Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  Conchita had been admitted to the ‘Blue Ladies’, the group of sycophants and aides that swarmed like worker bees around the regal Imelda. Being close to the inner circle, Conchita was aware of the greed and the capricious nature of the President and those close to him. Gossip, scandal, jealousy, and fear were woven into the fabric of Manila society under Marcos’ regime.

  Life was good for Haribon, but in a matter of days, his happy childhood would unravel. First there was a furious argument between his mother and father about his beloved ya-ya. He didn’t understand what it was about, only catching snatches of the heated exchange. All he could gather was his father had discovered something about his ya-ya’s past he felt the President would find of value and duly reward him. Haribon’s mother feared Marcos and warned him of sharing any valuable information.

  “He will take that knowledge, destroy you… all of us, don’t tell him,” she had implored.

  But her pleas were ignored with disastrous consequences. Haribon’s ya-ya disappeared the next day. Less than a week later Jorge was arrested at their home on a trumped-up charge of corruption. Haribon hated him and shed no tears as he was dragged away. His father was venal and hid a string of mistresses from his trusting wife. Still blindly in love with her husband, Conchita tried to rescue him, but to no avail. Despite her son protesting her husband was not the man she believed in, Conchita made the fatal mistake of protesting too strongly to the First Lady, implying the President was behind all this. She suddenly found herself alone and ostracized. Their money dried up as fast as their friends.

  Conchita was devastated at the betrayal of her friendship to Imelda. She just gave up on life. Haribon came home from school one day barely two months after his father’s arrest and found her body lying on the bathroom floor, having succumbed to an overdose of barbiturates.

  There was no sympathy for the teenage Haribon, suddenly without any parents or money to protect him. The house was seized by the government and the teenage boy was out on the street. Once a member of President Marcos’ inner circle, he was now an outcast and alone. The young man took to the streets and started to fight back. He never allowed anyone to call him Ferdinand again. Haribon was his only name.

  He fell in with a bunch of other disaffected youths whose parents had either fallen foul of the regime, or simply never had a chance to benefit from it. Torres was one of them. A few months later Haribon and Torres had their fateful first encounter with the young and skinny kid, Jonathan.

  Before being disowned by the Marcos regime, Haribon had been well educated and had a natural eye for business. He could spot a new trend or an opportunity a mile away. In that corrupt society there were always those who refused to wait when there was a shortage of hard-to-get goods. Haribon always seemed able to procure them, charging a decent fee in the process.

  Although his former friends shunned him, they knew where to go if they needed a color TV, Gucci jacket, or a few grams of coke. But they all paid Haribon’s price. No favors given or expected from this outcast. However, in his late teens he was caught in a sting operation handling stolen goods and served a short time behind bars.

  Haribon had managed to save enough money, so that when he was released from prison, he was able to buy a truck and start a small business. He established a reputation for delivering on time, to the most inaccessible places on the tightest of schedules.

  He seemed to possess an uncanny instinct of knowing when cargoes of value were left unguarded and could be relieved of ‘surpluses’. That ‘instinct’ was, of course, Jonathan, with whom he had reconnected after his release.

  It was because of Jonathan that Haribon’s life had begun to recapture the wealth of his youth. It was Jonathan who had supplied him with the details of shipments vulnerable to a lighting fast hijack. And throughout Jonathan had his back. It was Jonathan who had warned him of the treachery of Torres, and it had been Jonathan’s ruthless intervention that had saved the day.

  But it was via McConnell and de Turris that Haribon Guinto had become one of the richest men in Manila. It was also how his relationship with Jonathan had broken beyond repair.

  * * *

  “We ready,” said a discreet and accented voice, interrupting Haribon’s thoughts.

  Haribon looked at the formally attired chauffeur, complete with polished boots, black leather gloves, and a peaked cap held under his arm. The ensemble looked somewhat incongruous as the man was built more like a sumo wrestler than a driver. He was standing at the entrance to the private elevator that opened into Haribon’s office. There was a fleck of blood on his cheek, along with a faint smirk.

  “Wipe that off,” said Haribon pointing to the driver’s pock-marked face. The driver pulled out a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket to dab the blood and, to make sure he understood every nuance of what his boss said, he also dropped the smile.

  “Tell me again, Datu,” commanded Haribon to the chauffeur as he strode into the elevator and the doors closed with a hiss behind them.

  “He turn up today. He make scene, sir, demand to see you. Say he found marriage certificate in mother things,” said Datu. “He shout about father’s thumbprint on marriage certificate and about LAST COMPANY. Say been redirecting millions of dollars. Orders from Jonathan… I take him out of building… somewhere… quiet…”

  The doors opened into the underground car park. In front of them Haribon’s stretch limousine stood purring, sitting low on its suspension caused by the extra weight of the bullet proof windows and panels. The engine was running to crank up the air conditioning, ensuring it was cool when the owner got in.

