Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  “Maybe there’s enough though for the cops to finally ask a few questions about Sam’s death, if not Bill’s. I hope this movie gets made, it might shake things up,” she snapped, grabbing her copy back from Louis and slapping the script against her other hand.

  “Did you know Sam sent the script to Marcus Riley too?” Louis asked calmly. “He wants to make it. I don’t,” said Louis.

  “Atta’ boy, Marcus,” whispered Cara under her breath.

  “It’s never going to happen, Cara.” Louis looked straight at her. He took off his glasses and hooked the two stems into the corner of his mouth. Cara wasn’t buying his protestations that FALL OUT was just a product of a writer’s imagination. He had to change tack.

  “Marcus is not going to reopen old wounds by making this movie. He is putting you and others who got the script in jeopardy.”

  “You just said it’s a fantasy. How does the script put anyone in jeopardy?”

  “Ask Sam, Cara.” Louis paused for effect, to let the significance sink in.

  She stared at him.

  “Cara, I didn’t want to tell you this, but recently Sam went back to THE LAST COMPANY’S location in the Philippines. It was for some mad reason we’ll never know,” Louis continued, spinning lies as smooth as silk. “Whatever he may have found has probably nothing to do with the movie… but angered someone. They are the ones feeling threatened. I guess they hit back. Let’s hope Sam’s death has satisfied them.”

  “Bullshit. We have to go to the police. Get them to reopen either case,” she interrupted.

  “No cop here is ever going to get to the bottom of it let alone protect you or any of us from some hoods coming here from Manila.” Louis paused. “Sam kicked a sleeping dog.” The last phrase hung in the air.

  “In Manila?” Cara asked.

  “Let’s just say maybe Sam did discover something. Whatever went on out there on the shoot, the rumors about drugs, guns, maybe it’s in his new screenplay, maybe not. But whatever he thought he figured out and put in FALL OUT may have got him killed. Do you want to risk it?”

  Cara hesitated.

  “That screenplay is a death sentence.” Louis said with certainty. “You owe it to yourself to make Marcus drop it. Stop imagining he is going to turn it into a movie.”

  Cara cared little what happened to her but her staff, her business, and, of course, her dog did matter. She wasn’t going to put them in jeopardy. Just like when they talked about Bill’s death, Cara was in a meeting with Louis McConnell and looking down the barrel of no choice.

  “If I can reach Marcus, I’ll try,” she said eventually.

  “For everyone’s sake, Cara.” Louis was so good, he gave himself the slightest congratulatory smile. Marcus was out of his hair.

  Seemingly as an afterthought, Louis wrote down something on a piece of paper and handed it to Cara. “When you get home, check these names out,” he calmly told her. “Accidents, fate, who knows? THE LAST COMPANY brought death.”

  “And still does?” she asked.

  “Cara, whatever you may think, I was desperately sorry about what happened. The people who killed Bill, destroyed the footage… there was no choice. We had to shut down. We pulled the insurance bond. You took the money we offered as compensation; case closed. We all moved on. Now years later Sam digs up something, somehow. I don’t want them coming after us. You can do no more, nor would Bill expect you to. He cared too much about your safety.”

  Cara thought back to that ambush in Northern Ireland and the revenge Bill meted out on behalf of his dead friend.

  “God help you if you’re lying to me,” she said and without another word turned and left.

  * * *

  Louis reached for his copy and turned to a specific page. No doubt about it. The two screenplays were different. Only Cara’s copy made reference to the mill being called Masabik. He flipped through to the other scene he had nonchalantly looked for in Cara’s version. He was certain it was different. Sure enough the scene included in his version contained specific references that were omitted from Cara’s. Sam had made slight changes to each draft of the script, tailored it for each of them.

  Louis let out a sigh, “You devious Australian bastard.”

  Sam had undoubtedly intended Cara to spot that Tagalog phrase, but he had also included other clues she had missed. The tiger had meant nothing to her. As for the reference to the Irish tune playing in the background, that too had gone over her head. But Sam had got it dead right. Louis, the Irishman, had most certainly been ever present in the background and the tiger was behind it all.

