“I thought we’d have a nightcap,” she said, placing the glasses and bottle on the dresser. “Water?”
“In the bathroom.”
She poured two generous measures of whisky, carried the glasses into the bathroom, added a little cold water, then returned to the bedroom and handed Stallings one of the drinks. He sat down on the bed. She sat next to him and said, “It’s started.”
“What?”
“The ground war.”
“Huh.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Well, they’ve been building up to it for what — six months — and they’ve bombed the shit out of Iraq and’ve got all the troops and tanks and planes and artillery and ships they can use. It’ll probably end pretty soon — like I said.”
“You don’t sound very interested.”
“If there was any danger of losing, I might get interested. To me it’s just another dumb war with a foreordained outcome being fought by some young mercenaries or professionals we call volunteers. This country’ll never lose another conventional war. If it looks like we might lose, we won’t fight.”
“Especially if they’re white folks,” Georgia Blue said.
Stallings grinned. “Haven’t fought any of them since forty-five.”
“What happens next?” she said.
“You still talking about the gulf war?”
“No.”
“L’Affaire Gamble?”
She nodded. “When it’s over.”
“I expect we’ll all wander off again.”
“Wu with Durant, you with Otherguy?”
Stallings shook his head slightly, smiling at what might have been fond memories. “After five years, I think Otherguy’s ready to dissolve the old firm. I know I am.”
“He likes you.”
“Otherguy was — is—” Stallings paused to search for the right words. “—a postdoctoral education.”
“What’ll you do?”
He looked at her. It was a look of cool examination. “What d’you suggest?”
“We could team up,” she said.
“And do what? Run variations of the Lagos Bank Draft on rich old marks in Palm Springs?”
“I’m not talking about forever,” she said. “I’m talking about six months — a year at the most.”
“Living in fancy hotels, drinking fine wines?”
“Why not?”
Stallings rose, went to the dresser, poured more Scotch into his glass, sipped it, turned back to her and asked, “What would I have to do?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Maybe nothing.”
“But probably something.”
“Probably.”
“Just because I’m stuck on you, Georgia, doesn’t mean I’m simple.”
“I know.”
“What if Durant finds out?” he asked.
“He won’t.”
“But if he does?”
She shrugged slightly, put her drink down on the bedside table and began loosening the belt of her raincoat. “Durant won’t care,” she said.
“I won’t cross him,” Stallings said. “Or Artie.”
“We won’t cross them,” she said as she undid the raincoat’s buttons.
“Otherguy?”
“Not Otherguy either.”
“So who do we cross?”
“Jack Broach and Company.”
“Jesus, you’re not back on that ‘dead blackmailers can’t blackmail’ pitch again, are you?”
Georgia Blue undid the last of the raincoat’s buttons as she rose, let the raincoat slip to the floor and said, “You still don’t quite get it, do you?”
Stallings paid no attention to the question as he stared at the perfect body, remembering it, rediscovering it and refusing to analyze his nearly adolescent surge of eroticism. Instead, he set his drink down and hurried to her. There was a brief stare of either accommodation or understanding before the kiss began — a very long and nearly savage kiss that featured clicking teeth and what Stallings thought of as dueling tongues.
When the kiss ended, both were gasping, but Georgia Blue managed to ask a question. “Well, is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Like a real date?”
“Exactly,” Booth Stallings said.
Thirty-five
At 7:59 the next morning the five of them were again gathered around the long refectory table in the dining room, waiting for the telephone to ring. The wrappings and remains of their Egg McMuffin breakfasts had been pushed into a neat pile by Otherguy Overby. Georgia Blue rose, picked up a carafe of coffee from the sideboard and warmed the cups of Overby, Durant and herself — Wu and Stallings declining with headshakes.
The telephone on the long table rang just as Blue sat back down. Wu let it ring four times before he picked it up and said hello.
The electronically distorted voice of the man Overby called Oil Drum said, “You don’t sound like Mr. X to me.”
“I’m Mr. Z, the yes-or-no man,” Wu said.
“I think you’re maybe a cop.”
“What a terrible thing to say.”
“So what the hell’re you doing at the phone number of Billy Rice’s beach house? Answer me that.”
“Mr. X and I’re also the go-between people.”
“Between me and who else?” Oil Drum asked.
“Between you and whoever buys what you’ve got to sell.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve already told your Mr. X what I’ve got to sell.”
“And now you can tell me.”
“I got audio- and videotapes of a hypnotized Ione Gamble confessing to the murder of Billy Rice. That’s what I got.”
“You mentioned a screening to Mr. X,” Wu said.
“I changed my mind. No screening.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s only one videotape and the only way you could look at it is if I made a copy and messengered it to you. But if I did that, you’d have everything I’ve got and could go peddle it for a bunch of money.”
Wu sighed. “How much do you want for your pig in a poke — a hundred thousand?”
“Now you’re wasting my time,” Oil Drum said. “I can make one call to Florida and they’ll fly a guy out this afternoon, be here by two P.M., with three hundred thousand in cash.”
“Who’re the they in Florida?”
“One of the supermarket rags.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I want a fast in-and-out deal,” Oil Drum said. “So I figure I might as well sell it all to Gamble herself.”
“For how much?”
“One million.”
“Impossible,” Wu said.
“Okay. You just said no, so I’ll say goodbye.”
Wu spoke quickly. “How much time do we have?”
“It’s a one-day sale.”
“You can’t expect her to raise that much cash in one day.”
“Why not? Banks open at nine and close at four — some of ’em at five or six. She’s got till six P.M. We agree to do it by then or not at all.”
“Call me back at five,” Wu said.
“Same number?”
“Same number.”
“Okay,” Oil Drum said. “But at five it’s go or no-go. I don’t want any maybes.”
“No maybes,” Wu promised just before Oil Drum broke the connection. Wu hung up his telephone, pushed it away, rested his elbows on the table and looked at Overby.
“That was Oil Drum, Otherguy,” Wu said. “Ione Gamble has until this evening to raise one million dollars.”
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.”