Out on the Rim

by Ross Thomas

  She glanced at the key and said, “This doesn’t say much.”

  “The rental agreement’s in the glove compartment. The time’s on the agreement. The car’s a gray Toyota. With the key you can go look.” He turned to glare at Durant. “Anything else?”

  “You wouldn’t still have that map the Colonel drew, would you?” Durant said.

  Overby put his drink down and used both hands to pat all his pockets, frowning the while. When one of the pats reached a hip pocket, the frown went away, replaced by a smile. Out of the hip pocket came a folded square of hotel stationery, which he handed to Durant.

  Durant unfolded the sheet of stationery, glanced at it, and passed it to Artie Wu who studied it carefully. “It does seem to be a map of some kind and very nicely drawn too. Maybe we owe Otherguy an apology.”

  “We owe him fuck all,” Durant said.

  “I apologize for everyone, Otherguy,” Wu said. “Especially Quincy.”

  “Forget it,” Overby said.

  Wu nodded agreeably. “Now let’s go back to what you saw up in the hills tonight. Was there anything at all to indicate that the particular spot you drove to might be used as a rendezvous by the NPA?”

  Overby grimaced at the ceiling, as if trying to remember. “I got out and walked around,” he said. “There were some cigarette butts. In fact, a lot of them. All in one spot.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Suppose you drove back up there tomorrow and simply waited,” Wu said. “What do you think might happen?”

  “I think the NPA wouldn’t much like it and they’d take me someplace I didn’t want to go.”

  “But that would give you a chance to play Weak Link, wouldn’t it?”

  Overby shook his head. “They wouldn’t buy it, Artie. Not if I just pop up out of nowhere.”

  “Of course not,” Wu said. “But suppose they knew we thieves had fallen out?”

  Overby brightened and smiled his hard, merry smile. “Let’s hear it.”

  Wu blew a smoke ring first. “Tomorrow morning downstairs at breakfast, you and Georgia will have a knock-down, drag-out argument. I assume the NPA people will hear it—or about it—and report back to Espiritu. So when you show up in the hills, say tomorrow afternoon, you’ll not be altogether unexpected and your credentials, although limited, will have been established.”

  “I’d be kind of a defector,” Overby said.

  “A double-crosser,” Durant said. “A part you can really lose yourself in.”

  Overby ignored him and stared coldly at Wu. “I can also get myself shot, Artie.”

  “This is not exactly a risk-free deal, Otherguy.”

  “I don’t mind shared risk,” Overby said. “But up till now it looks like Stallings and me’re the only ones sticking our necks out.”

  “Georgia’s goes on the block tomorrow,” Wu said. “Mine and Quincy’s shortly thereafter.”

  Overby produced his hardest smile. “Tell me about it.”

  “Once you’ve ‘gone over,’ let’s call it, the NPA will naturally wonder if you’re a plant. The obvious person for them to question is Georgia. She’ll have to bear up under that questioning.”

  “Okay,” Overby said. “That’s her. What about him?” Him was obviously Durant.

  Wu sighed. “The reason Quincy and I hired the plane and flew down early is because a mismatched pair from Langley came calling. They know what we’re up to, more or less, and plan to stop us. We—Quincy and I—can’t let that happen.”

  Durant smiled at Overby. “Want to trade risks, Otherguy?”

  Overby shook his head. “I think it’s about evened out.”

  Artie Wu rose from the bed. “Then I think we should all get some sleep unless someone has something else to say.”

  No one did. Georgia Blue was the first to leave. Then Overby. Wu and Durant waited silently for two minutes. Durant then went to the door, opened it, looked up and down the corridor, closed the door softly and turned back to Wu. “We’re slicing it awfully thin,” Durant said.

  Wu nodded. “And it’s going to get even thinner.”

  Otherguy Overby stood at his room’s window fifteen minutes later, staring out into the night’s nothingness, when he heard the soft knock at his door. He opened it, showing no surprise when Artie Wu entered quickly, closing the door behind him.

