Floaters

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Fortney tried a shoulder holster underneath the coat, then took it off. He tried a belt holster but didn’t like that either. Technically they were sailing into uncharted waters with possible murder suspects, but a gun ruined the shape of the coat, so he left it at home.

  Later Fortney couldn’t believe how nervous he was when he gave his name to the parking attendant at the kiosk entrance to the San Diego Yacht Club.

  The attendant checked a roster and said, “You’re a guest of Mister Page? Okay, sir. Park anywhere on the water side of the lot.”

  Fortney saw that he was right on time—seven o’clock on the nose—but Anne was already waiting for him on the veranda. He didn’t bother locking the Honda Civic and jogged up to the steps.

  She smiled shyly when he said, “You look fabulous!” and opened her jacket to show off the strapless dress.

  “Wow!” Fortney said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Anne said. “You look very fetching as well.”

  “I think this evening was a good idea.”

  “I’m not putting in for overtime,” Anne said. “I’m treating this as a date. No obligation on your part, mind you.”

  “Let’s find Murray Page,” he said, suddenly feeling cotton-mouthed and awkward.

  It wasn’t hard to locate the bar; they just followed the noise. Everybody was revved up at the prospect of a racing weekend that involved all three defender boats battling it out—it meant more parties.

  A slender, good-looking fellow about Fortney’s age, wearing a tailor-made teal blazer, approached and shook hands.

  Fortney said, “This is Murray Page. Murray, Anne Zorn.”

  “Hi, Anne,” the man said. “I worked Northern with Mick in eighty. Or was it eighty-one?”

  “Eighty-one,” Fortney said. “Murray’s a personal-injury lawyer now.”

  “Traded an honest job for a less honest one,” the lawyer said. “But now I have time to sail. More than a hobby—it’s almost my life.”

  “Thanks for inviting us,” Anne said.

  “I couldn’t say no to old Mick. Said you need a crash course on the America’s Cup.”

  He took Anne’s arm and led the two cops away from the barroom to a corridor lined with black-and-white photos of past commodores, then into the trophy room to the glass cube that housed the Cup.

  “There it is,” he said. “Ugly, isn’t it?”

  “In a cute sort of way,” Anne said. “We’re just nosing around tonight. Our murder victim was possibly connected with somebody in the sailing community. That’s about all we know, but we’re trying to learn.”

  “I don’t need to know the details,” the lawyer said. “I’m just glad to help my old gang members.”

  “We wanna see what this regatta’s all about,” Anne said.

  “If you find out, let me know,” Murray Page said. “Do you know how the defender races work?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, all three American defenders are racing one another over the weekend, and on Monday maybe. Young America races Bill Koch’s Mighty Mary. Then Young America races Dennis Conner’s Stars and Stripes on Sunday. Stars and Stripes races Mighty Mary on Monday if Young America beats Conner. If Conner loses both races, there’s a three-way tie at the end. Dennis has the worst record in the semis, so the other two would have a sail-off. Get it?”

  “Sure I get it,” Anne said. “Sure.”

  “Let’s party,” the lawyer said. “I’ll introduce you around.”

  Murray Page walked them past the bar and out onto the rear patio, which faced the marina and the channel. To Anne, the boats looked much larger up close like this. There were sailboats and motor yachts of every description.

  The lawyer said, “We’re going to a little party on one of the demitasse boats.”

  “What’s that?” Fortney asked.

  “They’re huge sailing yachts. Demitasse, like fine china. Here for the regatta. Some came all the way from Europe through the Panama Canal. I’ve seen them with swimming pools and grand pianos, not to mention full-time crews that include a chef. They have their own demitasse races, these rich people, these extremely rich people. The kind of people that call their skipper and say, Take the boat to Monte Carlo for a party on July the third.”

  “Got any clients like that, Murray?” Fortney asked.

  “I wish,” the lawyer said. “All I get is Harley riders with skull fractures. But it pays the bills.”

  After leading his guests down to the boat docks and some huge yachts, Murray Page said, “That one is the scene of the crime for tonight.”

