Authors: Ross Thomas

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

Out on the Rim (8 page)

BOOK: Out on the Rim

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“We don't have a company,” Wu said. “We're private investors.”

“If you have money to invest, you must be rich. You wear a fine white suit and drive an expensive car.”

“Alas,” said Artie Wu. “The suit is old, the car is rented, and our last investment turned out badly.”

The woman smiled. She had extraordinarily white teeth. “Did you really let Ernie Pineda take you for three hundred thousand U.S.?”

Artie Wu didn't try to hide his astonishment. He swallowed as much of it as he could and said, “I don't know whatâ”

Durant leaned forward, interrupting. “It was around in there. Three hundred thousand.”

The woman nodded and tapped the two passports and the ID card on the car windowsill. “What happened to Ernie could happen to you. You understand what I'm saying?”

“Not exactly,” Durant said, still leaning forward.

“This is a corrupt country with a new government that promises to end corruption. Although we don't believe those promises, we do believe the new government needs to be reminded of what can happen unless those promises are kept. Poor talkative Ernie was such a reminder. I'm still trying to decide if three additional reminders would be useful or counterproductive.”

The woman again tapped the passports and the ID on the windowsill several times and suddenly thrust them at Artie Wu who accepted them with a grateful nod.

She backed away as one of the men with an M-16 climbed into
the old Jeepney and began grinding its starter. The battery was low and the grinding grew weaker and weaker. Just when it seemed that the battery was doomed, the engine caught and spat out a black cloud of diesel smoke from its exhaust. The man with the M-16 raced the engine several times and then backed and filled until there was enough room for the Mercedes to get by.

Wu put the Mercedes into drive and crept slowly forward. Durant stared out through the rear side window at the woman with the semiautomatic pistol. She reached up with her left hand and removed her dark aviator glasses. She had shining brown eyes that stared at Durant. After a moment, she nodded at him. He thought the nod could have meant goodbye, or we'll meet again, or remember what I said, or even nothing at all. He nodded an equally equivocal reply. Wu fed the engine more gasoline and the Mercedes shot past the Jeepney.

When they were safely around the next curve, Wu broke the silence with, “What the hell was all that about?”

“It was about just what she said it was about,” Emily Cariaga said.

Wu wrinkled his forehead into an unbeliever's frown. “Maybe,” he said.

“Tell me something, Artie,” Durant said. “Did you really say âalas' back there?”

Wu sighed. “Alas. I really did.”

At seven that evening Wu and Durant were up in Wu's suite in the Manila Peninsula, debating whether to go to dinner at a new German restaurant that had been touted to them by the Graf von Lahusen, or wait for Boy Howdy to return their call. Waiting for the call meant dining on room service fare, which appealed to neither of them. They had almost agreed to give the German restaurant a try when the phone rang. Durant answered it.

Boy Howdy's harsh Australian accent crackled over the line. “That you, Artieâor that fucking Durant?”

“That fucking Durant.”

“Listen, Durant, I've really got a ripe one for you lads this time.”

“Tell it to Artie,” Durant said. Wu rose from the couch and took the phone.

“How are you, Boy?” Wu said and began to listen. He listened for nearly two minutes without making a sound except for two noncommittal grunts. When he finally spoke, his tone was cool and indifferent.

“Tell him we're interested, that's all,” Wu said, listened some more and then said in a new hard tone, “No, you sure as hell do
not
tell him it's on, Boy. You tell him exactly what I told you: that we're interested.”

Wu went back to listening and when he spoke again there was nothing but deal-breaking finality to his tone. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Your cut comes out of his end, not ours.” There was some more listening until Wu broke in with an indifferent, “Okay, Boy. As you say, the fuck's off.”

Wu hung up the phone, smiled pleasantly at Durant, and waited. Twenty seconds later the phone rang. Wu picked it up, said hello and again listened. Finally, he nodded, as if with satisfaction, and said, “Right. I think we finally understand each other now, Boy.”

After he hung up this time, Wu turned to Durant, smiled again, took a cigar from a shirt pocket, eased himself down into a club chair and squirmed around in it until he was comfortable. He lit the cigar and carefully blew three perfect smoke rings up into the air. Durant watched it all with an amused smile.

“Tell me,” Artie Wu said. “Do you still believe in the good fairy?”

“Has the good fairy got a name?”

Wu blew another perfect smoke ring. “Otherguy Overby,” he said.

Durant's smile widened and he began to clap slowly and softly. “I believe,” he said and, still smiling and clapping, said it once again.

CHAPTER 11

Otherguy Overby explained that the very early breakfast meeting in the Beverly Hills Hotel's Polo Lounge was simply a matter of edge.

“This guy Harry Critesâthe poet I've been reading up onâwell, he flies in from Washington late last night and he's still on East Coast time, right? So this morning we're getting him up at say, six, six-thirty, and this'll throw his biorhythms all out of whack and that gives us the edge. Not much, but some.”

“His biorhythms,” Booth Stallings said.

“Yeah.”

