motion picture star of the second or third magnitude make an unescorted exit. Two minutes later a young black kid of 22 or 23, wearing a T-shirt, raggedy jeans and $13,000 worth of Rolex on his left wrist, was ushered to the exit by two white males in their thirties who tried very hard not to look as if they were fawning over him.
And finally there was the face that made the nineteen-minute wait almost worthwhile. For it was a face from her childhood, but one now thickened and lined and crimsoned by age and sun and probably too
much whisky. The golden hair had thinned and turned white, although the walk was still that same slithering lope and the back had stayed rake-handle straight. The old actor glanced at Georgia Blue, caught her staring at him, gave her his crooked, slightly mad grin—which he should have copyrighted—then winked at her and was gone.
Jack Broach rose, wearing a smile, and quickly came around the desk that could have taken some eighteenth- century French craftsman at least a year to build. But it was not until he was completely around the desk that Broach greeted her warmly by name and urged her to try the couch that was placed beneath what he called “the three little Daumiers.”
Blue turned, gave the three pen-and-ink sketches a glance, turned again and sat down. Once they were seated, she on the couch, he in a too-tall wingback chair, Broach said, “Instead of answering your questions, I’ve almost decided either to hire you or talk you into signing a representation contract.”
“How sweet,” Blue said, much as she might have said “bullshit.”
Broach touched his forehead just where his widow’s peak began and said, “That streak—it’s real, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“It must be, because you don’t need it.”
Georgia Blue smiled slightly, waiting for the next question.
Broach’s right hand again strayed to his hairline. “How long did it take to turn? A year? A month? What?”
“Overnight,” she said.
“Good God, what happened?”
“I was sent to prison. In the Philippines.”
Broach seemed more fascinated than shocked. “For what?”
“For five years.”
“I mean—”
She didn’t let him finish. “They said I killed someone. I said I didn’t.
My sentence was commuted a few days ago.”
“Not exactly a pardon, right?”
“Not exactly.”
“And before all that?”
“I was a Secret Service agent.”
“I didn’t think they had woman agents.”
“Neither did the Treasury most of the time.”
“And now you’re working for my client.”
“I work for Wu and Durant.”
“Wudu, Limited,” he said. “Catchy.”
“Easy to remember anyway.”
“They must have hired you right out of jail.”
“They had someone waiting for me as the prison gates swung wide.”
“Then you must’ve known them before.”
“Not necessarily—although I did. Know them before.”
Broach leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his nose and studied her for several seconds. Then he folded the steeple, put it away and said, “Know what I do for a living? I provide intensive care for ailing egos. And it’s extremely rare to run across one that apparently doesn’t need any.”
“What about Ione Gamble’s ego?”
“Remarkably sturdy.”
“What do you do for her mostly?”
“I offer advice.”
“Did you advise her to hire hypnotists?”
“That was her defense counsel’s suggestion, although I went along with it.”
“Did you meet them—the Goodisons?”
He nodded.
“And?”
