Voodoo Ltd qd-3

by Ross Thomas

Thirty-four

  At shortly after midnight, Booth Stallings lay propped up in bed, reading copies of documents given him that afternoon by Mary Jo something, the brunette legal secretary who worked for Howard Mott.

  The first document he read was a Los Angeles Police Department report on the semiautomatic 9mm Beretta that had been stolen February 2, 1982, from the set of the television pilot, The Keepers, while it was being filmed at Paramount Studios.

  Written in what Stallings judged to be standard copese, the report said the TV pilot’s property man put the gun down somewhere on the set when summoned by the director just after the day’s shooting ended. When the property man returned for the gun it was gone, as were the cast and crew. The theft was reported immediately, investigated and eventually forgotten until the Beretta resurfaced as the gun that killed William A. C. Rice IV.

  The next item Stallings read was a list of the cast and crew’s names.

  None of the crew’s names caught his eye, but three other names jumped out at him. The first two jumping names belonged to Rick Cleveland and Phil Quill. Cleveland was the old actor who’d had a bit role in Gone With the Wind and who, in The Keepers pilot, played

  “Father Tim Murray, an aged priest.” Phil Quill, the Malibu real estate man arid former Arkansas quarterback, played “Joe Lambert, a compulsive gambler.” Both lived in Malibu in 1982 and listed their agent as Jack Broach & Co., which was the other name that had caught Stallings’s eye.

  The L.A. County Sheriffs investigators had questioned all three men after Rice’s death. Someone had boiled the interviews down to three summary paragraphs. Broach came first, either because of alphabetical order or, more likely, Stallings thought, because of his position in the industry’s pecking order.

  “Broach says his agency no longer represents either Cleveland or Quill,” the report read. “Broach also says he has only ‘a dim recollection’ of the TV pilot, The Keepers, and never visited the set.

  Broach says he doesn’t know if his former clients, Quill and Cleveland, are friends but doubts it because of their age difference. Broach also denies any knowledge of how his present client, Ione Gamble, came into possession of the murder weapon.”

  Richard Cleveland—or Rick, as he’d introduced himself to Stallings

  —was next. “Cleveland gives his age as 75,” the report read. “He was arrested for DWI 3-5-72 and 8-2-84. No other priors. Alcohol noted on Voodoo, Ltd. —165

  his breath during interviews 1-3-91 and 2-9-91. Cleveland says he played ‘a dumb old priest’ in The Keepers pilot and ‘carried a cross, not a pistol.’ He admits knowing Phil Quill and describes him as ‘a better ball player than actor and a better real estate salesman than either.’ Cleveland called Malibu Sheriffs substation on 1-3-91 to report seeing Ione Gamble’s black Mercedes 500SL parked in William Rice’s driveway at around 2300 on 12-31-90 and again at approximately 0513 on 1-1-91. Cleveland admits suing Rice for blocking his (Cleveland’s) ocean view. He says he met Rice only once, didn’t like him and isn’t sorry he’s dead. Questioned about his drinking, Rice says he is a charter member of the Malibu AA chapter and volunteered his opinion that Gamble murdered Rice ‘because he jilted her.’ He also volunteered an opinion that Gamble is a fine actress, but a mediocre director.”

  Phil Quill received less space. “Quill,” the report read, “says he played the heavy in the TV pilot, The Keepers. He says the 9mm Beretta semiautomatic was used only by Jerry Tinder, who played the film’s lead role (Tinder died, New York, 3-15-88, of AIDS, according to NYPD). Quill says he is not a close friend of Richard Cleveland but sometimes sees him in the Hughes supermarket, Malibu, ‘to say hello.’

  Quill is a licensed real estate broker in Malibu and says he never met William A. C. Rice IV although Rice’s attorneys retained his real estate company to provide maintenance of the Rice property in Malibu until probate is completed.”

