“But they tell me they’re inadmissible as evidence because I was hypnotized.”
“This isn’t about evidence anymore,” Blue said. “It’s about Ione Gamble, movie star. If you don’t get the tapes back, they’ll be sold to slash-and-burn TV shows and tabloids. They’ll run tapes of you on TV saying God knows what — maybe describing the details of your sex life with Billy Rice. And everything they run on TV will be boiled down by the tabloids into three- and four-word Second Coming headlines that’ll scream the whole story.” Georgia Blue paused, then continued. “Okay. You’re tough and you can take it. But it’ll be an avalanche of pretrial publicity — all of it bad.”
“Maybe it won’t ever come to trial,” Overby said.
“Maybe it won’t,” Georgia Blue said.
“What you’re really telling me is that those tapes could help send me to the gas chamber.”
“That’s melodramatic,” Blue said. “What I’m saying is that they can do you no possible good and could cause you a great deal of harm.”
Gamble looked at Durant. “What d’you think?”
“I think Georgia’s right.”
Gamble seemed drawn back to Blue. “In the Secret Service you must’ve had a lot of experience protecting people.”
Georgia Blue nodded.
“Anybody famous?”
“Imelda Marcos. Mrs. Bush — when he first became Vice-President. Some others.”
“Then you’re an expert.”
“I was.”
“Well, if I need a bodyguard, why is it Otherguy and not you?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Durant,” Georgia Blue said.
Gamble shifted her gaze to Durant, who said, “We don’t know that your life’s in danger. But we think it’s a possibility and Otherguy is the precaution we’ve taken. And a competent one.”
“As competent as Ms. Blue?”
“Nobody is.”
Georgia Blue turned to stare at Durant, then looked quickly away.
“So you and Ms. Blue—”
“Better call me Georgia.”
“So you and Georgia will buy the tapes from the blackmailer with my million dollars?”
“You tell her, Georgia,” Durant said.
“When it’s all over,” Georgia Blue said slowly, “we plan to hand you the tapes and also your million dollars and possibly even the blackmailer.”
Ione Gamble seemed to shrink back in her wooden swivel chair. “Possibly?” she said, almost whispering the word.
“It’s possible the blackmailer will be dead.”
Ione Gamble shrank even farther back in the chair, as if to get as far away from Blue and Durant as possible. She stared down at her desktop, stroked the flop-eared rabbit, as though for reassurance, then looked up at Overby and said, “I don’t really want to hear any more, Otherguy.”
Thirty-seven
It was 2:42 P.M. When Georgia Blue began counting the $300,000 in Jack Broach’s Beverly Hills office. There were thirty bound packets of currency stacked on his eighteenth-century French desk, each packet containing $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills. Blue stood, counting silently. When done, she carefully packed the money into a dark blue nylon carryall she had bought at a Sav-On drugstore for $8.95 plus tax.
Broach sat behind his desk, not speaking until she zipped up the carryall. He then smiled and said, “One million exactly, right?”
Georgia Blue sat down in a chair in front of the desk, stared at him for a moment, then said, “Exactly.”
“A receipt in that amount might prove useful someday.”
“Useful to you, not to me.”
“I thought it worth a try.”
She shrugged. “Anything else?”
He leaned toward her, forearms on the ornate desktop, the well-cared-for hands clasped, a look of what seemed to be genuine interest, even curiosity, on his face. “I’d like to know how it’ll work — the mechanics of it.”
“The details,” she said.
He nodded.
“That’s normal,” she said. “Most people become curious when they find themselves in a mess like this for the first time. They ask who-does-what-and-when questions — probably because so much money’s involved.”
“It does spark the curiosity,” Broach said.
“All right. Here’s how it’ll work. When Oil Drum calls later this afternoon—”
“Oil Drum?”
“It’s our name for the seller because of his electronically distorted voice.”
“I see.”
“When he calls—”
Again Broach interrupted. “Who’ll be taking the call?”
“Artie Wu. I’ll probably listen in on an extension. Quincy Durant might also listen in — or he might not.”
Broach nodded, satisfied.
“Anyway,” she said, “after Oil Drum calls, he’ll be told the money’s ready.”
“The million?”
“The million. We’ll then settle on where to make the buy. It’ll be a quiet, out-of-the-way place.”
“What kind of place?”
“A place where he can count the money in private and where I can check out the tape on a VCR.”
“You have such a place in mind?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Sorry.”
“Of course,” Broach said. “Security.”
“Common sense,” said Georgia Blue. “Artie and Oil Drum will dicker about the place. Oil Drum’ll turn our first suggestion down and we’ll reject his alternate proposal. Artie’ll then recommend the place we wanted all along and make it clear that unless Oil Drum agrees, the deal’s off.”
Broach frowned. “That sounds risky. All ultimatums do.”
“Oil Drum’s selling, we’re buying and we have the customer’s leverage. After he finally agrees, we’ll haggle about the time. We’ll suggest eight o’clock and he’ll come back with nine or ten. We’ll let him win because unless he has time to scout out the meeting place, he won’t show and who could blame him for that?”
“Interesting,” Broach said. “Will you be going alone?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s occurred to me that if you don’t go alone, then you’ll have to share this—” He touched the carryall. “— with somebody else.”
“I won’t be going alone,” Georgia Blue said, rose and picked up the carryall.
Broach also rose. “Who’re they sending with you?”
“Durant,” she said. “But he and I won’t be sharing anything.”
She turned then, strode to the door, the carryall in her right hand, opened the door, looked back, smiled and left. Jack Broach judged it to be another perfect exit.
Georgia Blue walked south on the west side of Robertson Boulevard, moving with long quick strides until she came to the rented Ford. She walked with the blue money bag in her left hand, her right one thrust deeply into her new over-the-shoulder Coach purse that contained the .38-caliber revolver she and Overby had bought from Colleen Cullen.
After reaching the Ford, she opened its front curbside door, tossed in the carryall, got quickly into the car, closed the door and locked it. Durant started the engine, glanced over his left shoulder, then pulled out of the metered parking space and asked, “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” she said. “He was very interested in what he called the mechanics.”
“Translated, I’d say that means: are you going alone or with somebody?”
“He also said that if somebody does tag along, I’ll have to share this.” She patted the blue moneybag.
“And you said?”
“I said Durant is coming with me but he and I won’t be sharing anything.”
Durant grinned, then chuckled. She frowned slightly and said, “That must be the first laugh you’ve had in a month.”
“There haven’t been any funny parts until now.”
“Not even when you and the movie star were getting it on?”