Wambaugh, Joseph - Floaters

by Floaters (lit)

"Because I'm busy all next week except Wednesday. It's the only night I'll be free."

  "And?"

  "And I wanted to be with all the lads and hoist a Steinlager or two since I won't be able to join you on Thursday."

  "Well, I'll try to make myself available," Miles said. "But if I can't"

  Blaze put her hand on his arm then, and Fortney saw her stroking his massive bicep. She said, "Miles, please . I'll meet you across the street where we met the first time. Let's have a drink together, maybe a bite to eat. Just you and me. Whadda you say?"

  He clearly couldn't believe it. "Just you and me?"

  "I'll buy the steaks. You like steak, don't you?"

  "Bloody well right I do!" He looked at her hand on his arm.

  "I'll buy you the whole cow ," she said. "Be there at eight o'clock, Wednesday night."

  "Count on it, love," he said. "Count on it."

  "See you then," she said, grabbing her purse.

  "Steady on," he said. "Where're you going? It's early."

  "It's my mother," Blaze said. "She fell and broke her hip last week. I told her I'd only be out for a couple of hours. My aunt's coming to stay at the end of next week, then I'll have more free time."

  "But you're okay for Wednesday night?"

  "Wednesday night," Blaze said. "I'll give you my pager number in case anything should make you late."

  "I'll be there!" the Kiwi said, grinning like a sea monster.

  Fortney battled his way back across the barroom and was next to Leeds when he saw the fiery hair disappear through the doorway. His partner was being lectured by a pair of earnest yupsters about the life-threatening danger of eating butter.

  Leeds said to them, "I don't know if I can stop. I been doing it all my life. Maybe someday they'll come up with a patch for it?"

  She rang his doorbell at 11:10 P.M., awakening him from a sound sleep in his Chippendale chair, snug in the smoking jacket. Ambrose felt spittle on his chin and hastily wiped it off. He inspected his shirtfront, but it was dry and unwrinkled. It made him feel like an old man. Snoozing with saliva running down his chin.

  When he opened the door he said, "How'd it go?"

  She didn't answer but shot him a teasing smile. She walked past him straight to the sofa, where she dropped her blue duffel in case he wanted a massage. "How'd it go?" he repeated hopefully.

  "May I have a glass of wine first?"

  "Of course," he said, dashing to the kitchen to get a bottle of chardonnay. His hands shook when he manipulated the corkscrew. He came back into the living room with the wine in a bucket and two stemmed glasses.

  He thought she looked lovely in that green tube top. Her body was so firm, her smile so dazzling. It made him feel sad. And old.

  After pouring, he said, "Don't torment me, Blaze."

  She chuckled and said, "It's been my experience that most men- all menlike a bit of torment from a woman. When they're in the mood."

  "Please, Blaze!."

  "He'll do it," she said.

  "Thank God!" Ambrose sat down heavily in the Chippendale. "Are you sure ?"

  "As sure as I can be without having him say yes and sign a contract. He's taken the bait, the hook, all of it. And he's not gonna spit it out."

  "Tell me about it. I want to hear it all!"

  "It's so late, darling," Blaze said, Stirling a yawn. "Can't I tell you in the bedroom? I brought everything with me. I thought you might need some relaxation. Some relief . I know how much tension you've been under. It must've been awful, just waiting. No control over any of it. Just awful for a man who needs order and control."

  Then Ambrose Lutterworth's eyes swam with tears of relief. He turned away. This young womana girl reallyunderstood him. She was sensitive to his feelings in a way that no one had ever been. If he'd met someone like Blaze when he was still young, he wouldn't have remained a bachelor. And bachelorhood was growing so heavy now in his sixty-fourth year. He pawed at his eyes clumsily.

  Blaze stood up slowly, walked to the Chippendale, and knelt in front of him. "There, there," she said. "There, there, Ambrose."

  She held his face in her hands and kissed him under both eyes, then pulled back and tasted the salty drops with the tip of her tongue. "It's going to be all right," she said. "You have my word."

  He was too overcome to speak. She took his wineglass and put it on the coffee table. Then she held him by the hand, urging him to follow. She picked up her duffel, and, still holding his hand, led him like a child into his bedroom.