  When Datu opened the door, Haribon glanced in and saw the edge of the clear plastic sheeting that covered the limo’s thick pile carpet. A naked hog-tied man lay on it—the bank manager from Pagsanjan. Rafael Satow looked up at Haribon with a split lip and pleading bloodshot eyes. Haribon ignored Rafael and stepping over the man, settled into his seat. Datu silently closed the door and positioned himself in the driver's seat, ready for his next command. Haribon pulled a ticket from his breast pocket.

  “The game, will we get there in time, Datu” he asked though it was more of a command than a question.

  “It start at 10:00 p.m. We be fine sir,” he replied as he slowly exited the garage and entered the flow of traffic.

  Haribon pushed the button that activated the soundproof glass divider and turned to the terrified man.

  “After I get out at the Jai Alai stadium, my driver can either drop you at the train station, or in the harbor. Up to you.” He leaned forward and ripped the duct tape from the petrified man’s mouth. “So tell me, what’s so big that you thought you could march into my office and tell my associates I’ve been duped by a man called Jonathan?”

  “The monster… he told me was my father had no right hand. Yet when I found my late mother’s marriage certificate it was signed using his right thumb. We have all been deceived…”

  Of course, Haribon knew that part of the story but it always helped when questioning someone to start with facts he already knew.

  “And the money you have been sending all these years, it appears that at least one of them, Sam Wood, barely got a penny,” said the terrified banker.

  That fact Haribon most certainly did not know but his face remained calm.

  “And the others; Baines, Kelso, Riley, McConnell, and de Turris?” asked Haribon.

  “I have no idea… I sent the money as directed to accounts in their names… but maybe not…”

  Haribon leaned back in his seat. McConnell and de Turris had convinced Haribon they needed to pay a very specified few to keep the lid on what had happened during THE LAST COMPANY more than twenty years ago.

  There was enough to share. Now it looked as if his own partners may, in fact, have swindled him. A relatively small amount compared to what they had all made. However, no one made a fool of him, or even worse, abused his trust. He lowered the window divider.

  “Datu, give this man
his clothes back.” Haribon looked down at Satow. “This goes no further, or Datu will find you again… and he won’t bother to bring you to me.”

  Rafael nodded vigorously, bursting to try and show this man he could be trusted. He prayed that Jonathan had indeed double-crossed Haribon Guinto and that retribution would find his life-long blackmailer as surely as a heat-seeking missile.

  20

  HOLLYWOOD, LOS ANGELES

  Louis hunkered down in his favorite booth, a cocoon of mahogany, with a deep red leather buttoned banquette. 1940s Hollywood. A restaurant with class. He sat at the prime table facing the door, so he could see and be seen by all those who entered. The usual Jameson Irish Malt Whiskey sat neatly on the table.

  His guest walked in. Robert Kelso made his way straight to the booth. There was a time when he would have commanded all the attention in the room, but not now. He was no longer a force. Louis did not get up to greet his guest, instead motioning with his hand for Robert to sit down. A waiter, who had been hovering in the background came to the booth as soon as the important agent had been joined by his guest.

  Triple Absolut on the rocks, thought Robert to himself. “Perrier with a twist,” he said out loud to the waiter instead. Christo would have been proud of him.

  Louis thought Kelso was pathetic. But the screenplay was a minefield, and he needed Kelso to help defuse it. Skipping any pleasantries, the agent got straight to the point.

  “Let’s make sure we are singing from the same hymn sheet. FALL OUT is for you and me, OK? We’ll do it right; do it justice.” Kelso gave a hesitant nod.

  “Good. Marcus contacted me as I told you, certain he had a hit on his hands and was in control. In fact, he’s out of his depth. Wanted me to package it. Told him I wasn’t interested in working with him, raising money, or putting any of the talent from my agency into it,” Louis swirled the whiskey in his glass, then emptied it in one gulp.

  “However, it’s a great script. I want us to have those rights, so we need to cut him out. That’s where you come in.” He raised a finger and the waiter appeared. Louis just pointed to the glass. The man whisked it away and went to fetch another.

  “No way will Marcus sell the rights to me, due to our past history, but he’ll listen to you. He sees you as a fellow artist.”

  Kelso bridled a fraction. Louis knew that was a hot button. No Director ever wanted to have his creativity compared to a mere Producer.

  “Riley has zero credibility in this town. No idea what Sam was thinking. So, let’s get Riley to face the hard cold truth. His confidence needs wearing down. I’ve made a few calls to some mutual associates, encouraged rumors about incompetence and dishonesty at his old company. No one will touch him. You sent him the note to meet as I suggested?”

  Robert nodded again, this time confidently.

  “As we both agreed,” he corrected trying to assert his position as an equal.

  Louis let it pass. “By the time you see Riley in Cannes he will be desperate, even doubting his own judgment. And I suspect he’s tight for cash. You’ll easily get the rights from him.”

  Louis knew Marcus was dancing on the edge and would have no choice but to eventually drop the project into someone else’s hands; maybe not a hard-nosed packager like Louis but Louis needed it to be someone whose strings he could pull. Who better than someone Marcus respected, someone creative, with an affinity to the story? Robert Kelso.

