Thirty-five

At 7:59 the next morning the five of them were again gathered around the long refectory table in the dining room, waiting for the telephone to ring. The wrappings and remains of their Egg McMuffin breakfasts had been pushed into a neat pile by Otherguy Overby. Georgia Blue rose, picked up a carafe of coffee from the sideboard and warmed the cups of Overby, Durant and herself — Wu and Stallings declining with headshakes.

The telephone on the long table rang just as Blue sat back down. Wu let it ring four times before he picked it up and said hello.

The electronically distorted voice of the man Overby called Oil Drum said, “You don’t sound like Mr. X to me.”

“I’m Mr. Z, the yes-or-no man,” Wu said.

“I think you’re maybe a cop.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”

“So what the hell’re you doing at the phone number of Billy Rice’s beach house? Answer me that.”

“Mr. X and I’re also the go-between people.”

“Between me and who else?” Oil Drum asked.

“Between you and whoever buys what you’ve got to sell.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve already told your Mr. X what I’ve got to sell.”

“And now you can tell me.”

“I got audio- and videotapes of a hypnotized Ione Gamble confessing to the murder of Billy Rice. That’s what I got.”

“You mentioned a screening to Mr. X,” Wu said.

“I changed my mind. No screening.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s only one videotape and the only way you could look at it is if I made a copy and messengered it to you. But if I did that, you’d have everything I’ve got and could go peddle it for a bunch of money.”

Wu sighed. “How much do you want for your pig in a poke — a hundred thousand?”

“Now you’re wasting my time,” Oil Drum said. “I can make one call to Florida and they’ll fly a guy out this afternoon, be here by two P.M., with three hundred thousand in cash.”

“Who’re the they in Florida?”

“One of the supermarket rags.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I want a fast in-and-out deal,” Oil Drum said. “So I figure I might as well sell it all to Gamble herself.”

“For how much?”

“One million.”

“Impossible,” Wu said.

“Okay. You just said no, so I’ll say goodbye.”

Wu spoke quickly. “How much time do we have?”

“It’s a one-day sale.”

“You can’t expect her to raise that much cash in one day.”

“Why not? Banks open at nine and close at four — some of ’em at five or six. She’s got till six P.M. We agree to do it by then or not at all.”

“Call me back at five,” Wu said.

“Same number?”

“Same number.”

“Okay,” Oil Drum said. “But at five it’s go or no-go. I don’t want any maybes.”

“No maybes,” Wu promised just before Oil Drum broke the connection. Wu hung up his telephone, pushed it away, rested his elbows on the table and looked at Overby.

“That was Oil Drum, Otherguy,” Wu said. “Ione Gamble has until this evening to raise one million dollars.”

Overby’s mouth curled down at its ends in grudging respect. “So he’s going for it all?”

“Apparently.”

“What happened to him and the sleazoids?”

“They’re his fallback and threat.”

Overby nodded his professional approval and said, “Makes sense.”

Wu turned to Georgia Blue. “You’ll be our go-between, Georgia. Quincy will be your backup. I’ll call Howard Mott and tell him we’ve heard from the blackmailer, who’s demanding one million for the tapes.”

“That means we go through Jack Broach,” said Georgia Blue.

“Yes,” Wu said.

“Who can raise maybe three hundred thousand tops, if that.”

“So you’ve told us,” Wu said.

“He’ll hand it to me with a wink and a nod — the three hundred thousand.”

“Precisely.”

“And I’ll hand it to Oil Drum, who’ll want to count it.”

“I don’t believe you and Quincy will let it get quite that far,” Wu said.

There was a short silence before Durant said, “Then I’ll need a piece.”

“Here,” Overby said. He reached into his hip pocket, produced the .38-caliber revolver he had bought from Colleen Cullen, and slid it across the table. Durant picked it up, examined it, slipped it into the right pocket of his jacket and said, “What about Georgia?”

“She’s already got one,” Overby said.

Before Durant could comment, Blue said, “All you have to do is watch my back, Quincy.”

“And my own,” he said.

Artie Wu cut off further bickering with an announcement. “I have some good news about money.”

Everyone looked at him except Durant, who continued to study Georgia Blue.

“Last night,” Wu continued, “Enno Glimm made us a rather interesting proposal. If we can quietly resolve this entire matter and keep him and his companies out of it — which, of course, means absolving Ione Gamble of Rice’s murder — Glimm will pay us an additional five hundred thousand. If we succeed, Quincy and I feel that this fresh money should be divided into equal shares — one hundred thousand each. You might think of it as an incentive bonus.”

“Or a don’t-stray bonus,” Durant said, still studying Georgia Blue.

This time it was Overby who blocked any retort from Blue with a question: “Didn’t Glimm agree to indemnify Ione Gamble for any and all losses the Goodisons caused her?”

“Right,” Wu said.

“Then what Glimm’s really doing is spending half a million on us to keep from coming up with the million Oil Drum’s asking. Or am I wrong?”

Wu smiled. “Some such thought may indeed have crossed his mind.”

“So even if we clear Gamble of Rice’s death, she can still sue Glimm for a bundle.”

“On what grounds?” Durant said.

“How the hell should I know?” Overby said. “That’d be up to Howie Mott. Loss of income. Mental suffering. That’s what you hire lawyers to do.”

“What an interesting notion, Otherguy,” Wu said. “You can try it on Ms. Gamble herself later this morning.”

Instantly wary, Overby asked, “What d’you mean?”

“I mean you’re going to be her personal security.”