  She insisted on undressing him and he didn't object. She carefully removed his smoking jacket, his rep necktie, and his shirt. She opened his closet and hung the necktie on the tie rack and the smoking jacket on a hanger. She folded the cotton shirt and placed it on a nearby chair. And then she nudged him and he sat down on the bed.

  She dropped to her knees and removed his monogrammed slippers, placing them precisely side by side at the foot of his bed, just as he would have done. Then she unbuttoned his cotton trousers and carefully unzipped the fly and pulled them off his legs, hanging them upside down in the closet, on a clip hanger, by the cuffs. He couldn't have done it better.

  Only after she'd slipped off his paisley cotton under-shorts and deposited them on the chair with his shirt, did she undress herself.

  Ambrose Lutterworth said nothing. He just lay naked on the silk bedspread, in the lamplight, and watched Blaze peel off the tight jeans and tube top. As usual, she didn't remove her black bikini panties unless requested.

  Then Blaze reached into her duffel and began preparing her accouterments, spreading the two large terry towels on the bed and gently rolling him over onto his stomach. She reached into the bag and said, "Powder or oil?"

  "Powder, I think," Ambrose said.

  "Powder, of course," Blaze said.

  And in a moment he felt baby powder being sprinkled on his back and buttocks. Those hands, those magnificent hands, began slipping over him, sliding gently and silkily over the powdered flesh.

  Blaze sat astride him and worked his buttocks and back, leaning down to whisper, "Powder is the right choice for tonight. You've been through so much this past week. But tonight you're safe . Blaze has fixed everything. The mere aroma of powder will unlock old memories, old sensations deep within you. You can be a baby again. Tonight, you can be my baby."

  Her voice was hypnotic. He closed his eyes and whimpered when she leaned down to brush his cheeks with her lips. Ambrose could smell the sweet aroma of wine and the baby powder. She'd never been so tender with him. No one ever had. Ambrose Lutterworth thought he could love this young woman.

  Then Blaze turned off the lamp because Ambrose was a client who had difficulty if a light was on. She said to him, "Should I tell you now what happened tonight or shall I tell you later?"

  "Perhaps later," he said. "This is so exquisite!"

  But Blaze Duvall said, "Maybe I should give you the bottom line now. You might be too sleepy afterward."

  "All right then," he said, "but please don't stop moving your hands."

  She smiled. "I won't, my darling." Then she said, "It was just like you said it would be. Simon Cooke's a greedy little man. And he was very interested when I told him about my anonymous friend who was willing to pay ten thousand dollars to destroy the New Zealand boat."

  "Is he sure he can get the job?"

  "Of course. He claims he's the best crane operator in San Diego. He's certainly the most experienced in his boatyard. And, of course, there's the connection with his brother-in-law. They'll go straight to their landlord and he'll go to Simon. You were right."

  He shuddered when she squeezed his shoulders and worked them hard. Then he said, "Did he demand to know who your contact is?"

  Blaze laughed and said, "He's convinced it's Bill Koch or Dennis Conner."

  That made Ambrose laugh, too. "That's the first chuckle I've had in days."

  "You're feeling better already, aren't you?" Blaze moved her fingers down his buttocks between his legs, t
hen added, "I can feel you are."

  "And was he scared?" Ambrose asked. "I mean, when it came to the business of drugging the New Zealand crane operator? Didn't it frighten him?"

  "Not a bit," Blaze said. "You're a good judge of men, Ambrose. He's only interested in money."

  Ambrose Lutterworth smiled dreamily when he felt her doing things down there. He said, "I'm a good judge of women, too. I chose you and you've saved me. I'm not going to forget what you've done for me, Blaze."

  "I care for you, Ambrose," Blaze said. "And when the Kiwi boat is destroyed by Simon, I'd love to go to dinner with you. Someplace romantic."

  "After the Cup has been successfully defended," Ambrose added. "We'll still have to beat their thirty-eight boat, won't we?"

  "Yes, after that. After Dennis Conner or Bill Koch beats the Kiwis, we'll celebrate."

  "I promise you an evening you won't forget. Do you like champagne? We'll have champagne the likes of which you've never tasted."

  "It's a date," Blaze said. "Would you like to turn over now, darling?"

