A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tanaka and Hatfield flew PR102 direct to USLAX with Billy Bob’s remains hermetically sealed in a casket on the same airplane and the two boxes of things that started all this. When they arrived at Tom Bradley they had several hours to kill. The Atlantic coast had been inundated by blizzards with many flights cancelled so they spent the time in a bar.

  Hatfield sipped iced tea and picked at a plate of corn nuts and Tanaka devoured a roast like it was his last supper.

  “Sure hits the spot. Glad to be home, huh? No idea how the folks handle it living in that poverty,” said PK Tanaka, between mouthfuls.

  Hatfield brooded…times spent on R & R, the base at Clark, good times between missions. The present day only made him more miserable. “Totally different nowadays, might’ve said. When I was there in the seventies the place was fantastic. Gone to the dogs like the rest of the world,” he remarked bitterly.

  “When you were in the marines, sir?” The question was innocent enough.

  “That’s it…guess it’s not really anything to speak about,” Hatfield mumbled.

  “Basically it’s just been a life in the government for me,” said Tanaka. “Can’t say I’d know what it’s like to be in a war. Anything like what happened the other day I wouldn’t particularly be enamored by it.”

  JJ Hatfield nibbled on some more corn nuts and gingerly sipped the ice tea. His stomach wasn’t the best. Hadn’t eaten anything on the ‘plane. Felt like throwing up right now. The agent’s talking was getting on his nerves a bit…

  “Yeah; yeah as they all say -- you never know if you never go,” murmured Hatfield.

  “Hmmm…I had a relative who served, you know,” remarked Tanaka, as an afterthought. “My old man’s father…he was in the big one, alright. Wounded twice; first one they bandaged up and sent him back to the front. Second one got his left leg. Limped around for the rest of his days...caught a slug from a German rifle, two Purple Hearts and he was sent home… you ever heard of the 442nd Regimental, Mister Hatfield?”

  The 442nd! The old guy coughed when he heard that like he’d been slapped on the back and a handful of nuts fell from his hand back into the bowl. They were legends, beyond reproach. They stood tall, etched in history. Learned about in schools, had memorials dedicated to them. Everybody who ever served in the military had heard of them. They were folklore. The marines knew about the 442nd. So did JJ Hatfield. They were the right stuff, the ones everybody aspired to…

  ‘Go for Broke’.

  They were the Japanese-Americans, they were the volunteers whisked away from the pineapple plantations and fruit groves following Pearl Harbor. Tossed into a bloodbath in Italy, twenty-one Medals of Honor; the most decorated unit ever in the history of conflict.

  It dawned upon JJ Hatfield…this guy wasn’t off the boat, not at all. The G-man was for real. Hatfield suddenly felt guilty, the way he’d treated him since the day they’d met.

  “You…you never said anything.” Hatfield was shocked. “I never would’ve known…”

  “You never asked,” replied Tanaka. The old guy was still staring at him. “You alright?”

  Hatfield stopped chewing and stared at his pitcher of ice tea awhile. He didn’t know what to say or feel right now. To be honest, the agent had followed his son’s case with tenacity and guts, he’d never let up. Latched on and never let go. Walked into a firefight on the streets; nearly got killed. Handled it like a champ, damn fine. He’d organized the return of his son’s body. Wanted to see the thing through but somebody had stopped them.

  PK Tanaka washed down his mouthful with the last of his suds then stood and handed Hatfield a card. “Call me anytime. I’m available on that number all hours, if you need anything. Stay in touch.” He looked serious. “If you ever see or hear anything, call me. Same goes if you receive anything in the mail; any outta-place calls or anything at all, just pick up the phone.”

  He checked the time again: “I’ve got a feeling this is not over yet, not by a long shot. You take care, now.”

  Hatfield stood. Bowed his head, shuffled his feet then extended his hand to the cop. He had guts. “I just wanted to-”

  “Don’t mention it.” Tanaka stood and exhaled, he just shook the old guy’s hand, had to get going. “That’s my job. What I’m paid to do. And we’re not done yet.”

