“Tell your friend I accept his apology,” said Jonathan to the shocked accomplice.
It was an introduction the unconscious Torres and cool headed Haribon would never forget.
“Never confuse smallness with lack of guts,” said Jonathan as he thrust out his tiny hand to Haribon.
“You wanna be a part of my crew?” the older boy asked, impressed at the little kid’s retribution.
And so it had started; the two boys became inseparable. Haribon all ideas, Jonathan a silent enforcer. Torres just glowered.
Jonathan hated weakness. People mistook his small physical stature as a sign of it. Those who made that mistake and managed to live, had regrets as deep as their scars. Jonathan’s size was made up for by his ruthless streak and a knife he unsheathed in the name of retribution and respect.
He never revealed his full name nor the names of his parents. He was just Jonathan. His passport said his last name was Reena, though he never used it. The name Reena, however, meant a lot to him.
‘Aunty’ Juanita Reena had brought him up in a tiny house in Manila. Their only company was a mongrel named Fritas. The dog was small but took no shit from hounds three times his size. He was Jonathan’s first real friend and taught the boy all about being the ‘bite-you-first’ underdog.
Reena was widowed at 30 and unlike her sister who had escaped to Los Angeles with her husband, was barren to boot. Deciding she was on the shelf, she was happy to play mother to this abandoned kid, her “nephew.” He wasn’t even pure Filipino, but rather mestizo – half Japanese, half Filipino.
The years unwound; Haribon, Torres, and Jonathan running their crew until one day Haribon got a short prison sentence for handling stolen goods. Having no respect for Torres who stepped up in Haribon’s absence, Jonathan left and found a job at Manila International Airport in the cargo department near the Villamor Military Airbase.
He learned a lot about cargo and the routine and rules of freight transportation. He earned a good living, selling off the contents of ‘damaged’ cargo containers, and managed to use the money to provide some comforts for Aunty Reena.
Just as everything seemed to be going Jonathan’s way, Reena was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She refused medical support, rather putting her faith in God and the statue of the Black Nazarene at the church in Quaipo. It was to no avail. Jonathan buried her a week before his 17th birthday along with any trust in religion or salvation.
The young man had connections in the minor underworld that permeated the streets of Manila and once again he crossed paths with Haribon. Freshly released from prison, Haribon had managed to set up a small trucking business. With Jonathan at work in air cargo, it was a match made in heaven.
Haribon delivered shipments from the air cargo terminal to destinations in Manila and further out into the country. The information Jonathan gave him about what was in the shipments was invaluable. Haribon always assured him that no driver was ever hurt when asked to hand over some, if not all of the contents of his truck. Jonathan was amused by this. He did not care whether anyone was hurt or not. If they showed no respect, they took the consequences as far as he was concerned.
In 1976 everything changed. A massive operation was being undertaken by a group of Americans in the Philippines. The amount of equipment they ordered, which arrived on a weekly basis, was simply staggering. Haribon wanted in but did not want to steal any of it. He believed there was more of an opportunity in actually delivering a safe and reliable service than in ripping these people off.
That’s when he and Torres finally fell out. Torres wanted to steal as much as he could from the Kanos.
On a storm drenched night, Torres and a splinter group decided to hijack a legitimate delivery being made by Haribon. Having eyes and ears everywhere, Haribon got wind of the plot and asked Jonathan to come along for the ride. It was the second and last time Torres would cross Jonathan. The truck was laden with electrical equipment from Los Angeles as well as pasta, cheeses, wine, and even cigarettes from Italy, all of which Torres knew would disappear like spit in the rain in the huge black market of Manila. The delivery was going to the home of the head of the huge operation, who had taken up residence in Dasmarinas, the Beverly Hills of Manila.
As they drove along from the airport into town, a brightly decorated Jeepney, usually the poor man’s bus, swerved past them. It had four scowling men in the back and Torres at the wheel. They forced Haribon’s truck into a deserted alley.
