Chinaman’s Chance

Chapter 32

Otherguy Overby sat patiently in the chrome-and-leather chair and watched the man who looked like a male model count the ten thousand dollars. Every time his count reached another thousand, Chuck West would look up at Overby and smile a little helplessly, as though to say that while he knew it was all there, he still had to make sure, and he was confident that Overby would understand and bear with him.

West was counting the money on to the top of his grimly contemporary desk in the sizable office that he held down for Reginald Simms, Inc., Consultants, on the fifteenth floor of the Ransom Tower. Overby thought that West was as grimly contemporary as his office, and he had already dismissed both as being second-rate Sunset Boulevard.

When he finished counting, West looked up at Overby and gave him his beautiful-person smile. “Right on the nose, Maurice.”

“Maurice?” Overby said with a puzzled smile, “Did you call me Maurice? Not many people call me Maurice anymore.”

“What do they call you, Maury?”

“They call me Mr. Overby,” he said in a flat tone. “Sometimes for years.”

Chuck West stared at Overby for a moment, and behind the beautiful hair and the beautiful tan and the beautiful teeth Overby caught a glimpse of something else that was not so beautiful, but instead quite ugly and just a little sinister.

“I’ll call you anything you like, mister,” West said. He picked up his phone and dialed two numbers. When the phone was answered he said, “Mr. Overby is here and we’ve just finalized his consultation fee.” There was a pause and then West, “No... cash.” After another pause, West said, “Yes, how very true.”

After he hung up the phone, West didn’t tell Overby what was very true. Instead, he rose and said, “I’ll take you in to Mr. Simms now.”

Overby liked the view that Reginald Simms had of the ocean, but that was about all he liked. He immediately marked Simms down as a smooth, smart bad-hat, which didn’t bother him at all because Overby found smooth, smart bad-hats an interesting challenge. But anyone who would have a fire in his office in June must have a few soft spots that Overby decided might well be worth probing. Overby thought the fire a silly affectation.

After Chuck West made the introductions and left, Simms gestured Overby toward one of the high-backed leather chairs that flanked the fireplace.

“Do you like a fire even in June, Mr. Overby?” Simms said after waiting for Overby to sit down.

“They’re comforting anytime,” Overby lied, choosing his words carefully.

“You approached us first — let’s see, when was it — two months ago?” Simms said, pouring coffee into two bone-china cups from a silver pot that rested on a table near his chair.

“About then,” Overby said, accepting a cup.

“And you represent a small syndicate of investors?”

“It’s not so small.”

“I mean the number of investors, of course, not the amount of their proposed investment. A million dollars is still a very respectable sum.”

“You’re not exactly dragging your investors in off the street by the arm,” Overby said. “Not if you charge ten thousand dollars just to talk.”

“Try to think of it as earnest money,” Simms said. “It separates the idly curious from the totally serious. You are totally serious, aren’t you, Mr. Overby?”

“I’ll let the ten thousand dollars speak for itself. I didn’t drop by just for the small talk.”

Simms drank some of his coffee, produced his cigarette case, offered Overby one, and when Overby accepted it, lit it for him. After he had lit his own, Simms blew the smoke out, fanned it away before the air conditioning had a chance to get at it, and said, “You’ve been looking around our little town these last two months, I understand.”

“That’s right.”

“And what have you discovered that’s interesting?”

Overby decided to see how Simms would handle a hard, fast one, low and inside. “What I’ve discovered that’s kind of interesting is that Vince Imperlino has a lock on this town and you’ve got the key to the lock.”

Simms put his oval cigarette out carefully after having smoked no more than a quarter of an inch of it. He leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers and gazed thoughtfully over them at Overby. A small, nearly whimsical smile came and went from his almost chiseled lips.

“Otherguy Overby,” Simms said, and shook his head in a small gesture of appreciation that was almost mocking, but not quite. “To use a phrase that I intensely dislike, almost a legend in your own time — at least” — and Simms gave his head a small nod toward the window — “ ‘out there.’ ” From the tone, Overby realized that Simms was quoting him, even mocking him a little now. Overby smiled, but said nothing. It was getting interesting.

“We did some checking on you, of course,” Simms said, examining the steeple that his fingers still formed.

Overby produced another small smile, but again said nothing. He too had long ago learned the many uses of silence.

“And your syndicate of ‘investors,’ ” Simms went on with another small shake of the head. “Run Run Keng, Jane Arden, Pancho Clarke, Gyp Lucas, et al.” Simms sighed happily. “As merry a band of freebooters as one could hope to find anywhere.” He paused and smiled again. “And, I should add, our kind of people.”