thereabouts?”
“Who got shot dead?” Stallings said.
“William A. C. Rice the Rich. The cops say Ione Gamble shot him.”
“It’s right on the beach?” Georgia Blue said.
“With your own one hundred feet of sand.”
“Fifteen thousand?” Stallings said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take twelve-five?”
“Take thirteen-five.”
“With an option to extend?”
“Yes, sir, I can do that.”
“We’ll take it.”
“Don’t you all wanta go look at it first?”
“You said it was nice, Mr. Quill,” Georgia Blue said, “Just how nice will be our surprise.”
Thirteen
Artie Wu, pushing a loaded baggage cart, was in the lead at 1:37 that same afternoon when he, Otherguy Overby and Quincy Durant came up the long ramp that led from customs and immigration to the airport’s international reception area where Booth Stallings waited with Georgia Blue.
Durant watched as Wu gave Georgia Blue a smile, a hug, a kiss and some words of warm greeting before turning to shake hands with Stallings. Overby was next. He patted her on the cheek, which almost made her flinch, then said something that almost made her smile.
An unsmiling Durant went up to her and held out his hand. She took it and said, “Let’s hear it, Quincy.”
He let her hand go and said, “Don’t try to fuck me over again, Georgia.”
They stared at each other for several seconds before she replied with two thoughtful nods, which Durant interpreted as, “Maybe I will”
and “Maybe I won’t.” What she actually said was, “You look about the same.”
“So do you.”
“No, I don’t.”
Durant studied her streak of white hair. “You going to keep it?”
“As a reminder.”
“I like it,” he said and turned away to greet Booth Stallings.
With his coat and tie off and the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt folded back two careful turns, Otherguy Overby headed the rented Lincoln Town Car into the Airport Return shortcut that led back to the international terminal where Artie Wu by now should have completed his phone call.
Next to Overby in the front seat was Georgia Blue. In the rear were Durant and Stallings. After the four of them had reached the third floor of the parking lot and loaded the luggage into the Lincoln’s trunk, Overby offered to drive. Stallings tossed him the keys and said,
“It’s all yours.”
“Which way?” Overby said.
“Malibu,” said Stallings, who thought of himself as one of those rare Americans who regarded automobiles as more nuisance than necessity. There had been times in his life, especially when abroad
and poking around in terrorism, that he had gone for as long as eighteen months without ever riding in a private automobile. He had instead walked, bicycled or taken taxis and public transport. He was now almost sure he would never buy another car—unless, of course, he stumbled across an incredibly cheap Morgan or maybe a Jowett-Jupiter.
Overby spotted Wu waiting at the curb. After the Lincoln pulled over and stopped, Wu got into the rear seat next to Stallings and said,
“Quincy and I’re—” He broke off as Overby expertly cut off a hotel shuttle van, then bullied his way to the airport road’s far left lane. Wu realized he had been holding his breath until assured of safe passage.
He used the withheld breath to complete his announcement. “Quincy and I’re to meet Ione Gamble at five this afternoon.”
“You talked to her?” Durant asked.
“No. To Howard Mott.” He looked at Stallings. “Your son-in-law asked me to tell you your grandson and namesake is thriving.”
The new grandfather smiled slightly. “They named the kid Booth Stallings Mott. It didn’t occur to either of them that by the time he’s in the second grade, or maybe even the first, the other kids’ll be calling him B.S.”
Georgia Blue asked, “Have you seen him yet?”
“Not yet. But I haven’t been back to Washington in five years.
Anyway, the kid’s still in the gurgle-and-coo stage so maybe I’ll wait till he’s three or four and has something to
