Out on the Rim

by Ross Thomas

  “Probably clipped you for a hundred pesos,” the gray-haired American said.

  “Think so?”

  “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” the American said. “We turn Corregidor into a goddamn shrine and just one hell of a big tourist draw and who do they give priority to? The fucking Japs, that’s who—the same fuckers who flattened it during the war.”

  “Grandsons of the fuckers probably,” Stallings said.

  “Same thing. Where you headed?”

  “Manila Hotel.”

  “Me too. Wanta share a cab?”

  Stallings agreed and they were nearly halfway to the street before he stopped and turned to examine the American carefully. “What if I’d said no?”

  The American gave him a small tight grin. “Then I’d just have to look you up later, Mr. Stallings.”

  They went to the nearest air-conditioned bar instead of the Manila Hotel. It was a gamey waterfront place called the Shoreleave that featured the usual teenage bar girls and some extremely loud hard rock. When one of the bar girls swayed over to see whether they wanted company, the gray-haired American told her to fuck off and have somebody bring them two bottles of San Miguel but no glasses.

  “Might catch AIDS from the glasses,” the American explained to Stallings. “All these bimbos like it up the rear, you know. Birth control, Filipino style.”

  “What’s your name today?” Stallings asked.

  “Weaver P. Jordan.”

  Stallings nodded, as though confirming some dark suspicion. “A real spook name.”

  Jordan smiled his small tight smile and said, “What’s a spook?”

  The beer came then and Jordan used his palm to wipe off the mouth of his bottle. Stallings didn’t. After Jordan drank a third of the beer he put the bottle down and leaned across the table on bare forearms that had too much meat and too little hair.

  The hair on his head, by contrast, was long, thick and gleaming gray. Beneath it was the still undefined face of a grumpy baby with wet diapers and a broken rattle. The cheeks were fat and round and the mouth was small, pink and wet. It was a face, Stallings thought, that in a few years would collapse in upon itself like some leftover party balloon.

  “I’m with the Embassy,” Weaver Jordan said, trying without success to keep his tone confidential and still make himself heard over the hard rock’s din.

  “Whose embassy?”

  “Who the fuck’s d’you think?” Jordan snapped, reached into his shirt pocket, palmed something and pushed it across the table. When Jordan’s hand lifted, Stallings picked up an ID card encased in laminated plastic. The card claimed Weaver P. Jordan III was an employee of the United States Department of State and should be accorded all the rights and privileges attendant thereto. It also claimed he was 5’101/2”, weighed 178 lbs., and had been born forty-three years ago in Indiana, although the exact place of his birth was left unspecified.

  Stallings dealt Jordan back his ID card. It was snatched up and stuck back into the shirt pocket. “What d’you do for the Embassy, Weaver?”

  “I’m with the cultural attaché’s office.”

  “I should’ve guessed,” Stallings said.

  Jordan drank another third of his beer and then leaned toward Stallings, again trying without success for a confidential tone. “I’ve got a message for you.”

  “Who from?”

  “Your son-in-law.”

  “Which one? I have two.”

  “Secretary Hineline,” Jordan said and paused for dramatic effect. “A three-word message.”

  “Well, I guess three’re about all Neal could manage.”

  “The three words are,” Jordan said, “‘Cease and desist.’” He leaned back, again wearing the small tight smile that displayed no teeth.

  Stallings nodded, as if digesting the message. Then a thought seemed to strike him. “Could I send him a reply through you folks at the Embassy?”

  “Yeah. I guess so. Why not?”

  “Three words,” Stallings said. “Four, if you count my name.”

  Jordan took a small notebook from his hip pocket and a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his shirt. With notebook open and pen poised, he again nodded at Stallings.

  “The message is,” Stallings said, speaking at slow dictation speed, “‘Get stuffed, Love, Dad.’”

  Jordan slowly put his pen down and watched, small pink mouth slightly open, as Booth Stallings rose and headed for the Shoreleave’s front exit, pausing only long enough to hand a 100-peso note to the bar girl Weaver P. Jordan had told to fuck off.