  After Stallings stuffed the reports back into the manila envelope and placed it in a nightstand drawer, he heard the soft knock at the bedroom door. He looked at his watch. It was 12:43. Stallings rose, went to the door and opened it. Georgia Blue entered the bedroom, wearing her new raincoat as a bathrobe and carrying two glasses and a bottle of J&B Scotch.

  “I thought we’d have a nightcap,” she said, placing the glasses and bottle on the dresser. “Water?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  She poured two generous measures of whisky, carried the glasses into the bathroom, added a little cold water, then returned to the bedroom and handed Stallings one of the drinks. He sat down on the bed. She sat next to him and said, “It’s started.”

  “What?”

  “The ground war.”

  “Huh.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “Well, they’ve been building up to it for what—six months—and they’ve bombed the shit out of Iraq and’ve got all the troops and tanks and planes and artillery and ships they can use. It’ll probably end pretty soon—like I said.”

  “You don’t sound very interested.”

  Voodoo, Ltd. —166

  “If there was any danger of losing, I might get interested. To me it’s just another dumb war with a foreordained outcome being fought by some young mercenaries or professionals we call volunteers. This country’ll never lose another conventional war. If it looks like we might lose, we won’t fight.”

  “Especially if they’re white folks,” Georgia Blue said.

  Stallings grinned. “Haven’t fought any of them since forty-five.”

  “What happens next?” she said.

  “You still talking about the gulf war?”

  “No.”

  “L’Affaire Gamble?”

  She nodded. “When it’s over.”

  “I expect we’ll all wander off again.”

  “Wu with Durant, you with Otherguy?”

  Stallings shook his head slightly, smiling at what might have been fond memories. “After five years, I think Otherguy’s ready to dissolve the old firm. I know I am.”

  “He likes you.”

  “Otherguy was—is—” Stallings paused to search for the right words.

  “—a postdoctoral education.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  He looked at her. It was a look of cool examination. “What d’you suggest?”

  “We could team up,” she said.

  “And do what? Run variations of the Lagos Bank Draft on rich old marks in Palm Springs?”

  “I’m not talking about forever,” she said. “I’m talking about six months—a year at the most.”

  “Living in fancy hotels, drinking fine wines?”

  “Why not?”

  Stallings rose, went to the dresser, poured more Scotch into his glass, sipped it, turned back to her and asked, “What would I have to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Maybe nothing.”

  “But probably something.”

  “Probably.”

  “Just because I’m stuck on you, Georgia, doesn’t mean I’m simple.”

  “I know.”

  “What if Durant finds out?” he asked.

  “He won’t.”

  “But if he does?”

  Voodoo, Ltd. —167

  She shrugged slightly, put her drink down on the bedside table and began loosening the belt of her raincoat. “Durant won’t care,” she said.

  “I won’t cross him,” Stallings said. “Or Artie.”

  “We won’t cross them,” she said as she undid the raincoat’s buttons.

  “Otherguy?”

  “Not Otherguy either.”

  “So who do we cross?”

  “Jack Broach and Company.”

  “Jesus, you’re not back on that ‘dead blackmailers can’t blackmail’

  pitch again, are you?”

  Georgia Blue undid the last of the raincoat’s buttons as she rose, let the raincoat slip to the floor and said, “You still don’t quite get it, do you?”

  Sta
llings paid no attention to the question as he stared at the perfect body, remembering it, rediscovering it and refusing to analyze his nearly adolescent surge of eroticism. Instead, he set his drink down and hurried to her. There was a brief stare of either accommodation or understanding before the kiss began—a very long and nearly savage kiss that featured clicking teeth and what Stallings thought of as dueling tongues.

  When the kiss ended, both were gasping, but Georgia Blue managed to ask a question. “Well, is it?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Like a real date?”

  “Exactly,” Booth Stallings said.

  Voodoo, Ltd. —168

  Thirty-five

  At 7:59 the next morning the five of them were again gathered around the long refectory table in the dining room, waiting for the telephone to ring. The wrappings and remains of their Egg McMuffin breakfasts had been pushed into a neat pile by Otherguy Overby. Georgia Blue rose, picked up a carafe of coffee from the sideboard and warmed the cups of Overby, Durant and herself—Wu and Stallings declining with headshakes.

