Out on the Rim Read Free Page B

with Joanna at the Mayflower and you looked right through me.”
    Crites touched his finger to his right eye. “That was before I found the miracle cure for vanity. Contacts. Now if you’re through fucking me over, let’s eat.”
    â€œYour friend going to join us?”
    Crites glanced over his shoulder in the direction the tall woman had gone and then looked at Stallings with a faint smile “She’s not exactly a friend.”
    â€œThen let’s eat,” Booth Stallings said.
    They gave Harry Crites the choice northeast corner banquette in
the almost empty Montpelier Room. He and Stallings had a drink first, Perrier and bitters for Crites, vodka on ice for Stallings. They both ordered a salad and the veal and a double portion of the first-of-the-season green beans, which the waiter swore had been picked only that morning in Loudoun County, Virginia, although Stallings suspected it was the day before near Oxnard, California. After that, Harry Crites ordered the wine, which required a grave five-minute conference with the sommelier.
    Once the wine was ordered, Harry Crites leaned back, sipped his drink, and examined Stallings as if he were still something that would be a wonderful buy despite a doubtful provenance.
    Stallings returned the stare, mildly disappointed to find Crites had aged so well. There was just a bit of fat around the middle, although the well-tailored vest helped conceal it nicely. The round face had yet to grow another chin. The color was also good, the broken veins few, and the controlled expression still ranged from glad to gladdest.
    There were a few new lines, of course, but apparently none from worry. The hair had stayed light brown, a shade or two off true blond, and what was left was just enough. Only youth was missing. It had fled—along with its twin pals, spontaneity and carelessness. What remained was a careful, if not quite cautious middle-aged man, obviously prosperous, who still planned on getting rich.
    â€œSo they bounced you,” Harry Crites said, not making it a question.
    â€œDid they?”
    Crites shrugged. “This is Washington, Booth. Where do you think you’ll light?”
    â€œNo idea.”
    â€œInterested in a one-shot?”
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œYou’re sole source.”
    â€œThat means I can charge a lot.”

    â€œA hell of a lot.”
    â€œAll right,” Stallings said. “First I eat; then I listen.”
    Following the veal, which turned out to be particularly good, Stallings and Crites ordered a large pot of coffee, passed up dessert, and vetoed a cognac recommended by the waiter. After two sips of coffee, Booth Stallings put his cup down and smiled at Crites. “Isn’t it curious though?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat I got fired at three and by eight-fifteen I’m sitting in the Madison, eating twenty-six-dollar veal and listening to you offer me a sole-source one-shot. Who put the fix in, Harry? At the foundation?”
    Crites went on lighting his after-dinner cigar, taking his time, obviously enjoying the ritual. After several puffs he contemplated the cigar fondly. When he spoke, it was more to the cigar than to Stallings. “If I said me, you’d think I was bragging. If I said not me, you’d think I was lying. So I’m going to let you think whatever you like.”
    â€œLet’s have it then,” Stallings said. “The proposition.”
    â€œThe Philippines.”
    â€œWell now.”
    â€œYou’ve been there.”
    â€œNot recently.”
    â€œA long time ago,” Crites said. “During the war.”
    â€œRight. A long time ago.”
    â€œWe—and we means some people I’m associated with—”
    Stallings interrupted. “What people?”
    â€œJust let me tell it, Booth, will you? When I’m selling I like to maintain the flow.”
    Stallings shrugged.
    â€œWell, these people would like you to go