Stallings glanced at Overby who was behind the wheel of the yellow Porsche 911 cabriolet they had borrowed from the stable of the still incarcerated Billy Diron. They were rolling down the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, approaching the Getty Museum. It was 7:04 A.M., a Saturday, and the third day of spring in the year 1986.

“So you think his out-of-whack biorhythms are somehow going to help us pilfer the five million?”

“Pilfer? You don't
pilfer
five million bucks. You â¦ liberate it.”

Stallings chuckled. “Maybe I should recite the names of two or three dozen countries that've been sacked and plundered under liberation's bright banner.”

Overby gave him a quick frowning glance. “Look,” he said. “Let me ask you something you don't have to answer. But have you got funny politics? Not that I give a shit, but I'd kind of like to know.”

“Funny?”

“Red. Rouge. Pink.” He paused. “Moscow, Peking, maybe Havana?”

“No,” Stallings said with a smile. “In that sense I have no politics at all.” He chuckled again. “What're yoursâif I may be so bold?”

Overby seemed to give the question serious thought. “Well, you'd have to say I'm kind of a Republican, except I don't bother to vote much anymore.”

“Don'tâor can't because of a past felony rap or two?”

Overby sealed himself away in that remote and frozen place where Stallings had seen him go before. It's his fuck-off retreat, he thought.

“I don't see how that's any of your goddamn business,” Overby said with his always surprising dignity.

“You're right,” Stallings said. “It's not.”

The parking attendant gave the yellow Porsche a look of recognition when Overby brought it to a stop in the Beverly Hills Hotel drive. The attendant opened Overby's door and said, “When's Billy getting sprung, Otherguy?”

“Tomorrow or maybe the next day and watch the fucking paint,” Overby said, getting out of the car.

As they went up the hotel steps, Overby turned to give Stallings a quick up-and-down inspection. “Let's stop in the john,” he said.

“I'll wait for you.”

Overby let a little exasperation flicker across his face. “Look. When I say something like that, it's not just because I need company.”

The corners of Stallings' mouth went down in a facial shrug. He gestured for Overby to lead on and followed him down the corridor and into the men's room.

On that third day of spring, Stallings was wearing a new tan poplin suit and a blue tab-collar shirt with a gold bar pin and the striped brown and gold tie of some disbanded regiment. The suit, shirt, tie, pin and a pair of lace-up cordovans were part of a wardrobe Otherguy Overby had picked out for Stallings two days before at Lew Ritter's haberdashery on Wilshire Boulevard, paying a premium for next-day alterations and delivery.

Overby had then driven Stallings to a hairstylist on Melrose and contracted for $85 worth of haircut, facial and manicure. On their way to the barber, an amused Stallings had listened as Overby revealed his tactics.

“I don't know how long it's been since you were out on the Rim,” Overby had said with a wave that included the world west of Catalina and east of China. “But when you're working it like we'll be working it, you've gotta look like you can buy the mark and have change left over. Out there, marks don't fork over to shabby because shabby doesn't inspire confidence and that's all we've got to sell. What does inspire confidence is frontânot flash, but front. You know the difference?”

Stallings had smiled and nodded that he did.

“Well, begging your pardon all to hell, but you look like some freshwater college prof who didn't make the tenure cut. I mean, like some guy whose wife barbers him every seventh Friday while they're watching
Washington Week in Review
and pissing and moaning about the fascist in the White House.”

Stallings had nodded again, still amused. “My daughter cuts it,” he had said. “My Cleveland Park daughter. She'd also support any calumny you might aim at the occupant of the White House who, incidentally, is not a fascist but an actor.”

“Well, that's almost as bad.”

“My daughter wouldn't think so were he Gregory Peck.”

Overby had nodded agreeably. “Yeah, Peck does look more like a President at that.”

After checking the men's room stalls to make sure they were vacant, Overby gave Stallings a final up-and-down inspection, sighed and said, “Let's begin with basics. Zip up your fly.”

“Christ,” said Stallings and did as instructed.

“And fix your fucking tie.”

“Never cared much for ties.”

“It's your uptight badge. So make it look like you're used to it.”

Stallings slipped the knot up until it was snug and refastened the gold bar pin he thought silly. Overby grunted his approval and said, “Now you look like the man who says no.”

Stallings smiled. “To Harry Crites?”

“Why not? Like most guys from back east, he'll probably walk in wearing his version of L.A. casual, which is what he wears back home when he's barbecuing the weenies. He'll see us all dressed up and there he is, all dressed down. So what does that give us? The edge, that's what.”

Overby turned to inspect himself and his gloom-blue suit in the men's room mirror, looking pleased with what he saw, even after Booth Stallings said, “You don't know Harry Crites.”

They sat over coffee at a table with a clear view of the Polo Lounge's entrance. Overby kept watch on the doorway as Stallings examined the other early morning breakfasters, trying without much luck to distinguish the talent from those who peddled it.

As he glanced around, Stallings saw Overby's expression change. Until then Overby had been wearing what Stallings had come to think
of as his baited trap lookâone that spoke of quiet confidence, keen awareness and infinite patience. It was the same look Overby had worn while waiting at the airport.

