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Fall Out

Page 7

by M. N. Grenside


  His mother simply told Rafael his father had been a kind and gentle man, a hero from the war, who had swept her off her feet. God had taken him, when their boy was barely twelve months old. When he died, she left the big city and ended up in the village of Pagsanjan. She devoted her life to her son, making a living teaching at the local school.

  At thirty Rafael fell in love and realized that he was never going to give his mother the grandchildren she yearned for.

  “Mama, I am in love,” he started when they sat down for dinner one evening, his eyes focusing on the floor.

  “I am so happy for you. Tell me more,” his mother replied. There was a long pause.

  “Mama. It is so hard for me to tell you… I am ashamed…”

  “Because you are bakla?”

  Rafael looked up at her, his oval face open mouthed in shock. He was astonished his mother had used the term for a gay man.

  “My son, I know you. I raised you. No shock, no surprise, and no shame. I am proud of you. You have pakikisama, the Philippine ideal of getting on with your fellow man. Well, in a way that’s what you are doing,” she said quietly. “What’s his name?”

  “Zino,” said Rafael, his shock turning to relief and an ever-deepening love and respect for his mother.

  “Ah yes, the young man from the barber and hair salon. I approve. Just remember, be careful. Discretion,” his mother advised.

  The conversation Rafael had been dreading for so long, was over. It had not been the nightmare he anticipated. His mother was truly the greatest woman he would ever meet, and he swore nothing, and no one would ever be allowed to harm her.

  * * *

  Lying in bed later that evening, his mother thought she had handled the inevitable as well as could be expected, but she was worried. Although gay men had long been tolerated, even accepted, in Philippine society, banking was a most conservative profession, but Rafael had an air of culture and the arts about him. Her son was vulnerable.

  * * *

  He kept his relationship separate from his work. Or so he thought until one day a slightly built man walked into his life and stomped all over his principles and privacy.

  It was a rain-sodden August morning in the mid-1990s, when Jonathan, clutching a leather briefcase, entered the bank. He stood in front of the receptionist apologizing for the pool of water that collected at his feet and asking for Rafael Satow by name.

  Already an assistant manager, Rafael was stationed to the side of the cashiers’ cages and on his desk, he proudly displayed a gold plaque engraved with his name. Hair neatly combed and dressed in a simple but well pressed suit, he heard his name. He looked up across the faded elegance of the old colonial building that had become the town’s only bank. The cheap plastic furniture and solitary ineffective security camera looked out of place against the hand-carved wooden panels. The slowly turning four-blade ceiling fans gave no relief to the heat, simply stirring the humid air. Rafael greeted the man who had been directed to his desk and pointed to a chair.

  “I’d like to open an account,” said Jonathan getting right to the point.

  “We need to fill out some forms, run some checks Mr…?”

  “The company is Golden Eagle Trust and is owned by Mr. Haribon Guinto,” interrupted Jonathan ignoring the man “and as for checks, here is my check. Let’s open with one million Pesos.”

  Jonathan looked intently at Rafael, daring him to stick with conventional formalities and run the risk of losing what was a $200,000 opening balance, a certain promotion, and a probable raise in salary.

  Rafael squirmed in his seat under Jonathan’s glare then made his choice and pulled out some paperwork, which he quickly signed himself.

  “The account is now open, Mr…”

  “Jonathan will do for now. Please deposit the check. Perhaps we might go somewhere quiet for lunch?”

  Rafael was only too happy to accept the invitation. He suggested to his new client a small local restaurant that specialized in leche de lechon, suckling pig. Jonathan nodded approval.

  “A proper meal. I love seeing the whole body of what has been killed, rather than just pieces of nondescript meat,” Jonathan said calmly as they left the bank ten minutes later, with all the formalities concluded.

  They entered the restaurant, settled into an alcove and awaited their food. Rafael ordered two beers. Normally he would not drink while at work, but this was indeed a special occasion. He lobbed a few innocuous subjects into the air for discussion, but his new client seemed uninterested in small talk.

