Floaters

by Joseph Wambaugh

  When the big Kiwi went for the wine, Leeds jumped into his space. “Oooops!” he said, purposely bumping that freckled thigh. “Sorry.”

  She turned the smile on him and tried the accent again: “No worries, mate. Which team’re you with?”

  “I’m not,” he said. “But I do work on a boat.”

  Then an Aussie on the other side of her said, “Blaze! Blaze, love! Tell Robbie here what you say when your darts partner knocks yours out of the target.”

  “Fair dinkum, mate!” she replied, and the Aussie sailors roared their approval.

  The huge Kiwi muscled his way back with Blaze’s wine and a mug of draft for himself, saying, “Cheers, love!”

  Leeds tried to think of an opening, but Blaze was playing to the sailors. She said, “See if I have it right. Robbie, you’re a mainsail trimmer, right?”

  A young Aussie with collar-length, sun-bleached hair said, “Right you are, Blaze!”

  “That means you take a scissors and trim off the excess threads, right?”

  After all the guffaws he said, “Hard to do with carbon-fiber sails, but never mind. Carry on!”

  “Okay,” Blaze said, uncrossing those splendid legs and recrossing them in the other direction. “You, Matthew, you’re a pit man, right? That means you take the pits out of the peaches?”

  “Peaches, oh, yes!” Matthew cried, staring directly at Blaze’s perky, candy-striped bosom. Boozy sailors whistled.

  “How about me? Me, Blaze!” the youngest sailor yelled, hoisting a mug of Foster’s.

  “You?” Blaze shot him a sidelong grin. “You, young Wally? You’re on the mainsheets. I guess that means you have to make the beds. Tell me, Wally, do you ever short-sheet the guys just for a lark?”

  Everything Blaze said had the boozy Aussies and Kiwis in hysterics, and they started poking young Wally, who blushed when Blaze puckered her lips at him.

  “Me, Blaze! Me!” sailors yelled.

  The wine was fogging her usually reliable memory. “Let’s see,” she said. “You’re Charlie. And, let me think, you’re a sewer man? That must mean you have to fix the garbage disposal on the boat whenever it gets clogged with Matthew’s peach pits. Correct?”

  “That’s all he’s good for, Blaze!” a sailor yelled. “Tidying up rubbish!”

  She turned to him and said, “You, Tony, you’re a grinder. That must mean you tend to the coffee beans? And serve the coffee and biscuits for lunch.”

  Blaze paused then and aimed one of her long, delicate fingers at a very athletic lad who was nearly as tall as the young one and equally smitten. “Kevin,” she said. “Let me see…”

  “I think I’ve stumped you,” he said. “But have a go!”

  She unfurrowed her brow, grinned, and said, “You’re a…bowman, am I right?”

  “But what’s that mean, Blaze?” he asked. “What job do I do?”

  “You take a bow, of course,” Blaze said. “Every time you beat the Aussies you take a bow!”

  The raucous laughter was interrupted by an Aussie grinder, who said, “They’re not going to beat us, Blaze! No bows for these boys!”

  “Can I bet my dingo on it?” Blaze wanted to know, and the Aussies cheered.

  There was much debate over who got to buy her next glass of wine.

  “My turn. I’m buying,” one sailor said.

  “Not bloody likely!” another said.

  “Steady, lads,” Blaze said. “You wouldn’t wanna get me tipsy so you could take advantage, would you?”

  That brought the loudest cheer yet.

  Like flies on a dead dog. Hopeless. Leeds glumly returned to his partner.

  When he got back, he said to Fortney, “A bit dicey over there, as they say Down Under. Those guys’re more dangerous than fertilizer.”

  “That humongous Kiwi next to her could pick his teeth with the bones of human-size cops,” Fortney added. “Stretch that guy’s T-shirt from bulkhead to bulkhead and it could sleep three.”