  Eyrun was the largest sailing yacht that Fortney had ever seen and he had to stop to take it in. The mast looked taller than downtown police headquarters. The hull was cherry red, and the sun setting beyond Point Loma reflected red light back up on the mainsail, which had been left up for effect.

  “Spectacular,” Fortney said.

  Murray Page said, “State-of-the-art. About a hundred and forty feet. Electric winches, computer-operated sails of Kevlar and carbon fiber. Teak throughout. Twin diesel. How much? Maybe fifteen million. I’ve heard the master charters her out for fifty grand a day. That doesn’t include the beer, of course.”

  “Maybe we oughtta consider having our next barbecue here instead of the police pistol range?” Anne joked, staring up at the floating fortune eater.

  “A crew of ten brought her here from New York,” the lawyer said, leading them toward the dockside steps. “People with vessels like this seldom really travel on them.”

  There were at least a hundred people already milling around on the deck. Fortney hated to see the leather soles marking up the gorgeous wood, but he figured the crew would just sand and varnish it tomorrow.

  A clutch of guests stood on the bow accepting drinks served on trays by young women in strawberry Polo shirts, khaki shorts, and white deck shoes. Several of the guests stirred Bloody Marys with celery sticks.

  One of them waved to Murray Page, who led Anne and Fortney over. “Greetings shipmates-for-tonight!” he announced. “I’d like you to meet Mick Fortney and Anne Zorn, friends of mine also in the business of the law.”

  Several in the party groaned. One said, “More lawyers!” And everyone shook hands, exchanging names that were instantly forgotten.

  Anne thought she was better dressed than most of the women, some of whom looked like Hummel figurines—although there were a few little numbers that cost more than her car. She and Fortney ordered Bloody Marys and chatted with a trio of sailing enthusiasts from Bangor, Maine, who’d leased a waterfront home for the entire regatta. All you had to do at boozy yacht-club parties, Anne realized, was nod from time to time and everybody thought you understood racing jargon and Cup politics.

  Murray eventually drifted away and Fortney signaled Anne to follow him belowdeck, where he was more bowled over than she was. He had a better idea of how much this seagoing splendor cost. There were four staterooms, two with king-size beds, two with queens. Three of them had adjoining heads with nickel-plated fixtures. The master stateroom had platinum-plated fixtures and a huge Jacuzzi tub.

  The salon and dining area boasted a marble fireplace and a dining table made of solid mahogany, plus a state-of-the-art entertainment center concealed behind a sliding antique tapestry. The galley featured gourmet appliances and a work space that most restaurants would envy, and the crew’s quarters were as spacious as the apartment Fortney presently occupied.

  All he could keep saying to Anne was, “This is a boat! It actually floats!”

  Some people were already helping themselves from the serving table in the dining area. There were Chateaubriand, roasted pork, and grilled sea bass, served by crew members in chef hats.

  Anne said, “I’m not hungry yet. Let’s go back up for the sunset.”

  “Can’t see it from this channel,” Fortney said. “Point Loma’s in the way.”

  She looked at him over the rim of her Bloody Mary and said, “We can see the sky.”

&nb
sp; Fortney liked her eyes. They were brown and alert, with flecks as golden as apricots. But they weren’t sassy and mocking and heartbreakingly green like hers, like Blaze Duvall’s.

  When they were up on deck again, Anne was surprised to see how many more guests had arrived. She wondered whether the boat would sink under the weight of all its human cargo. A group of four men and three women stood at the stern talking to Murray Page. They all looked half-bagged; for that matter, so did the lawyer.

  As the cops joined them, Fortney whispered, “Murray used to drink anything that didn’t have a human skull on the label.”

  Anne whispered, “Alcohol has caused untold death and misery to cops. Not to mention the terror of guessing who’s on the pillow the morning after payday.”

  The lawyer said boozily, “These are my law partners, Anne and Mick. Anne and Mick, these are my shipmates-for-tonight, whatever their names are.”

