“Probably the Goodisons,” Durant said and opened the curbside door.
Shortly after Wu rang the two-note chimes, the front door was opened not by the Salvadoran housekeeper, but by Howard Mott in his dark blue suit, white shirt and quiet tie. He looked up at the visitors, studied them briefly, nodded twice and said, “If you’re Mr. Wu, then he’s Mr. Durant and I’m Howard Mott. Come on in.”
Once they were inside and the handshakes were over, Wu said,
“First of all, we thank you for the business you’ve sent our way over the years—especially that Beirut deal.”
“The widow was both pleased and enriched, as well you know,” Mott said. “I also appreciate the clients you’ve referred to me. Some have been a bit odd, of course. A few were fascinating. All of them, thank God, were solvent and every last one of them was guilty as hell.”
“If they weren’t,” Durant said, “why would they need a thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyer?”
“I don’t charge quite that much. Yet.”
“How’s your batting average?” Wu said.
“Eight of the ten you sent me were acquitted. The other two are improving their Ping-Pong skills at various minimum security joints in Pennsylvania and Florida.” Mott again stared, first at Durant, then at Wu, shook his head slightly and said, “I was just thinking it’s strange we haven’t met until now.”
“We try to avoid the need for legal counsel,” Durant said.
“Very wise,” Mott said, then asked, “Overby’s not coming?”
“No.”
“I hope to meet him while he’s in town. We’ve talked over the phone so many times I’ve come to think of him as a prospective client.”
“As well you might,” Wu said.
“So how’s my father-in-law?”
“In love,” Durant said.
“Really? Who with?”
“An ex-Secret Service agent. Georgia Blue.”
Mott frowned. “Wasn’t she the one in Hong Kong who they extradited to the Philippines for murder and—”
Wu didn’t let him finish. “The very same.”
“Well. The five of you. Together again. Must seem like a reunion.”
“Fortunately,” Durant said, “like all reunions, it’s only temporary.”
Mott obviously wanted to say more and even ask a question or two.
Instead, he moved something around inside his mouth. Bit his tongue, Wu thought. Mott then glanced at his watch and announced the meeting would be upstairs in Ione Gamble’s office.
“Just the four of us?” Wu said as they started up the stairs.
“Is there supposed to be someone else?”
“You mentioned Jack Broach.”
“Jack couldn’t get away,” Mott said.
Ione Gamble wore a dark blue cable-knit cotton sweater with a deep V-neck over what looked like a raw-silk T-shirt. She also wore gray flannel pants and white Reeboks. As Mott made the introductions, Gamble shook Durant’s hand first and murmured something polite as she assessed the tweed jacket, custom-made chambray shirt, twill pants and the aged loafers that encased a pair of spirited argyle socks she wouldn’t see until he sat down and crossed his legs.
She smiled at Artie Wu next, shook his hand and said something nice as she took in the tieless white shirt with the semi-Byronic collar, the faintly raffish double-breasted blue blazer, the putty-colored pants and the gleaming black pebble-grained wing tips that he wore like a badge of respectability. She also noticed that Wu wore a wedding ring but Durant didn’t.
After the introductions, Gamble resumed her seat behind the Memphis cotton broker’s desk. Mott took the businesslike armchair and Wu and Durant settled for the couch with the chintz slipcover.
It was then that Durant crossed his legs, revealing the argyle socks, smiled at Ione Gamble and said what he’d been planning to say.
“We’ve rented William Rice’s house in Malibu.”
Her surprise came and went quickly, replaced by a bleak stare that was aimed at Durant while she asked a question of Howard Mott. “Am I paying for the house, Howie?”
“Enno Glimm is,” Mott said.
The bleak stare gave way to a smile and she said, “Then I hope you guys enjoy it because it’s a lovely place.”
“Did you rent it just by happy chance?” Mott said.
Artie Wu nodded. “It’s one of those fortuitous events that may or may not prove useful. But as Miss Gamble