  “You like your job?” asked Jonathan coldly.

  Rafael nodded eagerly.

  “Is your mother proud?”

  Rafael nodded a little hesitantly, not sure of the relevance.

  “And your boyfriend?”

  Rafael flushed, but held his ground. “Why are you interested? What do you want?”

  “Service and loyalty,” replied Jonathan calmly.

  “And you think you can get this by threats about my private life?” asked Rafael, with more bravery than he thought he could ever muster.

  “Maybe the bank might disapprove but your boyfriend is just an extra bonus. No, I want you to understand how badly hurt your mother will be when I let it be known your honorable father, the war hero she worshipped, was the most despised man in Manila. He happily executed over 350 of his countrymen.” He paused to let this information sink in. “Even some from around here.”

  Rafael was in a state of shock and was about to try and respond when the waiter appeared. Jonathan held a finger to his lips. He smiled as the food was ceremoniously loaded onto the Lazy Susan in the center of the table. On a tray lay an entire piglet, its skin glazed the color and sheen of brown glass. Next to it the waiter placed the traditional jar of liver sauce, some sweet potatoes, and pechay fried rice.

  “Looks delicious,” said Jonathan. “Hope you’ve got a good appetite,” he added, turning towards a pale and shaken Rafael.

  The restaurant was kamayan, meaning diners eat only with their hands. Nevertheless, there was a small traditional mallet resting on the table to be used for cracking the piglet’s toffee-like skin.

  Ignoring the hammer, Jonathan reached into his breast pocket. A flick of his wrist and the balisong blade was open in his hand. “Where was I… ah, yes, your traitorous father killed 350 men… beheaded them to be exact.”

  He tapped the crisp skin of the meat with the base of his balisong knife, shattering it into brittle shards. He dropped a long splinter of crackling into his mouth. The sharp crunch as Jonathan bit the skin was the only noise at their table. His eyes were half closed in pleasure as he swallowed. He snapped back from the moment of indulgence and glared at Rafael, balisong still in his manicured hand.

  “Bet Mummy never told you that. Beheaded them,” he repeated loud enough for other diners to turn their heads.

  He paused again for effect and then sliced off an oval of meat from the piglet’s shoulder. Elegantly skewering it on the end of his blade, Jonathan dipped the meat into the sauce and then lowered the morsel into his rice.

  Rafael sat wide-eyed in disbelief.

  “That is a lie…ridiculous…my father was a hero…” stammered Rafael.

  Jonathan carefully wiped his hands and reached into his faded leather briefcase pulling out old newspaper clippings, several handwritten documents and a faded black and white photo. Each was encased in individual cellophane folders. He slid the documents across the table to Rafael but held back the photograph. Indicating the article at the top of the pile, Jonathan began.

  “Here's a newspaper story written during the occupation of Manila. Full of praise for your father’s skills, no big surprise as the Japanese controlled the press.” Pushing that news article to one side, he pointed to the others, “and these are some less than flattering eye-witness accounts written down by the Kanos after liberation as evidence for the war crime trials.”

  A shaking Rafael started to read. He visibly paled. “How do I know th
is is my father, let alone even true?” His voice was trembling.

  “It’s all documented. Officially no one knows what happened to the bastard; the Americans let him go by mistake. He was in their hospital. Lost his chopping arm and half his face in an air raid. Some justice, I suppose. However, I found which rock he had crawled under.” Jonathan looked at Satow. The man was shaking in fear.

  “It’s not true. It can’t be…” he pleaded.

  “I live to uncover little skeletons like yours. It ensures attention and discretion. A witness from your parents’ wedding made the mistake of buying goods on credit from me without having the funds to pay. I paid him a little visit. He saw me looking at some photographs including one of your parents. With admirably quick thinking, he wondered if in exchange for his debt, I might like to know the assumed name of the most hated man in Manila; what had happened to him, his wife, and only son.” Jonathan paused.

