Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One

by H. L. Valdez

"We don't care who wins," he said, smiling, exposing the gap of a missing tooth and uneven teeth. “We still make money."

  A sexual and promiscuous comradeship existed as energetic young Sailors and Marines avoided the grim realities of the emerging Vietnam War by shouting vulgarities amongst themselves, walking bar-to-bar consuming Red Horse and San Miguel beer. From outdoor grills surging with smoke, young men nourished themselves eating chicken and monkey meat. Dawn-to-dawn bar hours, two-for-the-price-of-one Happy Hour drinks and exotic go-go dancers created an intriguing carnival-like atmosphere. Gina was watching a Sailor hook-a-deal with one of the women shouting, "Three Hole Screw" when, without warning, the Jeepney screeched to a skidding halt at an intersection filled with Pedi cabs that had stopped to cheer Marines who were fighting Sailors from the Carrier Group. Quickly jumping out, the driver hopped on the hood of the Jeepney and began cheering.

  “These fights are great! Lots of blood!” he grinned, popping open his Zippo lighter between his index finger and thumb, then lit a Winston cigarette.

  "This is where I skip off," Gina shouted, grabbing her duffle bag and back pack as a Sailor jumped in holding hands with the prostitute who was shouting “Three Hole Screw.”

  "Three pesos beautiful lady," the cabbie smiled, his arm outstretched.

  "Here's fifteen, get that tooth fixed," she suggested, handing him the pesos, staring at the gap of a missing front tooth.

  U.S. Marines were on high alert in nearby Sangley Point, guarding an important American defense installation in Luzon from leftist insurgences and armed rebels from radical Muslim terrorists in the south. Shortly, Gina would be meeting Colonel Rico DeLaGarza, Deputy Chief of the 5,000-strong northern Luzon command of the Philippine armed forces. It was from this group of hoodlum killers that Gina had to organize a team of triggermen who routinely carried out holdups and murders. Walking the remaining distance to the Beachcomber Bar, she thought that the deal with DeLaGarza had to be her way or no way. She was prepared to kill him if there was trouble; she was also prepared to die. Inside of her loose fitting pants pocket, she clutched a .45-caliber pistol with pearl grips. Walking guardedly on the busy street, she looked into the eyes of oncoming strangers, attentive to any unforeseen danger. Cautiously passing the "Pussy Galore" nightclub, the "Asian Body Shop" bar, all night massage parlors, hourly hotels, liquor stores, and restaurants, a hundred eyes seduced her, tempting her with forbidden passion.

  "Quick screw OK!" dark haired prostitutes yelled, dressed in tapered tight yellow capris seemingly painted to their bodies.

  "Sample blow job OK!" competing prostitutes shouted clapping their hands.

  "Three holes OK!" a scantily dressed enthusiastic prostitute promised hoping to fulfill a Sailor or Marine’s wildest erotic dreams. Visually excited, Gina's basic sexual drives pulsed. Sexually aroused, she lightly touched her breast, stimulating her nipple as she walked. The atmosphere, the people, the country western music, the rock n’ roll, the glare of flashing neon lights generated a fun city atmosphere devoted exclusively to hedonism.

  Searching for the Beachcomber Bar, Gina reached a one-block construction site where buildings were being torn down. Walking around a large wooden “Keep Out” barrier of the dark closed-off section of the street, she passed large industrial garbage bins, portable toilets, scattered boards, concrete rubble, discarded scrap, aggregate materials and construction equipment. Watching a huge rat run in front of her, she spotted the bar across the street and ducked into the shadowy obscure entrance of a dilapidated pawnshop being demolished for a new club. Standing in the unlit out-of-the-way doorway, she set her heavy and cumbersome bag on the ground. After a few moments, she squatted on a pile of rocks, pulling a 250-milligram vial of liquid methamphetamines from her bag, swallowing 100 milligrams. Resting for a moment gathering her thoughts, she scattered the remaining drug over broken up bricks and rocks. The neurological rush would be quick; her acuity waited in anticipation. Standing, she spotted three men approaching. Unable to run or hide, she held her position until she came into their field of vision.

  “Well, look who’s here --- a little brown sex machine,” the first sailor yelled, swaggering, his face bleeding from the street fight with the Marines.

