Voodoo, Ltd.

Twenty-three

The first thing Georgia Blue had done that morning, even before she drank any coffee, was call the Department of Motor Vehicles and use a cold formal tone and some Secret Service jargon to demand and receive the name and address that belonged to the LUXRY 3 license plate.

She handed the information to Durant, who had just poured his first cup of coffee in the late William Rice’s elaborate kitchen that was almost large enough for a small hotel. Durant looked at the slip of paper, grunted his thanks and headed for the deck, where he could drink the coffee alone without having to talk to anyone.

Blue found a Thermos in a kitchen cupboard, poured two cups of coffee into it, picked up a mug and carried both mug and Thermos into her bedroom. She drank one cup of coffee, showered, ran a comb through her hair, which had grown nearly half an inch since the Philippines, and again put on the Anne Klein dress and the Joan & David shoes. She then sat on the bed next to the telephone, poured her second cup of coffee, picked up the phone and tapped out a number she had written down the night before.

After the call was answered by a cheery “Jack Broach and Company,” Georgia Blue said, “My name’s Margo Dawson and I’m a vice-president with the Mitsu Bank in Beverly Hills. The reason I’m calling is to find out if we might land some of Jack Broach’s business.”

“You’d have to talk to our comptroller, Mr. Corrigan.”

“Is he in?”

“He usually gets in around nine-thirty.”

“Maybe you could give me a hint. Is Mr. Corrigan happy with your present bank?”

“I guess so. Sure.”

“Bank of America, right?”

“Security Pacific.”

“The one on Wilshire just off Doheny?”

“The one just off La Cienega.”

“Thanks very much. I’ll try Mr. Corrigan later.”

She used GTE information to get the Security Pacific branch phone number. Her call was answered by a recorded actor’s voice that started giving her instructions about which numbers to tap if she wanted to know her checking account balance. Georgia Blue broke the connection and called GTE information again. After lowering her cold Secret Service tone to freezing, she told the operator she wanted to speak to a human voice, not a recorded one, at the Security Pacific branch. The operator gave her a different number.

When it was answered by a live female voice, Georgia Blue said, “I’d like to speak to one of your new business officers about opening a commercial account in the mid six figures.”

She was quickly transferred to a Mr. Davidson, who wanted to know how he could be of assistance.

“This is Georgia Blue. I’m vice-president of Wudu, Limited, an American-owned, London-based consulting firm. We’re in the process of opening our L.A. Branch and we’re looking for a bank. One of your customers mentioned yours.”

“Which customer?”

“Jack Broach.”

There was a slight hesitation before Davidson said, “I see. Is your company also in the entertainment business, Ms. Blue?”

“Good God, no. We’re security consultants and awfully good at putting an end to chain-store shoplifting and such. But our real specialty is designing programs to prevent industrial espionage.”

“How do you spell Wudu?”

Georgia Blue spelled it and added, “Our address in London is Eight Bruton Street, Berkeley Square, London west one. We bank with both Westminster and Barclays. Our initial deposit with you would be a quarter of a million. Sorry, that’s pounds, not dollars.”

Davidson’s tone grew noticeably warmer when he said, “I’m sure we can provide what you need. Like to drop by this afternoon?”

“This morning’s better for me.”

“What time?”

Georgia Blue looked at her $36 watch. It read 9:22. “Eleven-thirty?”

“See you then,” Davidson said.

Only Booth Stallings was in the living room when Georgia Blue entered it seven minutes later. He was reading the editorial page of the Los Angeles Times but looked up and offered her the hard-news section.

She shook her head and said, “I don’t know the players.”

“Same old crowd.”

“How goes the war?”

“We’re being brave. They’re being cowardly.”

“That’s good. What’s it about?”

Stallings looked at her but she seemed genuinely curious. “Some say oil,” he said. “Others say it’s about stopping naked aggression and restoring democracy in Kuwait.”

“Since when was Kuwait a democracy?”

“Since the war started.”

“How long will it last?”

“Until the first or second week in March. This country can’t stomach a long ground war with lots of dead American kids. So we’ll get it over with, pack up and go home, have ourselves a nice patriotic orgy and leave the Middle East pretty much like we found it — except for a bunch of dead Iraqis.”

Georgia Blue seemed to tire of the war talk because she glanced around the room and asked, “Where is everybody?”

“Wu and Durant went off to track down the guy who drove that limo. Otherguy’s off on Otherguy business.”

“And you?”

“I’m in reserve.”

“I need some more money.”

Stallings nodded. “How much?”

“A couple of thousand. I’ve got one dress, one pair of shoes, and it looks like rain.”

Stallings reached into a pants pocket and brought out a large roll of $100 bills. “I didn’t ask what for; I asked how much.” He counted out twenty $100 bills, paused, counted out five more and handed them to Georgia Blue.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

“Given a choice, I’d rather be sexy than sweet.”

