Ms. Blue?”
“The usual. Mostly, we’ll want you to handle a fluctuating payroll of anywhere from ten to seventy employees. You’d issue the bimonthly checks and see to the state and Federal withholding plus the usual FICA and SDI stuff. It’ll all be routine although sometimes we might require sizable amounts of cash on short notice.”
At the mention of cash, Davidson put down his pen and said, “May I ask if you know Mr. Broach personally?”
“He and I had a meeting yesterday.”
“How did he . . . seem?”
Georgia Blue stared at him for several seconds before she said, “I don’t understand the question. If you’re asking about his health, he seemed fine. But that’s not what you’re asking, is it?”
“Jack Broach is an old and valued customer,” Davidson said. “But when you mentioned Enno Glimm, I thought you might’ve been assessing the Broach agency for a possible buyout, merger or even an infusion of capital.”
“Enno Glimm has no interest in the Broach agency.”
The corners of Davidson’s mouth almost turned down. “I see.”
“We’re a small firm, Mr. Davidson. But if you want our business, you’d better level with me. Is Jack Broach and Company broke—or just suffering from a temporary case of the shorts?”
Davidson frowned, started to speak, changed his mind, then changed it again and said, “I really can’t say more than I’ve said.”
Georgia Blue rose. “Then I’m afraid we won’t be doing business after all.”
She went to the hatrack, removed her coat, draped it over her left arm and turned to Davidson, who was getting to his feet. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.
She stared at him, then said, “Jack Broach and Company’s down the tubes, right?” When Davidson made no reply and looked at his watch instead, Georgia Blue said, “That’s what I thought.”
After she turned and walked away, Davidson reached for his phone, picked it up, tapped out a number and returned his gaze to Georgia Blue’s back. Just as she walked out the bank’s front door, Davidson’s call was answered with a cheerful “Jack Broach and Company.”
Davidson identified himself and asked to speak to Mr. Broach.
Twenty-four
After Georgia Blue had let him out at the intersection of Santa Monica and Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, Booth Stallings made an anonymous phone call to the Santa Monica police and told the woman who answered that she could find the stolen Lincoln Town Car on the fourth level of the Santa Monica Place mall’s garage.
Stallings then found a nearby cafe, went in and breakfasted on waffles, sausages and coffee. After paying the bill, he strolled down Wilshire until he came to a bank, where he purchased a certified check in the amount of $2,000 made out to Rosa Alicia Chavez.
Coming out of the bank, Stallings noticed a quick-service printshop that didn’t look busy. He went in, smiled at the owner, laid two $100
bills on the counter and said he’d bet $200 the shop couldn’t provide him with a dozen business cards in thirty minutes. “You lose,” the owner said as the $100 bills vanished into his pocket. Thirty minutes later Stallings walked out of the shop with a dozen business cards that read: “Jerome K. Walters, Executive Vice- President, Independent Limousine Operators Association.” There was also a made-up address on Colorado Boulevard in Santa Monica and some equally fictitious phone and fax numbers.
Fifteen minutes later Stallings walked into the Budget office and identified himself as the renter of the stolen Lincoln Town Car. The clerk was a pretty young woman in her mid-twenties who seemed to be brimming over with goodwill. She told him her name was Gloria and that the Santa Monica cops had just called to say they’d found the Lincoln, practically undamaged, in the Santa Monica Place mall.
“What d’you mean ‘practically’?”
“Well, we had to send a locksmith and the cops are going to keep it a few days to check for prints and stuff.”
“That’s not going to cost me extra, is it?”
“Course not, silly.”
“Good,” Stallings said, then frowned and added, “Look, Gloria, I’ve got my president and vice-president in from London and they aren’t exactly overjoyed to wake up their first morning in Malibu and find their wheels gone. So I think I’d better rent ‘em something that’s not so easy to steal—maybe even something foreign and fancy.”
“We have a pretty white Bentley.”
“Too much flash for them. What about a nice black Mercedes?”
“Well, we have a black 500SL, a black 300E and one that’s really nice, a black 560SEL.”
“I’ll take the 560.”
“You want full coverage this time?”
“You bet,” Stallings said.
On the eastern edge of Venice, Stallings got out of the big Mercedes sedan, went up the short concrete walk and onto the porch. There he knocked at the door of the brown house that was the dark twin of the small yellow one across the street and five doors down. A plump middle-aged woman in curlers opened the door.