“Hinto… stop,” cried Torres, the scar on his face clearly visible in the moonlight. The air was humid, the rain had stopped. Not even the clouds could maintain much energy in the hot damp air. Reluctantly Haribon killed the motor. He leaned out the window and watched the men unwind themselves from inside the Jeepney. One carried a crowbar, one a baseball bat, two had knives, and none a friendly face.
“You don’t want to do this,” Haribon warned Torres.
Two of the men walked through the puddles and, using the crowbar, easily snapped off the padlock securing the shuttered cargo door to the platform at the base of the truck.
Haribon looked up to the sky. He appeared to be checking for rain, but in fact was asking the Divine for forgiveness. Unlike Jonathan, he had a conscience and still believed in God.
“I removed you once before,” said Torres, “thought that a spell in prison might toughen you up. The police even gave me a reward for ratting you out. You’re a cute businessman, Haribon, the trucking business is clever … if you exploit it. Fuck these Kanos,” he sneered. “Out of respect, once we have checked out the delivery, you can take the Jeepney. I suggest you keep driving till you are far away in the islands to the west. And never, ever come back,” Torres warned menacingly.
With that Torres took a baseball bat from behind his back and swung it down on Haribon’s forearm that had been resting on the open window frame. There was a loud crack as the bone broke. “That is, if you can drive with one arm. Out,” whispered Torres, with a flick of the head.
Haribon slowly got down from the truck, staring at the men without flinching. He was aware of the shutter slowly opening at the back of his van. Suddenly, he made a movement as if bunching himself up to run at his attackers. As he intended, their eyes quickly focused on him.
Jonathan was out of the van before the steel-slatted door had rolled even halfway up. With the characteristic click-clack the blades of the two balisongs unsheathed like a deadly fan in each of Jonathan’s hands.
He spun on his heel extending his left arm while in a crouching position. The first man dropped to his knees watching his intestines fall out through the gash in his stomach. Still spinning like a ballet dancer, Jonathan leapt up and severed the carotid artery of the second man. It happened so fast that Torres had only realized something was wrong as the arterial spray of blood from the second victim pattered onto his face and clothes. Even then Torres looked up thinking it had started to rain, before he noticed that the spots on his shirt were dark.
“Blood in the moonlight,” said Haribon. “Black as death.”
Torres turned as he saw the third man have his hamstring tendon severed as Jonathan executed a perfect forward roll. Before the stunned victim even felt the pain in his buckling ankle, another blade entered his back and he was dead before his jaw broke on hitting the asphalt.
Jonathan stood up and performed two backhanded ‘helicopter’ movements, spinning the blades and the two sides of the handle around each hand, like some deadly cheerleader’s baton.
The action was so mesmerizing that, rather than run, the fourth man just stared in amazement. Jonathan lunged forward and the thug crumpled to the ground, the knife having pierced his chest just below the sternum, severing his aorta.
He then turned to Torres, beckoning him to try and take him on. Torres roared as he lifted the bat and charged. Jonathan calmly let him make his run. At the last second both of his arms flashed in front of Torres’ face and the next moment the man was blind.
“I am the last t
hing you will ever see,” jeered Jonathan barely audible over the blind man’s cries of agony. “I hope you live years to remember it.”
He picked up the bat as a trophy and memento, handing it to Haribon. Haribon glanced around at the dead bodies and then at the stumbling Torres, still screaming in pain. He gave a single nod to Jonathan.
“We’re done here.”
The big man heaved himself into the front of the truck, cradling his arm and fashioning a makeshift sling from his shirt. Jonathan walked around to the rear and slowly pulled the shutter down. They set off to make the delivery; Jonathan in his new post as Haribon’s permanent enforcer and right-hand man.
They left Torres stumbling in his world of darkness and pain that would end five months later in a pauper’s grave.
