Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  * * *

  Marcus had met Stefan several times at his office during pre-production of THE LAST COMPANY. They even exchanged Christmas cards for a few years after the movie, so he had, what he hoped was still de Turris’ home address.

  Stefan had been a tall, urbane man, with barely a trace of an accent despite his Swiss nationality and upbringing. Like a lot of wealthy people, he had an aura of aloofness about him, a slight superiority that Marcus suspected brooked little dissent from those who worked for him.

  Stefan de Turris owned a six-story Georgian house in Belgravia, one of those exclusive buildings that a passer-by assumed was either an embassy or several apartments.

  When Marcus had googled him in LA, he read that Stefan had been involved in a car crash a few years ago. There hadn’t been much else except he had clearly retired with no more outside directorships. Marcus decided lunchtime was the best time to visit. He had bought a new phone at Heathrow, inserted the chip that had mercifully been given to him, and reconnected and downloaded his messages, but it was 5 a.m. in LA. He would call Cara after he had seen de Turris.

  It was raining hard, and he asked the taxi driver to do a U-turn and stepped out on the opposite side of the street to the de Turris house at the Berkeley Hotel. He ducked into The Blue Bar, a great place to gather his thoughts. Despite the deluge outside, Marcus treated himself to a Champagne Bellini as a private salute to English spring.

  He sat in a corner. He needed to explain to de Turris the circumstances surrounding the screenplay and why, after so many years, he was coming to see him. He had with him a copy of FALL OUT tucked in his jacket.

  The bar was quiet, a couple of suited businessmen huddled over a small computer screen on some deal, and two women from the mink and Mercedes set, rattling their jewelry at each other and complaining about their husbands.

  The rain eventually subsided. It was time to make a move. As he rose to leave, a nurse bustled into the bar, her starched blue uniform oddly out of place. The barman smiled in recognition.

  “Mary, sneaking out for a quick one while you’re on duty?” he teased.

  “Away with you, John,” came back the heavy Irish accent. “You don’t be having a split of champagne there in the fridge? For some reason we’ve run out. You know how much he enjoys a glass at lunch.”

  The barman leaned down and pulled out the requested bottle. He handed it to her. “Give Mr. de Turris my regards, if you know what I mean,” he smiled.

  Marcus was somewhat taken aback that Stefan was in need of a nurse more than a year after the accident, but this presented with an opportunity too good to pass up.

  “Do let me help you with that,” was the best he could think of, as if a 200-pound nurse would be troubled by the effort of carrying a quarter bottle of champagne no bigger than a Coca-Cola.

  “I was just coming over to visit Mr. de Turris. I see he hasn’t quite started his lunch,” he added.

  The nurse looked him up and down very suspiciously. Marcus sensed that he needed to be careful.

  “Know him well, do you?” she asked.

  “Not close friends, but we were business associates for many years. The movies, actually… hence the script,” Marcus said pulling FALL OUT from his jacket. He smiled at her hoping the effect was warm charm, not cold desperation. The nurse looked doubtful.

  * * *

  “We both go to Holy Trinity in Sloane Square. Thought I’d pop in, if that’s alright,” added Marcus remembering they had once met there for a wedding and hoping a religious tack would work. It did.

  Deciding Marcus was friend not foe Mary smiled. “Let’s be off then,” she said. She marched out, quickly crossing over to the house with Marcus following.

  “I often go and listen to Father Bradley on Sundays myself. I’ll look out for you. Nice man, although he likes a drink.”

  Swiping an electronic card against a pad, Mary led him in.

  Marcus stopped in his tracks.

  “Never been here? It’s quite a sight.”