  Louis wondered if Sam had actually wanted to test everyone by sending them slightly different versions to see how they react. What they notice and what they miss? If Cara had been able to confront Sam, like she had him, it just might have proved her innocence and knocked her off the Australian’s list of conspirators. Smart.

  Louis extended that thought. Could Sam have been equally unsure about Riley, Kelso and de Turris? That could have led to very dangerous waters.

  However, Sam was dead, and Louis had it under control. He doubted Cara would be able to convince Marcus to drop it, but he had a backup plan. He heard the sound of the Range Rover pulling into the drive. The door opened.

  “Jonathan,” he called out. “I assume Riley for now is out of the loop. From what you said about your trip back home… We have work to do. Let’s go over it again please. Exactly.”

  16

  PAGSANJAN, PHILIPPINES

  Jonathan was apprehensive. Over the years he took care of Mr. Louis's problems without providing him many details, preferring to just tell him when the job was done/completed, but this time, this last trip, he had not tied up every loose end. He was worried.

  Rafael Satow was a problem. For twenty years he had followed Jonathan’s instructions to the letter, that is until Sam returned to the Philippines and everything changed.

  It hadn’t taken Jonathan long to piece it all together. There was only one place Sam was going to go; Pagsanjan, where they had shot THE LAST COMPANY. Jonathan did some discreet nosing around and found himself talking to a local barman at the town’s largest hotel, The Heart of Darkness Hotel Bar and Grill. The bartender confirmed that a tall Australian had visited a while ago. Men of Sam’s size were rare. He nodded at the photo Jonathan showed him.

  “Anything else?” asked Jonathan as he slid over some money, his hand resting on the pile, waiting for more information.

  “Double rum and coke,” said the barman after a pause.

  “I don’t drink that,” replied Jonathan.

  “What he ordered,” he explained. “Helps me focus if I remember the drink.” He closed his eyes as if picturing the meeting. “Said he was off to visit his fairy godmother. Then went into the bank across the street.”

  Jonathan said nothing.

  “Bank’s closing early today. Having a party. Manager’s retiring.” the barman added.

  The bank’s offices were garlanded with cheap and glitzy decorations. Staff were all unwinding.

  Rafael was wearing a black armband as a mark of respect for his mother who had recently died. He looked up and to his utter shock saw Jonathan snaking his way through the crowd towards him, stopping and talking to other members of staff who pointed in Rafael’s direction. It was years since the small man first wormed his way into Rafael’s life, but Jonathan looked just the same; a small innocuous man with no expression on his face and ice in his veins. “I hear the old witch is dead,” Jonathan whispered, oozing menace, yet still greeting Rafael in the traditional Philippine way with a lift of his eyebrows.

  “Get out,” hissed Rafael, his voice shaking. “You can’t just barge in here and speak to me like this,” he added nervously, looking round the room to see if anyone had overheard their exchange.

  “If you hadn’t spilled your guts to the Australian, I wouldn’t be here,” smiled Jonathan as he slipped his arm around Rafael’s waist, like they were the closest of friends. “
The corners of that rug of respectability you stand on are held by me. Want me to tug?” he asked. “What the fuck happened?”

  Rafael decided in that moment he was going to defy Jonathan, let him do his worst.

  “My mother is dead. You have no hold over me anymore,” he said boldly.

  Jonathan turned and smiled as a tray of carabao cheese wrapped in banana leaf was offered to him by one of the staff. The young man was dressed in the traditional barong Tagalog of a loose-fitting embroidered shirt with a long slit on each side worn over black trousers. A pink paper crown perched askew on his head unfortunately diluted the effect of the formal ensemble.

  Jonathan shooed the waiter away and winking at an astonished Rafael jumped with a grin onto a chair. He waved both arms for quiet.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been a client of this bank for many years now and have known about the family of Ginoong Rafael Satow even longer.” He reached into his pocket and removed a black and white photo.

