Voodoo, Ltd.

Nineteen

Georgia Blue frowned at the woman with the shotgun for nearly ten seconds before the frown went away and she said, “Now I remember.”

“Remember what, Slim?”

“Junior Gibbons. Before he joined the Panthers he lived with Mary Margaret Cullen, who used to raise money for the IRA in Chicago.

You’re their daughter, right?”

The twin barrels of the shotgun moved until both were aimed at Georgia Blue. “On your knees, sis. You, too, Ace.”

Once Blue and Overby were on their knees with their hands on their heads, Cullen said, “Okay. You know my name and my mama’s and daddy’s names. Now let’s hear yours. You first, Slim.”

“Georgia Blue.”

“And you?”

“Maurice Overby.”

“Maw-reese. That sounds way uptown, don’t it?”

Her skin had too much luster to be the sepia Overby had called it. It was more like coffee two-thirds diluted by rich cream. Although her eyes were too large and her nose a trifle thin, and her mouth a bit wide, the combination was so striking it would make her face stick in memory far longer than mere prettiness and almost as long as true beauty.

Below the face was a long neck, then a black tank top that revealed smooth shoulders, well-muscled arms and the outline of small taut breasts. A pair of tight black pants advertised a firm butt and exaggerated the length of the long legs. Her stance and the familiar, confident way she held the shotgun suggested good coordination and also a possible oversupply of self-assurance.

Colleen Cullen gave her head an almost reflexive shake that got the thick black hair out of her eyes. The hair had been cut in a virtual 1920s bob — short in back, parted in the middle and long enough at the sides to hang down just below her ears. With the hair out of her eyes, she stared at Overby and said, “I gotta hear why you broke into my house.”

“Maybe we should talk about the money first,” Overby said.

“Whose money?”

“Mine.”

The shotgun barrels dipped a little but then came back up. “What you got, I can take.”

“I’ve got maybe three hundred tops in my right pants pocket. My partner’s got sixty more, if that. But we came here hoping to buy something for important money, and somehow I don’t think any of us’d call three hundred and sixty bucks important.”

The shotgun barrels dipped slightly again and this time stayed dipped. “You’re looking to buy what exactly?”

“Information.”

“About what?”

“The Goodisons, Pauline and Hughes,” said Georgia Blue, who rose, then bent over to brush real or imaginary dust from her knees.

“I say you could get up, Slim?”

Georgia Blue straightened and said, “When money was mentioned you forgot about the sawed-off.”

“You wish,” Cullen said, again aiming the shotgun at her.

Overby then rose and also bent over to brush dust from the knees of his blue London suit. While still dusting, he said, “You know the Goodisons, Colleen? Say yes and you get a thousand dollars.”

“We met,” Cullen said.

“That’s one thousand,” said Overby, straightening up all the way.

“How much if I got ’em locked in the cellar?”

Overby, taking his time, examined her for signs of trick and guile. Finding none, he said, “Too bad you don’t.”

Colleen Cullen lowered the shotgun, turned and went to a large round oak table that held a brass lamp with a bowl shade of green glass. Also on the table were a bottle of Virginia Gentleman, four tumblers and a pitcher of water.

“I was about to have a toddy,” she said, placing the shotgun on the table. “You guys drink bourbon?”

“Now and then,” Overby said.

Cullen poured generous measures into three tumblers, added a little water and, carrying two of the tumblers in one hand, served Georgia Blue first, then Overby.

“Sit down if you want to,” she said, returning to the table and pulling out a chair for herself. Overby and Blue joined her.

“Lemme guess,” Colleen Cullen said, staring at Blue. “You used to be some brand of cop, right?”

Blue answered by tasting the bourbon and water.

“But you, Ace,” Cullen said, turning to Overby. “I think your main job’s staying away from cops, right?”

Overby’s tiny smile revealed nothing at all.

“If I tell you about them, the Goodisons,” Cullen said, “how much do I get?”

“You’ve already made one thousand.”

“All I got so far is say-so.”

“Tell us what you know about them, you get another thousand. Tell us where we can find them, two thousand.”

“Four thousand in all?”

Overby nodded. “Four in all.”

“Who told you about me?”

Overby frowned, as if reluctant to betray his informer.

Then the frown gave way to a sigh and a look of regret as he said, “Dickie Brackeen.”

“The dirty-movie man?”

Overby nodded.

“Tell us about the Goodisons,” Georgia Blue said.

“You’re not much for gossip, are you, sis?”

“The Goodisons,” Blue said.

“Okay. The Goodisons, Hughsie and Paulie. Brother and sister. They fuck each other, but I guess you know that?”

Overby nodded.

“There at the last, they even tried to get me into bed with ’em.”

“Exactly when was ‘there at the last’?” Blue said.

“There at the last was a week ago tomorrow.”

“Let’s go back to the beginning.”

“What about my money?”

Overby leaned forward, placed a possessive hand on the shotgun and said, “When my partner gets the sawed-off, you get some money.”

Cullen blinked rapidly more times than Overby could count. “Not to keep, she don’t.”

“Okay. You keep the sawed-off but she gets the shells.”

Without waiting for more debate, Overby slid the shotgun across the table to Georgia Blue, who broke it open, removed the two shells, put them in her purse, then slid the still-broken-open shotgun back to Cullen.

Cullen put a hand on it, looked at Overby and said, “My money.”

Overby reached into a hip pocket and removed ten pre-counted hundred-dollar bills. He handed them to Cullen, who counted them slowly twice, then looked up and said, “When’ll I get my next thousand?”

“After you tell us about the Goodisons.”