“We’ll see about sexy tonight.”

“Sounds like a real date.”

“It is.”

Stallings rose. “You going into town?”

“Need a lift?” she asked.

“To Santa Monica and Wilshire. That’s where Budget rents its fancy cars.”

“What’re you getting?”

“A Mercedes for Wu and Durant.”

“What happened to their Lincoln?”

“I guess the cops are looking for it by now.”

“Sounds like progress,” Georgia Blue said.

“Yes,” Stallings said, “doesn’t it?”

She dropped him off at Budget’s fancy rental car place that seemed to offer everything from Miatas to Lamborghinis. Ten minutes later she was back in Neiman-Marcus, where she bought a bluish-gray silk and wool suit and a pearl-gray Aquascutum raincoat. The same woman who had sold her the Anne Klein dress wanted to know if she’d ever been a model. When Georgia Blue said she hadn’t, the woman said that was too bad because she could have been big-time. “I mean very big-time.”

Georgia Blue entered the Security Pacific Bank at 11:28 A.M. Three minutes later she was sitting beside the desk of Harold Davidson, who introduced himself as the branch assistant manager. Davidson had a long big-chinned brown face with shrewd dark eyes and a mouth with corners that hooked up at the end, giving him a smile that apparently wouldn’t go away. Although not yet 40, he didn’t have much hair but still had the big gawky frame of a college basketball player who wasn’t quite quick or tall enough for the pros. Davidson helped her off with her raincoat and hung it carefully on a hatrack that held no hats. Georgia Blue suspected it had never held any.

“London,” Davidson said after she was seated and he had lowered his six feet three inches into his chair.

“London,” she agreed.

“Sort of like London out there today, isn’t it? The rain.”

“I don’t know,” Georgia Blue said. “For the past five years I’ve been Wudu’s permanent representative in Manila.”

“The Philippines,” said Davidson, cocked his head to the left, let his smile grow a little and asked, “Was Wudu by any chance in on the hunt for the missing Marcos billions?”

“Let’s just say I performed various tasks for Mrs. Aquino’s government.”

“And now you’re in L.A.,” Davidson said. “Found yourself some offices yet?”

“No, but we’ve temporarily leased a house in Malibu through a real estate man called Phil Quill, who’ll probably handle our office space.”

“Quill,” Davidson said. “Phil Quill. That somehow rings a bell.”

“He used to play football for Arkansas.’

“All-American, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t follow football.”

Davidson nodded understandingly. “I think you said Jack Broach recommended us.”

“I said he mentioned you.”

“He a client of yours?”

“No. But we’re indirectly doing some work for a client of his, Ione Gamble. I want to emphasize that neither Mr. Broach nor Ms. Gamble is our client. Our only client in this particular instance is Enno Glimm.”

Davidson was impressed. “The Camaraderie! Glimm?”

Georgia Blue nodded.

Davidson picked up a pen and pulled a notepad closer. “Just what kind of banking services will you be needing, Ms. Blue?”

“The usual. Mostly, we’ll want you to handle a fluctuating payroll of anywhere from ten to seventy employees. You’d issue the bimonthly checks and see to the state and Federal withholding plus the usual FICA and SDI stuff. It’ll all be routine although sometimes we might require sizable amounts of cash on short notice.”

At the mention of cash, Davidson put down his pen and said, “May I ask if you know Mr. Broach personally?”

“He and I had a meeting yesterday.”

“How did he... seem?”

Georgia Blue stared at him for several seconds before she said, “I don’t understand the question. If you’re asking about his health, he seemed fine. But that’s not what you’re asking, is it?”

“Jack Broach is an old and valued customer,” Davidson said. “But when you mentioned Enno Glimm, I thought you might’ve been assessing the Broach agency for a possible buyout, merger or even an infusion of capital.”

“Enno Glimm has no interest in the Broach agency.”

The corners of Davidson’s mouth almost turned down. “I see.”

“We’re a small firm, Mr. Davidson. But if you want our business, you’d better level with me. Is Jack Broach and Company broke — or just suffering from a temporary case of the shorts?”

Davidson frowned, started to speak, changed his mind, then changed it again and said, “I really can’t say more than I’ve said.”

Georgia Blue rose. “Then I’m afraid we won’t be doing business after all.”

She went to the hatrack, removed her coat, draped it over her left arm and turned to Davidson, who was getting to his feet. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.

She stared at him, then said, “Jack Broach and Company’s down the tubes, right?” When Davidson made no reply and looked at his watch instead, Georgia Blue said, “That’s what I thought.”

After she turned and walked away, Davidson reached for his phone, picked it up, tapped out a number and returned his gaze to Georgia Blue’s back. Just as she walked out the bank’s front door, Davidson’s call was answered with a cheerful “Jack Broach and Company.” Davidson identified himself and asked to speak to Mr. Broach.