  The telephone on the long table rang just as Blue sat back down. Wu let it ring four times before he picked it up and said hello.

  The electronically distorted voice of the man Overby called Oil Drum said, “You don’t sound like Mr. X to me.”

  “I’m Mr. Z, the yes-or-no man,” Wu said.

  “I think you’re maybe a cop.”

  “What a terrible thing to say.”

  “So what the hell’re you doing at the phone number of Billy Rice’s beach house? Answer me that.”

  “Mr. X and I’re also the go-between people.”

  “Between me and who else?” Oil Drum asked.

  “Between you and whoever buys what you’ve got to sell.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve already told your Mr. X what I’ve got to sell.”

  “And now you can tell me.”

  “I got audio- and videotapes of a hypnotized Ione Gamble confessing to the murder of Billy Rice. That’s what I got.”

  “You mentioned a screening to Mr. X,” Wu said.

  “I changed my mind. No screening.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s only one videotape and the only way you could look at it is if I made a copy and messengered it to you. But if I did that, you’d have everything I’ve got and could go peddle it for a bunch of money.”

  Wu sighed. “How much do you want for your pig in a poke—a hundred thousand?”

  “Now you’re wasting my time,” Oil Drum said. “I can make one call to Florida and they’ll fly a guy out this afternoon, be here by two P.M., with three hundred thousand in cash.”

  Voodoo, Ltd. —169

  “Who’re the they in Florida?”

  “One of the supermarket rags.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I want a fast in-and-out deal,” Oil Drum said. “So I figure I might as well sell it all to Gamble herself.”

  “For how much?”

  “One million.”

  “Impossible,” Wu said.

  “Okay. You just said no, so I’ll say goodbye.”

  Wu spoke quickly. “How much time do we have?”

  “It’s a one-day sale.”

  “You can’t expect her to raise that much cash in one day.”

  “Why not? Banks open at nine and close at four—some of ‘em at five or six. She’s got till six P.M. We agree to do it by then or not at all.”

  “Call me back at five,” Wu said.

  “Same number?”

  “Same number.”

  “Okay,” Oil Drum said. “But at five it’s go or no-go. I don’t want any maybes.”

  “No maybes,” Wu promised just before Oil Drum broke the connection. Wu hung up his telephone, pushed it away, rested his elbows on the table and looked at Overby.

  “That was Oil Drum, Otherguy,” Wu said. “Ione Gamble has until this evening to raise one million dollars.”

  Overby’s mouth curled down at its ends in grudging respect. “So he’s going for it all?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What happened to him and the sleazoids?”

  “They’re his fallback and threat.”

  Overby nodded his professional approval and said, “Makes sense.”

  Wu turned to Georgia Blue. “You’ll be our go-between, Georgia.

  Quincy will be your backup. I’ll call Howard Mott and tell him we’ve heard from the blackmailer, who’s demanding one million for the tapes.”

  “That means we go through Jack Broach,” said Georgia Blue.

  “Yes,” Wu said.

  “Who can raise maybe three hundred thousand tops, if that.”

  “So you’ve told us,” Wu said.

  “He’ll hand it to me with a wink and a nod—the three hundred thousand.”

  “Precisely.”

  Voodoo, Ltd. —170

  “And I’ll hand it to Oil Drum, who’ll want to count it.”

  “I don’t believe you and Quincy will let it get quite that far,” Wu said.

  There was a short silence before Durant said, “Then I’ll need a piece.”

  “Here,” Overby said. He reached into his hip pocket, produced the .

  38-caliber revolver he had bought from Colleen Cullen, and slid it across the table. Durant picked it up, examined it, slipped it into the right pocket of his jacket and said, “What about Georgia?”

  “She’s already got one,” Overby said.

  Before Durant could comment, Blue said, “All you have to do is watch my back, Quincy.”

  “And my own,” he said.

