Gamble that he needs a financial statement of her assets, liabilities and cash on hand.”
There was a long silence before Jack Broach said, “Why the warning?”
She stared at him with complete indifference. “Self-interest.”
“Go on.”
“Let’s try a worst-case scenario,” she said. “Suppose the blackmailer—singular or plural— demands a million. Ione Gamble agrees to pay and turns to you for the money—or, more precisely, for the money she’s entrusted to you. What then?”
“It’s your scenario.”
“You tell her you’ll have to sell or hock everything to come up with a million. She says fine, do it. Could you raise a million, Jack—in cash?”
Broach said nothing.
“Well, could you raise—say, three hundred thousand? I think you could. So what you do is raise the three hundred thousand and tell Ms. Gamble the million’s ready for the go-between. You then hand me the three hundred thousand and I eventually hand you or Ione Gamble the incriminating material along with a guarantee that the blackmailer or blackmailers won’t ever bother her again.”
“What if they ask for less—say a half a million?”
“The price is still three hundred thousand. I don’t haggle.”
“What good is your guarantee?” he said. “I’m no criminal defense lawyer, but the best of them tell me blackmailers never know when to quit.”
“They do when they’re dead,” said Georgia Blue.
Twenty-seven
The two-room, $350-a-day suite Howard Mott had rented was on the fifth floor of a ten-story hotel on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. The suite’s living room, now turned into an office, afforded a view of the ocean and the long, long narrow strip of green grass lined with tall palms that was called Palisades Park.
Often encamped beneath the palms was an assortment of throwaway people, whose current euphemism was “the homeless.”
These consisted in part of the deranged, the jobless, the muddled, the addicted, the dispossessed, the senile—plus a variety of other mendicants who ranged from journeyman panhandlers to novice bums.
Santa Monica, a notoriously softhearted town, had at first pitied and tolerated its homeless, even supplying them with shelter and hot meals. But the city was wearying of its burden and now hoped, maybe even prayed, that its permanent underclass would migrate elsewhere, ideally to some spot far, far away such as Wyoming or Alaska or even Palm Springs.
As Wu and Durant turned the corner of Broadway and Ocean Avenue, heading for Mott’s hotel, they were set upon by a band of alms seekers. After he and Durant ran out of money, Wu ducked into a bank and returned with fifty dollars in one-dollar bills. He gave roughly half of them to Durant and by the time they reached Mott’s hotel six blocks later, Wu had three ones left; Durant had none.
Howard Mott guided Wu and Durant past his two secretaries, who were busy at their word processors, and into the bedroom, where Booth Stallings sat, drinking coffee, on the edge of the remaining twin bed.
“Want some?” Stallings asked, indicating his cup.
Before Wu or Durant could answer, Mott said, “I think they’d prefer a beer, right?”
Durant said, “If it’s no problem.”
“It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” Mott said. “Maybe three.” He left the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him.
“I think Howie doesn’t want to hear what maybe he shouldn’t hear,”
Stallings said.
“And what’s that, Booth?” Wu said.
“I rented you guys a new car—a black Mercedes sedan, the 560. It’s even got a telephone. I also gave Rosa Alicia Chavez a certified check for two thousand dollars along with the sympathy of the Independent Limousine Operators Association. She was most grateful and told me she’ll never forget the two guys who killed her intended. She especially won’t forget the big fat one she called ‘el chino grande.’ “
“How’d she describe me?” Durant said.
“Tall, dark and mean-looking.”
“What’d she say about the Goodisons?” Wu asked.
“All her late fiance told her was that both Goodisons are locos and that he picked them up by prearrangement at the bed-and-breakfast place in Topanga Canyon, then drove them to a motel in Oxnard. She didn’t say which one because he didn’t tell her. I found Oxnard on the map and it’s about thirty miles up the coast from Malibu. I called its Visitors’ Bureau and they told me they have a couple of dozen motels.”
“What about Otherguy?” Durant said.
“When last heard from, he was spreading the word about the booming new market for home videos of people doing awful stuff they shouldn’t. He said he’d begun at a poker parlor in Gardena and was working his way back.”
“Oxnard,” Wu said to Stallings. “Why don’t you and I run up there this afternoon and check out some