“Not me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m no rent-a-cop.”

“You are now,” Durant said.

Overby started to protest again, but changed his mind, slumped back in his chair and glowered at anyone who looked at him. A new silence began that was ended by Georgia Blue’s amused laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Overby demanded.

“Artie’s funny,” she said. “Everybody gets a nanny. Artie watches Booth. Quincy watches me. And Ione Gamble watches you.”

Wu gazed at her with a fond smile and asked, “Should we have taken a vote on who does what, Georgia?”

“A secret one?”

“Of course.”

“Who’d count the votes, Artie?”

“I would,” he said, still smiling. “Who else?”


After Artie Wu tapped out Howard Mott’s telephone number, he listened to the rings while looking at Booth Stallings, now the last one left at the old refectory table. “You didn’t say much during discussion period, Booth,” Wu said.

“Believe I said, ‘Please pass the salt.’ ”

Before Wu could continue, Howard Mott answered the phone with a grumpy “What is it?”

“It’s Artie Wu.”

“You woke me up. If I sound testy, it’s because I am.”

“Late night?”

“I dictated till three. Maybe three-thirty.”

“I have some news.”

“Good or bad?”

“I’ll let you decide,” Wu said. “The blackmailer called.”

“Ah.”

“He disguises his voice with some kind of electronic device.

Otherguy calls him Oil Drum.”

“Because he sounds like he’s talking from the bottom of one,” Mott said.

“Exactly,” said Wu, happy as always when a bright mind required no explanation. “He wants to sell Ione video- and audiotapes of her confessing under hypnosis to the murder of Billy Rice. The price is one million. He wants — I should say demands — a yes or no by five P.M. today.”

“You know she can’t raise a million that quickly, Artie. So what are you really calling about?”

“A proposal.”

“I may not give you a reply.”

“Perhaps, but I propose that you call Jack Broach and tell him Ione needs a million in cash by four P.M. today and why. Then merely listen to what he says.”

There was a very long pause until Mott asked, “You think Jack, instead of saying, ‘Impossible,’ will say, ‘Okay, fine,’ don’t you?”

“Should he say yes or, ‘Okay, fine,’ tell him Georgia Blue will be picking up the money.”

“All by herself?” Mott said, then quickly added, “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Wu said nothing and there was another long silence that Mott ended when he asked, “What’s going on, Artie? Nothing specific, please.”

“Something that might exonerate Ione.”

“Might?”

“That’s as specific as I can get,” Wu said. “But there’s one thing you must do and that’s to give Ione some sense of progress. Simply call her and say that Durant and Georgia are dropping by to bring her up to date and introduce her to her new bodyguard.”

“Who is?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.”

“The hell you’re not.”

“Bear with me, Howie.”

Another very long pause was followed by a grunt from Howard Mott, who then changed the subject and asked, “How was Enno Glimm?”

“Nervous,” Wu said. “He offered us an additional five hundred thousand to keep him all the way out of it and get Ione off the hook. Then he flew back to London.”

“Artie,” Mott said.

“Yes?”

“I really don’t need to hear everything,” Mott said and broke the connection.

Wu recradled the phone, frowned at it for a moment, then turned to Stallings. “What d’you think, Booth?”

“I think your phone pal Oil Drum not only stole the tapes but also killed the limo driver, Mr. Santillan, then did in the Goodisons and tried to run over you and me at the motel in Oxnard.”

“How very neat,” Wu said.

“It’d be even neater if he also killed Billy Rice,” Stallings said.

“Except he didn’t,” Wu said.

“No.”

“But you think you know who did.”

“Maybe.”

“Like to share your suspicions?”

“Depends,” Stallings said.

“On what?”

“On what happens to Georgia,” Stallings said.

Artie Wu tugged at his right earlobe as he seemed to examine something that was just beyond Stallings’s left shoulder. “You think I’ve sent Georgia down the path to temptation rather than redemption, don’t you?”

“You sure as hell’ve pointed the way.”

“Then why would I send Quincy with her?”

“That stumps me.”

“How does Quincy seem to you — compared to five years ago?”

Stallings considered the question. “He’s turned sour and about as remote as the moon — although he never was what I’d call a bucket of laughs.”

“And Georgia?”

“She’s moved to the outback of remote.”

“What I’ve done,” Wu said slowly, “or what I hope I’ve done, is to send them on a cure together.”

“A cure that can get ’em both killed — if they don’t kill each other first.”

“But the interesting thing is, Booth, they both know what I’m doing and neither objects.”

“Maybe the cure will take and maybe it won’t,” Stallings said. “But as long as I know you’re not setting Georgia up, I’ll go along.”

“I’m very fond of Georgia,” Wu said. “You know that.”

“Ever been stuck on her?”

“No,” Wu said. “But then Agnes was already — present.”

“Durant was once,” Stallings said. “Stuck on her.”

Wu nodded.

“So was Otherguy.”

Wu moved his shoulders just enough to form a slight shrug.

“And now me,” Stallings said.

“You’re a lucky man, Booth,” Wu said, paused, then asked, “About what you said earlier?”

“About who killed Rice?”

Wu nodded. “Is it a hunch?”

“More notion than hunch.”

“Notions are good, too,” Wu said with a couple of judicious nods. “Need anything?”

“Money, but I’ll cash a check at the bank for five thousand.”

“Want me to tag along?”

Stallings shook his head and rose.

“May I ask what you think you might come up with?”

“What about a signed confession?”

“That’ll do nicely,” said Artie Wu.

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