by Ross Thomas
Durant grinned, then chuckled. She frowned slightly and said, “That must be the first laugh you’ve had in a month.”
“There haven’t been any funny parts until now.”
“Not even when you and the movie star were getting it on?”
He gave her a quick, not quite surprised look. “Were we now?”
“She was obvious about it, even if you weren’t. But then you’ve had years and years of experience. I don’t think anyone else noticed except Otherguy. Anyway, she’s rather nice. I think I like her, although I still can’t believe she’s all that famous.”
“She made it big during the last four or five years.”
“Then perhaps I should go see some of her pictures.”
“You don’t have to go see them anymore,” Durant said. “You can rent them on tape for two or three bucks. Play them at home on a VCR. Microwave your own popcorn. Fast-forward the dull parts.”
“Is that the chief cultural advance I’ve missed?”
“I can’t think of any others,” Durant said.
After that, they drove in silence. Durant took the Robertson Boulevard on-ramp to the Santa Monica Freeway and headed west toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Three minutes later, Georgia Blue broke the silence. “We’d better— never mind.”
“We’d better what?” Durant said.
“I was going to suggest we stop at the Bank of America in Malibu and get some money,” she said. “But then I realized we already have three hundred thousand.” She touched the carryall.
“Money for what?”
“Remember Otherguy telling you about Colleen Cullen and her lie-low bed-and-breakfast inn?”
He nodded. “Topanga Canyon.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —182
“I think we’d better go rent it for the night. The entire place.”
“How much?”
“She’ll probably ask ten thousand. We’ll offer her five and settle for seventy-five hundred.”
“Where’ll she be when it starts?”
“You haven’t met her, have you?”
“No.”
“When you meet her,” Georgia Blue said, “tell me where you think she should be.”
After riding a bus into Santa Monica, Booth Stallings took a taxi that let him out at the Beverly Hills Budget rental car outlet that specialized in exotic autos. On duty was the same clerk who had rented him the Mercedes 560SEL sedan that Wu and Durant drove.
She looked up when he came in, smiled and said, “Hi, there, Mr.
Stallings. Don’t tell me somebody went and stole the Mercedes?”
Stallings, remembering that her name was Gloria, decided she still had yet to experience a moment of gloom. He returned her smile and said, “Not yet, Gloria.” He paused then, frowned slightly and said,
“What’d you tell me your last name was?”
“I didn’t. But it’s Ransome with an ‘e’—at your service.”
“Well, Ms. Ransome with an ‘e,’ I need me another car.”
“Business must be good—whatever you guys are doing out there in Malibu.”
“Picture deal,” Stallings said. “A fat one.”
“No kidding? That’s wonderful. So what’ve you got in mind? Just remember we’re talking car now.”
“If you were a few years older, we might be talking Tahoe weekend.”
“I’ve gone out with older guys.”
“To Tahoe?”
“No, but there’s always the first time.”
“Tell you what, Gloria,” Stallings said, leaning on the counter, “after we sign this picture deal, I’m going to treat myself to both a weekend in Tahoe and a new car and probably could use some company.”
“What kind of car?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about a Mercedes 500SL.”
“Good Lord! You know how much those things cost?”
“About a hundred thousand. But what I’m more interested in right now is how much they rent for. I thought I’d test-drive one for a few days before deciding anything.”
“Must be some picture deal.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —183
“Like I said, it’s fat. Real fat.”
“Well, the 500SL rents for four hundred a day but you’ve got to put up a cash deposit.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
“That’s fine. You got one ready to go?”
“Let me check.” She turned to her computer, tapped away for a few moments, studied the screen and said, “You’re in luck. We’ve only got the one and it’s available.”
“You’ve only got one?”
“They’re real expensive and we don’t get all that many calls for it.”
“Is it black?”
She nodded. “You got something against black?”
“No, I was just wondering if it’s the same one a friend of mine rented last New Year’s Eve.”
“Like me to check that for you?”
Stallings gave her his warmest smile. “Only if it’s not any trouble.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —184
Thirty-eight
Quincy Durant didn’t like the looks of Cousin Colleen’s Bed & Breakfast Inn and said so. Georgia Blue replied that if he had seen it for the first time at night, he would’ve liked it even less.
Durant stopped the rented Ford sedan near the large sign where the red neon letters forever blinked “No Vacancy.” He studied the huge old house in the distance and decided it looked like a place to store ancients until they breathed their last while watching black-and-white reruns of I Love Lucy and Perry Mason. As if reading his thoughts, Georgia Blue said, “It’s just somewhere to lie low until the looted trust funds reach the Bahamas.”