  “He sold out your father’s real identity for a packet of American cigarettes and a cheap bottle of brandy,” he said with a snap of his fingers. “That’s the price of your past, present, and future.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Rafael was trying to be defiant, but doubt was breathing coldly at his shoulder.

  “I’ll make sure people believe it’s true. Neither you, your mother, nor Zino will have anywhere to hide.”

  Jonathan smiled and turned the fingers of the hand that still held the knife and squinted at his cuticles. “Your boyfriend did a nice job on me this morning. Hot-towel shave even cleaned inside my ears with those little cotton buds. Conscientious. I like that.”

  With a smirk, Jonathan slid over the photo to Rafeal. It clearly showed a man surrounded by soldiers standing in a walled courtyard. The ground was strewn with several headless corpses. In his right hand the man held a bolo, in his left, a head.

  Calmly Jonathan took the knife and cleanly sliced off the piglet’s head. He gently lifted it from the tray by its crispy burnt ears, turning it to Rafael for a moment, glancing at the grisly photo as if for reference.

  “Game over. I think I can even see the family resemblance,” smiled Jonathan.

  Rafael shakily stood up from the table, clumsily heading to the bathroom as vomit rose in his throat.

  “No dessert then?” said Jonathan with a slight smile of triumph. By the time a pale Rafael had returned, the food had been taken away. A glass of water stood at Rafael’s place. Jonathan sipped a coffee and nibbled on a piece of buko, the local coconut cake.

  Time for business. He was clinical and very clear.

  “A movie is coming to town, THE LAST COMPANY. Your bank will handle all the various accounts needed; production as well as personal. When the movie ends, you start to earn your keep,” Jonathan continued outlining his plans.

  “Do what I say, and you get a fee. If not…” Jonathan glanced down at the photo.

  Rafael was about to speak, but Jonathan cut him off. “Easy money. Don’t even think of disobeying my instructions. If you do, there will be scores to settle. They will hound your mother all the way to hell.”

  No compromise, no choice. Jonathan got up and walked out of the restaurant, leaving Rafael to his fate. He climbed into the rental white Toyota 4x 4, grateful for its air conditioning and swung the car back towards Manila.

  It was fixed, just as he had assured Haribon it would be.

  * * *

  Jonathan brought himself back to the present and the task at hand. He swung the Range Rover into the employee parking lot for Terminal 7 at LAX, looped a security clearance tag over his neck, and with his mop and bucket confidently strode over to Departures.

  14

  WEST HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA

  Marcus lay in bed half asleep, looking at his phone and trying to understand what Cara had meant. Her instructions were clear, but why? What was she trying to say?

  Soon he was up and dressed and was about to leave his room for the breakfast meeting with her when there was a knock at the door. “Open up, L.A.P.D.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Riley,” smiled detective McNeile. He was flanked by a uniformed officer and one in plain clothes. “We meet again. But for the last time”.

  “Aw, Detective, you missed me? Always lovely to see you. Love to chat but I have a meeting…,” Marcus responded, trying to inject a bit of humor to hide his need to meet Cara.

  “You are going to have to miss it.”

  “Give me a couple of hours. I’m not leaving town, as you said.”

  “No, Mr. Riley. You are leaving town. Right now.”

  Before Marcus had time to react, a set of handcuffs were snapped on his wrists. The officers grabbed his suitcase and flung what they could find into it, mercifully picking up his iPad and briefcase.

  “We missed anything; you can call for it when you get back to England.”

  “England?” started Marcus

  “Mr. Riley, may I introduce Sean Donovan. He’s from immigration,” said the detective tersely, motioning to the other plain clothed officer.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your visa. The ESTA seems to have expired,” Donovan said, using the acronym for Electronic System Travel Authorization. It was a computer-based visa system that allowed British citizens into the US without the need for individual trip visas. It lasted two years and as no stamp ever appeared in the passport, it was very easy to forget to renew.