  “Wow, you’re a beautiful little thing. Are you hiding back here?” the second sailor questioned jokingly, holding a bloodstained handkerchief to his broken nose, exposing his brass knuckles.

  “How many pesos for the three of us?” the third sailor asked, rocking back and forth nursing a bloused lip, and bleeding from a cut above his eye.

  “Don’t make it too high, cause tonight you’re gonna be assaulted with friendly weapons,” the second sailor said, as they laughed.

  “Screw now -- pay later. That’s our motto,” the first sailor laughed, feasting his eyes upon her, and slowly withdrawing a .38 snub nose from his pocket. Remaining silent, Gina stood composed, watching the men edge forward, rocking back-and-forth in some primitive stalking strategy. They had lost the fight with Marines, now they had to sexually act out their aggressions.

  “We know how you whores work. So, where’s your hotel?” the third sailor questioned, looking around, picking up a concrete rock. “We just want to let off a little steam. So, what’s your price?”

  “Listen, we’re trying to be fair. And we’re not real happy right now. So what’s your price?” the second sailor yelled.

  “The price is going to be your ass if you don’t back off.”

  “Who, in the hell, do you think, you’re talking to?” the third sailor shouted, drawing a .25-caliber pistol from his pocket, and shooting in her direction, barely missing her as he weaved back and forth.

  “Hey cutie, we’re ready to drop our load, and you’re the lucky whore to get screwed! Now, get your clothes off!” The second sailor screamed, pulling a stiletto knife from his pocket. “I’m gonna do you good.”

  “It’s time,” she mumbled, watching the first sailor approach, slipping on the debris as he walked.

  “Hey! Hold up!” the first sailor shouted, raising his hand, watching Gina draw and aim her pistol. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m shooting your dumb ass!” she replied, shooting the first sailor in the head, knocking him backward into a pile of concrete rubble. Terrified, both men watched their friend fall dead, the pistol still in his hand.

  “Wait!” the third sailor shouted, dropping his weapon and raising his trembling hands.

  “Don’t move! Don’t move!” she warned, pointing the pistol at them. “Boys, I pick and choose who I screw,” she told them, staring into their terrified eyes.

  “Yeah, sure!” the second sailor quivered, dropping his knife, shaking with fear, watching his friend slowly bleed to death.

  “I agree. I agree,” the third sailor shouted, moving backward. “We’re leaving.”

  “You boys have been naughty,” she said, waving her pistol as the methamphetamines surged through her veins, dilating her pupils, while every neuron in her brain burst with supercharged electrical activity while billions of synapses were firing at the speed of light.

  “Don’t overreact here!” the second sailor begged, holding up his hands.

  “Put your hands down!” she ordered. “If you need grudge sex, and if I need a charity screw, it’s still my decision.”

  “You’re right. You’re right,” the second sailor responded.

  “I believe that. I respect that,” the third sailor replied, holding up his hands.

  “I told you to put your hands down,” she shouted, shooting him in the chest.

  “Oh my God,” the wounded sailor gurgled, looking down at his bleeding chest, falling to his knees.

  “Naughty boys get shot.”

  “Don’t shoot,” the second sailor cried, no longer filled with false bravado, falling to his knees, begging for mercy.

  “We all make mistakes in life,” she replied stoically, as her eyes dilated while the methamphetamines pushed her into a higher physiological hyper s
tate.

  “Oh please!” He sobbed, petrified, watching his friend lying on the ground, gasping for air. “Let me return to my ship. I’m only nineteen. Please.”

  “Think you’ll make it to twenty?”

  “I hope so ma’am. I’m changing my ways,” he wept. “This is all a mistake.”

  “Stop crying and look at me,” she directed. “Luck is not with you today son,” she said, as the sailor quickly reached for a hidden weapon.

  “No you don’t,” she said shooting him in the heart. “You died for nothing,” she told him, as he wheezed for air, wiggling on the ground. Self-possessed, Gina stood staring at the men, contemplating her conduct, watching chubby rats sniffing and scurrying over their bleeding bodies. Reloading her weapon and readjusting her attitude, she picked up her backpack, and balanced the weight on her back while tightening the shoulder straps, then picked up the duffle bag; nonchalantly walking away, stepping over an obstacle course of debris, she emerged from the darkness.