  When Ambrose Lutterworth rolled over onto his back, Blaze said, "My, my! We are happy now, aren't we?"

  And then Ambrose pleased her by saying, "Perhaps we should finish quickly, Blaze. We've both had such a stressful evening; I'm so sleepy."

  "Good idea," Blaze said, thinking she might even be home in bed by 1:00 A.M. She wondered if Dawn would arrive before daybreak.

  When she took the pack of condoms from her bag, Ambrose opened his eyes and said, "I've never asked you, but just this once? Just for me, can we dispense with that?"

  Blaze said, "I think so."

  "You're the only woman I've been intimate with for it least three years," he said. "I know you've got to be careful these days, but really I'm safe, and"

  "Hush!" Blaze said. "It's okay, Ambrose. I know I don't need a condom with you. We're bonded now. We're secret sharers. Would you like being bonded to me?"

  "Yes, Blaze," he said. "Oh, yes!"

  "We don't want anything to come between us," she whispered. "Not a layer of latex. Nothing."

  "No, Blaze!" he said, his excitement growing.

  "Now, Ambrose?" she asked. "Would you like it now?"

  "Oh, yes," he said. "Without the condom I'll really feel your lips and your tongue. And will you ?"

  "Yes, I will, Ambrose," Blaze said. "Just lie back and relax."

  Before she began the blow job, she reached into the duffel to return the pack of condoms. And when she did, she pushed the pause button on the cassette recorder. She already had far more than she needed.

  "I ain't quite sure I could ever be comfortable in a bed like that," Letch Boggs remarked to Westbrook.

  The bearded vice cop was wearing a muscle tank top, but for evening wear he'd changed his stud earring to a loop. "It'd be kinda hard to turn over," Westbrook said, agreeing with Letch's assessment.

  The bed was a surplus army cot in the Normal Heights bedroom of a very abnormal hooker. There were metal eye-bolts on each side of the bed at the head and at the foot, and blue steel handcuffs dangled from each of the four bolts.

  Two S&M hookers were sitting handcuffed together in the second bedroom, listlessly answering the questions of two other vice cops and Officer Rita Mason, who was still in hooker mufti. Rita had operated a John who'd introduced one of her undercover partners as his cousin from Bakersfield to the pair of S&M hookers. For that bit of cooperation the John, who'd been caught soliciting prostitution from Rita Mason, won a get-out-of-jail card. He got to go home with no record made of his naughty encounter.

  Rita Mason was counting the days. Sixteen more and her tour in Vice was over, then she could take a long, hot bath-no, make that two bathsput on her uniform, and go back to patrol, where people might hate her and even scare her but didn't turn her stomach as horribly as those she'd met while in Vice.

  She sauntered into the back bedroom, where Letch and Westbrook were examining the setup. There were two velvet paintings of naked women on the walls, a rusty cattle prod propped in the corner, and a Mexican bull-whip draped across a low-hanging iron chandelier that had surely been bought in Tijuana. The walls were painted red. The door and door frame were done in black lacquer.

  "Look at all this," Letch said, when Rita entered the make-believe torture chamber.

  What the Freudian implications might be, Rita couldn't imagine. Anyway, the three-inch heels on her plastic boots were killing her. Feet were all she could think about.

  "My ankles hurt!" Rita said. "Why don't men like to score with women in sensible shoes?"

  "You could wear anything with me, Rita," Letch said, leering at her. "Or you could"

  "Yeah, yeah," she said. Jesus! She could smell him across the room. Like tear gas! And his aloha shirt had a Day-Glo Rorschach pattern that could only be described as brutal. "Why don't you change the batteries in that goddamn shirt? It's so full of violence it oughtta be restricted to major motion pictures. And rated!"

  "Look!" Westbrook said, picking up a Ping-Pong paddle and ball from the nightstand, where they lay next to a hot-water bottle and a catheter.

  "They play Ping-Pong?" Rita asked.

  "This is a golf ball!" Westbrook said.

  "What do they do with a golf ball?" Rita asked. Then she noticed that Letch's disgusting leer turned even leerier and said, "Never mind."

  "You notice there's only one paddle?" Letch said. "The Johns never return the serve."

