Out on the Rim

by Ross Thomas

  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 look—one 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 attaché 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, and—” 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 attaché case Georgia’s got—half 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 them—eventually. 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.”

  The waiter arrived with Harry Crites’ honeydew melon. The others watched silently as he ate it in two minutes, patted his lips with a napkin, had a final sip of coffee, patted his lips again and turned to Stallings.

  “Okay. That’s it. I’ve told you what you need to know and if there’s anything I forgot, Georgia can handle it. When’re you leaving?”

  Stallings looked at Overby who said, “Tonight. The ten-thirty flight. Philippine Airlines.” He looked at Georgia Blue with what seemed to be concern. “I’m not sure we can get you a seat.”

  “I already have a reservation, Otherguy,” she said.

  Overby smiled. “Together again.”

  Harry Crites looked at his watch and rose. “I’ve got a match in forty-five minutes, Booth, so I suppose I’ll see you when you get back.” His eyes went to Overby. “You, too, maybe.”

  Georgia Blue also rose. “I’ll go with you to the car.”

  Harry Crites turned away from the table, then turned back. “By the way, Booth. I really like that new suit.”

  When they were gone Stallings asked Overby, “Where’d you know her, Otherguy?”

  “Around.”

  “Around where?”

  “I’ll let her tell it.”

  Georgia Blue was back in five minutes. She had taken the thin attache case with her and Stallings now noticed she had brought it back. She sat down, poured herself fresh coffee, took a sip and leaned back in her chair, looking first at Overby and then at Stallings.

  “I think we may as well get down to it, don’t you, Mr. Stallings?”

  “Why not?”

  “Good.” She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the table and smiled at Overby. “How many ways are you planning to cut up the five million, Otherguy?”

  Nearly a minute went by as they again stared at each other, silently exchanging what Stallings felt were new confidences, ancient secrets and bad memories.

  Overby finally looked away, not at Stallings, but at something miles off. “Four,” he said. “Four ways.”

  Georgia Blue turned to Stallings with a cool stare that he thought he could feel poking around in the secret recesses of his mind. “And now it’ll be five ways, right, Mr. Stallings? A million each.”

  “I guess I’m supposed to ask why it should be split five ways,” Stallings said, “and you’ll come back with some compelling reason that’ll make me agree.”

  “The reason’s simple,” she said. “It’ll be far easier for you to pull it off with me than without me. In fact, without me it’ll be damned near impossible.”

  “Not much on preliminary bullshit, are you?” Stallings said with a twitch of a smile.

  “It’s a waste of time,” she said, continuing to study him. “Well?”

  “Okay,” Stallings said with a shrug. “Five ways—a million each.”

  Otherguy Overby let out the breath he had been holding and nodded comfortably. “Makes more sense all the way around,” he said.

  CHAPTER 12

  For the second time in his life Booth Stallings flew first-class. The first time had been nearly five years before when a Swedish small-arms manufacturer had flown him to a sales conference in London to deliver an ill-received paper Stallings perversely had entitled: “Terrorism: the Exciting Hot New Industry.”

  Otherguy Overby had insisted on first-class to Manila as a matter of front and, by chance, Stallings had two seats to himself. Across the aisle were Overby and Georgia Blue who scarcely spoke to each other. After the 747 was thirty minutes out of Los Angeles, and after an overly solicitous flight attendant had pressed a second martini on him, Stallings rose, tapped Overby on the shoulder and said, “My turn.”

  Georgia Blue watched as Stallings slipped into the vacated seat with his drink and said, “Tell me about the money.”

  “The five million,” she said.

  Stallings nodded.

  “It’s real,” she said.

  “Where is it?”

  “It’ll be in the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank—their new headquarters on Des Voeux Road.”

  “That’s where it’ll be. Not where it is.”

  “Right now it’s where it can be wire-transferred without bothering Washington.”

  “Not in the States then, right?”

  She smiled.

  “When’ll Harry wire it?”

  “When I tell him to.”

  “By code?”

  Again, she smiled.

  “Like to share the code—since we’re partners and all?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “Whose money is it?”

  “Who cares? Which means I don’t know.”

  “Harry gave me some crap about it coming from a business consortium.”

  “Crap’s a fairly apt description.”

