“Then what?”
“Glimm asks me about Artie and Durant and I ask him why he wants to know. He’s not about to tell me, of course, but I can guess it’s something pretty fat. So I tell him that Wu and Durant are top of the line—although Durant can be a mean bastard. Glimm says that’s exactly what he’s looking for, thanks me and hangs up. So I think for a
couple of minutes, then call Artie’s twin boys, Arthur and Angus, at their school just outside Edinburgh. That’s in Scotland.”
“Thank you,” Stallings said. “And now you’re going to tell me why you called them, aren’t you?”
“To offer them summer jobs in Kuwait City after the war’s over—
jobs that’ll pay them three thousand U.S. a month each.”
“Sweet Jesus,” said Stallings.
The smile that Overby gave Stallings should have been, by rights, hard, calculating and even cruel. Instead it was benign, almost gentle, and strangely contented. Stallings had seen it before and always thought of it as The Smile of the Christian About to Devour the Lion.
Much of it was still in place when Overby said, “I offered them jobs on the condition that they’d check it out with their folks, especially their mother, Agnes, and that’s why Artie’ll be calling any minute now with the job offer.”
Stallings shook his head slowly. “For once, Otherguy, I fail to follow.”
“It’s simple. The twins are seventeen or eighteen. They’ll tell their folks about Kuwait and Agnes’ll go ape and tell Artie, very quiet-like, the way she does, that her sons will not, by God, spend a summer in the clutches of Otherguy Overby.” He paused, as if to check his logic, nodded comfortably and continued. “Of course, none of this’d play if I didn’t know how Artie’s mind works.”
“And how is that?” Stallings asked, resigned to his role of interlocutor.
“Artie’ll never tell his kids not to do something he’d’ve done at their age. But he also has to keep Agnes happy. So what he’ll do is move the pieces around till they form a new pattern.”
“You being one of the pieces?”
Overby nodded. “And you, too. Artie’ll decide to hire me and that’s when I’ll tell him you’re part of the deal. He’ll agree and I’ll call the twins and tell them the Kuwait jobs fell through but maybe we can aim for something next summer. That way the kids don’t get their feelings hurt, Agnes is happy and Artie gets himself a couple of guys he can trust on the Glimm deal, whatever it is.”
Booth Stallings rose slowly and stared down at Overby with awe. He was still standing and still staring when he said, “Minds like yours really do exist, don’t they?”
After giving it some thought, Overby said, “Yeah, I guess there still must be a few around.”
At 1:08 A.M. The next day, Booth Stallings was awakened by the pounding on his hotel room door. After he opened it, Overby strolled in, exuding even more confidence than usual.
“I just talked to Artie,” he said as he crossed to the room’s desk and poured himself a measure of Stalling’s whisky.
“And?”
“I go to London day after tomorrow and you, well, you’ve gotta be on the next flight to Manila.”
Something exploded in Stalling’s chest. He knew it wasn’t a heart attack because there wasn’t any pain. And he knew it wasn’t fear or its evil twin, terror, because he had known both and neither felt like this. But the unfamiliar sensation, whatever it was, made his heart rate jump to around 130 beats a minute and produced a strange coppery taste, which, while not unpleasant, couldn’t be swallowed away. Then suddenly he knew what it was and gave it the only name it deserved—wild anticipation.
After realizing that Overby was staring at him curiously, Stallings breathed in deeply through his nose and coughed to make sure his voice wouldn’t crack when he spoke. “What’s in Manila?”
“A coming-out party.”
“Whose?”
Overby again produced his smile of benign calculation. “Georgia Blue’s. She’s getting herself sprung and Artie says he and Durant can use me, you and her.”
“All right,” Stallings said, not trusting himself to say more.
“Artie was wondering if you’re still kind of stuck on Georgia,”
Overby said. “Not that it’d make any difference, but he was just curious. I told him I’d ask.”
Overby waited. When Stallings made no reply, he said, “So what do I tell him?”
“Tell Artie it’s none of his fucking business,” Booth Stallings said.
Six
After British Rail made its run from Edinburgh to London in seven hours rather than its much touted five, Artie Wu came out of Victoria Station at 7:04 A.M., carrying his leather satchel. But instead of going home to the rented house in St. John’s Wood or to the Wudu, Ltd., office in Mayfair, he took a taxi to Durant’s small flat in Maida Vale.
In the mid-seventies a cautious speculator had bought and gutted a large aging two-story house in Ashworth Road, dividing it into what he called four luxury flats—two up and two down. The upstairs flats shared a common interior staircase but the downstairs flats had separate entrances. Durant’s was the one on the left.
He had lived there for nearly three years, but knew little about the other tenants and had yet to say much more than “Good morning” or
