Floaters

by Joseph Wambaugh

  He was grossly fat with a flat-faced buttery smile, and what hair he had was cocaine-white. When he brought the drink to the young woman, he said, “I love that spot on your cheek there. Is it real or do you paint it on?”

  “It ain’t real, baby,” she said to him. “But I am.”

  He laughed heartily, and when she put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, he said, “First one’s on the house for new customers.”

  She said to him, “I’m lookin’ for Harold. Is he here?”

  “You lookin’ right at him.”

  That surprised her, but she didn’t flinch. She just said bluntly, “Oliver needs the money you owe him.”

  The fat man’s smile faded and he said, “Come on, girl, let’s talk where it’s private.”

  When they were in a ratty little office behind the men’s room, Harold slammed the door and said, “Girl, who sent you here?”

  “Oliver,” she said, still smiling.

  “That’s a lie. I know he ain’t around.”

  She never changed expressions. “Okay, you want the truth? Tamara and her kids needs the money you owe him. I’m here to help her.”

  “How do I know you ain’t a cop?”

  With that, the young woman took her left arm out of the silk jacket and held it out under the dangling light. There was a Y of scar tissue running from her inner elbow almost to her wrist. Many of the needle marks were fresh.

  “Okay, so you’re a junkie,” he said. “But you could be workin’ for the cops.”

  “I told you who I work for,” she said. “Don’t you got no heart? Those children need food and clothes.”

  “I’m a bidness man. I do bidness.”

  “I wanna talk to Oliver. I got a message from Tamara for you. If he’ll take fifty cents on the dollar on what you owe him, Tamara says he oughtta do it. That is, if it goes to her and the kids.”

  “You mean I’d only owe two-fifty then?”

  “Yes, that woman needs the money.”

  “He never said nothin’ like that to me.”

  “Tamara wants me to talk him into it.”

  “Why don’t she do it?”

  “She don’t dare go near him now. You know why.”

  The fat man obviously knew why. He was thinking it over. Then he said, “I don’t have no phone number. He calls me when he needs somethin’.”

  “Well, how do you bring him what he needs?”

  “Somebody delivers. I got an address.”

  “I’ll deliver it,” she said. “And I’ll ask him to phone you and tell you it’s okay. And then you give me the two-fifty and I’ll take it to Tamara.”

  “What’re you, her sister or somethin’?”

  “We’re pretty close friends,” she said. “She knew my momma when she worked the streets.”

  Hesitating, “I don’t know about this.”

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll pay you for whatever he needs. Right now. You gimme thirty bucks’ worth a whatever makes him happy. I’ll take it on over to him and tell him what Tamara wants him to do.”

  The fat man said, “I don’t know. I jist ain’t sure about this.” But he was looking her up and down, mostly at her tits, saying, “You built for lac-tation!”

  Her smile widened and she said, “You’re a businessman and I’m a businesswoman. You gimme what I want and I’ll give you a sample a what I usually get forty dollars for. How’s that sound?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  And then she reached down under his huge belly and unzipped his fly.

  “Good luck,” he said. “I ain’t seen that thing for a coupla years. Not without a mirror.”

  “If it’s there, I’ll find it,” she said.

  —

  After Anne and Fortney had finished their dinner, they took a stroll along the yacht-club docks in the moonlight. Fortney was gazing at the silver reflection on the water, and with an offshore breeze came the aroma of grilling fish. Jupiter sparkled. Though he couldn’t see the planet’s moons, it was somehow reassuring to know they were there.

  Anne said to him, “What’re you thinking about?”

  “To tell the truth, Blaze Duvall.”

  “She was a striking girl,” Anne said, disappointed.

  “No, what I was thinking was, I’m glad she was dead before he put her down in that cold dark water.”

  “She was,” Anne said. “Very dead.”

  “What else I was thinking was, we’re way outta our element here. This isn’t the kind of place where people like you and me look for bad guys. This rich man’s sport is more corrupt than Uganda.”

