Out on the Rim - Softcover

Thomas, Ross

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312290594 ISBN 13: 9780312290597

Verlag: Thomas Dunne Books, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

Would you be wary if someone gave you the assignment of delivering five million dollars to a Philippine terrorist―never mind from whom or why? Booth Stallings, a terrorism expert just fired from his job at a bashful organization that never admitted its mount in the Washington merry-go-round, is wary. So wary that he cuts in con man "Otherguy" Overby, who in turn involves Artie Wu, pretender to the throne of China, and his partner, Quincy Durant. Obviously, good patriots don't want to hand over all that money to bad guys. Better they keep it for themselves. Which inevitably raises the question: Who among them will end up with the money?

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ross Thomas; Introduction by Donald E. Westlake

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Out on the Rim

By Ross Thomas

Minotaur Books

Copyright © 2003 Ross Thomas
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780312290597

 

Out on the Rim

CHAPTER 1

At three in the afternoon they summoned Booth Stallings, the terrorism expert, to the library in the foundation’s seven-story building just east of Dupont Circle on Massachusetts Avenue and fired him over a glass of fairly good Spanish sherry. It was the Ides of March, which fell on a Saturday in 1986, and exactly two months after Booth Stallings’ sixtieth birthday.

The firing was done without any qualms that Stallings could detect by Douglas House, the foundation thirty-five-year-old executive director. House did it politely, of course, with no trace of acrimony, and with about the same amount of regret he might use if calling the Washington Post circulation department to put a vacation stop on his home delivery.

It was the foundation’s fifty one-year old chairman, Frank Tomguy, who administered the pro forma ego massage while wearing an apologetic, even deferential air and one of his $1,100 three-piece suits. Tomguy went on and on about severe budgetary restrictions and then turned to the quality of Booth Stallings’ work, which he swore had been brilliant. No question. Absolutely, totally brilliant.

Tomguy’s massage completed, Douglas House spoke of money. There would be three months’ severance pay in lieu of notice and the foundation would keep Stallings’ health insurance in force for six months. There was no talk of pension because the terrorism expert had been with the foundation only eighteen months, although that was three months longer than he had ever stuck with any other job.

As the dry talk continued, Stallings lost interest and let his eyes wander around the black walnut paneled library, presumably for the last time. He eventually noticed the lengthening silence. Now that they’ve canned you so nicely and apologized so handsomely, you’re expected to say something appropriate. So he said the only thing that came to mind. “I used to live here, you know.”

It wasn’t what Douglas House had expected and he shifted uneasily in his leather wingback chair, as if apprehensive that Stallings had launched into some kind of sentimental, even mawkish goodbye. But Tomguy, the chairman, seemed to know better. He smiled and asked the obvious question. “Where’s here, Booth?”

“Right here,” Stallings said with a small encompassing gesture. “Before the foundation built this place in what? seventy two?—there used to be a big old four-story red sandstone mansion that got cut up into apartments during the war.” He glanced at Douglas House. “World War II.” House nodded.

“I rented the third floor one in February of sixty-one,” Stallings, went on. “Partly because I could walk to work and partly because of the address — 1776 Massachusetts Avenue.” His lips stretched into what may or may not have been a small smile. “A patriot’s address.”

Tomguy cleared his throat. “That walk was to the White House then, wasn’t it, Booth? And you were back from Africa or some such.”

“I was just back from Stanleyville and the walk was to the old Executive Office Building, which wasn’t the White House then and still isn’t.”

“Heady times, those,” Douglas House said, apparently just to be saying something.

Stallings examined House briefly, not blaming the executive director for having been ten years old in 1961. “Ancient history,” he said and turned back to Tomguy. “What happens to my Angola survey?”

Tomguy had a square and too honest pink face and not very much gray blond hair whose sparseness he wisely made no attempt to conceal. From behind rimless bifocals, a pair of wet brown eyes, slightly popped, stared out at the world’s perfidy, as if in chronic amazement. Still, it was a face to inspire confidence, what with its stairstep chin, purselike mouth and an aggressive Roman nose that was altogether reassuring. A perfect banker’s face, Stallings thought, if only it could dissemble successfully, which it seemed incapable of doing.

The question about the Angola survey made Tomguy turn to the executive director for guidance. With a slight smile that could have meant anything, Douglas House gazed steadily at Stallings who prepared himself for the inevitable evasions.

“We ran it by some people downtown,” House said, the smile still in place, the gray eyes indifferent.

Stallings returned the smile. “Did you now? What people? The Georgetown boys? The folks in the Building? Maybe some of the Langley laddies? Did everybody love it?”

“They all thought it could use a bit of restructuring.”

“That means they don’t mind my calling Savimbi brilliant, but they’d just as soon I didn’t call him a brilliant back slid Maoist crook, which they damn well know he is.”

Tomguy, the prudent conciliator, offered soothing noises. It’s still scheduled for summer publication, Booth. Our lead item.”

“Restructured though.”

“Edited,” House said.

Stallings shrugged and rose. “Then take my name off it.” He gave the handsome library another last glance. “Thanks for the drink.”

Tomguy rose quickly, right hand outstretched. Stallings took it without hesitation. “Sorry it had to wind up like this, Booth.”

“Are you?” Stallings said. “I’m not.”

He nodded at the still seated Douglas House, turned and headed for the door, a tall lanky man who used a kind of gliding lope for a walk. He wore a thatch of short ragged gray hair that hugged his head like an old cap. Under it the world was presented with a face so seamed and weathered that many looked twice, not sure whether it was ugly or handsome and, finding it neither, settled on different.

After Booth Stallings had gone, Tomguy watched silently as House rose, went to the telephone and punched a local number from memory. It rang only once before being answered. “It’s done,” House said into the phone. “He just left.” House listened to either a question or a comment, replied, “Right,” hung up and turned to Tomguy.

“They’re all extremely grateful,” House said. “I’m quoting.”

Tomguy nodded, his expression sour. “They fucking well better be.”

 

 

Booth Stallings sat on his favorite bench at the north end of Dupont Circle, sipping from a half-pint of Smirnoff 80 proof that came disguised in the de rigueur brown paper sack. One bench over, a pretty young mother took yet another apprehensive look at him and quickly stuck her twin eighteen month-old sons back down into their elab orate top-of the line stroller where they would ride home facing each other.

Stallings tried a reassuring smile that was obviously a failure because the mother shot him another black look, gave the stroller a shove and hurried away. The forward-facing twin started to bawl. The backward-facing one burbled merrily and waved at Stallings who toasted him with the half-pint of vodka. He had another sip and tucked the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Thomas Dunne Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2003
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312290594
• ISBN 13: 9780312290597
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland