“Full up. Booked solid. No room.”
“Tell her about the money,” Durant said to Georgia Blue.
“Well, shit, he can talk,” Cullen said. “Just opens his mouth and out it comes. Who’s Mr. Tan Man, Slim?”
“My partner.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —185
“What happened to Maw-reese?”
“All three of us are partners.”
“Tell her about the money,” Durant said.
“What you got in the bag, Mr. Tan Man?” Colleen Cullen said.
“Money,” said Durant.
“Open it up and let’s see,” Cullen said.
“Not out here.”
“I got a double-barrelled sawed-off that says open it up.”
“Ms. Blue’s hand is in her purse,” Durant said. “In that hand is a thirty-eight I understand you sold her. It’s aimed at your right eye. If you even think you’re going to pull a trigger, you’re dead.”
Colleen Cullen and Durant stared at each other. Nobody moved or spoke or blinked until Georgia Blue said, “Let’s go inside, Colleen, and have a drink and talk about money.”
Still staring at Durant, Cullen said, “How much we going to talk about?”
“Enough,” Blue said. “But inside.”
“Okay,” Cullen said and took two quick steps back, the shotgun still levelled at Durant. “But Mr. Tan Man goes first. Then you, Slim.”
As she followed Durant through the door, Georgia Blue said, “To your right.”
When they reached the closed sliding doors, Blue said, “Open them.”
Durant slid the two doors back into their walled recesses, went into the large living room, looked around quickly, then turned to Colleen Cullen and said, “Hughes and Pauline Goodison were shot dead yesterday in a motel bathroom in Oxnard.”
Cullen reacted with a clearly visible start. But the shotgun didn’t waver. “That calls for a drink,” she said. “Big round table back there’s where the whiskey is. You pour, Mr. Tan Man. Three bourbons. Water.
No ice.”
Durant turned, went to the big round table, poured generous shots of Virginia Gentleman from the now half-empty bottle into three glasses, then added water from a glass pitcher. He did it all with his right hand, keeping a tight grip on the blue carryall with his left.
Once the drinks were poured he turned to look at Colleen Cullen, who was aiming the shotgun at Georgia Blue. “I’m going to open the bag and put something on the table,” Durant said to Cullen. “If you don’t like it, shoot her.”
Without waiting for agreement, Durant zipped open the blue carryall, took out $10,000 worth of bound hundred-dollar bills and placed it on the table. He then picked up his drink and had a long swallow.
Voodoo, Ltd. —186
Cullen used the shotgun to herd Georgia Blue toward the table.
When they reached it, Cullen picked up the bound packet of currency, flicked through it with one hand, her eyes shooting from the money to Durant to Blue and back to the money. It was an indifferent, even contemptuous gesture. Cullen then picked up one of the drinks Durant had mixed and tasted it while studying her guests over the rim of the glass.
She put the glass down, resumed her two-handed grip on the shotgun, backed away two steps and asked, “If I pull these two triggers, how much richer am I?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars richer during the second before we kill you,” Georgia Blue said.
“What if I did you first, Slim?”
“Mr. Durant would shoot you in the left eye.”
“You shoot folks in the right eye. He shoots ‘em in the left. Those the rules or something?”
“Pick up the money and count it,” Durant said.
“Shit, I don’t need to count it. I know what’s there. Ten thousand dollars. You think I don’t know how high a ten-thousand-dollar stack in hundreds is?”
“Here’s the deal,” Durant said. “We’ll pay you seventy-five hundred for the exclusive use of your house from seven to twelve tonight.”
Cullen frowned. “What’s the other twenty-five hundred for?”
“Security.”
Cullen turned to Georgia Blue. “What the fuck’s he talking about now?”
“If things fall apart,” Georgia Blue said slowly, “he wants you to put them back together again.”
Colleen Cullen turned, put the shotgun down on the big round table, pulled out a chair and sat down in front of her drink. She picked it up, had another swallow, then gestured for Durant and Blue to join her.
They did—Georgia Blue on her right; Durant on her left.
“This ain’t no drug buy, is it?” Colleen Cullen asked.
Georgia Blue shook her head.
“Blackmail payoff?”
Blue nodded.
“Something to do with those Goodison creepies?”
“A little,” Blue said.
Cullen nodded slowly, then turned to look at Durant. “And you want me for backup.”
“That’s right.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —187
“Suppose they kill you two, grab the money and run. What d’you expect me to do?”
“Kill them,” Blue said.
“And the money?”
“Keep it,” Durant said.
“All of it?” she asked.
“All of it,” he said.
Voodoo, Ltd. —188
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.
Voodoo, Ltd. —189
“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.