  Anne said, “It’s probably a dumb idea anyway. Maybe Blaze really was killed by Oliver Mantleberry.”

  They were quiet for a moment and then Fortney said, “You don’t believe that.”

  “No,” she admitted. “I never will.”

  “If this means we’re giving up on an America’s Cup murder, does it mean you won’t be calling me anymore?”

  “Why would I call you?”

  “Oh, you might wanna take a ride on our boat sometime. And hang out with me by the south jetty and watch for the green flash. Or we could wait for one of those lightning storms where dead things come to life in castles and then go looking for trouble. Those kind of storms’re beautiful when they’re out at sea.”

  Anne looked at the reflection of spangled moonlight on the water and said, “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Not bad at all.”

  Fortney faced her then and said, “Wanna go home now? Or maybe have a nightcap?”

  Anne said, “I’m not really sleepy. Let’s have a nightcap. This has been exciting, being in a place like this. I’ll never get another chance.”

  “Suppose they’ll accept cash from nonmembers?” Fortney wondered.

  Anne said, “All the stuff we’ve heard about America’s Cup pirates? They probably want pieces of eight.”

  —

  Oliver Mantleberry was trying to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate on anything. The walls of the hotel room were sweating and closing in on him. There were rust scabs on the bathroom fixtures, and the sink and the tub were so stained they looked like one of those inkblot tests. He’d seen parking garages cozier than this. He didn’t know how much longer he could live like a fugitive. The fucking roaches were big enough to take on a pit bull.

  But somehow he had to bide his time until he could get to her. With her out of the way, he’d return to the world and go about his business. Let the cops arrest him. Let them try to make a case with nothing more than a bloody washrag.

  He was just about out of cigarettes and gin and was considering a quick run to the liquor store across the street when he heard a knock at his door, a soft little knock. He jumped up, went to the door, and listened. Nothing.

  Then the knock again and a woman’s voice. “Oliver. You there?”

  “No,” he said. “There ain’t nobody here by that name.”

  “Please open the door,” the voice said. “Harold sent me.”

  Harold! Maybe the chiseling motherfucker was finally going to pay him! He wished he had a gun, but he didn’t. He opened the door and peeked.

  A little schoolyard smile, then she said, “Can I come in?”

  He said, “Yeah, you kin come in.”

  When she got inside, she took off her jacket and said, “I got you a present from Harold.”

  “How much?”

  “Not money. Not yet. But he says you like this?” She showed him a little plastic bindle, saying, “Want me to cook up a hit for you?”

  He looked at the rocks and said, “I ain’t done no crack in three days.”

  “You give it up?”

  “No, but I got me some serious work to do. I don’t wanna fuck up my head.”

  “If you don’t want it…”

  “Nobody said that. Put it over on the dresser.”

  “Long as I’m here,” she said, “I wonder if I can take a taste of the present he gave to me?”


  “What’s that?”

  She took out a plump little toy balloon and said, “Speedball.”

  “I don’t like speedballs,” Oliver Mantleberry said.

  “Really? I heard you did. Or your girlfriend did?”

  “What girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know any of your girlfriends’ names. Jist a girlfriend.”

  “Harold’s got a real big mouth. I’m gonna have a talk with him.”

  “He don’t mean no harm,” she said. “He wants to get rid of the debt he owes you.”

  “Then why the fuck don’t he send me some money?”

  “He will, baby, he will,” she said. “But for now he sent you the rock. And he sent me.”

  “You? And whadda you do?”

  “Anything you like,” she said. “Anything you can think of.”

  “Well,” Oliver Mantleberry said, finally smiling. “Maybe I will have me some rock.”

  “First I wanna taste my present, okay? It ain’t tar. I can’t stand the vinegar smell of tar. This is quality Mexican brown. And fine cocaine. You oughtta try some with me.”

  “That girl he was talkin’ about? She turned me away from speedballs. I see what they done to her.”