Stallings grew curious when the look vanished and was replaced, if only for an instant, by a flicker of something closer to apprehension than fear. But then the baited trap look returned, even more pronounced than before, and Stallings turned to look at what Overby saw.

The tall woman with the short reddish-brown hair stood in the entrance, quartering the room. When her dollar-green eyes reached Stallings she almost smiled and almost nodded. When her gaze reached Overby it stopped. Nothing changed in her face. But the mutual stare went on long enough, Stallings decided, for her and Overby to catch up on the last few years. The woman then turned abruptly and left the Polo Lounge.

“Know her?” Stallings said.

“Who?”

“Come on, Otherguy.”

“You know her?”

“She's with Harry Crites.”

Overby relaxed as a calculating smile wiped away the last vestige of apprehension. “Well,” he said, “what d'you know.” Since it wasn't a question, Stallings made no reply.

Five minutes later Harry Crites came striding into the Polo Lounge followed by the tall woman who now carried a thin black leather attachÃ© case. Harry Crites was wearing a polo shirt, riding breeches and polished boots that nearly reached his knees.

“A polo outfit in the Polo Lounge,” Stallings murmured. “We just lost the edge, Otherguy.”

Overby's confident expression hadn't changed at the sight of Harry Crites, and all he said was, “He forgot his horse.”

With the tall woman watching his back, Crites reached the table and nodded at Stallings but didn't offer to shake hands. “Hello, Booth.”

“Harry.”

Crites turned to Overby. “I hear they call you Otherguy Overby.”

Overby smiled. “I've read some of your poetry, Mr. Crites, andâ” He broke off and stopped smiling, as if he'd thought better of what he had been about to say. “Well, never mind.”

Before Harry Crites could do anything but glower slightly, Stallings said, “Sit down, Harry, and introduce us to your friend. Or did you tell me she's not exactly a friend?”

Crites indicated Stallings with a small gesture. “Miss Blue, Mr. Stallings.” She and Stallings nodded at each other. Harry Crites then gave Overby a quick look of disapproval. “You already know him.”

She nodded at the still seated Overby. “Hello, Otherguy.”

An unsmiling Overby said, “Georgia.”

A waiter pulled out a chair and Georgia Blue sat down next to Stallings and across from Overby. Harry Crites took the remaining chair. The waiter passed out menus. Crites automatically handed his to Georgia Blue without a glance and said, “Order for me.” She began reading the menu.

“Didn't know you played polo, Harry,” said Booth Stallings.

“Why should you?”

“Been playing long?”

“Ten years. I picked it up down in B.A.”

Stallings leaned toward Overby. “B.A. is Buenos Aires, Mr. Overby. Mr. Crites was down there a few years back, briefing the generals on internal security techniques.”

Overby looked at Crites with interest. “Must've been like teaching old ducks to swim.”

Crites aimed a forefinger at Overby but glared at Stallings. “What the fuck's he?”

“My guide to the world's wicked ways.”

Crites grunted. “From what I hear, he drew the map.”

The waiter returned to take the orders. Georgia Blue ordered only melon and black coffee for Harry Crites but something more substantial for herself, as did Stallings and Overby. After handing the waiter the menus, she said, “Would you bring the melon right away, please?”

When the waiter had gone, Overby smiled another too pleasant smile at Crites and said, “Georgia must be quite a Handy Annie to have around.”

Harry Crites leaned forward, his voice a rasp. “I want you to butt out, Jack. I made a deal with Stallings here. If he wants you along, fine. But I don't want to hear any more of your crap.”

Overby added a pleasant nod to his pleasant smile. “Mr. Stallings has retained my services, such as they are, to give him my best counsel. If I decide your project will, one, put him in grave jeopardy, or two, fuck him over, I'll tell him to walk.”

They stared at each other for seconds until Crites turned to Stallings and said, “Okay, Booth. Let's talk money. You got fifty thousand in Washington. There's another two hundred thousand in that attachÃ© case Georgia's gotâhalf of it in unendorsed Amex traveler's checks. That's so you can spread 'em around any way you want. But if, for some weird and wonderful reason, you decide to do a flit, I can trace you through themâeventually. Okay?”

“Where's the other half?”

“In Hong Kong. When you deliver the package, Georgia will hand over the other two-fifty. That means you might as well get used to her because she's along for the whole cruise. If nothing else, she can keep an eye on him.” Crites jerked a thumb at Overby without looking at him.

“You didn't mention Miss Blue in Washington, Harry.”

“Yeah, well, that must be why I'm doing it now.”

Stallings smiled at Georgia Blue. “Mind if I call you Georgia?”

“Not at all.”

“Tell me something about yourself.”

“I was with the federal government for seven years.”

“Agriculture, perhaps?” Stallings said. “Commerce? Housing and Urban Development.”

“Treasury,” Georgia Blue said.

Stallings shot his eyebrows up. “Not the dread Secret Service?”

Georgia Blue's mouth formed a slight amused smile as she nodded.

“And now you're with Harry here?”

“No, Mr. Stallings. I'm with you.”