  The oval shaped hall was spectacular. The floor was an ancient black and white mosaic of extremely intricate Asian design. The walls were covered with glass display cases. Those on the left contained a vast array of small seashells and next to them were cases filled with round coins of copper and bronze, each with a square hole cut into them. Inside the cases both shells and coins were hanging from slender silk ribbons which were in turn suspended from ancient leather belts. The cabinets to the right contained what looked like four-inch miniature scimitar shaped knives. Made from bronze with a circular hole at the handle end, they too were attached to belts by silk ribbons. Lastly there was a display of small bars the size of a man’s thumb, made from what appeared to be gold, silver and bronze.

  “They’re all apparently various types of money,” said Mary. “And those tub things,” she said pointing, “I’m told are the sign of an emperor’s residence.” Circling the room stood nine three-legged oval-shaped bronze cauldrons. Each was about waist high and large enough for a man to hide inside. Marcus guessed each must weigh at least 1,000 pounds. The meaning to anyone entering that house was clear. Here resided money and power.

  Mary beckoned Marcus to follow her up the wide spiral staircase. As he climbed, he noticed the curved wall to his left was pocketed with small alcoves, each discreetly lit from above by a halogen spot bulb.

  Under each light was a single delicate work of art. An elegant long-stemmed jade wine goblet, an intricately patterned porcelain plate depicting the piercing blues and reds of a dragon and a peacock. On and on the treasures stood lining the staircase like soldiers in their sentry boxes. Everything was museum quality. It was a stunning display of cultured wealth.

  In the last alcove crouched two small winged lions. Nestled between them was a small photo of a young girl grinning between two life-sized stone versions of the same animals. A child’s writing on the photo read ‘Tianlu and Bixie’.

  “It’s his daughter,” the nurse informed Marcus. “She liked the lions. He keeps her picture there to remind him of her, I’m told.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No. Never visits. She’s grown up now, Miss Melinda. She has a business in cans.”

  Marcus looked at her perplexed.

  “In the South of France,” Mary added helpfully.

  He then understood and smiled. She’d meant the town, not the container.

  “I know it well. I go to the Cannes Film Festival there every year,” said Marcus.

  “I understand she’s a builder,” said Mary. Marcus again looked puzzled.

  “Of stands and such. For those conferences.”

  He was intrigued now and continued up the stairs. He became aware of the light hum of machinery and the aroma of disinfectant. On reaching the top, they turned left and walked to the end of a parquet-floored corridor.

  Up to that point Marcus had seen no one apart from the nurse and had been surprised at the apparent lack of staff in such a big house. Now he understood. They were all here in the one room at the end of the hall. There were three more nurses, two female, one male and a middle-aged man in a dark suit sitting quietly in the corner behind a desk.

  Noticing Marcus looking at the man Mary said “That’s Giles, the chauffeur. Miss Melinda asked we keep him on, he being so fond of her father. He felt so guilty he hadn’t been driving that day. Do you know Miss Melinda, you being in films and Cannes?”

  Giles looked up, scowling at Mary.

  “Mr. de Turris had mentioned her,” Marcus lied. Depending on Stefan’s reaction to seeing him again, Marcus wanted to be as vague as possible. He need not have worried. A shadow of the man Marcus remembered as Stefan de Turris was being spoon-fed lunch. Looking like a small shrunken doll, he was sunken into the bed, as if he was lying in quicksand. Various wires were attached to him and oxygen was being gently administered via a clear tube that forked into two small vents under his nose.

  Mary handed over the champagne bottle and a nurse dribble
d a few drops into some water inside a small baby’s bottle, complete with teat. Stefan’s eyes stared vacantly into the room.

  “Mr. Vallings, the lawyer who looks after things here, told us Mr. de Turris had a heart bypass about ten years ago. The surgeon said that a little champagne every day was good for him, and right up to the accident Mr. de Turris insisted he had a drop at lunch. We keep up the tradition. Poor man, it’s his only treat nowadays,” sighed Mary with sympathy.

  Stefan’s eyes turned to Marcus, but he gave no outward sign of recognition. There was a pause and a glance from Mary to Marcus. “Father Bradley asked me to send you his best regards. I’ll tell him you’re surrounded by women and still drinking champagne,” Marcus said, smiling gently.