  Once again everyone shook hands and traded names. Fortney flagged down a steward carrying a tray loaded with tulips of champagne. He took Anne’s empty cocktail glass and replaced it with champagne, touched her glass with his own, and whispered, “We’re with people that when their kids call to complain about school lunches, they’re calling from Switzerland.”

  Murray Page said, “My friends are enthusiastic, but the only boats they know are gravy boats. I want you to tell them all about this weekend’s racing. Who’s doing it to whom and so forth.”

  “We know who does it to whom on land and sea,” a very thin woman in a black satin shirtdress said to Anne and Fortney. “We can verify that Koch is the bastard everybody around here says he is.”

  But an exceptionally tall man, who said he didn’t want to go belowdeck because he’d be smacking his head on the ceiling, said diplomatically, “It takes chutzpah as well as millions to win the America’s Cup. And Koch’s the second most famous Kansan next to Bob Dole. Don’t sell him short.”

  A guy who talked as though his dentures were loose said, “The guy’s so arrogant, all he needs is a riding crop and a saber scar. He’s suing family members, you know.”

  “No, no! They’re suing him,” the man’s wife piped up. She wore a white pants suit with a hot-pink shell that Anne thought was garish. “What do you expect with a fortune like that? Relatives always sue each other, don’t they?”

  “Well, I think he was brave to choose an all-woman crew,” Too Tall said.

  “I think he was a jerk to chicken out and put a man in as tactician,” his wife offered. “Mighty Mary was manned—make that womaned—by a game team of females.”

  “How about the helicopter wars?” Slippery Teeth interjected. “Koch’s always spying on Dennis Conner, sending choppers over his boat to take photos of his keel.”

  “The keel’s under water,” interjected a man with a bad toupee.

  “I know, but I read where they could electronically enhance the keel configuration on the video.”

  “I’ve heard spies earn up to five thousand a month during these races,” the oldest woman said. She wore a dress with a side split to the top of her thigh, even though what it revealed was support hose.

  “That’s ridiculous!” said Ugly Rug. “They’re just a couple of boating blowhards. You couldn’t control either of them with an overdose of medication!”

  Then they all began jabbering at once:

  “How about ninja raids by kayak, with scuba gear and underwater cameras?”

  “That’s a myth!”

  “The Kiwis caught some guys last time and beat the living crap out of them.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “Heard about when a trucker was delivering a new keel in a sealed container and two hookers waylaid him at a truck stop? While one hooker’s showing him her keel, the other one broke open the container and started snapping pictures!”

  “Koch’s about as believable as a whiplash plaintiff.”

  “Does anybody but me ever notice that Dirty Den can’t smile with his eyes? He’s about as sincere as Uriah Heep.”

  “Does Mike Tyson smile with his eyes? How about Jack Nicklaus with his game face on?”

  “Dennis implied that the Mighty Mary crew were a bunch of dykes. I’ll never forgive him for that.”

  “Do you think he wants your forgiveness?”

  “He’s a whiner. All he does is appeal the rules. His sails ought to be yellow and lined, like a legal pad.”

  “Seen his new bride?” the bony woman asked. “What is she, twenty something? Not bad for a fifty some thing tippler with multiple chins.”

  “How’d you like to have that portly sailor on top of you?” the old babe asked.

  “About like my Harry,” the bony woman said. “I just yell, Elbows! Elbows! Harry, get on your goddamn elbows! Right, Harry?”

  Everybody roared, picturing Fat Harry on his elbows panting like a beagle.

  “Why doesn’t somebody put a stop to all the spying?” Anne asked.

  Fat Harry’s wife said, “I’ll tell you why. It’s because nobody in the sailing world has the guts to enforce disqualification for someone after he pours fifteen or twenty million dollars into a boat race. The rules enforcers have all the moxie of the Trial Lawyers Association, who wouldn’t have disbarred Judge Roy Bean.”

  The tall man said, “The real cynics may be in the New York Yacht Club. I hear that their committee is lending moral support to the Kiwis.”

  “Why’s that?” Anne asked.