  “And then in return for me transferring the rights to you, you will finance it. Get it made?” Robert asked. “Unlike that clusterfuck you last had me do?”

  * * *

  “Robert, THE LAST COMPANY ended badly for everyone. It was years ago,” soothed Louis. “I had only the best intentions for the production. I appreciated your help keeping a hothead like Marcus on track. It would have been a great movie. Once those people stole the film though…”

  “It cost a man his life, Louis. That place was a hell-hole, those locals were ruthless, one of them even threatened me…”

  Louis stared back impassively.

  “At least you managed to move on,” said Kelso.

  “The world has moved on,” said Louis dryly. “We all deal with setbacks in our own way. I just plowed my energy into business,” Louis continued, leaving unsaid how Robert had dealt with his.

  “The important thing is for Marcus to see you’re back,” he said with encouragement. “I can make it work. You did the right thing when you called me. It will pay off,” said Louis.

  “I hope so… And we haven’t even discussed my fees yet,” Kelso deadpanned.

  Poor Kelso, always the greedy patsy, thought McConnell. He hadn’t needed to make THE LAST COMPANY. He could have turned down Louis’ contract, lost a few bucks but kept his precious credibility. But Kelso was just plain greedy. McConnell knew he could exploit that weakness and had offered him the then unheard-of fee of $7 million to direct the film. Once Kelso had signed on the dotted line, his integrity was screwed. Robert simply became Louis’ bitch, jumping through hoops, not allowed to ask questions himself, reciting Louis’ answers to anyone who started querying decisions. He had certainly used his age and experience to beat down Marcus’ doubts.

  Louis knew if what really happened out in the jungle ever came to light, Kelso could never claim innocence. That fee would shine like a beacon of his complicity and guilt. Louis had covered all the bases.

  “You are the key here, Robert. Money isn’t the problem, Marcus is,” cajoled Louis. “This is the plan…”

  “Good morning gentleman, my name is Justin. No, you have had your aperitif may I tell you the specials…”

  Louis ignored the waiter, angry at the interruption. Old timers and heavy hitters never read menus and certainly weren’t interested in the specials of the day, let alone a waiter’s name. Louis was the special of the day. He just ordered what he wanted and either got it or never came back, denuding a restaurant of a sprinkling of stardust and star power. Louis unceremoniously interrupted the waiter.

  “I’ll have a large pot of beluga caviar with melba toast, no diced onions, egg, or other needless crap. I’ll follow that with a 16 oz. New York strip, medium rare, spinach, and onion rings. And a bottle of Opus 1, 1991.”

  Picking up his whiskey and addressing Robert he added, “And in case you think I’m getting carried away with my order it’s because FALL OUT is gonna pay off.” Robert quietly ordered a salad and grilled sole. Louis dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand.

  “What did you think of Scene 15?” Louis asked Robert casually. The Director looked blankly at him.

  “The references to you?” Louis continued calmly, looking for any reaction. Louis clearly remembered the chill he himself felt on reading the scene.

  * * *

  FALL OUT page 25

  SCENE 15

  INT.NEW YORK.OFFICE. LATE AT NIGHT.

  * * *

  CLOSE ON man early thirties bent over architect board. KENNY JENKINS feverishly scrubs out numbers scrawled on pad of paper, scrunches it up and tosses it on the floor in frustration. Floor littered with discarded earlier ones. Clipped to top of architect board is photograph of old flour mill, with a large 2-D plan of the new building below it. On other desk to the left glows a large computer screen with new 3-D cad cam design of same building plan.

  He opens desk. Pulls out bottle of vodka. He pours it into an empty bottle of mineral water on desk. Puts vodka back in drawer.

  * * *

  KENNY (To self)

  It can’t be done like this, guys.

  * * *

  FRANK (OFF SCREEN)

  It can, you have a special gift.

  * * *

  FRANK KIDDO appears.

  * * *

  KENNY

  (Startled. Recovers. Looks uneasy)

  Right. The heart attack you just gave me.

  You don’t knock?

  * * *

  FRANK

  (Looking at wristwatch)

  Maybe you could use some
of that fat advance to pay for a cute P.A.

  (a beat)

  Oh, that’s right. I forgot.

  Lone wolf. Very attractive part of your resume.

  * * *

  KENNY

  (Turning to computer screen on smaller desk. Taps key. See breakdown of schedule and materials)

  I’m busy. Using my talent to gut this design so that it’ll fall over if a rat farts.

  * * *

  FRANK

  Not before we flip it back to the locals though. Take pride in your work. That last piss-ant job out at Staten Island, the Grandview playground development. Made a ton of change for us both.

  * * *

  KENNY

  God help the kids

  * * *

  FRANK walks around desk leans over KENNY’S shoulder, examining the screen then paper on floor.

  * * *

  FRANK

  (Whispers in ear)

  You just work your magic on those specs.