  Tanaka hurried to catch his connection and Hatfield returned to his barstool. On the tarmac the remains of William Robert Hatfield, killed abroad some time after his thirtieth birthday by a person or persons unknown. The casket was being transferred to another aircraft for the final voyage home.

  The passenger vessel jolted hard then it shuddered. The MV Mary Joy II rounded the tip of Borneo and entered Sandakan harbor. The town was surrounded by luxurious jungle cloaked hills with miles of oil palms stretching out and beyond to Brunei. During the Second World War thousands of allies perished in this place, but today it gave sanctuary, albeit temporary sanctuary for those onboard.

  A rumble from deep within the bowels of the ship as the screws thundered; metal clanging upon metal, the Mary Joy listed as she turned. Two passengers leaned upon the railings of the ship on the port side and watched as the ship banked toward the chaotic dock. Their hair caught the sea breeze, they were eye-catching, a sharp contrast to the hordes of scruffy illegal workers, families, traditionally attired Moro men and Malay women in their green scarves and tent-dresses. Pakdee of Phayao had her black silk outfit and next to her, Nattaya Coyote in designer jeans and full length blouse -- the tattoos out of view. They were covered up, very befitting for Malay culture but they’d still stop traffic.

  The one in black reached behind her back, took out a Baby-Browning from her waist, cycled it clear then dropped the gun over the side. Next to her, the coyote dancer clutched a parcel of her countrymen’s passports, all destined for the ‘visa run’. It was a ritual allowing the foreign bearers to legally remain in the Philippines. The documents were run through the terminals and stamped en-masse every three weeks, all for a handful of cash.

  Regret as the tiny lethal weapon disappeared into the harbor’s depths, fashioned many years ago in Belgium from hammer-forged materials no longer available. It had provenance. The twenty-five auto had been her security blanket for the last four days on the voyage and it had helped them sleep soundly but to be caught with a loaded pistol inside Malaysian territory was a capital offence. Pakdee of Phayao had no intention of facing the gallows for something her people viewed as a birthright; for her the gun and the knife were something to be kept within reach at all times. Within arm’s reach.

  The land unit ferried them to the Visayas Islands in their trawler two days earlier. In Cebu City they snuck aboard the Mary Joy II, a decrepit hulk that flew across the Sulu Sea with enough knots to pull a water-skier behind her and leave any pirates in its wake. The lonesome Thais disembarked alongside a melee of three thousand passengers and waited for processing.

  Nattaya Coyote felt uncomfortable. Anna had been snuggled up in their tiny room ten days; she had showed them all kinds of things about making money and how to deal with banks and business-savvy. Unnerving shit like how to blind someone with an ATM card; how to kill a person with a hairbrush…how to escape from handcuffs. She’d paid them on the last day. The three-on-one fistfight that night outside the nightclub, they still talked about it in the back streets and alleyways ‘round Fields Avenue, all around town and the chat rooms.

  They were sorry to see Anna go, her arrival had given them a diversion from their mundane, unromantic lives but lately she’d been distant. At the base of the gangplank they stopped.

  Nattaya was curious, what was on inside Anna’s head? “Thinking about what, Sis?”

  Pakdee looked up abruptly, seizing the coyote’s hand and gazing at her palm. “Nattaya,” she said. “Have you ever considered one day you will be very rich? Rich!! Has anybody ever said that?”


  The dancer was puzzled, she laughed. She shook her head and stared at the ground like a child. “Destiny for a good heart, but I must say nobody has ever told me! I am a poor rice farmer from the northern plains and I take care of my kids and Mama-”

  “Two million Baht,” whispered Pakdee. “All four of you could retire forever and you could give your children the best life imaginable. None of you need take your clothes off in a nightclub ever again. You could buy extra land and you would never be in debt…but its high risk. Interested?”

