Wu lit a cigar, blew smoke at the ceiling, then looked at Stallings. “I want you to do something that might sound a little underhanded, Booth.”
Stallings only nodded.
“I suspect Oil Drum might bring more than just one other person along.”
“Can’t blame him — especially since Georgia and Durant’ll have what’s her name, Colleen Cullen, staked out with a sawed-off.”
Wu puffed on his cigar, examined its ash and said, “Before nine tonight it’s quite possible that Oil Drum will get to Colleen Cullen with a better offer — or get rid of her altogether.”
Stallings thought about it. “Possible or probable?”
“Possible,” Wu said. “You have plans for this evening?”
“Not until later.”
“Are you making any... progress?”
“Maybe.”
“But nothing you’d care to talk about?”
“Not yet.”
“I need an hour of your time,” Wu said and blew a smoke ring off to the right.
“To do what?”
Artie Wu reached into his right rear pants pocket and brought out a small semiautomatic. It was a German-made Sauer, the one that held nine 7.65mm rounds, had an overall length of six and a half inches and weighed a little more than twenty-two ounces loaded. Wu slid the pistol over to Stallings, who picked it up, examined it carefully, tucked it away in his own hip pocket and asked, “Who d’you want me to shoot?”
“I want you to get it to Otherguy.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“What else?”
“Tell Otherguy to go to the Cullen inn as soon as possible.”
“Before Durant and Georgia get there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Wu blew cigar smoke off to his left this time. “You were in the infantry during the war?”
Stallings nodded.
“A platoon leader?”
“Right.”
“You sent out scouts?”
“I sent ’em out and sometimes they didn’t come back.”
“Which told you something was amiss up ahead.”
“And why nobody ever wanted to be a scout. Otherguy won’t either.”
“But he’ll do it,” Wu said.
“What about Ione Gamble, whose body he’s supposed to be guarding?”
“I’d like you to deliver her to Howie Mott and leave her with him until it’s over.”
“Howie know about this yet?”
“I’ll call him.”
“You going to tell Georgia and Durant about Otherguy?”
“No,” Wu said, reached into a pants pocket, brought out some car keys and offered them to Stallings. “You’d better take the Mercedes.”
Stallings shook his head and rose. “I rented myself a car this afternoon.”
“Good.”
Stallings looked down at Wu for several moments before he said, “Why aren’t you going, Artie — instead of Otherguy?”
“Because I’m not needed.”
“You hope.”
“I hope,” Wu agreed.
“Okay, so what else do I tell Otherguy besides all that ‘scouts out’ bullshit?”
“Tell him to fix it.”
“Fix what?”
“Whatever breaks,” said Artie Wu.
Forty
Ione Gamble, trailed by Moose the dog, reached the bottom of the staircase, turned right and entered her living room just as the seated Booth Stallings drew the Sauer semiautomatic from his right hip pocket and seemed to aim it at the standing Otherguy Overby.
“Oh, shit, please don’t!” Gamble said in a cry that was almost a yell.
Stallings rose and turned, pistol in hand. It wasn’t a quick turn but it was quick enough to terrify Gamble. Her eyes seemed to double in size, her mouth dropped open and her hands flew up, palms out, as if to ward off the aged assassin’s bullet.
“For chrissake, Ione,” said an exasperated Overby. “He’s Booth Stallings — Howie’s father-in-law.”
The hands were slowly lowered. The mouth shut itself like a trap and the eyes returned to normal. A flush raced up her cheeks as she pried open her now grim and angry mouth just enough to say, “I don’t like people waving guns around in my living room.”
“I wasn’t waving it around,” Stallings said. “I was delivering it.”
He turned and offered the Sauer to Overby, butt first.
Overby took the weapon, gave it a glance and dropped it into his jacket pocket as if it were something he did every morning just after he strapped on his watch.
Fresh anger streaked across Gamble’s face and her voice turned bitter and accusative. “You didn’t even have a gun? What kind of fucking bodyguard doesn’t have his own gun?”
“Somebody you want me to shoot?” Overby said. Before Gamble could reply, he moved over to her and said, “Listen, Ione. There’s something you’ve gotta do. You—”
She cut him off, not with words, but by sinking slowly into a chair, bending forward and burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shuddered when she spoke in what was almost a murmur. A stage murmur, Overby thought.
“When he turned — with that gun — I was never so scared in my—”
Overby, unmoved, interrupted. “The thing you gotta do, Ione, is go upstairs and pack an overnight bag. Won’t take five minutes. Then Booth here’ll drive you to Howie’s suite, where you’ll spend the night.”
She glared up at him. “Are you trying to dump me off?”
“Go pack the bag, Ione.”
She rose instead and wandered over to Stallings, studied him for a moment, then gave him a smile that he felt was full of false promise. She reached up to brush an imaginary speck of something from his left shoulder just before she asked, “So what exactly do you do for Wudu?”
“I’m the wise old head. The bank of memory. I’m also chief provisioner, exchequer designate and general factotum.”
“And before that?” she asked, still seeming to be deeply interested.
“Boy soldier. Professional graduate student, government consultant. Itinerant professor without hope of tenure. Frequent beneficiary of any number of think tank and foundation grants. And most recently, the aging but junior partner in Overby, Stallings Associates.”
All of Gamble’s real or pretended interest vanished, replaced by more rage. “You and Otherguy are partners?” she said, making it sound, in Stallings’s opinion, more like a felony than a misdemeanor.
“Ione,” Overby said.
“What?”
“Go pack the fucking bag.”
Gamble turned on him, obviously prepared to refuse, argue and even rant until Overby nodded just once toward the door. Yet it wasn’t really a nod, Stallings thought. It was instead a silent peremptory command that brooked no refusal. She hesitated, then turned, headed for the foyer, almost turned back, again changed her mind and hurried out of the living room, Moose at her heels. After Overby made sure she really had gone up the stairs, he came back into the living room and asked, “Who’s worrying Artie the most — Durant or Georgia?”
“He only mentioned some slight misgivings about Colleen Cullen,”
Stallings said.
Overby considered the Topanga innkeeper for a moment, arrived at a conclusion and shared it with Stallings. “Yeah, you could spin Colleen around for a price.” He frowned then and studied Stallings the way he might have studied some not quite legible handwriting. “Tell me again what Artie said — exactly.”
“He said you’re to fix whatever gets broken.”
“You’re sure he said ‘what’ and not ‘who’?”
“He said ‘what.’ ”
Overby’s hard white grin came and went quickly, replaced by a look of anticipation. “Know something, Booth? This whole thing could turn out to be kind of interesting after all.”