do it by then or not at all.”
“Call me back at five,” Wu said.
“Same number?”
“Same number.”
“Okay,” Oil Drum said. “But at five it’s go or no-go. I don’t want any maybes.”
“No maybes,” Wu promised just before Oil Drum broke the connection. Wu hung up his telephone, pushed it away, rested his elbows on the table and looked at Overby.
“That was Oil Drum, Otherguy,” Wu said. “Ione Gamble has until this evening to raise one million dollars.”
Overby’s mouth curled down at its ends in grudging respect. “So he’s going for it all?”
“Apparently.”
“What happened to him and the sleazoids?”
“They’re his fallback and threat.”
Overby nodded his professional approval and said, “Makes sense.”
Wu turned to Georgia Blue. “You’ll be our go-between, Georgia.
Quincy will be your backup. I’ll call Howard Mott and tell him we’ve heard from the blackmailer, who’s demanding one million for the tapes.”
“That means we go through Jack Broach,” said Georgia Blue.
“Yes,” Wu said.
“Who can raise maybe three hundred thousand tops, if that.”
“So you’ve told us,” Wu said.
“He’ll hand it to me with a wink and a nod—the three hundred thousand.”
“Precisely.”
“And I’ll hand it to Oil Drum, who’ll want to count it.”
“I don’t believe you and Quincy will let it get quite that far,” Wu said.
There was a short silence before Durant said, “Then I’ll need a piece.”
“Here,” Overby said. He reached into his hip pocket, produced the .
38-caliber revolver he had bought from Colleen Cullen, and slid it across the table. Durant picked it up, examined it, slipped it into the right pocket of his jacket and said, “What about Georgia?”
“She’s already got one,” Overby said.
Before Durant could comment, Blue said, “All you have to do is watch my back, Quincy.”
“And my own,” he said.
Artie Wu cut off further bickering with an announcement. “I have some good news about money.”
Everyone looked at him except Durant, who continued to study Georgia Blue.
“Last night,” Wu continued, “Enno Glimm made us a rather interesting proposal. If we can quietly resolve this entire matter and keep him and his companies out of it—which, of course, means absolving Ione Gamble of Rice’s murder—Glimm will pay us an additional five hundred thousand. If we succeed, Quincy and I feel that this fresh money should be divided into equal shares—one hundred thousand each. You might think of it as an incentive bonus.”
“Or a don’t-stray bonus,” Durant said, still studying Georgia Blue.
This time it was Overby who blocked any retort from Blue with a question: “Didn’t Glimm agree to indemnify Ione Gamble for any and all losses the Goodisons caused her?”
“Right,” Wu said.
“Then what Glimm’s really doing is spending half a million on us to keep from coming up with the million Oil Drum’s asking. Or am I wrong?”
Wu smiled. “Some such thought may indeed have crossed his mind.”
“So even if we clear Gamble of Rice’s death, she can still sue Glimm for a bundle.”
“On what grounds?” Durant said.
“How the hell should I know?” Overby said. “That’d be up to Howie Mott. Loss of income. Mental suffering. That’s what you hire lawyers to do.”
“What an interesting notion, Otherguy,” Wu said. “You can try it on Ms. Gamble herself later this morning.”
Instantly wary, Overby asked, “What d’you mean?”
“I mean you’re going to be her personal security.”
“Not me.”
“Why not?”
