Overby worked it so that he would carry the $5,000 and Georgia Blue the small flat Walther semiautomatic. She wore it stuck down behind her jeans, concealed by the tails of the Hawaiian shirt Overby had found for her in one of the Manila Hotel specialty shops. The Walther was her own.
It was nearly 10 P.M. when they rode the elevator down to the hotel lobby. “We're Mr. and Mrs. Average B. Tourist,” he said. “The B is for bored and we're out for a halfway dirty night on the town.”
“Gosh, it's like a disguise, isn't it?”
Overby sighed. “If I have to carry a chunk of money around Ermita, I want to do it so nobody notices me. And when I try and beat Boy Howdy down five thousand, I want to look as hard-up as possible.” He inspected her critically. “Trouble with you is, you can't even
look
hard-up.”
“My God,” she said as the elevator door opened. “I think you just paid me a compliment.”
“Think again,” said Overby as he walked out of the elevator ahead of her.
Outside the hotel the doorman tried to sell Overby on the safety and security of a hotel limousine. When Overby refused, the doorman
shrugged, whistled up a taxi, wrote something down on a small pad, tore it off and gave it to Overby who passed it to Georgia Blue without a glance.
The slip had the name of the hotel printed at the top. Below was the cautionary statement: “Dear Guest: For your Safety and Convenience the vehicle you are now taking bears the following information.” After that the doorman had written the taxi's name and plate number.
“In case we get banged on the head and dumped in the bay, right?” Georgia Blue said.
Overby nodded as the five-year-old Toyota taxi pulled up to a stop and they climbed into its rear. When Overby said he wanted to go to Boy Howdy's in Ermita, the driver offered to take them to a much nicer place, his cousin's, where they wouldn't be cheated nearly as much. Overby had to decline the offer twice before the driver put the taxi into gear and crept down the hotel drive to Roxas Boulevard.
The trip was short in distance but long in time because of heavy traffic and the sin and sex customers who jammed the short narrow one-way street in Ermita. At the street's far end was a big flashing pink neon sign that spelled out Boy Howdy's name. At least a dozen clubs lined the block and outside each of them was a barker, hawking the delights that lay within. About half of the barkers were Australians in their forties and fifties with mean mouths and disappointed eyes.
Prospective customers included Japanese businessmen, wearing stylish sports clothes and foolish grins; American servicemen, all of them young and many of them drunk, and a scattering of European males who seemed torn between apprehension and desire. The rest of the crowd was made up of adult and child prostitutes of both sexes plus a variety of pimps, beggar kids, transvestites, pickpockets, all-purpose grifters and a sprinkling of middle-aged American tourists who looked as if they had bought the wrong guidebook.
When the taxi was fifty yards from Boy Howdy's, it became stuck in a traffic jam. Overby paid off the driver. Once his passengers were
out of the taxi, the driver switched off his engine, rolled up the windows, locked the doors and resigned himself to a steam bath of indefinite duration.
Overby led the way with Georgia Blue slightly behind him and to his left at curbside where the trouble, if any, would come from. Overby ambled along, sticking to his tourist role, his eyes wide and a know-it-all grin plastered across his face.
The trouble came from a big drunken American sailor who wore a T-shirt that read, “All-American Fuckup.” He grabbed Georgia Blue by her right wrist, proclaiming: “Just can't help itâI'm in love!”
Overby turned to watch impassively as Georgia Blue allowed herself to be spun around. She almost laughed when the sailor told her that tall women turned him on. But then her left hand darted to the big right hand that still clutched her wrist. Her fingers sought and found the nerve that lay just below the pad of his thumb. She clamped down on it. The sailor yelled. He kept on yelling as she forced him to his knees, released him and walked away. A small crowd quickly gathered to discuss whether the kneeling man was damaged enough to roll.
“Durant taught you that, didn't he?” Overby said as Georgia Blue rejoined him.
“Did he?”
“I saw him do it in Bangkok once to some big special forces ape.”
“I'm just fine, Otherguy, but it was sweet of you to ask.”
Overby gave her a quick puzzled glance. “I wasn't worried, if that's what you mean. It's what you fucking well do.”
She nodded slightly, looking away, and said, “You're right. It's what I fucking well do.”
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The barker outside Boy Howdy's was a jockey-size Australian with too few teeth and a loud-hailer voice. He had one good eye and one milky one. He turned the good eye on Overby.
“Been a while, mate,” the barker said.
“Tell him I'm here.”
“Tell him yourself.”
It wasn't quite tar black inside Boy Howdy's because of the pink light that came from a small stage where three nude womenâtwo Filipinas and one Chineseâwere engaged in a listless, vaguely aerobic orgy. Below the stage a three-piece band, consisting of piano, drums and saxophone, played “Moon River.”
There were two walls of booths, a long packed bar and two dozen very small tables where restless bar girls prowled in search of prey. The place was a little more than half full and most of the customers were Japanese men who watched the show and giggled into their Coca-Colas and Scotch.
A Filipino with an acromegalic chin and thick black hair down to his shoulders stepped up to Overby and nodded. He was a smallish giant of six-seven or eight and wore the confident air of a veteran bouncer who still delights in his trade. Three jagged scars ran down his right cheek like badges of office.
“Who's she?” the bouncer said, using his brickbat chin to indicate Georgia Blue.
“Wanda Mae,” Overby said.
The bouncer frowned. “Boy didn't say nothing about no Wanda Mae.”
“She's all night and all paid for and I don't want her to skip,” Overby explained.
That was something the bouncer could understand. He jerked his head toward the rear. “Come on.”
