Out on the Rim

Chapter Eleven

Otherguy Overby explained that the very early breakfast meeting in the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Polo Lounge was simply a matter of edge.

“This guy Harry Crites — the poet I’ve been reading up on — well, he flies in from Washington late last night and he’s still on East Coast time, right? So this morning we’re getting him up at say, six, six-thirty, and this’ll throw his biorhythms all out of whack and that gives us the edge. Not much, but some.”

“His biorhythms,” Booth Stallings said.

“Yeah.”

Stallings glanced at Overby who was behind the wheel of the yellow Porsche 911 cabriolet they had borrowed from the stable of the still incarcerated Billy Diron. They were rolling down the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, approaching the Getty Museum. It was 7:04 A.M., a Saturday, and the third day of spring in the year 1986.

“So you think his out-of-whack biorhythms are somehow going to help us pilfer the five million?”

“Pilfer? You don’t pilfer five million bucks. You... liberate it.”

Stallings chuckled. “Maybe I should recite the names of two or three dozen countries that’ve been sacked and plundered under liberation’s bright banner.”

Overby gave him a quick frowning glance. “Look,” he said. “Let me ask you something you don’t have to answer. But have you got funny politics? Not that I give a shit, but I’d kind of like to know.”

“Funny?”

“Red. Rouge. Pink.” He paused. “Moscow, Peking, maybe Havana?”

“No,” Stallings said with a smile. “In that sense I have no politics at all.” He chuckled again. “What’re yours — if I may be so bold?”

Overby seemed to give the question serious thought. “Well, you’d have to say I’m kind of a Republican, except I don’t bother to vote much anymore.”

“Don’t — or can’t because of a past felony rap or two?”

Overby sealed himself away in that remote and frozen place where Stallings had seen him go before. It’s his fuck-off retreat, he thought.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your goddamn business,” Overby said with his always surprising dignity.

“You’re right,” Stallings said. “It’s not.”

The parking attendant gave the yellow Porsche a look of recognition when Overby brought it to a stop in the Beverly Hills Hotel drive. The attendant opened Overby’s door and said, “When’s Billy getting sprung, Otherguy?”

“Tomorrow or maybe the next day and watch the fucking paint,” Overby said, getting out of the car.

As they went up the hotel steps, Overby turned to give Stallings a quick up-and-down inspection. “Let’s stop in the john,” he said.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Overby let a little exasperation flicker across his face. “Look. When I say something like that, it’s not just because I need company.”

The corners of Stallings’ mouth went down in a facial shrug. He gestured for Overby to lead on and followed him down the corridor and into the men’s room.

On that third day of spring, Stallings was wearing a new tan poplin suit and a blue tab-collar shirt with a gold bar pin and the striped brown and gold tie of some disbanded regiment. The suit, shirt, tie, pin and a pair of lace-up cordovans were part of a wardrobe Otherguy Overby had picked out for Stallings two days before at Lew Ritter’s haberdashery on Wilshire Boulevard, paying a premium for next-day alterations and delivery.

Overby had then driven Stallings to a hairstylist on Melrose and contracted for $85 worth of haircut, facial and manicure. On their way to the barber, an amused Stallings had listened as Overby revealed his tactics.

“I don’t know how long it’s been since you were out on the Rim,” Overby had said with a wave that included the world west of Catalina and east of China. “But when you’re working it like we’ll be working it, you’ve gotta look like you can buy the mark and have change left over. Out there, marks don’t fork over to shabby because shabby doesn’t inspire confidence and that’s all we’ve got to sell. What does inspire confidence is front — not flash, but front. You know the difference?”

Stallings had smiled and nodded that he did.

“Well, begging your pardon all to hell, but you look like some freshwater college prof who didn’t make the tenure cut. I mean, like some guy whose wife barbers him every seventh Friday while they’re watching Washington Week in Review and pissing and moaning about the fascist in the White House.”

Stallings had nodded again, still amused. “My daughter cuts it,” he had said. “My Cleveland Park daughter. She’d also support any calumny you might aim at the occupant of the White House who, incidentally, is not a fascist but an actor.”

“Well, that’s almost as bad.”

“My daughter wouldn’t think so were he Gregory Peck.”

Overby had nodded agreeably. “Yeah, Peck does look more like a President at that.”

After checking the men’s room stalls to make sure they were vacant, Overby gave Stallings a final up-and-down inspection, sighed and said, “Let’s begin with basics. Zip up your fly.”