  Artie Wu cut off further bickering with an announcement. “I have some good news about money.”

  Everyone looked at him except Durant, who continued to study Georgia Blue.

  “Last night,” Wu continued, “Enno Glimm made us a rather interesting proposal. If we can quietly resolve this entire matter and keep him and his companies out of it—which, of course, means absolving Ione Gamble of Rice’s murder—Glimm will pay us an additional five hundred thousand. If we succeed, Quincy and I feel that this fresh money should be divided into equal shares—one hundred thousand each. You might think of it as an incentive bonus.”

  “Or a don’t-stray bonus,” Durant said, still studying Georgia Blue.

  This time it was Overby who blocked any retort from Blue with a question: “Didn’t Glimm agree to indemnify Ione Gamble for any and all losses the Goodisons caused her?”

  “Right,” Wu said.

  “Then what Glimm’s really doing is spending half a million on us to keep from coming up with the million Oil Drum’s asking. Or am I wrong?”

  Wu smiled. “Some such thought may indeed have crossed his mind.”

  “So even if we clear Gamble of Rice’s death, she can still sue Glimm for a bundle.”

  “On what grounds?” Durant said.

  “How the hell should I know?” Overby said. “That’d be up to Howie Mott. Loss of income. Mental suffering. That’s what you hire lawyers to do.”

  “What an interesting notion, Otherguy,” Wu said. “You can try it on Ms. Gamble herself later this morning.”

  Instantly wary, Overby asked, “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean you’re going to be her personal security.”

  Voodoo, Ltd. —171

  “Not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m no rent-a-cop.”

  “You are now,” Durant said.

  Overby started to protest again, but changed his mind, slumped back in his chair and glowered at anyone who looked at him. A new silence began that was ended by Georgia Blue’s amused laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Overby demanded.

  “Artie’s funny,” she said. “Everybody gets a nanny. Artie watches Booth. Quincy watches me. And Ione Gamble watches you.”

  Wu gazed at her with a fond smile and asked, “Should we have taken a vote on who does what, Georgia?”

  “
A secret one?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who’d count the votes, Artie?”

  “I would,” he said, still smiling. “Who else?”

  After Artie Wu tapped out Howard Mott’s telephone number, he listened to the rings while looking at Booth Stallings, now the last one left at the old refectory table. “You didn’t say much during discussion period, Booth,” Wu said.

  “Believe I said, ‘Please pass the salt.’ “

  Before Wu could continue, Howard Mott answered the phone with a grumpy “What is it?”

  “It’s Artie Wu.”

  “You woke me up. If I sound testy, it’s because I am.”

  “Late night?”

  “I dictated till three. Maybe three-thirty.”

  “I have some news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “I’ll let you decide,” Wu said. “The blackmailer called.”

  “Ah.”

  “He disguises his voice with some kind of electronic device.

  Otherguy calls him Oil Drum.”

  “Because he sounds like he’s talking from the bottom of one,” Mott said.

  “Exactly,” said Wu, happy as always when a bright mind required no explanation. “He wants to sell Ione video- and audiotapes of her confessing under hypnosis to the murder of Billy Rice. The price is one million. He wants—I should say demands—a yes or no by five P.M.

  today.”

  Voodoo, Ltd. —172

  “You know she can’t raise a million that quickly, Artie. So what are you really calling about?”

  “A proposal.”

  “I may not give you a reply.”

  “Perhaps, but I propose that you call Jack Broach and tell him Ione needs a million in cash by four P.M. today and why. Then merely listen to what he says.”

  There was a very long pause until Mott asked, “You think Jack, instead of saying, ‘Impossible,’ will say, ‘Okay, fine,’ don’t you?”

  “Should he say yes or, ‘Okay, fine,’ tell him Georgia Blue will be picking up the money.”

  “All by herself?” Mott said, then quickly added, “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  Wu said nothing and there was another long silence that Mott ended when he asked, “What’s going on, Artie? Nothing specific, please.”

  “Something that might exonerate Ione.”