  He said, “Because they wrote the rules years ago so that any American defender had to defend under their burgee. It backfired when the Aussies won it from them and Dennis Conner won it back for the San Diego Yacht Club. Now the San Diego Yacht Club benefits from that unfair rule. Unless a foreign challenger wins it from an American sailing for the San Diego Yacht Club, the New York Yacht Club can’t ever get it back. They’re here to become the first challenger of record the second the Kiwis clinch it.”

  Ugly Rug said, “The bottom line is, both Koch and Conner are such assholes, everyone I know is rooting for the Kiwis. Period.”

  “They may be assholes,” Slippery Teeth retorted, “but they’re our assholes.”

  Fat Harry, veteran of two hemorrhoidectomies, said, “I can tell you for sure, we’re stuck with the assholes we got!”

  CHAPTER 16

  While Fortney and Anne Zorn were having the time of their lives on a palatial sailing yacht, Tamara Taylor wasn’t enjoying herself at all. One of her kids had fallen off her tricycle and was screaming her head off while Tamara was trying to bathe the baby in the kitchen sink.

  Tamara figured that about now one of those damn phone solicitors would call since it was nearly suppertime. But instead of a telephone solicitor, she got a doorbell.

  She hauled the baby out of the sink, wrapped him in a towel, and put him in his playpen. Then she grabbed the .38 revolver she’d borrowed from her neighbor Velma and peeked out to see if Oliver Mantleberry actually had the balls to try what he said he’d try.

  No, it was a good-looking black girl in a short skirt and a tight jersey, with a silk jacket on top. The girl sure looked like a hooker, and she ought to know.

  Tamara opened the door a few inches and said, “Who you lookin’ for?”

  “Oliver,” the young woman said.

  She had a pretty smile, Tamara had to say that for her. And a cute little beauty mark on her left cheek. Tamara said, “Did that bastard give you this address?”

  The woman said, “I’m an old acquaintance of his.”

  “Yeah, I bet you are,” Tamara said. “Well, he don’t stay here no more and I don’t know where he’s stayin’.”

  Tamara started to close the door, but the young woman held it open with her foot. Tamara said, “Girl, you better be takin’ your foot outta my door!”

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman said, “but this is important. I hear Oliver’s in trouble and I owe him some money. Maybe he can use it?”

  That interested Tamara. She opened the door a few
inches and said, “You give the money to me. I’ll see he gets it.”

  “I’m here to give it to him personal,” the young woman said. “You know how it is.”

  “I oughtta know,” Tamara said. “I’m the mother of his kids. Don’t you trust me with the money?”

  “Yes, but I have to give it to him personal.”

  Tamara said, “Harold sent you, right? Oliver said Harold owed him five hundred. You got five hundred dollars, girl?”

  “Harold?” the young woman said.

  “Look, I ain’t got time to play no games,” Tamara said. “Harold sent you, am I right?”

  “Harold who?”

  Tamara said, “Harold the gud-damn dope-dealin’ son of a bitch from the Market Street Bar and Grill! That’s Harold who! Now don’t fuck with me, girl!”

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman said. “I can’t give the money to you.”

  “Then you tell Harold to take and put his five hundred dollars in his crack pipe and smoke it! Because that’s all that motherfuckin’ Oliver would do with it anyways!”

  With that she slammed the door and a pane of glass fell out, shattering on the welcome mat.

  —

  The Market Street Bar and Grill was doing some business at eight o’clock that evening. There were two white hookers sitting with clients in the booths, but everybody else in the place was black. Living Colour was detonating out of the jukebox with enough decibels to kill every cockroach in the ceiling. Four men were shooting a game of nine-ball on one of two tables at the far end of the room.

  It was hard to see why Grill was attached to the name of the joint, because the only edibles in front of customers came out of junk-food bags. There were plenty of drinks, though, and the air looked like SWAT had lobbed in a few of their smoke grenades.

  A very shapely black girl in a short skirt sashayed in with a warm and friendly smile for one and all.

  The pool players stopped the games and gave her a lot of “Yo, momma!” and “Say, baby!”

  But she went straight to the bartender. “Johnnie Black and water. Tall.”

  “Comin’ up, sweet thing,” he said.