  “A pep talk, Artie?” Overby said.

  “A small warning. It’s going to be tricky.”

  “Too fucking tricky.”

  “We’re going to need luck.”

  “You never counted on luck before. You don’t even believe in it.”

  Wu moved his lips in what may or may not have been a slight smile. “This time’s different, Otherguy. So if you find your luck running out, cut yourself loose.”

  “Every man for himself, right?”

  Wu’s answering smile was only slightly larger than his previous one. “Or herself,” he said.

  CHAPTER 28

  The shouting match ended the next morning at 8:49 in the Magellan Hotel’s Zugbu restaurant after Otherguy Overby threw half a cup of lukewarm coffee in Georgia Blue’s face and stalked out.

  Breakfast was served buffet style in the Zugbu and Overby made sure he had finished his scrambled eggs, rolls and some tasty sausages before he gave Georgia Blue the signal to begin the performance.

  It was a vicious although generic kind of domestic scrap with few specifics and much acrimony. Alleged infidelities were recalled. Long-buried grudges were exhumed. Failed joint ventures of a suspect and possibly criminal nature were alluded to, and through it all ran the recurring theme of money and its lack.

  The audience, mostly Filipino, Australian and American—plus a contingent of Japanese—found it all fascinating. The Japanese seemed particularly appreciative, despite the absence of subtitles.

  After Overby left, Georgie Blue calmly wiped the thrown coffee from her face with a napkin. She lit a cigarette, smoked it for several moments, ground it out and called for the check. She signed it with a hand that trembled only a little, rose and made a slow dignified exit that drew appreciative murmurs from the Japanese.

  She used the house phone in the lobby to call Artie Wu. When he answered, she said, “The son of a bitch threw a cup of coffee in my face.”

  “Wonderful,” Wu said.

  “There was a full house.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ll be at the pool the rest of the morning,” she said and hung up.

  Breakfast that morning for Alejandro Espiritu and Booth Stallings consisted of cold rice, more fruit and a can of brisling sardines that Espiritu ate with relish. Stallings passed up the rice and sardines, settling instead for two bananas and three cups of tea.

  They had sat up long after midnight, discussing and failing to settle the problems of the world. After six hours of sleep they rose and ate breakfast. When Stallings had finished his third cup of tea he leaned back in his chair and said, “Let’s talk about your five million, Al.”

  “Is there really such a sum?”

  “In Hong Kong.”

  “Marcos once put a price on my head, you know. Two hundred thousand pesos—about ten thousand American dollars. Now that’s money you can comprehend—even count. But five million dollars U.S.?” He shook his head.

  “What’re you going to do with it, Al? Buy guns?”

  “Of course.”

  “If I can figure that out,” Stallings said, “so can the money men. Which brings us to the main point. Who the hell are they?”

  “You didn’t talk to them?”

  “Only to a guy who claims to represent them. He says they’re a consortium of firms that have a billion or two invested out here and wouldn’t mind spending five million to get their money out or even make a few bucks. They think once you’re in Hong Kong, your movement will fall apart and Aquino can patch things back together.”

  “But you didn’t believe the lies their emissary told you?”
/>
  “No.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “I was sent for, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes. You were.” Espiritu studied Stallings for ten or fifteen seconds, then frowned and said, “Would you like to know what’s really going to happen?”

  “Sure. What?”

  Espiritu took a deep breath. “First, Aquino hasn’t a prayer.”

  Stallings grunted. “What’s two?”

  “For four centuries the Philippines have been run by oligarchies of one stripe or another. Mrs. Aquino’s a life-long member of the current one and because she’s one of them, they’ll give her nine months, a year, maybe even longer—until the economy collapses. By then the so-called February revolt will be long forgotten, or remembered only as the great deception. Add disillusionment to total economic collapse and you get general unrest—strikes, riots and the like. Guess who they’ll blame?”

  “The communists.”