* * *
The memory of Torres always made Jonathan smile. That stupid act of treachery had allowed Haribon to make his delivery and demonstrate his honesty. Sure enough Haribon’s legitimate business grew and the deliveries increased until that fateful day when Haribon met Louis McConnell and Stefan de Turris. That’s when all of their fortunes changed forever…
* * *
The wheels touched down in the Philippines and Jonathan gathered his thoughts to the task at hand, his business for Mr. Louis.
He was glad he didn’t have to clear customs through Manila’s Ninoy Aquino airport. This way was much better. Mr. Louis had arranged it for him so often in the past.
He checked in his pocket for his balisong. The plane landed.
Just like clockwork. In a moment Jonathan was gone.
8
BEVERLY HILLS, LOS ANGELES
Marcus had been rebuffed on his first call but eventually Louis McConnell had agreed to see him.
“My office is 245 North Beverly Drive, same building as MGM. Be there at 2:30 Wednesday. I can spare twenty minutes.”
Marcus had not mentioned Sam, nor the screenplay; neither had McConnell.
The carpet in the McConnell Talent Agency was so thick that footfalls sounded like crushing velvet. A bronze statue of a cowboy on a bucking bronco decorated the foyer, along with photos of Louis’ most famous clients. Marcus announced himself at exactly 2:30 to an uptight PA. She pointed at a seat. He had to wait. It was typical Hollywood.
Marcus had left school at 17 with top grades and several universities offering places. He declined them all and to the consternation of his parents declared he had secured a job in a UK advertising production company as a runner, a fancy name for a young person who is required to run and fetch anything. From there he moved into feature film, steadily working his way up.
After a few years he decided he had learned enough about both the physical aspects of production and financing to try to go it alone. He managed to raise enough money to buy the option on a book about a London based gangster. The money was non-refundable if he couldn’t put together the necessary financing for the movie in the agreed upon limited time frame. He was right to have been nervous; none of the UK agents were prepared to risk their client’s reputation writing a script for an unknown young producer—especially at the very low fee Marcus was offering.
With time running out and in desperation, he reached out to an agent in Los Angeles whom he had dealt with in the past whilst trying to hire one of his clients.
“I may just have someone, Australian” said the agent, Louis McConnell. I’ve just taken him on after I read a book he wrote. I understand he also writes scripts. I suggest you get together. If it works, I’m Co-Executive Producer. I’m not putting up cash…but my name will get you money.”
That was the beginning of Sam and Marcus’ friendship. Authors don’t normally make good screenwriters, but Sam was an exception. The script he delivered was fast paced with tight, witty dialogue interspersed with exciting action sequences. It was the real reason Marcus managed to raise the money to make the film. Sam Wood was a rare talent.
The movie did well at the box office, establishing Marcus’ credentials as a producer of low-budget action films and Sam as a writer to watch. Marcus and Sam had become close friends during that production, talking late into many nights about movies as well as sharing a love of fast cars and slow meals.
Over the next few years Sam sent Marcus ideas, treatments, even full scripts as well as the manuscript of the book that he had sent to McConnell. Marcus was toiling away financing more low-budget gangster movies in London as Sam’s career moved up several gears in Los Angeles. He was thrilled for Sam’s success but sadly thought they would never get to work together again. Then one day they both got a call from McConnell.
“I’ve recommended you and Sam Wood for a job,” the agent said.“Vietnam movie based on a story idea I developed. Sam will write the screenplay. Director is Robert Kelso. Shoot in the Philippines. Decent budget and lead this time. Big action. Bill Baines is stunt coordinator. We need a line producer on location. You interested?”
Marcus was still in his mid-twenties, full of hope for the future. Thanks to Sam and Louis he was now being asked to produce a movie for the US market with a successful director and a great writer. The effect on his career would be electric.
“I’ll do it for free,” he said impulsively, immediately regretting it. Louis was not a man with a sense of humor.
“Deal,” replied McConnell dryly. “Airline ticket and script are on the way,” and he hung up.