  At the crowded Philippine Airlines office in the Inter-Continental Hotel, Booth Stallings took a number and found a seat among forty-one other prospective passengers. One hour and nine minutes later his number was called. He asked the reservations clerk how soon he could get a seat on a flight to Cebu and was told he could fly out at 4 P.M. Handing the clerk his American Express card and passport, Stallings told her that would do nicely.

  Artie Wu received the call from Booth Stallings at 1:39 that afternoon and by 2:14 P.M. he and Quincy Durant were up in Stallings’ room at the Manila Hotel, packing the Lew Ritter clothes and surprisingly few personal articles into the old buffalo Gladstone.

  The last item was a book that Durant glanced through.

  “What’s he reading?” Wu asked.

  “Auden,” Durant said. “Early Auden.”

  He passed the book to Wu who placed it in the bag and zipped it closed. A knock at the room’s door made them look at each other.

  “A bad-news knock, if ever I heard one,” Wu said.

  Durant went to the door and opened it. There were two of them in the corridor, one behind the other, both wearing a “Made in the U.S.A.” look. The one nearer the door was in his thirties and rather elegant, which Durant automatically assumed to be some kind of disguise. The number two man, Weaver P. Jordan, afforded no elegance at all.

  The elegant man examined Durant with interest. “I don’t believe you’re Mr. Stallings, are you?”

  “I don’t believe I am.”

  “I’m Jack Cray and he’s Weaver Jordan. We’re from the Embassy and since Mr. Stallings apparently isn’t here, we’d very much like to talk to you, Mr. Durant. And also to Mr. Wu.”

  “What about?”

  Cray erased the polite smile he had been wearing and made himself look serious—even grave. “Prison, I suppose, and how to avoid it.”

  “Come in,” Durant said.

  After the introductions were over they all sat down, except Durant, who leaned against a wall. Cray and Jordan took chairs; Wu the couch. “I think I’d like a beer,” Wu said with a smile. “Anyone else?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take a beer,” Jordan said, ignoring the chilly look Cray gave him.

  Durant served Wu and Jordan beers and then resumed his place at the wall. Jordan popped his can open, drank thirstily and grinned at Durant. “You’re the stand-up guy, huh?”

  “Piles,” Durant said, looked at his watch and then at Jack Cray. “We’re a little rushed.”

  The answering expression on Cray’s face seemed indifferent to time. It was a lean face that stretched tanned skin over crags and hollows, planes and ridges. The mouth curved slightly up at one end, down at the other, giving the entire face a look of chronic dubiety. The voice matched the face. It was a baritone, harsh and dark and full of gravel.

  “As our beloved Vice-President might put it,” the gravelly voice said, “you guys are in deep doo-doo.”

  “That bad?” Artie Wu said.

  Jack Cray ignored Wu and looked at Durant. “You and/or Mr. Wu did identify or discover the bodies of the late Emily Cariaga and the equally late Ernesto Pineda, right?”

  “Right,” Durant said.

  “And both of you are associated with a Mr. Booth Stallings who arrived in Manila accompanied by a Miss Georgia Blue and a Mr. Maurice Overby, also known as Otherguy Overby?”

  Weaver Jordan belched softly and said, “Old Otherguy. And here I thought he wa
s in jail again.”

  Wu studied Weaver Jordan, nodded as if at some sad conclusion, and turned to Cray. “Was your last sentence an accusation or merely a question?”

  “A question.”

  “Then the answer is no.”

  “You’re not associated with them?”

  Wu drank some of his beer and said, “Mr. Durant and I are ‘associated,’ as you call it. We’re partners. We’ve also known both Miss Blue and Mr. Overby for quite a few years. Mr. Stallings we met only recently.”

  “Let me put it another way,” Cray said. “Are you engaged in any venture with Stallings, Blue and Overby?”

  “To put it still another way,” Durant said, “that’s none of your fucking business.”

  Cray smiled and shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I think I’ll try delicacy.” He brought the gaze down and locked it on Durant. “Two weeks ago, or thereabouts, Booth Stallings was approached to serve as an intermediary to a political figure here in the Philippines. He was smart enough to discuss the proposition with his son-in-law who holds a responsible post at the State Department.”

