“Yeah,” Gesini said cautiously, “I guess so.”
“However, there does seem to be a tiny problem. Your two associates, Mr. Egidio and Mr. Norris, are such talkative chaps. I’m not sure that you shouldn’t caution them. Of course, if they weren’t so garrulous, we would never have heard of Mr. McBride, now, would we?”
It was said with a charming smile, but it was still a rebuke, and Gesini immediately went on the defensive. “Well, when you’re in the kinda business I’m in, you hear all sorts of crazy stories and all of them are gonna make you a million at least.”
“It must be a trial,” Simms said. “However, I was wondering if you would be interested in a proposal?”
“I’ll listen.”
“Good. My proposal is that you get all the information that Mr. McBride has. I must stress all. It seems, according to your talkative two colleagues, that Mr. McBride, after you rejected his overtures, decided to take his proposition to two other gentlemen.”
“Yeah, I think Icky and Tony told me that.”
“And one of these two gentlemen was Chinese, I believe.”
“I think I remember that they said one of ’em was a Chinaman. I wasn’t listening too close.”
“Did they mention where they live?”
Gesini thought about it. “One of ’em lives in Malibu, I think. I don’t know which one.”
“I would think that the names of these two gentlemen along with their addresses should be included in the information that you get from Mr McBride. They are a couple of loose ends and I don’t like to leave such things dangling. Of course, after Mr. McBride has been debriefed he would become surplus, wouldn’t he?”
“What do you mean, surplus?”
“I would think he could be disposed of, don’t you? Nowadays, we do live in such a throwaway world. Could you handle all this — with your usual discretion, of course?”
“Yeah,” Gesini said, “I can handle it.”
“And now to compensation. I do hate to haggle, so I’m going to be what I hope is generous. Say, twenty thousand?”
“Yeah, that’s all right. That’s fine.”
“Good.”
“What about the other two guys, the Chinaman and the other one?”
Simms seemed to think about it for a moment and then gave Gesini another of his shy, pleasant smiles. “I do think, Mr. Gesini, that I might have to look after them myself. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Gesini lied, “I understand.”
Chapter 9
Artie Wu was at the Crocker Bank in Santa Monica that Friday morning at two minutes until ten, which was when the bank opened. At five minutes past ten, just after he had cashed Randall Piers’s check for $25,000, he used a pay telephone in the bank’s lobby to call Durant.
Durant was in the bedroom of the rented beach house making his bed. He picked up the phone on its first ring and said hello. As he did, he heard the knock at the front door.
“It’s me,” Artie Wu said after Durant said hello.
“Hold on a second. Someone’s at the door.”
Durant put the phone down and went into the living room. Through the door’s glass he could see Lace Armitage — at least, her upper half. She was bearing a white blouse that he couldn’t quite see through, with four of its top buttons undone and no brassiere. Durant opened the door to discover that the six greyhounds were with her. They had gathered around her in a tight bunch and seemed to be waiting for an invitation to bound inside.
“Well,” Durant said. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she said. “Am I early?”
“Not at all. Come in.”
“¡Siéntense!” she said to the dogs with a passable Spanish accent, and they promptly lowered their haunches to the deck and prepared to await the morning’s next development.
Inside, Durant gestured toward the stove. “Help yourself to some coffee,” he said. “I’m on the phone, but I’ll be through in a second.”
“No hurry,” she said.
Durant was wearing only his sawed-off blue jeans. When he turned to go back into the bedroom she saw the thirty-six scars on his back, although she didn’t count them. In the bedroom Durant picked up the phone again and said, “Okay.”
“Who was it?” Wu said.
“Piers’s wife.”
“With the letter?”
“Probably.”
“I’m at the bank.”
“And?”
“We’re in business — although I’m not sure what kind.”
“Profitable, I’d say. So far.”
“What do you want to do next, take a run down to Pelican Bay and look up Otherguy?”
“We might as well.”
“Lunch?”
“Who’s cooking today?”
“I am.”
“Then I’ll be there,” Durant said, and hung up the phone. When Durant came back into the living room he was wearing an old gray sweat shirt with DENVER ATHLETIC CLUB stenciled across its front in faded letters. Lace Armitage was seated in the suede chair, a yellow mug of coffee in her hands.
“My husband was right,” she said. “You do make a damn good cup of coffee.”
“Thanks.”
She nodded at the burled-walnut coffee table, where another mug of coffee rested on the current issue of Foreign Affairs. “I poured you some too.”
“Good,” Durant said, and sat down on the couch.
“My husband sent someone out yesterday to get a coffeepot like yours, but when they tried it this morning it turned out awful. What’s your recipe?”
“Let me think,” he said. “I have to think about it because I always make automatically and half asleep.” He thought a moment and then said, “Well, first you fill up the pot and bring it to a boil. Then you throw in a couple of handfuls of coffee, crack an egg, and toss in the shells. Then you boil it till it’s done. If you don’t know what to do with the egg, you can drink it. I always do.”
“Raw?” She made a face.
“It’s not bad with a little Worcestershire and a dash of Tabasco. Some salt and pepper.”
“How do you know when it’s done?”
“The coffee?”
“Yes.”
Durant shrugged. “You just know.”
Lace shook her head in a kind of mock despair, reached down beside the chair, and picked up her large leather drawstring purse. She opened it and took out a thick buff envelope, which she handed to Durant. He noticed that the envelope was unsealed. On its front was written the one name Silk in a firm, rather pretty hand.
“This the letter you mentioned?” he said.
“Yes. You can read it if you like.”
Durant thought about it. “Would it help us to find her?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t read it. If I do find her, she might not like having had the postman read her mail. And that’s about really all I am, isn’t it — a postman?”
He licked the flap of the envelope, sealed it, and placed it on the coffee table.
Lace looked at him for a moment and then smiled. It was her best smile. “That was a damn decent thing to do.”
“What?”
“Not reading it. Most people would’ve.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Durant grinned. “Then we share an opinion of most people.” He picked up his coffee and sipped it. “Tell me about her,” he said as he put the mug down.
“Silk?”
“About her and the Congressman.”
“Silk,” she said and bent down to fish into her leather bag again. She came up with a red box of Sherman cigarettes, the long brown kind; took one for herself; and then offered the box to Durant. He took one, nodded his thanks, and lit both of them with a disposable lighter. Lace blew some smoke out and said, “Silk” again. “Well, Silk and I have always been very close. That’s not to say that she and Ivory weren’t close, but both of them felt closer to me than they did to each other. Does that make sense?”