  No reaction from Stefan, but thankfully a smile from the nurses.

  Mary had noticed Marcus’ expression.

  “You look a little shocked. Did not Father Bradley tell you?” she asked?

  Marcus shook his head, “Yes… but I didn’t quite understand…”

  “Was there anything else” she asked him, nodding at the script

  Marcus was still holding?

  “No, probably not in the circumstances,” said Marcus turning to leave. “Poor Stefan, how serious…?”

  “It’s not good. Let’s just say I don’t think you’ll be asking him about scripts and movies for a while.”

  “Exactly what I told the other gentleman,” said the chauffeur. Marcus stopped and looked at Giles, still sitting at his desk.

  “Other gentleman? Who?” he asked trying to sound casual.

  “Don’t remember his name. We got a call a few weeks ago. A man asking if we had received a script. I told him that all mail sent here goes directly on to Mr. de Turris’ daughter. If there was one, she’d have it. I mentioned the call to the family lawyer, Mr. Vallings.”

  “Giles,” admonished Mary. “We don’t discuss such things in front of strangers.”

  “You brought him in, so I assumed he wasn’t,” said Giles, the implication that she had been less than discreet herself hanging in the air. Marcus sensed tension between the two.

  “Seems even if you’re at death’s door, people still expect you to answer the mail,” Mary said ignoring the chauffeur.

  “I’d like to write to his daughter. This must be very hard. Could I trouble you for her address?” It was a gamble but after a moment’s hesitation Mary made up her mind.

  “They’re not that close but…” and she went over to a writing desk by the window and looking in an address book wrote the details down on a sheet of paper. Marcus thanked her as she handed it to him.

  “She calls herself Mako now for some reason. I also added her phone number. I doubt you will reach her on it though. According to Mr. Vallings when she’s not building things, she spends all her time at sea in a Rover Aquatic S or some such.”

  Marcus turned to look at Stefan de Turris, at the same time trying to decipher what possible craft Mary was describing.

  “Bye, Stefan. I’ll pop in again soon.” He turned to the nurse.

  “Thank you, Mary. I’ll see myself out,” he said quietly.

  Stefan de Turris’ mind was all he had left and it was working overtime. Why had this man, whom he recognized as the callow youth from THE LAST COMPANY, suddenly decided to visit him? How dare that foolhardy nurse give him the contact details of his daughter! What was this script about? Who rang? Telling Riley and the caller that his daughter had a copy could only mean one thing. She was in danger.

  Locked in his motionless body, Stefan’s mind seethed with frustration.

  As Marcus walked down the stairs and out onto street, he had to assume the caller was asking about FALL OUT. So, who rang? But the real question was why?

  If Marcus couldn’t speak to Stefan about it, he wanted to speak to his daughter. Maybe she could help. He had heard of the famously abrasive Cannes designer called Mako but had no idea until now she was Stefan’s daughter. He needed an introduction that would get her attention and generate an offer to meet at the Cannes Film Festival.

  He translated in his mind what he imagined Mary to mean as the Rover Aquamatic S and went in search of a very specific kind of shop.

  * * *

  In the taxi home he got an email that gave him a glimmer of hope, news that possibly changed everything.

  * * *

  Dear Marcus,

  Sorry not to have responded earlier. I understand you have optioned FALL OUT.

  I have decided to come to the Cannes Film Festival. Have only one slot available.

  First week. Wednesday 11:30 a.m. Penthouse, 67 La Croisette. Do not be late.

  Best,

  Robert Kelso

  The flood of relief that swept over Marcus quickly dried up when he read the next message.

  Marcus. Where the hell are you? Call me. Drop it. FALL OUT kills.

  Cara

  * * *

  There was an attachment with three names on it. Idly he looked them up on the movie and television data base www.imdb.com and sure enough he had worked with them on THE LAST COMPANY. On seeing their photos, he remembered they had something else in common; a shocking event that bound them together.

