The trouble came from a big drunken American sailor who wore a T-shirt that read, “All-American Fuckup.” He grabbed Georgia Blue by her right wrist, proclaiming: “Just can’t help it — I’m in love!”
Overby turned to watch impassively as Georgia Blue allowed herself to be spun around. She almost laughed when the sailor told her that tall women turned him on. But then her left hand darted to the big right hand that still clutched her wrist. Her fingers sought and found the nerve that lay just below the pad of his thumb. She clamped down on it. The sailor yelled. He kept on yelling as she forced him to his knees, released him and walked away. A small crowd quickly gathered to discuss whether the kneeling man was damaged enough to roll.
“Durant taught you that, didn’t he?” Overby said as Georgia Blue rejoined him.
“Did he?”
“I saw him do it in Bangkok once to some big special forces ape.”
“I’m just fine, Otherguy, but it was sweet of you to ask.”
Overby gave her a quick puzzled glance. “I wasn’t worried, if that’s what you mean. It’s what you fucking well do.”
She nodded slightly, looking away, and said, “You’re right. It’s what I fucking well do.”
The barker outside Boy Howdy’s was a jockey-size Australian with too few teeth and a loud-hailer voice. He had one good eye and one milky one. He turned the good eye on Overby.
“Been a while, mate,” the barker said.
“Tell him I’m here.”
“Tell him yourself.”
It wasn’t quite tar black inside Boy Howdy’s because of the pink light that came from a small stage where three nude women — two Filipinas and one Chinese — were engaged in a listless, vaguely aerobic orgy. Below the stage a three-piece band, consisting of piano, drums and saxophone, played “Moon River.”
There were two walls of booths, a long packed bar and two dozen very small tables where restless bar girls prowled in search of prey. The place was a little more than half full and most of the customers were Japanese men who watched the show and giggled into their Coca-Colas and Scotch.
A Filipino with an acromegalic chin and thick black hair down to his shoulders stepped up to Overby and nodded. He was a smallish giant of six-seven or eight and wore the confident air of a veteran bouncer who still delights in his trade. Three jagged scars ran down his right cheek like badges of office.
“Who’s she?” the bouncer said, using his brickbat chin to indicate Georgia Blue.
“Wanda Mae,” Overby said.
The bouncer frowned. “Boy didn’t say nothing about no Wanda Mae.”
“She’s all night and all paid for and I don’t want her to skip,” Overby explained.
That was something the bouncer could understand. He jerked his head toward the rear. “Come on.”
Overby and Georgia Blue followed him down a short hall that had two doors leading to toilets. At the end of the hall was a third door made of metal. The bouncer turned to Overby. “Raise your arms.”
Overby raised them. The bouncer started at Overby’s armpits and patted his way down. When he reached the knees, Overby said, “That’s far enough.”
The bouncer looked up, shook his big head, and would have kept on going if Georgia Blue hadn’t stuck the Walther into his left ear. “He said that’s far enough,” she told him as he slowly rose, the muzzle still partly buried in his ear.
Overby examined the bouncer. “If we go in with that thing growing out of your ear, you’ll look pretty silly. So why don’t you just open the door and we’ll go in and you can stay out here and keep an eye on things. Okay?”
Because of the gun in his ear, the bouncer could only nod a fraction of an inch.
“What do I do,” Overby asked, “ring the bell?”
“One long; two short,” the bouncer said.
Overby pressed a black button as instructed. A moment later the unlocking buzzer sounded. Overby opened the door a crack and waited until he felt Georgia Blue’s back against his. “Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” she replied, using the Walther to wave the bouncer back down the short hall.
Overby opened the metal door wide and stood there, momentarily shielding Georgia Blue. She turned quickly, facing Overby now, and stuck the Walther back beneath her Hawaiian shirt.
The room they entered was no larger than a large rug, about ten by fifteen feet. All of its furniture seemed to be made from plastic, chrome and leather. There were no windows. One wall was painted a flat black and boasted a large acrylic-on-velvet painting of an idealized tropical beach with lots of coconut palms and a fat tiger stalking an even fatter carabao.
Boy Howdy stood in front of a chrome and plastic desk, wearing a long-sleeved barong tagalog that revealed an old-fashioned net undervest. Red chest hair going gray poked and curled its way through the vest.
At least six-one or two, Howdy had a street brawler’s thick sloping shoulders and loose-hanging arms. His face seemed to be made out of pink knobs. One ear, his right, had had its lobe bitten off. Small blue eyes, a bit faded, burrowed back into his head beneath thick red bushy eyebrows that were also going gray. The hair on top of his head was short and wiry and seemed to have been crimped into place. It was much redder than his eyebrows and Overby guessed he was dyeing it.
“Who’s she?” Boy Howdy said by way of greeting in a voice that always sounded to Overby like a wood file’s first bite.
“Georgia Blue.”
Howdy grinned, revealing two gold teeth. “That anything like Sweet Georgia Brown?”
“You know, that’s never come up before,” she said.
“I bet,” Howdy said and made an awkward gesture. “Well, sit down — anywhere.”
Georgia Blue chose a chrome and leather chair. Overby took a straight-backed one — the only one in the room. He sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor, his arms folded across his chest. He looked around and nodded at the acrylic painting. “That’s new,” he said.
“Sort of says it all, don’t it?” Boy Howdy said.
“Sums it up.”
“Well, what’ll it be, Otherguy? A drink and some business, or some business and then a drink?”
“Business.”
Boy Howdy nodded and leaned his rear against the desk. “I don’t mind telling you I went to a terrible lot of trouble and expense to locate your two mates. Terrible trouble and beaucoup expense.”
“I’d guess two phone calls and maybe fifty pesos to a bellhop.”
Howdy turned a coconspirator’s smile on Georgia Blue. “Ever notice what a fast lip old Otherguy has?”
“Frequently.”
“But I did it, Otherguy. It cost me time and it cost me money but I ran ‘em to earth and talked to ’em both.”
“What’d Durant say? Hello and goodbye?”
“Just because Durant and I rub each other wrong don’t mean we can’t do a bit of business.”
“Boy,” Overby said. “Listen. Durant won’t talk to you. I know it and you know it. So what did Artie say?”
Howdy forced a measure of warmth into his reply. “Old Artie. Offer me the choice of who to do business with and I say give me a Chinaman every time. They tell you something, you can stick it in the bank. So when I tell Artie about all the time and expense it cost me to find him, he says he appreciates my efforts and would fair take care of me himself personally, except he ain’t got any deal with you yet, Otherguy, and he figures my share’ll have to come out of your share.”
“Sounds like Artie.”
“So I says, ‘Artie, what d’you think I should ask old Otherguy for? Name me a fair price,’ says I, ‘one that’ll send him away humming to himself.’ And Artie says he thinks a fair, rock-bottom price’d be ten thousand U.S.”