  “Think it’s Langley money?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “They wouldn’t go through Harry. They’ve got their own proprietary false fronts.”

  “Like to hear what I think?” Stallings said after ten seconds of silence.

  “Of course.”

  “I think the money’s coming from someone who won’t send after it when it disappears.”

  “Harry’ll send after it,” she said. “And if we work it just right, he’ll send me.”

  Stallings grinned. “Now there’s a pretty notion.”

  “Yes, isn’t it though,” she said.

  Stallings leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and said, “Now tell me about you and Otherguy.”

  Georgia Blue thought before replying, “He was a bad accident that happened in Guadalajara when I was twenty and he was thirty-one, or so he claimed, except you never can tell about Otherguy because he lies so much.”

  “But he’s good at what he does,” Stallings said, opening his eyes.

  She shrugged. “He’s in the top forty anyhow.”

  Despite Stallings’ encouraging nod, Georgia Blue volunteered nothing else. After fifteen seconds went by, he said, “So what did Treasury have you doing?”

  “I guarded the bodies of the wives and mistresses of visiting prime ministers, premiers, presidents, potentates and what have you. Actually, I was the maid who carried the gun. So when a certain stark-naked madame told me to give her a massage, I told her to fuck off and got fired and Harry Crites hired me three weeks later.”

  “To watch his back?”

  She nodded.

  “Just curious, but what does Harry really suffer from—enemies or paranoia?”

  “They sometimes bunk in together, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Stallings said as he rose and returned to his seat across the aisle.

  Booth Stallings had managed to sleep only three of the fifteen hours it took to fly from Los Angeles to Manila. Overby somehow greased their way through customs and immigration and Stallings sleepwalked across the international airport terminal and out into the heat. The heat woke him up. That and the horde of Manila taxi drivers who were all yelling that they drove the coolest cabs and offered the lowest fares. Overby himself contributed to the clamor. He stood, coat off and tie loosened, bellowing, “Manila Hotel! Manila Hotel!”

  The taxi drivers cheerfully took up the cry. Seconds later, an unusually small Filipino, wearing a white shirt, black tie, dark pants and a chauffeur’s cap, rushed up to Overby and began alternating apologies for his tardiness with assertions that he, in truth, was Romeo, the driver of the Manila Hotel limousine. The taxi drivers vouched for him with shouts of, “True! True!”

  Stallings hadn’t been to Manila in more than forty years. He had arrived then to find it virtually destroyed by some of the fiercest and most senseless house-to-house fighting of the war. Seated now in the front seat of the black Mercedes on his way to the Manil
a Hotel, he saw they had rebuilt almost everything, that everything looked pretty godawful, and that he recognized almost nothing except the slums. The slums were just as he remembered them.

  In late August of 1945, Booth Stallings and Alejandro Espiritu had been flown in an Army C-47 from Cebu to Manila where it was rumored that MacArthur himself would present the medals during what a PRO handout predicted would be “a brief but stirring ceremony.”

  The chief purpose of the ceremony was to give the dead T/5 Hovey Profette of Mena, Arkansas, a posthumous Distinguished Service Cross for his exceptional gallantry in action. Bronze Stars were to be pinned on Espiritu and Stallings for their lesser valor. The trip to Manila was the first time either had flown in an airplane.

  MacArthur didn’t show, of course, and the task of handing out the medals to a dead medic, a live second john and a raggedy-ass guerrilla with suspect politics fell to MacArthur’s amanuensis, Major General Charles A. Willoughby, who later in life would become a close and valued associate of yet another singular American, H. L. Hunt.

  Espiritu was given his medal last. As the General pinned it on, he murmured congratulations in English. Espiritu smiled and murmured back in Tagalog or Cebuano—nobody was quite sure which. Years later Willoughby was to claim that Espiritu had said: The real struggle is yet to come, General.

  The brief and not very stirring ceremony had been held in one of the few untouched rooms in the nearly bombed-out Manila Hotel, the same hotel Booth Stallings would return to more than forty years later. When the lowliest public relations officer had gone and none was left save the second lieutenant of infantry and the guerrilla, Booth Stallings looked down at the medal on his chest, took it off and stuck it down in his hip pocket. Espiritu did the same with his and asked Stallings, “Where do you go now?”

  “Looks like Japan,” Stallings said. “The occupation.”