Durant grunted, then drove up the long brick drive, taking in the trees and drought-resistant flowers that he thought could use some moisture. In the fan-shaped parking area, Blue noticed that the elderly MG roadster was gone although the Toyota pickup truck remained.
Durant parked next to the pickup and said, “What d’you want to do with the money?”
“Lock it in the trunk?”
“Trunks take about three seconds to open.”
“You carry it, then,” she said.
When they were out of the Ford, Durant followed Georgia Blue up the nine steps to the porch. As they neared the doorbell, she also noticed that the stained-glass panel of a bowl of cherries, through which Otherguy Overby had rammed his elbow, had been replaced by one representing a bowl of purple grapes.
Blue gave the doorbell a five-second ring and waited. Ten seconds later, the heavy front door flew open and Colleen Cullen appeared, aiming her sawed-off double-barrelled shotgun at them. Durant automatically noted it was fully cocked and that she had fingers on both triggers.
“Whatever you want, Slim, the answer’s no. N-O. No.”
“We want the whole place for tonight,” Georgia Blue said.
“Full up. Booked solid. No room.”
“Tell her about the money,” Durant said to Georgia Blue.
“Well, shit, he can talk,” Cullen said. “Just opens his mouth and out it comes. Who’s Mr. Tan Man, Slim?”
“My partner.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —185
“What happened to Maw-reese?”
“All three of us are partners.”
“Tell her about the money,” Durant said.
“What you got in the bag, Mr. Tan Man?” Colleen Cullen said.
“Money,” said Durant.
“Open it up and let’s see,” Cullen said.
“Not out here.”
“I got a double-barrelled sawed-off that says open it up.”
“Ms. Blue’s hand is in her purse,” Durant said. “In that hand is a thirty-eight I understand you sold her. It’s aimed at your right eye. If you even think you’re going to pull a trigger, you’re dead.”
Colleen Cullen and Durant stared at each other. Nobody moved or spoke or blinked until Georgia Blue said, “Let’s go ins
ide, Colleen, and have a drink and talk about money.”
Still staring at Durant, Cullen said, “How much we going to talk about?”
“Enough,” Blue said. “But inside.”
“Okay,” Cullen said and took two quick steps back, the shotgun still levelled at Durant. “But Mr. Tan Man goes first. Then you, Slim.”
As she followed Durant through the door, Georgia Blue said, “To your right.”
When they reached the closed sliding doors, Blue said, “Open them.”
Durant slid the two doors back into their walled recesses, went into the large living room, looked around quickly, then turned to Colleen Cullen and said, “Hughes and Pauline Goodison were shot dead yesterday in a motel bathroom in Oxnard.”
Cullen reacted with a clearly visible start. But the shotgun didn’t waver. “That calls for a drink,” she said. “Big round table back there’s where the whiskey is. You pour, Mr. Tan Man. Three bourbons. Water.
No ice.”
Durant turned, went to the big round table, poured generous shots of Virginia Gentleman from the now half-empty bottle into three glasses, then added water from a glass pitcher. He did it all with his right hand, keeping a tight grip on the blue carryall with his left.
Once the drinks were poured he turned to look at Colleen Cullen, who was aiming the shotgun at Georgia Blue. “I’m going to open the bag and put something on the table,” Durant said to Cullen. “If you don’t like it, shoot her.”
Without waiting for agreement, Durant zipped open the blue carryall, took out $10,000 worth of bound hundred-dollar bills and placed it on the table. He then picked up his drink and had a long swallow.
Voodoo, Ltd. —186
Cullen used the shotgun to herd Georgia Blue toward the table.
When they reached it, Cullen picked up the bound packet of currency, flicked through it with one hand, her eyes shooting from the money to Durant to Blue and back to the money. It was an indifferent, even contemptuous gesture. Cullen then picked up one of the drinks Durant had mixed and tasted it while studying her guests over the rim of the glass.
She put the glass down, resumed her two-handed grip on the shotgun, backed away two steps and asked, “If I pull these two triggers, how much richer am I?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars richer during the second before we kill you,” Georgia Blue said.
“What if I did you first, Slim?”
“Mr. Durant would shoot you in the left eye.”
“You shoot folks in the right eye. He shoots ‘em in the left. Those the rules or something?”
“Pick up the money and count it,” Durant said.
“Shit, I don’t need to count it. I know what’s there. Ten thousand dollars. You think I don’t know how high a ten-thousand-dollar stack in hundreds is?”
“Here’s the deal,” Durant said. “We’ll pay you seventy-five hundred for the exclusive use of your house from seven to twelve tonight.”
Cullen frowned. “What’s the other twenty-five hundred for?”
“Security.”
Cullen turned to Georgia Blue. “What the fuck’s he talking about now?”
“If things fall apart,” Georgia Blue said slowly, “he wants you to put them back together again.”
