Thirty-nine

Booth Stallings came out of Johnnie’s New York Pizza on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu carrying two 16-inch cheese and sausage pizzas, three quarts of mixed green salad and a six-pack of Mexican beer. After loading it all on the right-hand seat of the newly rented black Mercedes 500SL roadster, he went around the car’s rear, got behind the wheel, started the engine and carefully nosed out into the highway traffic. A few blocks later, Stallings made a U-turn, parked the Mercedes at the curb and, now bearing early dinner for four, walked back a block and a half to the Rice house. He arrived at 4:52 P.M., eight minutes before Oil Drum, the blackmailer, was due to call.

By 4:59 P.M. Stallings had seen to the plates, silverware, napkins and glasses; Georgia Blue had served the pizza and salad, and Durant had opened four bottles of beer. Artie Wu sat at the head of the old refectory table, a telephone at his elbow. At 5:01 P.M. Wu took a large bite of pizza. Seconds later, his mouth still full, the phone rang. Wu continued to chew calmly as Georgia Blue rose and hurried to the phone in the living room. At the end of the fifth ring, she and Wu — his mouth still half-full — simultaneously picked up their telephones.

“Yes?” Wu said.

“It’s me,” said the reverberating voice of Oil Drum.

“So it is.”

“What about my money?”

“It’s handy.”

“So where d’you want to do it?”

“I’m open to suggestion,” Wu said and had another large bite of pizza.

“There’s a place out in the Valley—”

“The San Fernando Valley, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Close to the Ventura Freeway?”

“Not far.”

“Sorry,” Wu said, paused to drink some beer, then continued: “Anywhere we meet will have to be at least ten minutes from any freeway. Otherwise, the temptation to smash, grab and tear off down the 101 or the 405 might be, well, irresistible.”

“Who the fuck you think you’re dealing with?” Oil Drum said.

“A blackmailer,” said Wu. “But when you reconsider, you’ll realize that the smash, grab and run temptation might be equally irresistible to us.”

There was a pause before Oil Drum said, “Okay. Then you come up with a place.”

“Topanga Canyon,” Wu said. “About halfway between the Ventura Freeway and the PCH. It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn devoid of guests. Privacy guaranteed. And it offers not only a place for you to count your million but also a VCR we can use to view the tape.”

“And a real narrow twisty road perfect for a hijack,” Oil Drum said.

“You’re selling, we’re buying,” Wu said. “And our risk is considerably greater than yours.”

“That sounds a whole lot like take it or leave it.”

“A reasonable interpretation,” said Wu and finished off the last of his pizza wedge.

There was another silence until Oil Drum said, “Okay. How do I get there?”

Wu took a three-by-five card from his shirt pocket and, without sounding as if he were reading, slowly read the directions to Cousin Colleen’s Bed & Breakfast Inn. After Wu finished, Oil Drum repeated the directions without hesitancy or mistake and asked, “What time?”

“Eight o’clock?” Wu said.

“Too early.”

“Ten,” Wu said.

“I like nine better.”

“All right. Nine.”

“Who’re you sending?” Oil Drum asked.

“Why?”

“What d’you mean why? Because I wanta know, that’s why.”

“Do you want to know who — or how many?”

“How many,” Oil Drum said. “I don’t give a shit who.”

“Two,” Wu said. “One to watch the other.”

“Two, huh? Okay, then I’ll bring somebody.”

“I thought you might,” Wu said. “At nine o’clock, then?”

“Nine sharp,” Oil Drum said and broke the connection.


At 6:55 P.M. Georgia Blue rose from the refectory table and said she was going to lie down for a while. Ten minutes later, Durant got up and said he planned to do the same thing. That left Wu and Stallings seated at the table, their untasted third cups of coffee cooling in front of them.

Wu lit a cigar, blew smoke at the ceiling, then looked at Stallings. “I want you to do something that might sound a little underhanded, Booth.”

Stallings only nodded.

“I suspect Oil Drum might bring more than just one other person along.”

“Can’t blame him — especially since Georgia and Durant’ll have what’s her name, Colleen Cullen, staked out with a sawed-off.”

Wu puffed on his cigar, examined its ash and said, “Before nine tonight it’s quite possible that Oil Drum will get to Colleen Cullen with a better offer — or get rid of her altogether.”

Stallings thought about it. “Possible or probable?”

“Possible,” Wu said. “You have plans for this evening?”

“Not until later.”

“Are you making any... progress?”

“Maybe.”

“But nothing you’d care to talk about?”

“Not yet.”

“I need an hour of your time,” Wu said and blew a smoke ring off to the right.

“To do what?”

Artie Wu reached into his right rear pants pocket and brought out a small semiautomatic. It was a German-made Sauer, the one that held nine 7.65mm rounds, had an overall length of six and a half inches and weighed a little more than twenty-two ounces loaded. Wu slid the pistol over to Stallings, who picked it up, examined it carefully, tucked it away in his own hip pocket and asked, “Who d’you want me to shoot?”

“I want you to get it to Otherguy.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“What else?”

“Tell Otherguy to go to the Cullen inn as soon as possible.”

“Before Durant and Georgia get there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Wu blew cigar smoke off to his left this time. “You were in the infantry during the war?”

Stallings nodded.

“A platoon leader?”

“Right.”

“You sent out scouts?”

“I sent ’em out and sometimes they didn’t come back.”

“Which told you something was amiss up ahead.”

“And why nobody ever wanted to be a scout. Otherguy won’t either.”

“But he’ll do it,” Wu said.

“What about Ione Gamble, whose body he’s supposed to be guarding?”

“I’d like you to deliver her to Howie Mott and leave her with him until it’s over.”

“Howie know about this yet?”

“I’ll call him.”

“You going to tell Georgia and Durant about Otherguy?”

“No,” Wu said, reached into a pants pocket, brought out some car keys and offered them to Stallings. “You’d better take the Mercedes.”

Stallings shook his head and rose. “I rented myself a car this afternoon.”

“Good.”

Stallings looked down at Wu for several moments before he said, “Why aren’t you going, Artie — instead of Otherguy?”

“Because I’m not needed.”

“You hope.”

“I hope,” Wu agreed.

“Okay, so what else do I tell Otherguy besides all that ‘scouts out’ bullshit?”

“Tell him to fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Whatever breaks,” said Artie Wu.

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