
"What's that?"
"Think of the excitement of it! Only three people in the world will know how the Kiwis lost their chance to win the America's Cup. You, me, and Mister Moneybags. Think of how that'll bring us together. Secret sharers. You and me."
"You and me," Simon said. Her green eyes made him woozy.
"We'll be bonded," Blaze said. Then she paused. "Would you like that, Simon? If we were bonded?"
"Leapin' lesbos!" Simon Cooke blurted. "Pardon my French."
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER A "DINNER" OF SHARK TACOS WHILE LISTENING TO A jukebox full of Jimmy Buffett at the little saloon in Quivira, Basin, Fortney and Leeds headed for Shelter Island in Leeds's Chevy Blazer. They had no trouble figuring out which restaurant had most of the Saturday-night actionthe parking lots told the story. You just looked for the one where you couldn't park a moped and wait around for a car to leave.
The moment they got inside, Fortney went to the view window, looked out at the dark water in San Diego harbor, and shivered. Then he headed for the bar, squirmed through the mob of drinkers, and ordered a double scotch.
"Looks like every sailing-stupid in town's here tonight," Leeds said, catching the eye of a saronged waitress with a plastic orchid in her hair. He winked and she smiled.
Both cops wore windbreakers over T-shirts, and both felt like taking their jackets off. The bar was steamy enough to grow orchids from all of the overheated sailboat-sillies milling around a few molecules apart. And the floor was like flypaper from the spillage of sticky exotic drinks the Polynesian motif seemed to demand.
After the cops drank with the other customers for half an hour or so, Fortney said to Leeds, "This guy on the other side of me tells this cuppie next to him he's a good Christian. I said, Where'd you park The Bounty , Fletcher? He didn't get it."
"Neither do I," Leeds said. Then he pointed at a booth. "Ain't that the bulletproof redhead that dissed me last week?"
Fortney fanned away a cloud of cigarette smoke and squinted. You couldn't mistake her, not with that flaming hair tumbling down the way it did, and Wearing a tube top as green as her eyes.
"Goddamn!" he muttered. "She's with that wharf rat again."
Leeds said, "This is unnatural. Who is that guy? And what's he got on her? Maybe she's got vision problems?"
"Maybe olfactory problems;"
"What's that mean? I hate guys that read."
"He's a little bit cleaned up. Probably smells no worse than a cholera epidemic."
"I ain't a detective," Leeds said. "Just a patrolman that drives a boat. You need a detective to figure out this one, partner."
Fortney's eyes had adjusted by then. He studied Blaze and said, "If she comes to the bar I'm buying her a drink."
"You being dissed by a razor-tongue scorpion?"
"I'll risk it," Fortney said. "But she'll probably get mobbed by sailors before I get a chance. That babe's better protected than the California condor."
"Forget her," Leeds said. "Whaddaya think of the cocktail waitress in the sarong? She's into archeology. Digs my bones, unless I'm mistaken."
"That's what you youngsters got that boomers like me lost," Fortney said.
"What's that?"
"High apple-pie-in-the-sky hope."
"Lost it in Nam, huh?"
Fortney said, "All I lost in Nam was two hundred bucks in a crap game one time. I lost my hope for humanity when my first ex-wife got custody of the entire Roy Orbison collection and I got Sonny and Cher."
"Well, you just watch your pard operate," Leeds said, signaling the bartender for another round. "I'll be wearing that orchid behind my ear."
Before Fortney got the second drink down, he saw Blaze Duvall's cadaverous companion get up from the booth and head for the door. Blaze waited a moment, then sashayed toward the bar, through a crowd that still consisted of more wannabes than professional sailors.
But she was quickly approached by three America's Cup sailors whom Fortney recognized as the ones who'd hovered around her the first time. Then a very large guy ballooned through the crowd, the same giant Kiwi he'd seen the first night, the behemoth with the albino buzz-cut.
Leeds saw him, "Top four competition ain't necessarily pretty," he said, "but he's pretty damn big . Give up?"
"That's the same guy from last week."
"Or it's a John Deere tractor wrapped in a black T-shirt."
"Notice something?" Fortney said. "She either hangs around the skanky little wharf rat or that big Kiwi. Even when she's got every guy in the joint swarming like honeybees. Lousy taste in men."
"Then maybe you do have a chance," Leeds said.
"Spread your pecs and save me a place at the bar," Fortney said.
"Wh
ere you going?"
"Down to the other end."
"She won't remember you."
"I'm counting on it. I'm gonna eavesdrop."
"You piss off that big Kiwi, make sure you got cab fare. I'm outta here!"
Fortney leisurely worked his way through the drinkers. When he got ten feet from Miles and Blaze, he turned his back to them, as though he was chatting up one of the many cuppies standing in clusters flirting with sailors. Then he moved right into a clutch of sailboat-sillies who were rehashing the day's surprise setback for Team New Zealand.
He overheard Miles say to Blaze, "We'll not lose another race. You can wager on us and fatten your purse."
"But you did lose today," Blaze said. "I was watching on ESPN and I almost cried."
"By fifteen bloody seconds!" he said. "Our first loss, but it was good for us. Perhaps we were starting to believe our press notices. That we're invincible;"
"Okay, when can I place my bet? What day will you win the Louis Vuitton Cup?"
"Next Thursday, of course," the Kiwi responded. "That'll be our fifth win and we'll close them out. Bet on it."
"Okay, I will," Blaze said, and she made an audible note for herself, saying, "On April twentieth, Black Magic will dominate skipper John Bertrand of oneAustralia. Blaze wins a bet of oh, I might risk seventy-five cents!"
"Wager a few dollars for me," Miles said. "I'll use it to buy you a drink when we celebrate on Thursday night."
Blaze said, "How about Wednesday night? What'll you be doing next Wednesday? The night before you trounce the Aussies?"
"I know what I should do. Go home early and get a good night's sleep so I'll be fit for Thursday's festivities."
"Don't do that!" Blaze said, too quickly.
"What?"
"Don't stay home on Wednesday evening."
The big Kiwi looked puzzled. "Why?"
Wambaugh, Joseph - Floaters Page 11