  “The car wax king,” Durant said.

  Cray ignored the description. “Mr. Stallings’ son-in-law eventually committed the gist of the proposition to paper and circulated it within the department just at a time when policy toward the Philippines was undergoing an extensive review. The memorandum caused serious discussion at the highest level.”

  “The shit hit the fan,” Weaver Jordan said with a grin.

  “His son-in-law wired Mr. Stallings, urging him to abandon his project,” Cray went on. “The message was delivered personally to Mr. Stallings today.”

  “By me,” Weaver Jordan said. “Stallings fired back a rocket that said, ‘Get stuffed, Love, Dad.’”

  “Pithy,” Artie Wu said.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Stallings’ reply brought our shop all the way into the picture,” Cray said.

  Wu looked at Durant, apparently puzzled. “Their shop?”

  “That big store out in Langley,” Durant said.

  “Oh.”

  Cray’s sigh was one of nearly exhausted patience. “It was decided at a very high level that Booth Stallings is to be prevented from carrying out his … venture.” Cray paused to stare coldly first at Durant, then Wu. “Those who aid or abet him, wittingly or unwittingly, will also be … discouraged.”

  Artie Wu turned to Durant. “I’d say old Booth’s gone and got himself into a real pickle.”

  “Dearie me, yes,” Durant said as he left his spot by the wall and moved over to where Jack Cray sat. Staring down at Cray, he asked, “What do the Aquino people say about all these crazy Americans running around, trying to interfere with their government?” When Cray made no reply, Durant looked surprised. “Don’t tell me you haven’t even mentioned it to them?”

  Weaver Jordan tossed his now empty beer can into a wastebasket and said, “Why don’t we just load these two assholes on the next flight back to L.A.?”

  “Yes,” Artie Wu said softly. “Why not, Mr. Cray?”

  Cray rose. Although he had been sitting for at least fifteen minutes there were no wrinkles in his gray suit. He gave Wu and Durant a final inspection.

  “Within a week we’ll’ve turned you two inside out.” He smiled. “Unless Lieutenant Cruz beats us to it.”

  When neither Wu nor Durant replied, Cray turned, walked swiftly to the door and opened it. Weaver Jordan also started for the door, but stopped long enough to give Wu and Durant one of his small tight grins and a wink.

  “See you in Cebu, guys,” he said and followed Jack Cray out of the room.

  CHAPTER 24

  With Otherguy Overby buckled into one of its rear port-side window seats, the Boeing 707 took only an hour to fly the 365 miles due south from Manila to the long skinny island that centuries before had been called Sugbo, then Zugbu and, finally, Cebu.

  Bristling with a spine of green mountains, the island was three hundred kilometers long and forty kilometers across at its widest point. About halfway between its northern and southern tips, facing east into the Bohol Straits, was the port of Cebu City, population 600,000 or thereabouts, and of all the cities in Asia, Otherguy Overby’s absolute favorite.

  As the Philippine Airlines 707 began its descent to Mactan Airport, Overby thought about why Cebu City still ranked so high in his pantheon of metropolises. For one thing it’s old enough, he told himself, and you like real old towns. Cebu City had been founded in 1565—an easy date for Overby to remember because it was exactly four hundred years later that he had walked down the gangplank of a Sweet Lines coaster and onto Pier Three with $29 and change in his pocket.

  A year after that, he had flown up to Manila and then on to Bangkok with close to $3,000 in a brand-new money belt. And that’s why you like Cebu best of all, he decided. Because when you were a kid here you got fat instead of winding up dead broke on the beach.

  The Spanish had founded Cebu City forty-four years after Chief Lapu-Lapu’s spear ended the life of the Portuguese navigator Ferdinand Magellan on Mactan Island, the same island where Overby’s plane was landing. They had finally put up a statue to Lapu-Lapu, and named a tasty fish after him, but what the Cebuanos revered far more than the dead chief were the fragments of Magellan’s Cross, the first Christian cross ever seen in the Philippines.