Colleen Cullen turned, put the shotgun down on the big round table, pulled out a chair and sat down in front of her drink. She picked it up, had another swallow, then gestured for Durant and Blue to join her.
They did—Georgia Blue on her right; Durant on her left.
“This ain’t no drug buy, is it?” Colleen Cullen asked.
Georgia Blue shook her head.
“Blackmail payoff?”
Blue nodded.
“Something to do with those Goodison creepies?”
“A little,” Blue said.
Cullen nodded slowly, then turned to look at Durant. “And you want me for backup.”
“That’s right.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
Voodoo, Ltd. —187
“Suppose they kill you two, grab the money and run. What d’you expect me to do?”
“Kill them,” Blue said.
“And the money?”
“Keep it,” Durant said.
“All of it?” she asked.
“All of it,” he said.
Voodoo, Ltd. —188
Thirty-nine
Booth Stallings came out of Johnnie’s New York Pizza on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu carrying two 16-inch cheese and sausage pizzas, three quarts of mixed green salad and a six-pack of Mexican beer. After loading it all on the right-hand seat of the newly rented black Mercedes 500SL roadster, he went around the car’s rear, got behind the wheel, started the engine and carefully nosed out into the highway traffic. A few blocks later, Stallings made a U-turn, parked the Mercedes at the curb and, now bearing early dinner for four, walked back a block and a half to the Rice house. He arrived at 4:52
P.M., eight minutes before Oil Drum, the blackmailer, was due to call.
By 4:59 P.M. Stallings had seen to the plates, silverware, napkins and glasses; Georgia Blue had served the pizza and salad, and Durant had opened four bottles of beer. Artie Wu sat at the head of the old refectory table, a telephone at his elbow. At 5:01 P.M. Wu took a large bite of pizza. Seconds later, his mouth still full, the phone rang. Wu continued to chew calmly as Georgia Blue rose and hurried to the phone in the living room. At the end of the fifth ring, she and Wu—his mouth still half-full—simultaneously picked up their telephones.
“Yes?” Wu said.
“It’s me,” said the reverberating voice of Oil Drum.
“So it is.”
“What about my money?”
“It’s handy.”
“So where d’you want to do it?”
“I’m open to suggestion,” Wu said and had another large bite of pizza.
“There’s a place out in the Valley—”
“The San Fernando Valley, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Close to the Ventura Freeway?”
“Not far.”
“Sorry,” Wu said, paused to drink some beer, then continued:
“Anywhere we meet will have to be at least ten minutes from any freeway. Otherwise, the temptation to smash, grab and tear off down the 101 or the 405 might be, well, irresistible.”
“Who the fuck you think you’re dealing with?” Oil Drum said.
Voodoo, Ltd. —189
“A blackmailer,” said Wu. “But when you reconsider, you’ll realize that the smash, grab and run temptation might be equally irresistible to us.”
There was a pause before Oil Drum said, “Okay. Then you come up with a place.”
“Topanga Canyon,” Wu said. “About halfway between the Ventura Freeway and the PCH. It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn devoid of guests.
Privacy guaranteed. And it offers not only a place for you to count your million but also a VCR we can use to view the tape.”
“And a real narrow twisty road perfect for a hijack,” Oil Drum said.
“You’re selling, we’re buying,” Wu said. “And our risk is considerably greater than yours.”
“That sounds a whole lot like take it or leave it.”
“A reasonable interpretation,” said Wu and finished off the last of his pizza wedge.
There was another silence until Oil Drum said, “Okay. How do I get there?”
Wu took a three-by-five card from his shirt pocket and, without sounding as if he were reading, slowly read the directions to Cousin Colleen’s Bed & Breakfast Inn. After Wu finished, Oil Drum repeated the directions without hesitancy or mistake and asked, “What time?”
“Eight o’clock?” Wu said.
“Too early.”
“Ten,” Wu said.
“I like nine better.”
“All right. Nine.”
“Who’re you sending?” Oil Drum asked.
“Why?”
“What d’you mean why?
Because I wanta know, that’s why.”
“Do you want to know who—or how many?”
“How many,” Oil Drum said. “I don’t give a shit who.”
“Two,” Wu said. “One to watch the other.”
“Two, huh? Okay, then I’ll bring somebody.”
“I thought you might,” Wu said. “At nine o’clock, then?”
“Nine sharp,” Oil Drum said and broke the connection.
At 6:55 P.M. Georgia Blue rose from the refectory table and said she was going to lie down for a while. Ten minutes later, Durant got up and said he planned to do the same thing. That left Wu and Stallings seated at the table, their untasted third cups of coffee cooling in front of them.
Voodoo, Ltd. —190
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.”
