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.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —170
“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.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —171
“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.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —172
“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.
Voodoo, Ltd. —173
“No.”
“But you think you know who did.”