  The fragments were said to be sealed inside another cross made out of tindalo wood that was on display in a kiosk on upper Magal-lanes Street. Overby remembered that the shrine, if that’s what it was, had drawn pilgrims, beggars and pickpockets in almost equal numbers. He assumed it still did.

  Once inside the airport terminal, Overby ignored the blandishments of a dozen guitar salesmen and found a driver who swore his taxi’s air-conditioning still worked. Partly to get back into practice, Overby haggled with the driver over a flat rate to the Magellan Hotel. The bargain struck, they left the airport, drove up and over the Mandaue-Mactan bridge, past the Timex plant, along the south edge of the Club Filipino golf links and into the short drive of the twenty-three-year-old Magellan Hotel that long ago had awarded itself four stars for ambience and five for service.

  Twenty-one years had passed since Overby had first checked into the Magellan Hotel. That had been right after he’d run his $29 stake up to $200 in a touch-and-go deal for ten cases of PX Camels, smuggled down from Subic by the second mate on a Panama-registered freighter. As soon as the $200 was safely buttoned into his hip pocket, Overby had checked out of the YMCA and into the Magellan.

  The five-story hotel was built in the shape of a Y. It boasted two hundred rooms and more bellhops than it really needed. Three of them now saw Overby and his bag out of the taxi and into the hotel. As he entered and glanced around, Overby noticed that the lobby still reeked of maximum tolerance. It was the same atmosphere he’d found the world over in commercial hotels that made a point of not being overly curious about their guests or their guests’ friends. He remembered that at one time such hotels could always be found down by the train station. Now they were all out near the airport.

  Conservative by instinct, Overby was also pleased to see that almost nothing had changed in the Magellan’s lobby. There was still an honest-to-God cigar stand next to the elevators, right where it should be. Across the lobby from the elevators were the reception desk and, next to it, the barred cashier’s window. To sit on, there were the same low comfortable chairs and couches, now occupied, he saw, by packaged Japanese tourists in their twenties and thirties who seemed to be wondering where the action was.

  At the reception desk, Overby asked about his reservation. The young room clerk sent his eyebrows up and down in the Cebu salute and murmured that the manager would very much like a word with Mr. Overby. The clerk went away and returned with Antonio Imperial.

  Overby didn’t try to hide his shock. “Jesus, Tony, you’re the manager?”

  Imperial, a short wide man with a wide brilliant smile, spread both hands in a gesture that encompasse
d the entire hotel. “Imperial of the Magellan—at your service,” he said and reached across the counter to grab Overby’s right hand and pump it vigorously. “How long’s it been, Otherguy?” Imperial said, still pumping.

  “Eight years,” Overby said. “Hell, maybe nine. But back then you were still working the front nights.”

  “Remember when you checked in here the first time twenty-one years ago and I was the kid who carried your bag up?” Imperial gave his head a “time flies” shake and turned to the hovering young clerk. “Mr. Overby is to have the best of care, Zotico. The very best.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

  “I’ve got some other people coming in, Tony,” Overby said.

  Imperial recited their names from memory. “Blue and Stallings later today; Wu and Durant tomorrow. Correct?”

  Overby grinned. “No wonder they made you manager.”

  “Maybe we could have a drink later, Otherguy—catch up on things.”

  “I’d like that,” Overby said.

  When Antonio Imperial, general manager of the Magellan Hotel, turned, banged the bell and barked, “Front!” at the cluster of bellhops, Otherguy Overby felt that perhaps, at long last, he really had come home.

  Seated in front of the window air-conditioning, Overby had just opened his second bottle of beer when the phone rang in his fifth-floor room that offered a view of the golf course. He crossed to the phone and answered with a hello.

  The woman’s voice said, “Mr. Overby?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same Overby as in, ‘Out of the five, Overby’s the one’?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Overby said, “Could be.”

  “Then I think we should meet.”

  “Where?”

  “Guadalupe.”

  “The church?”

  “Yes, the church.”

  “That’s way on the other side of town.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Again, Overby hesitated. “All right, when?”

  “Four?”