Colleen Cullen drank some of her bourbon and water, tossed black hair out of her eyes and said, “They rolled up unannounced and unexpected right out front two weeks ago tomorrow in a big old black limo.”

Georgia Blue gave Overby a triumphant half-smile. He ignored it and said to Cullen, “Okay. They get out of the limo. Then what?”

“They say the secret password.”

“Which is what?”

“Five thousand a week.”

“For both of them?” Georgia Blue said.

“Each.”

“Christ!” Blue said.

“That’s with full board, sis.”

“What else do they get for ten thousand a week?” Overby asked.

“Guaranteed money-back privacy.”

Overby nodded comfortably, as if he found the price high but not excessive. “How often do the deputies drop by?”

“Every other Tuesday.”

“And go away with what?”

“A thousand each — and that thousand each’s still gotta be paid even if I’m empty.”

“Okay,” Georgia Blue said. “The Goodisons check in. Then what?”

“They stay in their room for three days — even take their meals there. The TV’s going twenty-four hours a day, nothing but MTV shit, although it ain’t loud. It’s sort of like they wanted background noise. But it sure wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sounds they made humping away on the bed.”

“Why’d they use their real names?” Overby said.

“With those limey accents? Shit. The second they open their mouths, I go, ‘Lemme see some passports.’ ”

“They tell you they were brother and sister?”

“Said they were married. I think, Sure you are, kiddies. You just happen to have the same noses, mouths, eyes and ears. But if kinfolks wanta fuck each other, it’s none of my business, so I call him Mr. Goodison and her Mrs. Goodison — at least ’til they say they want me to call them Hughsie and Paulie.”

“Was there a phone in their room?” Overby asked.

“Only one phone in the whole house and it’s locked up.”

“They ever ask to use it?”

“Once.”

“They get any calls?”

“Be hell to pay if they did.”

“When did they turn off the TV and the MTV noise?” Blue said.

“Who says they did?”

“I’m guessing.”

“They turn it off at the end of the third day and never turn it back on. They come out of their room that night and start getting friendly — too friendly. First him. Then her. Then both of ’em together. Touchy-feely stuff. They like to shuck off their clothes, too. He’s finally down to nothing but Jockey shorts and she forgets to put on anything but a little old bra and panties and for all the good they did, she might as well’ve left them off. I don’t mind a three-way now and then but not with those two sickos. I’d as soon jump into bed with a snake and an alligator. So I posted me some new rules.”

“Which were what?” Georgia Blue asked.

“Rule One: Keep Your Hands off the Landlady. Rule Two: Cocks and Pussies Must Be Covered at All Times.”

“What’d they do?” Overby said.

“They just giggled and I don’t see much of ’em after that except at meals ’til the morning they left.”

“A week ago tomorrow?”

“That’s right,” Cullen said.

“They tell you they were leaving?” Georgia Blue asked.

Cullen shook her head. “They just came downstairs with all their stuff. One big old leather suitcase and two weekend carryalls made out of canvas or that new stuff mountain climbers use. And they’re all dressed up, too — except they look like they’re all dressed up — know what I mean?”

Overby nodded.

“So I come out with something like, ‘Ya’ll leaving so soon?’ And Hughes, he turns all serious and says they’re sorry, but it’s time to move on — or some such shit. Then he says he’s wondering if I might sell him some personal protection and I say I don’t carry condoms.”

Cullen grinned. Overby grinned back. But Georgia Blue said, “Go on.”

“Well, Pauline blows up. She starts yelling that I’m too fucking dumb to know the difference between guns and condoms. I tell Hughes the longer she hollers the higher the price. He hauls off and knocks her down and while she’s down on her butt, still howling at me, Hughes and I dicker over two hardly used Chief Specials that wind up costing him seven-fifty apiece and would’ve been only five hundred apiece if Pauline hadn’t thrown her fit.”

Overby nodded thoughtfully and said, “How much’d two thirty-eights cost us?”

“Six hundred each.”

“We’ll think about it,” he said, then asked, “How did they leave?”

“In that same old black limo with the same driver.”

“Then it was prearranged,” Georgia Blue said.

“Had to be and where’s my money?”

“You don’t know where they went?”

“I didn’t ask, they didn’t say.”

“Okay, Colleen,” Overby said. “Here’s the deal. You already got one thousand. We’ll pay you another thousand for what you told us about the Goodisons. We’ll pay you a third thousand for two pieces — providing they’re in good shape. And we’ll also pay you a thousand for the limo’s license number. That all adds up to four thousand, just like I said.”

“What makes you think I know the license number?”

Overby shrugged. “You do or you don’t.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Cullen said, rose and reached for the shotgun but Georgia Blue’s hand was faster. “Better leave that here,” she said.

Cullen thought about it, then shrugged and left through a door at the rear of the parlor. While she was gone, Georgia Blue took the two shells from her purse and reloaded the shotgun, snapped it back together and cocked both hammers.

When Colleen Cullen returned five minutes later, a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver dangled upsidedown by its trigger guard from each forefinger. She stopped and stared at the shotgun Georgia Blue aimed at her.

“You gonna do me, Slim?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Still staring at Georgia Blue, Cullen went slowly to the table and carefully placed one of the pistols on it. Overby picked it up. Cullen then put the other pistol on the table, again looked at Georgia Blue and asked, “Now what?”

“The license number,” Georgia Blue said.

After Colleen Cullen rattled it off, Georgia Blue uncocked the shotgun, broke it open, removed the shells, put the shotgun on the table and said, “Pay her, Otherguy.”