  “I would love to show you all some photos of earlier times, of what made the man we have here with us today, but I think it would be unfair of me to do so without first asking permission from my host.”

  Rafael’s horrified expression was enough. He shook his head. “No please, today is not only about me. It’s about us and how long we have worked together,” Rafael said, desperation in his voice despite the best attempt to remain jovial.

  “You are too modest, my friend. I am sure some would love to see evidence of high jinx from the past, but I will keep this memento with me for another time. Silence must be the rule for today.”

  He stepped off the chair and picking up a beer, he looked at Rafael for a moment then turned to those present and raised the drink in a salute.

  “To Rafael and the memory of his late mother… may she always be remembered with fondness and her spirit kept alive by her son. Magalak, cheers. Happy retirement.”

  With that Jonathan led the clapping. Rafael nervously acknowledged the applause, declining to make any reply.

  “Come, let’s just go over to your office for a quiet drink, hmm?” murmured Jonathan. He led Rafael into the room, calmly leaning against the door after closing and locking it.

  “I’m listening,” Jonathan said, returning to his typically emotionless expression.

  Rafael started nervously, “Sam Wood was a client… one of Golden Eagle Trusts’ special clients, as you know.”

  “So why was he here?”

  “A simple error had been made, one of the half yearly payments was sent to Mr. Wood’s domestic account in LA…”

  Jonathan cut in angrily “How did that happen?” He was no longer leaning against the door but walking menacingly towards Rafael.

  “The Los Angeles account was still on file. We had some IT issues and that one payment went off to the right person, just the wrong account. When Mr. Wood called after speaking to his L.A. bank. I stalled him; I never discuss these accounts over the phone as you insisted. I did some checking and finally realized the mistake. Before I got back to him though, he appeared in person.”

  “What did you tell him?” He waved the photo in Rafael’s face, the threat clear.

  When Rafael spoke, Jonathan understood in that instant Sam’s actions.

  “Nothing… well strangely he wanted that photo. Harmless request. I had another copy made.” Rafael nodded over to the picture of him next to the plane Jonathan himself had used to get into the Philippines.

  “The people who own the plane are our clients. They took me out for a ride in the plane once. Mr. Wood said he liked the uniform,” whispered Jonathan in fear.

  Jonathan pulled out his balisong.

  “I should just kill you and that fag Zino and be done with it.”

  Summoning up every ounce of courage Rafael pulled himself up to his full height. “I don't think that would be a good idea. I know Haribon Guinto sends money here. After Mr. Wood left, I wrote a letter detailing everything I have done over the years. Where the money comes from, where it is sent how much and to whom. It’s in a safe deposit box in Manila. If I die unexpectedly, I've left instructions for it to be sent to Haribon Guinto. If I live, well… then I say no more.”

  For the first time in his life, Jonathan pulled back from killing a man. Louis McConnell had been very clear ‘Just make sure whatever Sam found out stays buried but keep it low-key, and keep well clear of our former partner, Haribon Guinto.’

  Jonathan’s only sign of tension was a tightening of his jawline. “One more word, especially about Golden Eagle Trust, and everyone in this place will know who your father really was,” Jonathan said in a flat voice tapping his pocket containing the faded photo of Yono Tan. “Your mother’s memory won’t be worth dog shit. And you and Zino will be history.”

  With that he downed the dregs of his beer and left. That was the last time Rafael would see Jonathan.

  Jonathan remembered the dying Auntie Reena telling him about his own birth mother; how she abandoned her baby and how Reena had taken him in. Soon after Reena’s death, Jonathan had tracked this woman down, a small wizened Japanese woman, bitter and old before her time, living in squalor by the docks. She filled in for Jonathan the parts of his story that Reena had not known about.

  In 1945 she was working in Manila, during society’s meltdown at the end of the war. She’d been the thirty-year-old daughter of a Japanese officer who had died in the battle for Manila. No beauty and still single, she was a nurse at the hospital where the injured Yono Tan had been brought after the airstrike at Fort Santiago. Despite his injuries she knew instantly who he was.