  “Of course. Harsher military measures will then be proposed and tried, followed by the inevitable military coup. The new junta—or the new exalted maximum leader—will promise to bash the Reds, bring back prosperity and hold free elections in six months, a year, two years—sometime. The elite will breathe its collective sigh of relief. Money to exterminate the terrorists will pour in from Washington and things will return to the status quo ante, which will suit the elite perfectly.”

  “Historical inevitability, huh?”

  “It’s inevitable that you and I’ll die, Booth. We just don’t know when. If we did, we’d spend all we have to postpone it. Well, these money men of yours, whoever they are, don’t want to postpone anything. They want to hurry it up.”

  Stallings’ smile was sardonic. “So the sooner you get your guns, the sooner the coup.”

  “Exactly,” Espiritu said and smiled. “They really do need me, Booth.”

  Stallings nodded thoughtfully. “Five million doesn’t sound to me like quite enough.”

  Espiritu shrugged. “It’s seed money. That’s all.”

  “I suppose,” Stallings said and looked around the room. “Where’s Carmen?”

  “She was here earlier, but she left.”

  “Who the hell is she, Al?”

  “My wife.”

  “Before that?”

  “The daughter of an old friend who Marcos had arrested and interrogated years ago. They asked him questions that made him thirsty. So they gave him water to drink—four, five, even six gallons at a time. He died, of course. Carmen was twelve or thirteen then. I arranged for her education and afterward she chose to join us, first in Luzon and later down here.”

  “So why’d you marry her, Al? It wasn’t sex unless you’ve changed a whole lot.”

  “Sex always seemed such a—dissipation of time. I married her out of political expediency because I’d just had the stroke and I needed a surrogate. I thought I could trust her. She saved my life, you know.” He paused. “I suppose you didn’t. She brought a specialist up from Cebu at gunpoint. Blindfolded. I couldn’t go to a hospital, of course, and it was a very difficult political time because we had to position ourselves for the snap election.”

  “You guys sat it out,” Stallings said. “You thought Marcos was a shoo-in.” He frowned. “Jesus, Al, was that your idea?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Let’s go back to the money then,” Stallings said. “When did talk about it first begin?”

  Espiritu closed his eyes, as if that helped him to remember. “Around the beginning of March.”

  “Who approached you? I mean who dropped by one sunny afternoon and said, ‘Hey, Al, how’d you like a quick five million?’”

  Espiritu smiled again. “You always liked the details.”

  “My meat and drink.”

  “Nobody approached me. They went through Carmen.”

  “She handled the negotiations?”

  “Under my guidance.”

  “They ever meet face-to-face—Carmen and the money men?”

  “Of course not. They used a cutout.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Will you write another book, Booth? I liked Anatomy of Terror immensely. Did it make any money?”

  “Who was the cutout, Al?”

  “An Australian. An expatriate Australian.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Stallings watched Espiritu’s obvious inner debate. When it was over, Espiritu smiled slightly again and said, “A peculiar name. Boy Howdy.”

  Stallings clamped his teeth together, hoping it would keep his face blank. After a moment he risked a nod and said, “You’re right. That is peculiar. Who picked him—Carmen or the money men?”

  “They did.”

  Stallings rose from the table, crossed to the plastic sack, peered inside and removed a warm bottle of San Miguel. He looked back at Espiritu. “Want one?”

  After Espiritu shook his head no, Stallings opened the warm beer which foamed up and out of the bottle. He raised it quickly to his lips. Once the foam had subsided, he drank deeply, went back to the table and stared down at the seated Espiritu.

  “What’re you now, Al—the ventriloquist or the dummy?”

  “You’re referring to Carmen, of course.”

  Stallings nodded.

  It was seconds before Espiritu spoke again. “I must get to Hong Kong, Booth.”

  “Boxed in, huh?”

  Espiritu nodded. Stallings drank the last of the beer and again stared down at the seated Filipino. “And you really need that five million?”

  “Desperately.”

  “That sister of yours really your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she can come and go?”

  Espiritu nodded.

