Out on the Rim by Ross Thomas

relieved Overby said, “Now what?”
    â€œNow? Well, now we’ll go inside and talk about Wu and Durant.”

CHAPTER 7
    Booth Stallings sat at the large round table in Billy Diron’s elaborate kitchen and watched Overby make two canned corned beef sandwiches. He made them with the quick economical moves usually learned in either a delicatessen or an institutional kitchen. Since he suspected Overby would starve before working in a delicatessen, Stallings decided not to ask for the name of the institution in which he had trained.
    Overby served the sandwiches on two plates, each containing exactly seven potato chips and three slices of dill pickle. Stallings had watched him count out both the potato chips and the pickles. To drink were two more bottles of San Miguel beer.
    After Overby sat down, Stallings took a bite of the sandwich. Between the slices of dark rye he found not only corned beef, but also several leaves of Boston lettuce, a thick slab of Bermuda onion, and a dressing of mayonnaise and two kinds of mustard that Overby had carefully measured out and blended together.
    After Stallings swallowed his first bite of sandwich, he said, “Tell me.”
    â€œWhat?” Overby said.
    â€œHow old are they?”
    Overby tried to recall. “Well, Artie must be—”

    â€œThat’s Wu, right?”
    Overby nodded. “Arthur Case Wu. He must be around forty-four now, but it’s kind of hard to tell about Durant on account of there was never any birth certificate. But Durant thinks he’s about the same as Artie. Forty-four. Around in there.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œWell, they were both raised in this San Francisco Methodist orphanage, ran away when they were fourteen, wound up at Princeton for a while, and they’ve been partners ever since.”
    â€œThey went to Princeton—to college?”
    â€œI never got that quite straight. Artie went on a scholarship and Quincy sort of went as Artie’s bodyguard.”
    â€œDear God,” Stallings said. “Their specialty is what exactly?”
    â€œThis and that. But most of the time they probably do pretty close to what you’d want ’em to do.”
    â€œI haven’t said.”
    â€œMaybe you should.”
    â€œI’ll get to it,” Stallings said and ate some more of his sandwich, washing it down with the Filipino beer. “They married?” he asked.
    Overby produced one of his sly grins that displayed no teeth. “To each other, you mean?”
    â€œTo anybody.”
    â€œDurant’s not married and fools around. But Wu’s married to this lady from Scotland, and by lady I mean she’s got some sort of thoroughbred bloodlines—eighteenth cousin to the Queen twice removed or something—which suits Artie just fine on account of he’s still pretender to the Emperor’s throne.”
    â€œEmperor?” Stallings said. “What emperor?”
    â€œThe Emperor of China, who else?”
    â€œSweet Jesus.”
    â€œHe’s even got genealogical charts and everything. He also figures if there were about two revolutions, three wars and maybe ten thousand
deaths of just the right people, his oldest twin boy could be both King of Scotland and Emperor of China.”
    â€œHe has twin sons?”
    â€œTwin sons and twin daughters. Cute kids—or were the last time I saw ’em. The girls are younger than the boys.”
    Stallings slowly poured more beer into his glass and tasted it. “He’s not … obsessed with this emperor thing, is he?”
    Again, Overby smiled slyly. “Artie figures he’s the last of the Manchus.”
    â€œHow about a straight answer?”
    Overby’s frown managed to make him look both grave and highly proper. Stallings thought it must be one of his most useful expressions. “Artie knows exactly who he is,” Overby said. “More’n anybody I ever met.”
    â€œAnd