Read Online Golden Orange by Joseph Wambaugh - Free Book Online Page B

year hasn’t been too good. People don’t know which way George Bush is gonna go. Don’t know if we’re in for inflation or recession or more good times. Boat business’ll be tender till Bush figures out who he is.”
    Bush wasn’t the only one with an identity crisis, Winnie Farlowe thought, studying the boat slips bulging with rapidly depreciating booze cruisers. Imagining himself trying to convince a Gold Coast millionaire that his life was incomplete without one of those greenback gobblers blocking the view from his waterfront home. As Winnie left, the broker told him he was one of the “finalists” for the job, and would be called within a week, one way or the other.
    By the time Winnie parked in front of Spoon’s Landing, Guppy Stover had a whiskey glow and was telling some poor guy who merely said “How ya doing?” about the son of a bitch who dumped her on Waikiki and wrecked her entire life.
    â€œGot a phone call,” Spoon said to Winnie. His sweat-stained yellow shirt was unbuttoned all the way down the front on this hot day, exposing a wet pink hairy belly.
    â€œWho, my lawyer?”
    â€œYour squeeze,” Spoon said.
    â€œWhat squeeze?”
    The saloonkeeper removed his navy cap to scratch his bald head. Then he did something really ugly. He smiled. “Come on, Winnie, tell old Spoon all about it!”
    â€œ What squeeze?”
    â€œThe one I seen you talkin to the other night. That two-legged tuna that looked like she was cruisin the Bermuda Triangle till she laid eyes on you. That one!”
    â€œTess Binder? You serious?”
    â€œAs a heart attack.”
    â€œCalled me here?”
    â€œAsked me if you was gonna be in today. I said the day you don’t come in we’d put your picture on a milk carton.”
    â€œShe coming in?”
    â€œWants you to meet her over at her club. Six o’clock. Think you can make it?”
    â€œCan I make it?”
    Winnie was so happy he bought a drink for Guppy, one for Spoon, and another for himself. Winnie was so happy he spent thirty bucks in the next two hours, and when Carlos Tuna shambled in, he looked at all the grins and said, “Why’s everybody so happy? They puttin Roller Derby in prime time?”

    By the time six o’clock arrived, Winnie was half fried. He’d meant to limit the drinks, but he was nervous. Tess Binder made him that way, and when he was nervous he drank a bit more than he should. Just as he did when he was depressed. Or scared. Or lonely. Or on a night with a full moon, half-moon or no moon. Especially when he got to missing police work.
    Well, there was some truth to the accusation that he had a drinking problem, but he sensed a change was about to occur. Tess Binder was part of it. A woman like her showing such interest in him, well, if he could get some kind of employment, a job he was proud of, the way he was proud of being a policeman … Okay, maybe not that kind of pride. He didn’t expect to ever have that kind of professional pride again. That thing he felt during the fifteen years he was a cop, the thing about being a professional.
    He thought of these things while driving to her club. He forgot them when he got in the parking lot and gave the VW convertible to the kid parking a Lamborghini. Then he saw a Testarossa that looked like the one his lawyer, Chip Simon, used to run down a pathetic kneeling paper clip, the way life had run down Winston Farlowe until he no longer knew who or what he was. Winnie staggered a bit when he got out of the VW and the valet parker had to grab his arm. Winnie mumbled something about weak ankles, but the kid’s knowing look said, sure, just like the rest of the dipsomaniacs around this joint.
    There was live music in the bar, a three-piece band with a female vocalist. And the place wasn’t as dark as Spoon’s Landing, which meant it wasn’t as dark as Dracula’s bunk, but it