“Christ,” said Stallings and did as instructed.

“And fix your fucking tie.”

“Never cared much for ties.”

“It’s your uptight badge. So make it look like you’re used to it.”

Stallings slipped the knot up until it was snug and refastened the gold bar pin he thought silly. Overby grunted his approval and said, “Now you look like the man who says no.”

Stallings smiled. “To Harry Crites?”

“Why not? Like most guys from back east, he’ll probably walk in wearing his version of L.A. casual, which is what he wears back home when he’s barbecuing the weenies. He’ll see us all dressed up and there he is, all dressed down. So what does that give us? The edge, that’s what.”

Overby turned to inspect himself and his gloom-blue suit in the men’s room mirror, looking pleased with what he saw, even after Booth Stallings said, “You don’t know Harry Crites.”

They sat over coffee at a table with a clear view of the Polo Lounge’s entrance. Overby kept watch on the doorway as Stallings examined the other early morning breakfasters, trying without much luck to distinguish the talent from those who peddled it.

As he glanced around, Stallings saw Overby’s expression change. Until then Overby had been wearing what Stallings had come to think of as his baited trap look — one that spoke of quiet confidence, keen awareness and infinite patience. It was the same look Overby had worn while waiting at the airport.

Stallings grew curious when the look vanished and was replaced, if only for an instant, by a flicker of something closer to apprehension than fear. But then the baited trap look returned, even more pronounced than before, and Stallings turned to look at what Overby saw.

The tall woman with the short reddish-brown hair stood in the entrance, quartering the room. When her dollar-green eyes reached Stallings she almost smiled and almost nodded. When her gaze reached Overby it stopped. Nothing changed in her face. But the mutual stare went on long enough, Stallings decided, for her and Overby to catch up on the last few years. The woman then turned abruptly and left the Polo Lounge.

“Know her?” Stallings said.

“Who?”

“Come on, Otherguy.”

“You know her?”

“She’s with Harry Crites.”

Overby relaxed as a calculating smile wiped away the last vestige of apprehension. “Well,” he said, “what d’you know.” Since it wasn’t a question, Stallings made no reply.

Five minutes later Harry Crites came striding into the Polo Lounge followed by the tall woman who now carried a thin black leather attaché case. Harry Crites was wearing a polo shirt, riding breeches and polished boots that nearly reached his knees.

“A polo outfit in the Polo Lounge,” Stallings murmured. “We just lost the edge, Otherguy.”

Overby’s confident expression hadn’t changed at the sight of Harry Crites, and all he said was, “He forgot his horse.”

With the tall woman watching his back, Crites reached the table and nodded at Stallings but didn’t offer to shake hands. “Hello, Booth.”

“Harry.”

Crites turned to Overby. “I hear they call you Otherguy Overby.”

Overby smiled. “I’ve read some of your poetry, Mr. Crites, and—” He broke off and stopped smiling, as if he’d thought better of what he had been about to say. “Well, never mind.”

Before Harry Crites could do anything but glower slightly, Stallings said, “Sit down, Harry, and introduce us to your friend. Or did you tell me she’s not exactly a friend?”

Crites indicated Stallings with a small gesture. “Miss Blue, Mr. Stallings.” She and Stallings nodded at each other. Harry Crites then gave Overby a quick look of disapproval. “You already know him.”

She nodded at the still seated Overby. “Hello, Otherguy.”

An unsmiling Overby said, “Georgia.”

A waiter pulled out a chair and Georgia Blue sat down next to Stallings and across from Overby. Harry Crites took the remaining chair. The waiter passed out menus. Crites automatically handed his to Georgia Blue without a glance and said, “Order for me.” She began reading the menu.

“Didn’t know you played polo, Harry,” said Booth Stallings.

“Why should you?”

“Been playing long?”

“Ten years. I picked it up down in B.A.”

Stallings leaned toward Overby. “B.A. is Buenos Aires, Mr. Overby. Mr. Crites was down there a few years back, briefing the generals on internal security techniques.”

Overby looked at Crites with interest. “Must’ve been like teaching old ducks to swim.”

Crites aimed a forefinger at Overby but glared at Stallings. “What the fuck’s he?”

“My guide to the world’s wicked ways.”

Crites grunted. “From what I hear, he drew the map.”

The waiter returned to take the orders. Georgia Blue ordered only melon and black coffee for Harry Crites but something more substantial for herself, as did Stallings and Overby. After handing the waiter the menus, she said, “Would you bring the melon right away, please?”