The package arrived a few days later. Although a note said Marcus drove a hard bargain, he was thankful it included reasonable employment terms and a healthy advance on his fee. Still green and inexperienced, Marcus eagerly signed on as line producer to THE LAST COMPANY.
The struggles of making the film would bind a group of them together as close as brothers, Marcus, Sam, Robert Kelso and Bill Baines.
With a tight shooting schedule, every day was a fight to complete the day’s set-ups. Working 18-hour days, Marcus gritted his teeth and drove the production through sheer determination. The rain never seemed to stop, and costs kept escalating. Then the air freight company was beset by labor problems and compounded by the bad weather, couldn’t ship out the ‘dailies’ that were the raw cans of film from each day’s shooting. Even though McConnell was rumored to be setting up his own airfreight company to solve the problem, the dailies started to stockpile.
It was a dangerous situation. Should those dailies get damaged or lost, the footage had cost hundreds of thousands of dollars in production, which they could never afford to reshoot.
Damage didn’t turn out to be the problem.
“He’ll see you now,” McConnell’s PA nodded a coiffured head towards the huge double doors and brought Marcus’ mind back to the task in hand.
Louis looked much as Marcus remembered, well-manicured and even better tailored. A hint of a face lift and a hair weave but there was nothing Louis could do about his waistline.
“Enjoying Hollywood, Marcus?” he asked in a tone laced with irony.
“Never had a bad meeting.”
“You and every other hopeful,” he said. “I’m busy, Marcus. I see that since you let me down, your career back home has risen without a trace.”
“Sam Wood’s last screenplay,” replied Marcus getting straight to the point.
“Sam has not been my client since that fiasco. I’m sorry about his death, but I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“It’s brilliant. I want to make it.”
“It may be, Mr. Riley, but you are a spent force. People don’t forget out here. THE LAST COMPANY was a huge burden.”
“Sam rose above it.”
“Well, he had talent. I doubt anyone in this town will have anything to do with you. However, if you think it’s that good, I’ll read it. I can always buy the rights off the estate. But I’ll never make anything with you again. And from what I hear of your struggles over the past months nor will anyone else.”
“You can package it, but the rights stay with me. Sam gave me an option before he died. Think it over. Sam Wood�
��s last screenplay. That’s a big draw. You have my number.”
As Marcus left the room, he knew he needed to see Cara Baines, Robert Kelso and get back to London and call on Stefan de Turris.
Louis understood that it wasn’t enough to play hardball, he had to get those rights and ensure that movie never saw the light of day; or FALL OUT would be his death sentence.
9
THÉOULE-SUR-MER, CÔTE D’AZUR, FRANCE
The young man entered her. Melinda ‘Mako’ de Turris gave a gasp and her blue almond shaped eyes widened. Well, she knew the right reaction was expected, and as her adopted nickname suggested, she was a fearsome man-eater.
She quickly flipped the young man round so she was on top and in control; straddling him with her knees locked on either side of his hips. She looked down. He was brutally handsome and he knew it; young, no more than 25, almost 11 years her junior. He had danced so well at the Caves du Roy nightclub in St Tropez the previous night. It was lust at first sight. She did not even bother to remember his name.
“Oh God,” he repeatedly mumbled. Mako bent forward to kiss him, just to shut him up. No man she had ever met was an atheist in bed; they would have no one to talk to.
She pulled away and arched her back and started to rock, moving her hips as if gently riding a horse. A single droplet of sweat slalomed down from her long jet-black hair across the Asian features of her face and cheek. She had chosen well; he was a great lover. She felt the beginning of her climax and threw back her head…
Lying on the bed she watched him, lost in post coital sleep. His body was gleaming with sweat, with the wonderful muscular definition of youth. Just what she had wanted. She liked superficial. He stirred and opened an eye. Go on, surprise me, she thought. Try and avoid just one cliché.
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