“Security.”
Cullen turned to Georgia Blue. “What the fuck’s he talking about now?”
“If things fall apart,” Georgia Blue said slowly, “he wants you to put them back together again.”
Colleen Cullen turned, put the shotgun down on the big round table, pulled out a chair and sat down in front of her drink. She picked it up, had another swallow, then gestured for Durant and Blue to join her.
They did—Georgia Blue on her right; Durant on her left.
“This ain’t no drug buy, is it?” Colleen Cullen asked.
Georgia Blue shook her head.
“Blackmail payoff?”
Blue nodded.
“Something to do with those Goodison creepies?”
“A little,” Blue said.
Cullen nodded slowly, then turned to look at Durant. “And you want me for backup.”
“That’s right.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“Suppose they kill you two, grab the money and run. What d’you expect me to do?”
“Kill them,” Blue said.
“And the money?”
“Keep it,” Durant said.
“All of it?” she asked.
“All of it,” he said.
Thirty-nine
Booth Stallings came out of Johnnie’s New York Pizza on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu carrying two 16- inch cheese and sausage pizzas, three quarts of mixed green salad and a six-pack of Mexican beer. After loading it all on the right-hand seat of the newly rented black Mercedes 500SL roadster, he went around the car’s rear, got behind the wheel, started the engine and carefully nosed out into the highway traffic. A few blocks later, Stallings made a U-turn, parked the Mercedes at the curb and, now bearing early dinner for four, walked back a block and a half to the Rice house. He arrived at 4:52
P.M., eight minutes before Oil Drum, the blackmailer, was due to call.
By 4:59 P.M. Stallings had seen to the plates, silverware, napkins and glasses; Georgia Blue had served the pizza and salad, and Durant had opened four bottles of beer. Artie Wu sat at the head of the old refectory table, a telephone at his elbow. At 5:01 P.M. Wu took a large bite of pizza. Seconds later, his mouth still full, the phone rang. Wu continued to chew calmly as Georgia Blue rose and hurried to the phone in the living room. At the end of the fifth ring, she and Wu—his mouth still half-full—simultaneously picked up their telephones.
“Yes?” Wu said.
“It’s me,” said the reverberating voice of Oil Drum.
“So it is.”
“What about my money?”
“It’s handy.”
“So where d’you want to do it?”
“I’m open to suggestion,” Wu said and had another large bite of pizza.
“There’s a place out in the Valley—”
“The San Fernando Valley, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Close to the Ventura Freeway?”
“Not far.”
“Sorry,” Wu said, paused to drink some beer, then continued:
“Anywhere we meet will have to be at least ten minutes from any freeway. Otherwise, the temptation to smash, grab and tear off down the 101 or the 405 might be, well, irresistible.”
“Who the fuck you think you’re dealing with?” Oil Drum said.
“A blackmailer,” said Wu. “But when you reconsider, you’ll realize that the smash, grab and run temptation might be equally irresistible to us.”
There was a pause before Oil Drum said, “Okay. Then you come up with a place.”
“Topanga Canyon,” Wu said. “About halfway between the Ventura Freeway and the PCH. It’s a bed-and-
