“When?”
“When he was quarterback for Arkansas in the early sixties. He even made UPI All-American his senior year.”
“You saw him play?”
“On TV.”
Quill returned, sat down, sipped his coffee, then asked a question. The first half of it was directed to Georgia Blue, the second half to Stallings. “I wonder if you folks could give me some idea? Of just what kind of place you’re looking for?”
“We’d like something right on the beach with at least five bedrooms,” Stallings said.
“For how long?”
“One month — with an option to extend for another month.”
“You all want it close in, far out or sorta in between? Reason I ask is because Malibu’s about twenty-five miles long and a mile thick.”
“What about around in here?” Blue said.
“Well, around in here, Miss Blue, is practically Carbon Beach and that gets expensive now that it’s February and the snowbirds are flying down from Canada and the Europeans are swarming in to take advantage of the two-dollar pound, the sixty-nine-cent mark and the damn near twenty-cent franc.”
“What do you call expensive?” Stallings asked.
“Ten, fifteen, twenty thousand a month.”
“You have anything with five bedrooms in that price range?”
Quill gave his magnificent chin a quick brush with his left thumb, as if it helped him think. Stallings touched his own chin, almost by reflex, and said, “You used to do that just before you passed, didn’t you?”
It had been a long time since Stallings had seen a grown man blush, but Quill turned quite pink. He then tried a grin that was almost a grimace. “I keep hoping folks’ll say, ‘Hey, didn’t I see you in Bloody Valentine and also in that MOW turkey, Pickled Noon?” But none of ’em ever remember the fourteen features and fifty-one series episodes I’ve been in. All they remember is football.”
“Sorry I mentioned it,” Stallings said.
“Well, it’s just that I’d rather be known for what I’ve done these last twenty-five years instead of for what I did between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one. I could’ve turned pro but didn’t. Instead, I came out here right after college and thought of myself as an actor ever since — even though there was one month in nineteen eighty-eight when I made more in real estate commissions than I ever made acting — and that includes all my TV residuals.”
“I’ll always think of you as an actor, Mr. Quill,” Blue said.
“Appreciate that, Miss Blue, but right now I gotta change back to Phil Quill, real estate man.”
He looked at Stallings again, then back at Georgia Blue, frowned a little, gave the great chin another quick thumb brush and said, “You all seem like sensible, sophisticated folks, and I’m not using ‘sophisticated’ in any pejorative sense. So that’s why I’m gonna ask you this question.” After an actor’s short beat, Quill said, “Would you consider renting a mighty fine six-bedroom house smack-dab on Carbon Beach for fifteen thousand a month even if its former owner got shot dead in it last New Year’s Eve or thereabouts?”
“Who got shot dead?” Stallings said.
“William A. C. Rice the Rich. The cops say Ione Gamble shot him.”
“It’s right on the beach?” Georgia Blue said.
“With your own one hundred feet of sand.”
“Fifteen thousand?” Stallings said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take twelve-five?”
“Take thirteen-five.”
“With an option to extend?”
“Yes, sir, I can do that.”
“We’ll take it.”
“Don’t you all wanta go look at it first?”
“You said it was nice, Mr. Quill,” Georgia Blue said, “Just how nice will be our surprise.”
Thirteen
Artie Wu, pushing a loaded baggage cart, was in the lead at 1:37 that same afternoon when he, Otherguy Overby and Quincy Durant came up the long ramp that led from customs and immigration to the airport’s international reception area where Booth Stallings waited with Georgia Blue.
Durant watched as Wu gave Georgia Blue a smile, a hug, a kiss and some words of warm greeting before turning to shake hands with Stallings. Overby was next. He patted her on the cheek, which almost made her flinch, then said something that almost made her smile.
An unsmiling Durant went up to her and held out his hand. She took it and said, “Let’s hear it, Quincy.”
He let her hand go and said, “Don’t try to fuck me over again, Georgia.”
They stared at each other for several seconds before she replied with two thoughtful nods, which Durant interpreted as, “Maybe I will” and “Maybe I won’t.” What she actually said was, “You look about the same.”
“So do you.”
“No, I don’t.”
Durant studied her streak of white hair. “You going to keep it?”
“As a reminder.”
“I like it,” he said and turned away to greet Booth Stallings.
With his coat and tie off and the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt folded back two careful turns, Otherguy Overby headed the rented Lincoln Town Car into the Airport Return shortcut that led back to the international terminal where Artie Wu by now should have completed his phone call.
Next to Overby in the front seat was Georgia Blue. In the rear were Durant and Stallings. After the four of them had reached the third floor of the parking lot and loaded the luggage into the Lincoln’s trunk, Overby offered to drive. Stallings tossed him the keys and said, “It’s all yours.”
“Which way?” Overby said.
“Malibu,” said Stallings, who thought of himself as one of those rare Americans who regarded automobiles as more nuisance than necessity. There had been times in his life, especially when abroad and poking around in terrorism, that he had gone for as long as eighteen months without ever riding in a private automobile. He had instead walked, bicycled or taken taxis and public transport. He was now almost sure he would never buy another car — unless, of course, he stumbled across an incredibly cheap Morgan or maybe a Jowett-Jupiter.
Overby spotted Wu waiting at the curb. After the Lincoln pulled over and stopped, Wu got into the rear seat next to Stallings and said, “Quincy and I’re—” He broke off as Overby expertly cut off a hotel shuttle van, then bullied his way to the airport road’s far left lane. Wu realized he had been holding his breath until assured of safe passage. He used the withheld breath to complete his announcement. “Quincy and I’re to meet Ione Gamble at five this afternoon.”
“You talked to her?” Durant asked.
“No. To Howard Mott.” He looked at Stallings. “Your son-in-law asked me to tell you your grandson and namesake is thriving.”
The new grandfather smiled slightly. “They named the kid Booth Stallings Mott. It didn’t occur to either of them that by the time he’s in the second grade, or maybe even the first, the other kids’ll be calling him B.S.”
Georgia Blue asked, “Have you seen him yet?”
“Not yet. But I haven’t been back to Washington in five years. Anyway, the kid’s still in the gurgle-and-coo stage so maybe I’ll wait till he’s three or four and has something to say.”
Overby had turned north on Sepulveda, heading for Lincoln Boulevard. Wu leaned forward and asked, “Where to, Otherguy?”
“Booth says Malibu.”
Wu leaned back and asked Stallings, “Any problem with the checking account?”
“None. I have blank checks and signature cards for you and Quincy in my pocket.”
“Any leads on a house yet?”
“Remember Phil Quill?”
Wu frowned, then brightened. “The Razorback quarterback.”
“He rented us a house.”
“His?”