The older man swallowed the last of his drink, rattled his ice cubes, looked at the younger man and said, “Tell me about the rabbits again.”
The man who wanted to hear about the rabbits was Booth Stallings, expert on terrorism, doctor of philosophy, author of Anatomy of Terror, onetime White House consultant and recognized adept at grantsmanship, who, five years before at age 60, had abandoned it all to go adventuring.
“What rabbits?” asked Maurice Overby, also known to a number of law enforcement agencies as Otherguy Overby. Over the years, Overby had protested — with notable success — that it was never he, but some other guy, who had done all that stuff the cops wanted to question him about. Usually involved in a variety of enterprises, some of them legitimate, Overby was by trade a journeyman confidence man and much admired by his peers.
After Overby denied any knowledge of the rabbits, Stallings shook his head sadly and said, “If you don’t know about Steinbeck’s rabbits, then tell me again about those wonderful job offers from Artie Wu that’ll materialize any second now.”
“Why d’you want to hear it again?”
“Reassurance.”
Adopting a weary tone, Overby said, “Okay. Remember when we bumped into Count von Lahusen here in the bar last week?”
“An evening with the Graf von Lahusen is not easily forgotten.”
“So he’d had a few. What if you’d just spent two months in the GDR, or what used to be the GDR, trying to reclaim your ancestral estates only to be told, ‘Go fuck yourself, Count’?”
“At the sad tale’s third telling, I took to my bed.”
“And missed the best part,” Overby said. “Look. Me and the Count and Artie and Durant’ve known each other for years and even went in on some things together a time or two, know what I mean?”
“Where?”
Overby nodded in the general direction of the South China Sea. “Mostly out there,” he said. “On the rim. Where else? Anyway, the Count tells me he’s in Berlin about a week or ten days ago, staying at the Am Zoo, when he gets a call from some guy called Enno Glimm.”
“German?”
“What else would he be with a name like that?”
“Austrian. Possibly Swiss.”
Overby ignored the suggestions. “What Glimm wants from the Count is a rundown on Voodoo, Limited. At first, the Count thinks he knows jack shit about Voodoo, Limited, until it hits him that what Glimm means is Wudu, Limited, the outfit Artie and Durant set up in London just before they took their big bath in the eighty-seven market.”
“They should’ve invested their funds more prudently — as did you and I.”
“Don’t start,” Overby said. “It took you less’n twenty days to make that million you flew out of Hong Kong with and about eighteen months to lose it. Or most of it. For a while there, on paper, you were worth two, almost three million.”
“Cold comfort, Otherguy,” Stallings said. “Very cold. How much did Wu and Durant lose?”
“I hear half a million apiece.”
“I feel better. Now you can continue with what the Count told Herr Glimm.”
“Well, von Lahusen’s not about to bad-mouth Artie or that fucking Durant either so he gives them a big buildup. But Glimm’s not satisfied and wants to know who else he can check with. The Count tells him to call me here at the hotel and that’s what he did.”
“Then what?”
“Glimm asks me about Artie and Durant and I ask him why he wants to know. He’s not about to tell me, of course, but I can guess it’s something pretty fat. So I tell him that Wu and Durant are top of the line — although Durant can be a mean bastard. Glimm says that’s exactly what he’s looking for, thanks me and hangs up. So I think for a couple of minutes, then call Artie’s twin boys, Arthur and Angus, at their school just outside Edinburgh. That’s in Scotland.”
“Thank you,” Stallings said. “And now you’re going to tell me why you called them, aren’t you?”
“To offer them summer jobs in Kuwait City after the war’s over — jobs that’ll pay them three thousand U.S. a month each.”
“Sweet Jesus,” said Stallings.
The smile that Overby gave Stallings should have been, by rights, hard, calculating and even cruel. Instead it was benign, almost gentle, and strangely contented. Stallings had seen it before and always thought of it as The Smile of the Christian About to Devour the Lion.
Much of it was still in place when Overby said, “I offered them jobs on the condition that they’d check it out with their folks, especially their mother, Agnes, and that’s why Artie’ll be calling any minute now with the job offer.”
Stallings shook his head slowly. “For once, Otherguy, I fail to follow.”
“It’s simple. The twins are seventeen or eighteen. They’ll tell their folks about Kuwait and Agnes’ll go ape and tell Artie, very quiet-like, the way she does, that her sons will not, by God, spend a summer in the clutches of Otherguy Overby.” He paused, as if to check his logic, nodded comfortably and continued. “Of course, none of this’d play if I didn’t know how Artie’s mind works.”
“And how is that?” Stallings asked, resigned to his role of interlocutor.
“Artie’ll never tell his kids not to do something he’d’ve done at their age. But he also has to keep Agnes happy. So what he’ll do is move the pieces around till they form a new pattern.”
“You being one of the pieces?”
Overby nodded. “And you, too. Artie’ll decide to hire me and that’s when I’ll tell him you’re part of the deal. He’ll agree and I’ll call the twins and tell them the Kuwait jobs fell through but maybe we can aim for something next summer. That way the kids don’t get their feelings hurt, Agnes is happy and Artie gets himself a couple of guys he can trust on the Glimm deal, whatever it is.”
Booth Stallings rose slowly and stared down at Overby with awe. He was still standing and still staring when he said, “Minds like yours really do exist, don’t they?”
After giving it some thought, Overby said, “Yeah, I guess there still must be a few around.”
At 1:08 A.M. The next day, Booth Stallings was awakened by the pounding on his hotel room door. After he opened it, Overby strolled in, exuding even more confidence than usual.
“I just talked to Artie,” he said as he crossed to the room’s desk and poured himself a measure of Stalling’s whisky.
“And?”
“I go to London day after tomorrow and you, well, you’ve gotta be on the next flight to Manila.”
Something exploded in Stalling’s chest. He knew it wasn’t a heart attack because there wasn’t any pain. And he knew it wasn’t fear or its evil twin, terror, because he had known both and neither felt like this. But the unfamiliar sensation, whatever it was, made his heart rate jump to around 130 beats a minute and produced a strange coppery taste, which, while not unpleasant, couldn’t be swallowed away. Then suddenly he knew what it was and gave it the only name it deserved — wild anticipation.
After realizing that Overby was staring at him curiously, Stallings breathed in deeply through his nose and coughed to make sure his voice wouldn’t crack when he spoke. “What’s in Manila?”
“A coming-out party.”
“Whose?”
Overby again produced his smile of benign calculation. “Georgia Blue’s. She’s getting herself sprung and Artie says he and Durant can use me, you and her.”
“All right,” Stallings said, not trusting himself to say more.
“Artie was wondering if you’re still kind of stuck on Georgia,” Overby said. “Not that it’d make any difference, but he was just curious. I told him I’d ask.”
Overby waited. When Stallings made no reply, he said, “So what do I tell him?”