  "Easy does it," she mumbled, sliding her .45 automatic into her pocket. “Do I need this?" She asked. "Yes I do," she replied, staring at the dark buildings, looking for the elusive otherness to reveal its shadow from the darkness.

  "Time to meet the crazy man. Round two," she muttered, walking toward the busy street filled with cars, motor scooters, busses, trucks, bicycles, and Jeepneys, all honking their air horns. Taking a deep breath, she glanced over her shoulder thinking no one had seemed to witness the event.

  "Time to do the deal," she garbled, standing in front of the Beachcomber Bar as the meth was boosting her confidence and alertness–releasing another side of her anti-social and sociopathic nature. Hyper-vigilant, energized, and paranoid, she entered the huge, noisy, crowded, smoke-filled bar. The band was on a break as the jukebox was playing, Baby I Need Your Loving, by the Four Tops, while scantily dressed waitresses carried mixed drinks to men who were stacking empty beer bottles, beer cans, and shot glasses on their tables as a monument to their alcoholic tolerance. In the dimly lit, far corner of the bar, Gina spotted DeLaGarza sitting alone in a booth decorated in red imitation-leather seats, smoking a cigarette. She knew he wasn't alone; he was never alone. As she sauntered forward, his Goons came into full view and created a wall of protection for the Colonel.

  "It’s okay. It's all right. I'm here," she sang in a melodious response, with one hand raised in the air.

  “Stop right there. What’s in the back pack?” a large bodyguard questioned her.

  “She’s okay,” Colonel DeLaGarza shouted from his table.

  "So, how are your bags hanging today, big guy?" She asked, looking up into his dark eyes. The Goon stood speechless, scrutinizing her.

  "What?" He asked, looking down at her, feeling apprehensive and puzzled by her demeanor.

  "Hey, it's cool, let your bags hang," she answered moving away from him, scrutinizing the Goons and their Goon Girls, ambling toward the Colonel until their eyes met in an existential stare as their mutual levels of paranoia soared. From under his table, DeLaGarza cocked his pistol.

  "I heard that," Gina snapped, freezing in her tracks. "Are guns necessary?" She asked, staring intensely at him, as the Goons tensed up, gripping their weapons.

  “You never know about Triad members, male or female,” he answered with a vacant stare as Gina slipped her hand into her pocket, gripping her pistol.

  "I came to talk, not fight."

  "You couldn't kill me if you wanted to."

  "Only time brings us into all situations."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Hey! I didn't come here to play mind games. I came for help!" She hollered, assessing the Colonel’s disposition.

  "Don't try and out-manipulate me," he countered with a pessimistic attitude and sarcastic look reflecting his negative inquiry toward life.

  "Do you want to earn money?" she questioned, tilting her head at DeLaGarza as he snuffed out his Benson and Hedges cigarette in the aluminum ashtray. Gina, a disciplined tactician, was accustomed to unresponsive leaders who made difficult and unreliable allies.

  "Are we competing?" He asked, finishing the last of his adobo, a dark, saucy stew of chicken and pork, flavored with vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, and liver bits.

  "Judge the risk and take the opportunity. All choices have negative consequences," she answered, leaning toward him. Uncocking his pistol, he nodded his men to move closer.

  "Is it safe to sit down?" She asked, standing at the table’s edge, looking at his long black hair, greased back with Royal Crown pomade.

  "Judge the risk and take the opportunity,” he said in a high voice, mimicking her with a sly grin, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth while licking his fingers. Gina looked at the Colonel, trying to key into his feelings. She understood the paradoxes of conflict, and that a man's attitude and position were related to his emotional state. Wiggling out of her backpack, she eased herself into the booth, and then rested her left hand on the table.

  "Rico, Rico, we’re not putting each other down," she said, relaxing her grip on her powerful weapon. "We’re pulling each other up,” she suggested, baiting him into her psychological framework. Rico stared into her eyes with macho radicalism, expanding his chest as she sat across from him returning his stare. Scratching his nose with his grimy fingers, he struggled with his sense of suspicion toward Gina. Feeling ill at ease, Rico adjusted himself in the seat, turning slightly away from her. Gina knew Rico suffered from a defiant mentality, and negotiating his values and beliefs put a strain on her common sense. Rico remained silent, wiping his greasy hands on his jungle fatigues, then reached for a cigarette from the gold cigarette pack with a Royal Warrant logo while dabbing the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  "Whisky!" Gina shouted, pounding the table with her fist, sensing that an interaction strain was developing. The startled Goons stepped back in riveted surprise, clasping their weapons, transfixed on the two crime leaders.