When the waiter had gone, Overby smiled another too pleasant smile at Crites and said, “Georgia must be quite a Handy Annie to have around.”

Harry Crites leaned forward, his voice a rasp. “I want you to butt out, Jack. I made a deal with Stallings here. If he wants you along, fine. But I don’t want to hear any more of your crap.”

Overby added a pleasant nod to his pleasant smile. “Mr. Stallings has retained my services, such as they are, to give him my best counsel. If I decide your project will, one, put him in grave jeopardy, or two, fuck him over, I’ll tell him to walk.”

They stared at each other for seconds until Crites turned to Stallings and said, “Okay, Booth. Let’s talk money. You got fifty thousand in Washington. There’s another two hundred thousand in that attaché case Georgia’s got — half of it in unendorsed Amex traveler’s checks. That’s so you can spread ’em around any way you want. But if, for some weird and wonderful reason, you decide to do a flit, I can trace you through them — eventually. Okay?”

“Where’s the other half?”

“In Hong Kong. When you deliver the package, Georgia will hand over the other two-fifty. That means you might as well get used to her because she’s along for the whole cruise. If nothing else, she can keep an eye on him.” Crites jerked a thumb at Overby without looking at him.

“You didn’t mention Miss Blue in Washington, Harry.”

“Yeah, well, that must be why I’m doing it now.”

Stallings smiled at Georgia Blue. “Mind if I call you Georgia?”

“Not at all.”

“Tell me something about yourself.”

“I was with the federal government for seven years.”

“Agriculture, perhaps?” Stallings said. “Commerce? Housing and Urban Development.”

“Treasury,” Georgia Blue said.

Stallings shot his eyebrows up. “Not the dread Secret Service?”

Georgia Blue’s mouth formed a slight amused smile as she nodded.

“And now you’re with Harry here?”

“No, Mr. Stallings. I’m with you.”

The waiter arrived with Harry Crites’ honeydew melon. The others watched silently as he ate it in two minutes, patted his lips with a napkin, had a final sip of coffee, patted his lips again and turned to Stallings.

“Okay. That’s it. I’ve told you what you need to know and if there’s anything I forgot, Georgia can handle it. When’re you leaving?”

Stallings looked at Overby who said, “Tonight. The ten-thirty flight. Philippine Airlines.” He looked at Georgia Blue with what seemed to be concern. “I’m not sure we can get you a seat.”

“I already have a reservation, Otherguy,” she said.

Overby smiled. “Together again.”

Harry Crites looked at his watch and rose. “I’ve got a match in forty-five minutes, Booth, so I suppose I’ll see you when you get back.” His eyes went to Overby. “You, too, maybe.”

Georgia Blue also rose. “I’ll go with you to the car.”

Harry Crites turned away from the table, then turned back. “By the way, Booth. I really like that new suit.”

When they were gone Stallings asked Overby, “Where’d you know her, Otherguy?”

“Around.”

“Around where?”

“I’ll let her tell it.”

Georgia Blue was back in five minutes. She had taken the thin attaché case with her and Stallings now noticed she had brought it back. She sat down, poured herself fresh coffee, took a sip and leaned back in her chair, looking first at Overby and then at Stallings.

“I think we may as well get down to it, don’t you, Mr. Stallings?”

“Why not?”

“Good.” She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the table and smiled at Overby. “How many ways are you planning to cut up the five million, Otherguy?”

Nearly a minute went by as they again stared at each other, silently exchanging what Stallings felt were new confidences, ancient secrets and bad memories.

Overby finally looked away, not at Stallings, but at something miles off. “Four,” he said. “Four ways.”

Georgia Blue turned to Stallings with a cool stare that he thought he could feel poking around in the secret recesses of his mind. “And now it’ll be five ways, right, Mr. Stallings? A million each.”

“I guess I’m supposed to ask why it should be split five ways,” Stallings said, “and you’ll come back with some compelling reason that’ll make me agree.”

“The reason’s simple,” she said. “It’ll be far easier for you to pull it off with me than without me. In fact, without me it’ll be damned near impossible.”

“Not much on preliminary bullshit, are you?” Stallings said with a twitch of a smile.

“It’s a waste of time,” she said, continuing to study him. “Well?”

“Okay,” Stallings said with a shrug. “Five ways — a million each.”

Otherguy Overby let out the breath he had been holding and nodded comfortably. “Makes more sense all the way around,” he said.