  “C’mon guys. Happens all the time. It’s a quick renew…”

  “You broke the rules, Mr. Riley. You’re out of here.”

  With that, Marcus was frog-marched out to a squad car and taken to LAX.

  “Mr. Riley, until we resolve this, you are on the banned list for entry into the United States for at least six months,” said Donovan coldly. “And you won’t be needing this,” he added, confiscating the iPhone from a bewildered Marcus. “No contact with anyone until you’re out of the US. Ask nicely and I might give you the chip…” Jonathan emptied trash cans blending in with other workers and travelers in the background until Marcus had been escorted onto the 9:00 a.m. United Airlines flight to England. Once airborne he returned to his boss to report. McConnell’s contact in immigration had done his job.

  15

  SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA

  Cara had dropped Cato off with a surprised and sleepy-eyed Bella, cleared the city limits of Santa Barbara by 6:30 a.m. and was in the haze of Los Angeles by 8:00 a.m. Marcus was not at the café. She called him a couple of times, but there was no response, each attempt just going to voice mail. She hadn’t time to worry about him now. She had established that Louis McConnell was in residence, following a brief call on her phone en route. With or without Marcus, she was going to confront McConnell with what she knew. She pulled up to the gate with its elaborate sign and rang the intercom.

  “Tell Mr. McConnell it’s Cara Baines,” she announced sharply.

  The wrought iron gates silently opened, and she nosed her truck up the paved driveway. A butler opened the front door and showed Cara into the large and ornate drawing room.

  “Thank you, Benjamin,” said Louis from behind a desk. The butler gave a curt nod and exited, silently pulling the double doors shut behind him.

  No pleasantries or fake bonhomie. Cara went straight in.

  She strode to the desk, the copy of FALL OUT in her hands. “Is this why Bill died?” she said shaking the script at Louis.

  “Good morning, Cara nice to see you as well. Of course not.

  Please sit.”

  Louis came around from behind his desk, motioning to an elegant Hepplewhite chair and sat in its twin. A small table between them held a pot of tea and two cups. His face remained impassive.

  “Milk or sugar?” he asked as he poured. She ignored him.

  “Was Bill murdered because he found out about hidden guns?” Louis took a deep breath.

  “Cara, Sam was a writer. He made things up for a living. Maybe in his imagination FALL OUT hides some twisted explanation of events from the past
that he could not accept or understand? It’s a story dripping with his own frustrations. Now he’s got you going.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, McConnell. What the hell went on out there?”

  “FALL OUT is just Sam’s private therapeutic fantasy. It just resurrects the past. Do you really want to do that?” He handed her a cup. “Sugar?”

  “I don’t believe you. Sam sent it to me for a reason,” she paused. “And how the hell did you know I even had a copy?”

  Louis looked at her impassively and put the rejected cup of tea back on the table. Cara slid her draft of the screenplay over to Louis.

  “Scene 6.”

  Louis slowly took out a pair of delicate horn-rimmed reading glasses and scanned the short scene.

  “I’d never have noticed without reading it out loud,” explained Cara. “You’ll never see it,” she continued. “That’s because you don’t speak Tagalog, the language of the Philippines. Growing up I spoke it along with Spanish and English. Sam knew that. See where Sam wrote ‘Masa’? It’s Spanish for flour,” she said tapping the page. “I had assumed Bick was just some company name made up by Sam. But later, he puts the two words together and it reads Masabik. It’s Tagalog for ‘miss you’.”

  “So what” asked Louis coolly? He started idly flipping through her copy, stopping at another section.

  “It’s how Bill ended all his postcards to me. Sam even signed a few to me from that hellhole you sent them both to. Sam’s telling me the character they refer to killed under the rubble in is Bill. A man killed to cover up a crime…”

  Louis hoped he looked disinterested as he flicked through the pages of Cara’s copy of the script.

  “No, Cara. You are being ridiculous now. You are reading things into this that just aren’t there…”

 

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