  “Oh, baby!” she said. “You don’t know what good is till you try real quality. You think it over. I promise if you’ll let me give you one little pop, you’ll be comin’ down the track like the Amtrak train!”

  —

  By the time that Murray Page left the yacht party, he was definitely a candidate for car-key confiscation. He reeled into the barroom and spotted Anne and Fortney sitting at a table. The lawyer wove his way around the tables, then plopped into a vacant chair.

  “Having a good time, you two?” he asked.

  “Terrific, Murray,” Fortney said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Have you learned all you ever wanted to know about the America’s Cup?”

  Anne said, “What we learned is, America’s Cup racing rules’re about as obscure as the faces of dead people on postage stamps.”

  “And about as wholesome as gangsta rap,” Fortney added. “But we had a chance to meet some people rich enough to make Paula Barbieri leave O. J. Simpson.”

  Murray turned around in the chair and yelled, “Ambrose, come over here for a minute, will you?” Then he said to Anne, “Here’s the man who knows all there is to know about the America’s Cup. Ask him anything.”

  Anne saw a man at the bar turn, hesitate, and then put his drink down and make his way to their table. He was a nattily dressed older man, trim and good-looking, but with a very sad face for so festive an occasion.

  Ambrose stood before them and said, “Yes, Murray?”

  “Ambrose Lutterworth, meet Mick. And this is Anne. They’re my guests and they’re trying to learn a few things about the Cup. You’re the man to tell them.”

  When Anne shook hands she said, “Hello. I’m Anne Zorn.”

  Fortney just smiled and shook hands.

  It was easy for the cops to see that Ambrose Lutterworth was embarrassed and distressed, but Murray Page was their host and they didn’t know what to do except humor him.

  “I don’t want to impose on Mister Lutterworth,” Anne said. “It’s getting late and we should go home.”

  “Ask him!” the lawyer demanded. “Ask him anything!”

  To mollify the boozy barrister, Anne said, “Well, we’ve heard lots of stories about the millions that’re spent on these races. We’ve heard that people’ll stop at nothing to win. So I was wondering, how could anyone care so much about a trophy?”

  “Good question, Anne!” Murray Page bellowed. “Tell us, Ambrose, what does the Cup mean in existential terms?” Then he belched.

  People at the adjoining tables were whispering to one another now. Everyone was looking at Murray Page, who was swaying in his chair and chortling.

  Ambrose Lutterworth stared off toward the marina before saying, “The government spends more money trying to save the California gnatcatcher from extinction. Why would anyone care that much about a gnatcatcher?” Then he said, “Please excuse me,” turned, and walked back to the bar.

  The cops were relieved. Anne said, “Poor guy. We really embarrassed him.”

  “That’s the trouble with people,” Murray Page grumbled. “They embarrass too easily.”

  “I think we’d better be going,” Fortney said to his host.

  “Why so soon?” the lawyer complained. “Aren’t you having fun?”

  Ambrose was signing his bar check and preparing to leave when a woman on the next barstool said to her husband, “Murray’s drunker than usual tonight. And that woman with him, I don’t know what her story is.”

  “What do you mean?” her husband asked.

  “When we were in the restroom together, she was putting on fresh lipstick and I happened to notice her open purse. She’s carrying a gun!”

  “What?”

  “A pistol in a holster. I saw it.”

  “No telling who Murray Page might be running with these days,” her husband observed. “He’s been in and out of Betty Ford lately.”

  “So has Jerry,” the woman said. “But maybe not lately, at his age.”

  —

  While walking Anne to her car, Fortney said, “From our conversations I’ve figured out you’re about a year older than me.”

  “We had to say that, did we?”

  “You look a lot younger,” Fortney said quickly. “You have a very athletic body.”

  “I can do twenty pull-ups,” she said. “Dead man’s pull-ups. All the way up, all the way down. Can you?”

  “We had to say that, did we?”

  Anne said, “Are you sure we’ve never been married to each other? I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling.”