  “Could she, say, get down to Cebu and deliver a message this morning to someone at the Magellan?”

  “Probably.”

  Stallings carefully set his empty beer bottle down on the table next to the plate of banana peels. He placed both hands on the table, palms down, and leaned toward Espiritu.

  “I’m not in on this deal alone, Al.”

  Espiritu nodded and said, “Durant, Wu, Overby and Blue, I hear.”

  Stallings nodded.

  “You didn’t quite trust me, Booth.”

  “Couldn’t think of much reason why I should.”

  “What are they—mercenaries?”

  “Kind of.”

  “And you trust them?”

  Stallings nodded.

  “Then you’re as big a fool as ever.”

  Stallings stopped leaning on the table and straightened slowly, cocking his head a little to the left as if to make sure he heard what came next.

  “Say it, Al. Whatever it is.”

  Espiritu studied Stallings with what seemed to be detached interest. “Very well. At three this afternoon, according to Carmen, one of your trusted colleagues is coming to see me with what I’m told is an interesting counterproposal, the details of which are yet to be revealed.”

  Stallings was surprised at his sudden rage, which seemed so real and rare and pure that he almost enjoyed it. He leaned across the table toward Espiritu, started to reach for him, thought better of it and again straightened.

  “Which one, Al?” he said, making the words grate. “Which one of the fuckers is it?”

  Espiritu smiled, still studying Stallings with interest. “You were going to hit me, weren’t you?”

  “Which one, Al?”

  “The one called Overby.”

  Stallings’ anger seeped away, replaced by sadness and disappointment. “Otherguy,” he said, more to himself than to Espiritu. “Somehow, I didn’t think it would be Otherguy.”

  CHAPTER 29

  When the moving mass blocked out the sun at 10:52 A.M., Georgia Blue’s eyes snapped open. She was wearing an immodest green bikini and lying on one of the wheeled chaise longues near the Magellan Hotel pool. The shoulder bag was nearby and her hand darted toward it but stopped when the heavy woman
in the bright red slacks said, “I’m Minnie Espiritu.”

  “Minnie?”

  “Minerva. And I’ve got a letter for either Wu or Durant, except they’re not in. The desk says you’re with them so I guess I can give it to you.”

  Georgia Blue sat up slowly. “Minerva Espiritu?”

  “Alejandro’s sister.”

  “You’re from—”

  Minnie Espiritu interrupted, as if in a hurry. “From here. Cebu. But I spent a lot of time in California and sure wish I was back there.” Wariness spread across her face. “You are Georgia Blue, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Minnie Espiritu dropped a folded copy of The Manila Bulletin on the chaise longue near Georgia Blue’s feet, fished a pack of cigarettes out of her red pants pocket and lit one, using both hands to shield the match. She blew the smoke out and turned to inspect the pool and the guests. “Inside the paper,” she said, still inspecting the pool.

  “I’ll take it up to my room.”

  Minnie Espiritu nodded, continuing her inspection. “The Magellan’s not bad,” she said. “I like nice hotels. If I had my way, I’d check into one and never check out. Well, nice meeting you.”

  She turned and headed toward the hotel. Georgia Blue yawned, seemed to notice the folded Manila Bulletin for the first time, picked it up and carelessly stuck it into her shoulder bag. She then lay back down, her left forearm across her eyes, and waited for five minutes to pass.

  In her hotel room, Georgia Blue switched on the air-conditioning, took off her bikini and stood naked in front of the window unit, studying the sealed letter she had found in the folded Bulletin.

  It was an ordinary white envelope with nothing written on its front. She held it up to the window. After staring at it for a few seconds she picked up a thin silk robe from a chair and put it on as she crossed to her suitcase. From it she removed a packet of plain white envelopes, comparing one of them with the one that came in the folded newspaper.

  Satisfied, she used a nail file to slit open the envelope Minnie Espiritu had delivered, slipped the letter from the envelope and took it to the writing desk. It was a two-page letter, folded once.