  "Go wash your hands, Westbrook!" Rita said. "Kee-rist! Where that golf ball's been? You're as perverted as Letch!"

  "If you can't pound it in his coal chute on the first two strokes, do you think it's considered a double fault?" Letch wanted to know.

  "I hate this job!" Rita said. "Tonight a twelve-year-old on a skateboard propositioned me! I should've slapped him silly!"

  Letch really didn't mind what Rita or any of the female cops thought of him, as long as they thought of him. He was really going to miss this buxom girl, that's for sure. Then he remembered something he'd been meaning to ask her.

  He closed the door and said, "Remember that skinny hooker, Dawn Coyote? If you happen to see her out there tonight, lemme know. Come Monday morning she better have her bony ass outta town."

  Rita said, "Yeah, I meant to tell youa guy in a white Jag was asking about her tonight. Talked to two girls working my corner. They told him they hadn't seen her for days."

  "A brother?" Letch asked. "Big dude with a shaved head and a Fu Manchu?"

  "Yeah."

  "She's probably left town already," Westbrook said to Letch.

  "She better have," the old vice cop said. "Monday morning we serve the warrant."

  Just then Westbrook's electronic beeper went off and Letch said to Rita, "Is that your diaphragm squeaking?"

  "Catch you later," Rita said, eager to go back to the boulevard for air.

  "We could meet for a cup of coffee after work," Letch suggested.

  Rita said, "I'd rather swallow fish bones."

  Letch said sadly, "Okay. See ya."

  Rita said, "Only for two more weeks. After that, the only time I'll see you is if they're desperate for a pallbearer."

  Dawn Coyote was tired, as tired as she'd ever been in her young life. Hiding out from Oliver Mantleberry had taken a toll and she needed some speedball bad . She wanted to go to Blaze's apartment and sleep for twelve hours, but she couldn't leave Midway Drive just yet. The girls were chumming and the Johns were in a feeding frenzy. She'd already done four sailors and three older civilians at forty dollars a date, with no end in sight.

  When Dawn was crossing Rosecrans at 10:50 P.M., she spotted a very likely John in a blue Lexus ogling as he made a quick turn onto Midway, planning to turn around and come back. Dawn was too busy smiling at the guy to notice the crack in the sidewalk. Her stiletto heel caught and she pitched forward.

  She fell on her right hip, rolling over and grabbing her ankle. The pain shot straight to her knee and beyond, a very bad sprain. She'd
committed a street whore's venial sin: Watching the potential date instead of where she was walking.

  Painfully getting to her feet, she limped toward a phone stand and called her connection, Rudolph, scared he wouldn't answer this late.

  He picked up. "Yeeeees?"

  "It's Dawn. I gotta see you."

  "It's too late. How about tomorrow?"

  "No. Now . I'll pay an extra twenty."

  "Where are you?"

  "Midway and Rosecrans. But I ain't staying here. I hurt my ankle. I'll drive to you."

  "No way. I'll come to you, but not on the street. You still living at the same place?"

  "I moved," she said. "How about meeting me some-wheres? Anywhere. There's this bar I know."

  "No bar," he said. "No street corner. No public place. If you don't have an address, sorry. We can't do business tonight. Maybe tomorrow, Dawn."

  "But we did business on the street lots a times!"

  "No more," he said. "Not this late, anyways."

  "Rudolph, wait!" she cried. "I got an address! Jist for tonight I'm staying with a girlfriend. I'll see you there in one hour. Got a pencil?"

  Her connection wrote down the address and the number on the security gate, saying he'd be there in one hour. When he hung up, he dialed the beeper number of Oliver Mantleberry, who'd promised him a hundred bucks for the information.

  What the fuck, Rudolph figured. Dawn was leaving town anyway, according to Oliver. She'd never be a customer again. What the fuck.

  When Blaze Duvall pulled into her subterranean parking garage, it was nearly midnight and dead quiet. She didn't like coming home this late, especially to the parking garage. It was protected by a security gate, but still

  Yet she was sure it was probably safer than the courtyard gate one floor up. The courtyard accessed the entire apartment complex and the "security" consisted of an eight-foot metal fence and a walk-in gate. Not wrought iron, just black aluminum painted to look like iron.