  In addition, all three of them were dead.

  19

  MANILA, PHILIPPINES

  Haribon Guinto needed to deal with the bound body downstairs. He drew slowly on his cigar and then gently blew on the tip until it glowed. His jet-black hair was swept back in a widow’s peak over his forehead and the heavy black framed tinted glasses framed his face. It was early evening now and he stood looking out over the Makati district of Manila. His large frame was clothed in a dark blue silk suit, a handmade ivory colored shirt with large 24 carat gold eagle head cufflinks.

  The office furniture of black leather, glass, and chrome was the same as in any other corporate office; modern, sleek, and expensive. Apart from an oil painting of an eagle there were no other personal touches, no clues as to where this well-groomed man had sprung from.

  To most Filipinos, Haribon Guinto had just appeared, like a modern-day Count of Monte Cristo, complete with his own seemingly bottomless access to capital, which he had used to create a property and entertainment empire.

  Not far from his office he could see his company’s newest development of two massive buildings, one a hotel, the other luxury apartments. Both clawed their way into the humid sky. He had bought himself the largest penthouse suite – at a suitably discounted rate of course. The hotel was completed, the apartments would be finished in just under a year. At least it would save him from hours of sitting in Manila’s notorious traffic when he headed towards his current home between the Polo Club and the American War Memorial Cemetery. And the apartment would be closer to the action.

  Well over sixty, he still enjoyed the company of beautiful women. Having no desire to marry or have children was rare in a Filipino man, but his own childhood brought back unhappy memories and his real family was his business empire. In any case, he could not have survived with only the traditional single querida or mistress, much preferring the string of girlfriends his wealth and bachelor status provided him.

  There was only one person he considered true family. An older woman from his past who lived with him in his large house in the city. He would never sell it. She could remain there when he moved to the penthouse.

  As he stared into the twilight settling on the city, he could make out the lights of the port and the large tankers out at sea. It was no more than seven miles northeast, but the traffic was so bad at that time of day had he wanted to drive there, it might as well have been in a different time zone.

  He turned, looked down the length of his vast office to the window at the far end and picked out the landing lights of the jets coming into the international airport ten miles to the south. He held a special affection for both the harbor and airport. They were where his career as a petty criminal had started and ended.

  His youth had been tough, but at first, no
t underprivileged. His father, Jorge, had been a cog in the Marcos’ machinery, slavishly lapping up the stories and hype about the President and his wife, Imelda.

  Haribon’s mother, Conchita, had grown up with Imelda. She was always quick to defend her classmate’s ‘little excesses’. She would remind her only son and his pretty doting nanny, or ya-ya, that Imelda had spent her youth living in a garage.

  Imelda’s father, Vincente Orestes Romueldez, had been a lawyer, whose wealthy first wife died leaving him with a large house and five children. When he remarried, his original children from the first marriage looked down on his second wife and her first child Imelda, eventually banishing this second family to the rooms over the garage.

  It was here that Imelda would play with a neighbor’s child Conchita, identifying different types of birds while hidden in the lush undergrowth of the garden, out of sight of the hated stepbrothers and stepsisters. Their favorite bird was the haribon, the huge Philippine eagle. Whenever they spotted one, they thought it an omen of good luck.

  It was only natural that years later when Conchita had her first and only child, she would nickname him after the lucky omen. Haribon’s father however, had christened him “Ferdinand” in homage to the President.

  Jorge Guinto owed his position as a local planner to his wife’s closeness to Imelda. The two young women had kept in touch and when Imelda married Congressman and future President Ferdinand Marcos, Conchita’s connection transformed Jorge’s career.

  Over a few short years, Jorge managed to accumulate a degree of wealth from the bribes he took from local contractors. However, what he most craved was recognition for his own talent rather than forever riding on his wife’s well-connected coattails.