Chinaman’s Chance

The Sandpiper Apartments looked like quiet, solid money — the kind that comes from Triple A municipal bonds and ironclad trust funds. Careful money. Old money. Money that could afford the upkeep on the twenty-seven-year-old right-hand-drive tan Bentley that was now parked beneath the striped canopy that sheltered the building’s arched entrance.

There seemed to be something vaguely Moorish about the Sandpiper Apartments. It might have been the pale yellow stone from which it was built, stone that looked as if it had been hacked out of the desert and then dragged to the edge of the ocean. The building rose seventeen stories above Seashore Drive and was topped off by four round, somewhat exotic towers that might have passed for minarets. The towers provided a touch of the South Mediterranean, a sly hint of Africa, but it was the only hint, because the rest of the building was as exotic as the gasworks.

After parking the Chrysler in a lot, Wu and Durant crossed the street. They watched an elderly uniformed chauffeur help an even older woman inch her way from the apartment’s entrance to the Bentley. The old woman, wearing a dark dress, a hat, white gloves, and a determined expression, was only halfway to the car by the time Wu and Durant had crossed the street and were entering the hotel. The old woman looked up from her shuffling feet as Wu and Durant went past.

“Hell of a thing,” she said with a grin. “Being old.”

Durant grinned back. “Hell of a thing.”

The Sandpiper’s lobby was a dimly lit place with stuccoed walls and high vaulted ceilings and lamps in the form of fake torches that leaned out from the walls. There were some rugs on the floor, which was made out of big square polished red tiles. The two men’s leather heels clacked on the tiles as they moved over to the reception counter, where a middle-aged woman with blue hair presided.

“Mr. Maurice Overby, please,” Durant said.

“You’d like to see him?”

“That’s right.”

“Your names?”

“Mr. Wu and Mr. Durant.”

The woman inspected Wu and Durant for a moment, then turned to an old-fashioned switchboard, plugged in, and worked a switch a time or two. When she received a reply, she turned her back on the two men and talked in a low voice into the phone.

“The poor man left word that they didn’t want to be disturbed,” she said as she turned back. “He’s just in from Singapore, you know.”

“Yes,” Durant said, “we know.”

“His jet lag must be something terrible.”

“Probably.”

“We usually don’t rent our furnished places to people who just walk in off the street, but Mr. Overby has such excellent references from the Governor.”

Durant nodded. “They’re old friends.”

“That’s what Mr. Overby said. Well, he’s in 1229.”

“Thank you,” Durant said.

The elevator was almost new and very fast, and it seemed almost to leap up to the twelfth floor. A few moments later Otherguy Overby opened the door to Wu’s knock.

Overby stepped back and said, “It’s about time.”

Wu and Durant entered the room, stopped, and looked around.

“We had a little trouble getting your new address,” Wu said.

“I gave that old guy five bucks to tell you where I was.”

Wu looked at Durant, who grinned and shrugged.

“Well, how do you like it?” Overby said, gesturing at the large room.

Wu and Durant turned slowly, inspecting the room with its three arched windows that looked out over the sea, its thick carpet, high ceilings, glittering chandelier, rich draperies, and solid, well-maintained furniture that seemed to be at least thirty or perhaps even forty years old.

As they made their inspection, Eddie McBride came through a door that led down a short hall. “Whaddya say?” McBride said.

“Not much,” Durant said.

McBride held out his arms slightly and glanced down at himself “Whaddya think?”

“About what?” Wu said.

“His new clothes,” Overby said. “I don’t know just what you guys’ve got in mind, but if he’s gonna work with me, he can’t go around looking like some beach bum.” He eyed McBride’s new outfit critically and added, “A perfect thirty-nine regular.”