Overby and Georgia Blue followed him down a short hall that had two doors leading to toilets. At the end of the hall was a third door made of metal. The bouncer turned to Overby. “Raise your arms.”
Overby raised them. The bouncer started at Overby's armpits and patted his way down. When he reached the knees, Overby said, “That's far enough.”
The bouncer looked up, shook his big head, and would have kept on going if Georgia Blue hadn't stuck the Walther into his left ear. “He said that's far enough,” she told him as he slowly rose, the muzzle still partly buried in his ear.
Overby examined the bouncer. “If we go in with that thing growing out of your ear, you'll look pretty silly. So why don't you just open the door and we'll go in and you can stay out here and keep an eye on things. Okay?”
Because of the gun in his ear, the bouncer could only nod a fraction of an inch.
“What do I do,” Overby asked, “ring the bell?”
“One long; two short,” the bouncer said.
Overby pressed a black button as instructed. A moment later the unlocking buzzer sounded. Overby opened the door a crack and waited until he felt Georgia Blue's back against his. “Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” she replied, using the Walther to wave the bouncer back down the short hall.
Overby opened the metal door wide and stood there, momentarily shielding Georgia Blue. She turned quickly, facing Overby now, and stuck the Walther back beneath her Hawaiian shirt.
The room they entered was no larger than a large rug, about ten by fifteen feet. All of its furniture seemed to be made from plastic, chrome and leather. There were no windows. One wall was painted a flat black and boasted a large acrylic-on-velvet painting of an idealized tropical beach with lots of coconut palms and a fat tiger stalking an even fatter carabao.
Boy Howdy stood in front of a chrome and plastic desk, wearing a long-sleeved
barong tagalog
that revealed an old-fashioned net undervest. Red chest hair going gray poked and curled its way through the vest.
At least six-one or two, Howdy had a street brawler's thick sloping shoulders and loose-hanging arms. His face seemed to be made out
of pink knobs. One ear, his right, had had its lobe bitten off. Small blue eyes, a bit faded, burrowed back into his head beneath thick red bushy eyebrows that were also going gray. The hair on top of his head was short and wiry and seemed to have been crimped into place. It was much redder than his eyebrows and Overby guessed he was dyeing it.
“Who's she?” Boy Howdy said by way of greeting in a voice that always sounded to Overby like a wood file's first bite.
“Georgia Blue.”
Howdy grinned, revealing two gold teeth. “That anything like Sweet Georgia Brown?”
“You know, that's never come up before,” she said.
“I bet,” Howdy said and made an awkward gesture. “Well, sit downâanywhere.”
Georgia Blue chose a chrome and leather chair. Overby took a straight-backed oneâthe only one in the room. He sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor, his arms folded across his chest. He looked around and nodded at the acrylic painting. “That's new,” he said.
“Sort of says it all, don't it?” Boy Howdy said.
“Sums it up.”
“Well, what'll it be, Otherguy? A drink and some business, or some business and then a drink?”
“Business.”
Boy Howdy nodded and leaned his rear against the desk. “I don't mind telling you I went to a terrible lot of trouble and expense to locate your two mates. Terrible trouble and beaucoup expense.”
“I'd guess two phone calls and maybe fifty pesos to a bellhop.”
Howdy turned a coconspirator's smile on Georgia Blue. “Ever notice what a fast lip old Otherguy has?”
“Frequently.”
“But I did it, Otherguy. It cost me time and it cost me money but I ran âem to earth and talked to 'em both.”
“What'd Durant say? Hello and goodbye?”
“Just because Durant and I rub each other wrong don't mean we can't do a bit of business.”
“Boy,” Overby said. “Listen. Durant won't talk to you. I know it and you know it. So what did Artie say?”
Howdy forced a measure of warmth into his reply. “Old Artie. Offer me the choice of who to do business with and I say give me a Chinaman every time. They tell you something, you can stick it in the bank. So when I tell Artie about all the time and expense it cost me to find him, he says he appreciates my efforts and would fair take care of me himself personally, except he ain't got any deal with you yet, Otherguy, and he figures my share'll have to come out of your share.”
“Sounds like Artie.”
“So I says, âArtie, what d'you think I should ask old Otherguy for? Name me a fair price,' says I, âone that'll send him away humming to himself.' And Artie says he thinks a fair, rock-bottom price'd be ten thousand U.S.”
“Artie's full of shit then,” Overby said.
A melancholy look spread slowly across Howdy's knobby face. “I know you, Otherguy. Known you for years. And I know Artie and that fucking Durant. And I know they don't come cheap and neither do youâand never have done. So what you lads've got cooking is something rich and tasty and I think I oughta get my spoonful.”
Overby sighed, stared at the floor for long moments, and then looked up, his eyes brimming with honesty and pure intent.
“Boy, let's get one thing straight. I'm here to pay you some money. I called you from L.A. and asked you to find Artie and Durant. You did that and I appreciate it. But what I've got going is all on specâexcept for bare expenses. And that's all I can offer Wu and Durant: bare expenses plus a slice of some sweet by-and-by. So how many phone calls did you make? Two? Three? Okay. Let's say three. I'll pay
you one thousand U.S. per call. Three thousand dollars. Now if that's not more than fair, by God, I don't know what is.”
Howdy's face took on a look of utter dejection and wounded pride. “Otherguy, you're not paying me to pick up the blower and dial some numbers. You're paying me because I know what numbers to dial and because I run the best fucking message drop between Honolulu and Sydney. So you owe me for unique services, professionally rendered. And if that ain't worth eight thousand hard cash, I'll eat my butt.”
“For professional services, I'll tack on a thousand.”