  "Whisky! Right here!" She shouted, pointing to the table. DeLaGarza, startled by her action, nodded annoyingly at the Goons to get whisky, then stared at Gina curiously.

  "Whisky is a good start," DeLaGarza said, lighting his filtered cigarette and feeling more relaxed and at ease. Goons quickly brought two shot glasses and two bottles of bourbon, then poured Gina and the Colonel straight shots of whisky.

  "To you and your men," Gina said, holding up her glass.

  "And to you, Lady Leung," he said, holding up the glass with his dirty fingers, then both swallowed the bourbon in one gulp.

  "Ahhh," he said confidently, banging the empty shot glass on the table. "Now listen, people don't come to Olongapo for a honeymoon. So, what is it?" he asked, looking at her smugly, refilling her glass.

  "Colonel, there’s a disciplined power struggle going on in the heroin community," she informed him, refilling his shot glass. "And, I need some good reliable men to help eliminate a government crisis response team," she said, watching him grab a bottle of Red Horse, then gulp the strong Philippine beer.

  "Why should I help you?" He asked, wiping his mouth on his soiled shirtsleeve, and then took a drag from his filtered cigarette.

  "Because eventually this team will come after you, and destroy your power base," she answered emphatically, raising her shot glass while he took another drag from his cigarette.

  "I don't feel threatened," he said, exhaling the dense smoke while squeezing his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

  "Salud!" she shouted aggressively, suddenly standing up on the seat. “To our success!” She yelled, toasting the men, as they hesitantly were holding up their drinks.

  “Salud,” the Colonel responded, confused, quickly grasping his shot glass, suspiciously staring at her.

  “Salud!” the Goons answered somewhat baffled.

  “Ahhh, good whisky," she said, as she sat down, banging the thick shot glass down on the table and wiping her mouth with her fingers.

  “What success? What are you talking about?�
�� He groused, as she refilled their glasses.

  "Rico, death doesn’t unfold all of its whole terror in the first hour. It's a matter of time. Be smart on this deal," she said, leaning forward, trying to influence his thinking, being careful not to threaten his masculine self-image. As a power broker in a masculine validating atmosphere, she knew the men were hostile toward having women as colleagues. In the Goon inner circle, their "Goon Girls" had certain defined roles, which did not include giving suggestions or orders.

  "Tell me more," he asked, dragging deeply on his strong cigarette, shifting his body weight and sitting up straight, facing Gina. Jittery, armed Goons stared at the two drug lords with intense curiosity.

  "A few months ago, a large shipment of heroin was stolen in the Golden Triangle," she said, watching DeLaGarza gulp his whisky. “And in New York City, cops seized heroin being shipped into the city from Hong Kong.”

  “It’s a nasty business, so what.” He replied, moving the shot glass closer to her, as she refilled his glass.

  "Usually, two couriers work together, an American buyer and a Yakuza soldier to keep an eye on him. About a month ago, a Yakuza soldier fleeing a narcotics indictment was found dead in a bathroom of Tokyo's Shinjuku Train station," she said, then chugged her whisky.

  "You're a good drinker,” the Colonel said, gulping his whisky. “I respect a woman who can drink," he said, pouring another round of whisky. "What else?"

  "A police informant monitoring drug activities was also found dead in Tokyo Bay. Now, Japanese and American police are organizing a move against Triad and Yakuza policy makers. This police team is more aggressive than the average group. They're hard and serious," she said, cracking her knuckles contemplating the gravity of the events.

  "Who took the heroin?" He asked frowning, swallowing the whisky.

  "Don't know,” she lied, shaking her head, thinking of Colonel Rose and Doc Messner buried in the tunnel, re-filling his shot glass.

  "You're running scared. Why?" Rico lashed out defiantly, pounding his fist on the table, rattling the glasses.