breakfast inn devoid of guests.
Privacy guaranteed. And it offers not only a place for you to count your million but also a VCR we can use to view the tape.”
“And a real narrow twisty road perfect for a hijack,” Oil Drum said.
“You’re selling, we’re buying,” Wu said. “And our risk is considerably greater than yours.”
“That sounds a whole lot like take it or leave it.”
“A reasonable interpretation,” said Wu and finished off the last of his pizza wedge.
There was another silence until Oil Drum said, “Okay. How do I get there?”
Wu took a three-by-five card from his shirt pocket and, without sounding as if he were reading, slowly read the directions to Cousin Colleen’s Bed & Breakfast Inn. After Wu finished, Oil Drum repeated the directions without hesitancy or mistake and asked, “What time?”
“Eight o’clock?” Wu said.
“Too early.”
“Ten,” Wu said.
“I like nine better.”
“All right. Nine.”
“Who’re you sending?” Oil Drum asked.
“Why?”
“What d’you mean why? Because I wanta know, that’s why.”
“Do you want to know who—or how many?”
“How many,” Oil Drum said. “I don’t give a shit who.”
“Two,” Wu said. “One to watch the other.”
“Two, huh? Okay, then I’ll bring somebody.”
“I thought you might,” Wu said. “At nine o’clock, then?”
“Nine sharp,” Oil Drum said and broke the connection.
At 6:55 P.M. Georgia Blue rose from the refectory table and said she was going to lie down for a while. Ten minutes later, Durant got up and said he planned to do the same thing. That left Wu and Stallings seated at the table, their untasted third cups of coffee cooling in front of them.
Wu lit a cigar, blew smoke at the ceiling, then looked at Stallings. “I want you to do something that might sound a little underhanded, Booth.”
Stallings only nodded.
“I suspect Oil Drum might bring more than just one other person along.”
“Can’t blame him—especially since Georgia and Durant’ll have what’s her name, Colleen Cullen, staked out with a sawed-off.”
Wu puffed on his cigar, examined its ash and said, “Before nine tonight it’s quite possible that Oil Drum will get to Colleen Cullen with a better offer—or get rid of her altogether.”
Stallings thought about it. “Possible or probable?”
“Possible,” Wu said. “You have plans for this evening?”
“Not until later.”
“Are you making any . . . progress?”
“Maybe.”
“But nothing you’d care to talk about?”
“Not yet.”
“I need an hour of your time,” Wu said and blew a smoke ring off to the right.
“To do what?”
Artie Wu reached into his right rear pants pocket and brought out a small semiautomatic. It was a German- made Sauer, the one that held nine 7.65mm rounds, had an overall length of six and a half inches and weighed a little more than twenty-two ounces loaded. Wu slid the pistol over to Stallings, who picked it up, examined it carefully, tucked it away in his own hip pocket and asked, “Who d’you want me to shoot?”
“I want you to get it to Otherguy.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“What else?”
“Tell Otherguy to go to the Cullen inn as soon as possible.”
“Before Durant and Georgia get there?”