  “I’ve enjoyed working the case with you,” he said when they got to her car. “And I’m getting that feeling, too. You were serious, weren’t you? About the boat ride?”

  “Call me,” she said, “and find out.”

  “Okay,” Fortney said, putting his hands in his pockets awkwardly. Wondering if he should give her a peck on the cheek or what.

  She said, “I’m glad you’re not all lit up over a dead woman. Like the detective in that old movie.”

  “I definitely prefer live women. But I’m never going to marry one again.”

  “I couldn’t survive another name change,” she said. “So we really do have a lot in common.”

  Suddenly he said, “I wonder if our actions on the job ever make a difference? Are you ever sure you made something happen? Or do things happen by themselves and we take what’s left over to court?”

  “I can’t say for sure that I’ve ever made a difference,” Anne said. Then, “You know something? You even think like I do. We may have to test your DNA to make sure you’re not my lost twin.”

  Fortney reached down and touched her fingertips, saying, “We could roll your prints sometime and compare them to mine. Do you believe in alter egos?”

  “I’ll call you,” she said. “Maybe if we go out on the water often enough, we’ll see the green flash.”

  “They say the green flash brings love and happiness,” he said. Quickly adding, “Of course, that’s just what they say.”

  “You can’t make it happen,” she said. “A green flash, I mean.”

  “Any more than these sailors can make the wind blow,” he said. “You try to be there when it happens.”

  “You try to be there,” she agreed. “That’s about all you can do.”

  “You have to float and hope,” Fortney said to her.

  “We’re all just floating,” Anne Zorn said to him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Even after dropping a spinnaker on Saturday, Mighty Mary defeated Young America by sixty-eight seconds. The women’s team was still alive, but it needed Young America to beat Dennis Conner’s Stars and Stripes on Sunday. No one could yet say how it was all going to end.

  Ambrose sat on his patio deck drinki
ng his morning coffee and reading about the regatta. His weight had been dropping alarmingly fast, and his teeth and jaws ached from the bruxing he did in his fitful sleep. In the past he’d enjoyed the nocturnal barking of the caged sea lions that the U.S. Navy kept down in the channel, training them for underwater surveillance. But now the barks had come to sound like the sorrowful cries of prisoners, and they filled him with sadness.

  Suddenly a flight of a dozen wild parrots burst from the flowering jacaranda tree next door, screaming like cats. The once tame birds had escaped domesticity one by one over the years and by now had formed a wild community in the greenery of Point Loma. The parrot explosion was like a church window shattering, raining down jeweled feathers like shards of stained glass on a skeletal hillside olive tree. It made Ambrose want to weep, but he could not indulge himself. He tried to concentrate on a phone call he had to make.

  Ambrose had been waiting for the start of business hours, and almost convinced himself that his imagination was running amok. The woman had a gun in her purse, but what did that mean? Everyone knew that Murray Page was a former police officer, so it was possible, but by no means certain, that she was a police officer, too. That’d be natural. She was about Murray’s age, so they may have been old colleagues. It was silly to read more into it.

  He’d spent days waiting for the police to call, hadn’t he? Waiting for them to come for him. Somehow he’d imagined it would happen at night, but it hadn’t happened. That meant there were no other copies of the tape, only the one he’d destroyed. If the police had searched her apartment and found duplicate tapes, he’d have been arrested by now.

  So a woman had a gun in her purse. What did it mean? Nothing. Still, he was going to make a call just to satisfy himself. And then he was going to go out and watch the regatta, to see if Dennis Conner could manage a victory over Young America, keeping his hope alive.

  At 9:10 A.M. he made the call to the San Diego Police Department, the call he had to make just to convince himself how foolish and paranoid he was. He reached an operator and said, “I’d like to speak to one of your homicide detectives.” He almost had to smile at himself when he’d said it.

  She said, “They don’t work on Saturday, sir. Is this an emergency?”

  “No,” he said. “How about a Detective Zorn? Could I leave a message for her?” He felt utterly ridiculous. Of course there would be no detective by the name of—