  “Yono Tan was an honored guest in our house. He was a real man. I still keep all the press cuttings on him. I nursed him back to life. After trying for many years I gave birth to you. Small, weak. A Filipino. He hated you. He turned to drink. When he died, I wanted you out of my life,” she said slowly.

  “I gave you to that young Matandang Dalaga, Reena,” his birth mother said. Jonathan had flinched at the derogatory term for a spinster. “A beggar. I watched people drop coins into her upturned hand. Convinced her a baby might get her more sympathy and a few more coins. I told her your father’s name, gave her the news clippings and sold you to her for a bottle of whiskey. You were of no use to me, a runt not worthy of his father’s memory.”

  His mother looked him up and down.

  “Still a runt, aren’t you? You’d hardly be able to lift a bolo, let alone use it. Your father… he was a real man.” she sniffed.

  Jonathan showed no emotion. Not a flicker of filial love. This emaciated bitch had just been an incubator. He spat at her, turned away, and never saw her again.

  As if a man like Yono Tan could have a son as weak and flawed as Rafael Satow. Satow’s father had been a ‘nobody’. His son gullible, willing to believe his father was a hated figure just from a few photos and a story spun by Jonathan.

  Yono Tan/Jona-Than. Jonathan knew perfectly well where his own name came from… and his ruthless streak. He was an executioner’s son.

  17

  MID AIR ACROSS THE ATLANTIC

  Marcus was sitting middle center seat in economy with an overweight woman to his left and a student whose snoring could wake the dead on his right. A seven-year-old squirming behind him furiously kicked the seat back.

  “Maybe he’d like to play outside?” suggested Marcus with a smile as he turned around to look at the unconcerned parents.

  He took a deep breath and went back to his notes. He had already spent time breaking down the script of FALL OUT, preparing a budget and timeline for production, as well as listing the creative talent he would need to secure financing. He had looked at locations to shoot the film that might provide tax incentives or grants to supplement the advances from distribution companies and investors.

  Once home he was going to have to begin calling casting agents and assembling his preferred list of the main HODs (Heads of Departments) for camera, set design and construction, editing, costume design, h
air, and makeup. He was hoping to be in production within six months, but the budget was already climbing to $40 million; a substantial sum for any independent movie. Without direct personal access to the US market and distribution finance due to his travel ban, it was a near impossible one.

  However, there was one silver lining to the very dark clouds over Marcus’ head, a chance to meet most of the movers and shakers of the film industry in one place outside of the US. In less than a month the Cannes Film Festival, an annual event he had always attended, would provide him the opportunity he sorely needed. He was sure he could set up some meetings. He had a great script and would have finished his financing requirements, but what he really needed was ‘talent’ or a well-known name attached to the project to give it momentum.

  The obvious choice was to get director Robert Kelso on board. Everyone loves a comeback and for Kelso to return behind the camera on Sam Wood’s last screenplay would hit the headlines and create a real buzz. He knew Sam had sent him a copy. Maybe getting him involved was part of Sam’s plan?

  “The best screenplays creep up on you… as one story unfolds suddenly another reveals the real underlying truth.” He remembered Sam telling him.

  Marcus thought the idea of a cache of arms hidden way out in the remote Philippine jungle was beyond fanciful and was sure had no roots in reality. That was quite unlike the notion that guns were hidden by Noriega in war torn Panama. If Sam was really trying to reach out and say something, clearly it was not that.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to Heathrow airport where the time is 7:00 a.m., the temperature is 10 degrees and it’s raining…”

  Back on the West Coast, Cara Baines left another urgent message on Marcus’ voice mail imploring him to call her.

  18

  Belgravia, London

  Stefan de Turris’ company, International Film Bond, had paid out a substantial sum after THE LAST COMPANY had abruptly stopped filming. Investing millions of dollars in a feature film was a risky undertaking at the best of times, so most movies were ‘bonded’ or insured. Should a film fall into difficulty, the bonding company would do its best to complete delivery of the film or repay the investors’ money.