  “What a babe!” Leeds took a last forlorn look over his shoulder at Blaze Duvall.

  She turned to the massive Kiwi, saying, “And you, Miles, you don’t really sail on a boat, but you have the most important job. If I remember correctly, you run the crane that puts the boat into the water, right?” Then she reached down and squeezed the Kiwi’s massive shoulder. “Only thing that puzzles me is, why do you need a crane?”

  “She got that right,” Fortney said to his heartsick partner. “With those mitts the guy could go kayaking minus the paddles. And if he did a handstand, he’d leave tracks like a platypus.”

  —

  Another crane operator, this one much smaller than the Kiwi who’d leave platypus tracks, was having a drink in a neighborhood tavern that advertised “semi-live entertainment.” It was one of the last saloons in town where most of the people there smoked, and that’s why he liked it.

  Simon Cooke was thirty-eight years old and had been operating cranes and other heavy equipment since he’d dropped out of high school at the age of sixteen. He smoked like a British rock band and was at least as unhygienic. His fingernails were so filthy, they could only be called Dickensian. His mousy hair was worn in an Elvis pompadour, kept in place by a lube-gunful of gel. Simon drank half a quart of gin every night if he had enough money. He ate anything that could be considered deadly junk food but remained cadaverously thin.

  Simon’s youngest sister, Dab, was very unlike her brother, and had been wedded for the past six months to one of the afterguard sailors on the New Zealand team. She expected to move to Auckland at the conclusion of the America’s Cup regatta and would be glad to see the last of Simon, who was always mooching money that she’d never see repaid.

  After he’d drunk his second gin and tonic and smoked his sixth cigarette, Simon paid the bartender, left a fifty-cent tip, changed his mind, and picked it up again, deciding to make the two-minute drive to the Shelter Island bars, where all the cuppies hung out. Last time he was there one of his brother-in-law’s drunken mates had shared a plate of potato skins and greasy onion rings, washed down by a gallon of Steinlager. Simon started salivating just thinking about a rerun.

  When he got to Shelter Island, he did an eeny-meeny and decided on the joint that looked the least crowded. He parked his battered Ford Escort, entered the restaurant, and was lucky to find a seat at the bar. He looked around at a room full of yachting types and regatta hangers-on but there were no Kiwi sailors that he recognized.

  Simon didn’t notice the overdressed older guy with a neatly trimmed gray mustache who’d entered just behind him and headed for the restroom when Simon ordered a drink.

  —

  In a more crowded barroom directly across Shelter Island Drive, Blaze Duvall was telling the tenth joke of the evening to her assembled fans when her beeper went off. She reached in her purse and checked the number.

  “Okay, mates!” she said to the sailors. “Make way for Doctor Blaze. I’m being paged by the hospital. Emergency surgery.”

  A sailor called out, “What is it, Blaze? Hemorrhoid flare-up?”

  “No, Stewart,” she said. “A circumcision. I’d do one for you, but they tell me there’s not enough to work with!”

  While all the sailors chortled and whacked Stewart on the back over that one, Blaze made her way through the crowd to the public phone and dialed the number on the beeper.

  Ambrose answered on the first ring: “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Across the street. I’ve been following him since he left work. At first I was afraid he was going home, but he didn’t. You better hurry, though. I’m not sure he’ll be here long.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ve met your Kiwi crane man. In fact, I’m pals with half of New Zealand and all of Australia. It’s gonna be hard to get away.”

  “Find out where they’ll be a week from Saturday night,” Ambrose suggested. “That’ll be a good time to cement your friendship with the Kiwi. But Simon
Cooke’s more important. He…”

  Ambrose stopped and quickly turned his back as Simon Cooke walked into the hallway, unbuttoning the fly of his dirty jeans even before he opened the restroom door.

  “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 that,” 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 knew this was too good to be true. “You like sailors, huh?”

  “I like men. Period,” Blaze said with that 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-tim
e. 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.