“What’d she say?”
“She said it sounded like more nursery games.”
“That all?”
“That’s all so far.”
“She may need a large helping of reassurance.”
“Tell me something, Artie. How d’you reassure someone with a rock-solid ego?”
“You’ll find a way,” Wu said and paused. During the pause Stallings heard a faint click from twelve thousand miles away, which he assumed was Wu’s lighter. The click was followed by either a sigh or the sound of exhaled cigar smoke. Then Wu was saying, “I have a little news and a little clarification. The hypnotists are a rather bent British brother-and-sister team who’ve been involved with Ione Gamble.”
“America’s heartthrob,” Stallings said.
“She really called that?”
“Mostly by old crocks like me who find comfort in the clichés of their youth. Truth is, Artie, I haven’t kept up with Hollywood much since Sheilah Graham died.”
“Then you may not’ve heard that Ms. Gamble has been indicted for the murder of William A. C. Rice the Fourth.”
“They deliver USA Today right to your hotel room door all over the world. I saw the headlines, but can’t say I’ve followed it closely.”
“Then you may want to do some research on it.”
“Okay.”
“My news is that Ms. Gamble has retained your son-in-law to defend her.”
“I’ve got two sons-in-law,” Stallings said. “One of ’em’s too dumb to pour piss out of a rubber boot and isn’t a lawyer anyway, so you must be talking about Howie Mott, right?”
“Yes.”
“You know Howie? I guess you do since he’s the one who recommended you guys to me back in eighty-six.”
“We’ve never met,” Wu said. “But we seem to have a number of mutual friends.”
Stallings only grunted and said, “When d’you want us in L.A.?”
“Can you leave tomorrow?”
“First-class?”
“I think Georgia deserves some first-class.”
“So does she,” Stallings said. “Anything I can do in L.A.?”
“Yes. Rent us a furnished house, something ostentatious in the Palisades or Malibu. One that’s large enough to accommodate the five of us. Rent it for a month with the understanding that we can extend for another month. I’ll wire-transfer fifty thousand in your name to the Bank of America — the branch on the old Malibu Road. Establish a regular checking account with you, Quincy and me as signatories, draw what cash you need and ask the bank manager to recommend a real estate agent.”
“Who am I?” Stallings said.
“You’re the permanent representative of Wudu, Limited, Eight Bruton Street, Berkeley Square, London west one. You were formerly our permanent representative in the Middle East, headquartered in Amman, where you conducted research, surveys ad nauseam.”
“Speaking of ad nauseam,” Stallings said, “has Otherguy shown up?”
“Quincy’s giving him dinner — or supper — and telling him pretty much what I’ve told you.”
“I bet Otherguy tells Quincy he knows Ione Gamble personally.”
In London, there was either a sigh or more cigar smoke being exhaled before Artie Wu said, “The wonderful thing is, he just might.”
After the room service waiter had rolled in the breakfast cart and left, Booth Stallings crossed the suite’s living room, heading for Georgia Blue’s closed bedroom door. Before he reached it, the door opened and she came out, walking on bare feet and wearing one of the hotel’s white terry-cloth robes.
Stallings noticed for what must have been the seventh time in less than twenty-four hours that she still moved with the same graceful stride on those long, long legs that made her stand five-ten in her bare feet and at least six-even in heels. Her light green eyes skipped over Stallings to the breakfast cart. When she reached it, she lifted up lids and sniffed hungrily at each dish. Just before reaching for a serving spoon, she ran her hand through her short reddish-brown hair that now boasted a short streak of white less than an inch wide. It had turned white in prison shortly after her thirty-fifth birthday not quite two years ago. The streak was centered above her high broad forehead, behind which, Stallings had long thought, lurked far too many brains.
As Georgia Blue stood there, heaping scrambled eggs, sausage and tropical fruit onto her plate — wearing no makeup, her hair brushed and combed by that one swipe of her hand — Stallings tried to decide whether his infatuation with her had finally turned into an obsession. He had just decided he didn’t really give a damn what it was when she added two soft rolls to her plate and said, “Christ, Booth, you ordered enough for six.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day if you listen to the hog growers, cereal manufacturers and the butter and egg folks.”
“Milk,” she said, pouring herself a glass. “I never thought I’d dream about milk.”
She carried the plate and glass over to a small dining table, set them down and returned to the cart for a fork and spoon, ignoring the knives. Once seated, she attacked the food, sending an occasional wary glance at Stallings, who was filling his own plate with bacon and eggs.
He looked at her, noticed one of the wary glances and said, “Slow down, Georgia. Nobody’s going to snatch it away from you.”
She ignored him and went on with her rapid eating.
Stallings sat down opposite her, buttered a roll and asked, “Why didn’t you lose any weight?”
“Because I took food away from the smaller and weaker women.”
“Wonder they didn’t get together and beat up on you.”
“By then I was the mean gang’s number one ass-kicker.”
Although her plate was still half-full, she put her fork and spoon down, leaned back in the chair, stared at Stallings and said, “If we’re going to leave tomorrow for Los Angeles, I have to buy some stuff.”
“Don’t think I said anything about leaving tomorrow.”
“Artie did. I picked up his call between rings, just like the Secret Service taught me, and listened to you two fretting over me like a couple of old-maid aunts. Whatever shall we do about Georgia, poor thing? Well, the first thing you can do is get me some stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Stallings asked.
She smiled at him. “You think I mean dope, don’t you?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Look, I’m a convicted felon with a commuted sentence, not a pardon. If I’d been convicted in the States, I couldn’t vote or serve on a jury or be elected President unless one of the states restored my civil rights — although the only civil right most felons in California want restored is their right to own a gun. But I was convicted in another country and I’m not sure what the law is, although I’m damn sure the American embassy isn’t going to bust its collective gut to supply me with a fresh passport or the piece of paper it gives felons who want to go home.”
“How come you weren’t deported?”
“That was part of the deal I cut — no deportation.”
“Okay. You need a passport. What else?”
“Clothes.”
“Get dressed and we’ll go across the street and take care of the passport photos. Then I’ll give you some money and you can buy what clothes you need while I go find you a passport.”
“You know how?”
“I know how.”
“Must’ve been quite a learning experience — hanging out with Otherguy for what — five years now?”
“About that.”
“How is he? Not that I give a damn.”
“As ever.”
“Why’d Artie and Durant send you to fetch me and not Otherguy?”
“Because Artie thinks I’m still stuck on you.”
“Are you?”
“What d’you think?”
“I hope not because I can’t give you anything but sex,” she said and then tacked on a perfectly neutral, “baby.”