  The Coyote frowned. “I’m listening.”

  “There is somebody who must die, a foreign man who works at the US embassy in Manila. He is a predator, he’s corrupt and he must be killed. He has hurt me and made me lose somebody I was once close to. He’s a federal official…and he may even come after you one day…I would like you to kill him. Do it as soon as you return to Angeles City.”

  “Kill somebody?! Oieee…!” Nattaya Coyote moaned.

  “And he’s a cop! That’s where the big money lies. Listen up and listen good…”

  Pakdee outlined her plan and how to evacuate the coyote gang after the deed was done. Every detail planned with scrupulous efficiency, right down to the location and how the bad guy would meet his maker. The dancer only nodded, silent and more horrified with every word. She rattled off her a very large number, the one locked away in her apartment in Bangkok.

  “Call me in exactly forty-eight hours, not a minute early; not a minute late -- Philippine time. The number I have given you is a fully secured and tested line, verified by our signals division in Bangkok RHQ. Free of charges; it will call-collect. You do this and your whole life will change. This is real and I am not some fortune-teller.”

  “Bangkok RHQ? Signals Division??” Nattaya was uneasy, now. “Who exactly are you then?” she demanded. She’d known Anna only a short time yet she would never know her; nobody would. She feared her but trusted her in a sense.

  Slowly Pakdee raised her finger and gently touched the coyote’s lips. “Just make the call if you and your cousin want the job. If you don’t you will never hear from me again, I promise. If you chose to accept it may even spare you from future dangers. I stress it’s your choice but the one I speak of has to go.”

  They hugged before going their separate ways. The entertainer was to collect the bundle of passports once they had been stamped and return immediately but Pakdee was briefly in neutral territory and she could relax. Bangkok was a few hours away once she made the airport building. The cultural attaché from Kuala Lumpur was waiting in a hire-car outside the ferry-terminal. He would collect her and escort her home, diplomatic passage.

  The irony, she had once looked down upon low class people like that yet the coyote gang had helped her out. This wasn’t about money, she owed them. And the best way to say ‘thank you’ was with a quick but dirty job that would set them up for life, something she would have loved to do herself but could not. After what Jackson did, Pakdee could think of a thousand different ways to snuff the lecherous pervert.

  Two million Baht…worth every penny; unlike the dancing girls she was not poor. Low society, they all came from the mean streets: destitute farms by the Mekong and slums on the fetid canals; the underbelly netherworld of nightclubs; pimps that ran them, customers that drank in them. Insane places where husbands fought, mothers gambled, siblings munching red amphetamine pills like candy. Unwashed punters, pole dancing and organized crime that stretched from their homelands and outward right across the world. Like the tentacles on a jellyfish.

  The coyote girls knew how to look after themselves. And they knew how to kill if they had to. They were survivors. If Armageddon happened they’d end up in charge…

  Clark International Airport. Still small and basic compared to Manila but a convenient exit point...a group of the specialists were headed out here; others from Cebu disguised as scuba divers, it made a good cover, they knew their watercraft. Boat training was part of the job.

  “Buenos Dias!” The immigration guy smirked and tapped the passenger’s passport, face-up. He checked the passenger out, carefully, as per instructions from above. A lot of weird and wonderful things had gone down in the republic of late. All foreigners were under scrutiny.

  “Officer, we don’t use Español if you don’t mind,” replied the man in a frosty tone. Whether the officer was just plain ignorant, whether he was being facetious or just trying to catch them out, didn’t work. “Portuguese is our national language. Or English too…but I don’t speak so well…”

  They held up their Brazilian passports; they aroused few suspicions and these nations were chosen identities as they had no enemies. The specialists were even given briefings on the nations whose citizenship they ‘borrowed’. Brazilians loved soccer. They didn’t speak Spanish. Many of the Filipinos did, however.

  They would meet near Bangkok’s Chao Phraya River and await further instructions. It was an area they would easily blend in as there were thousands of backpackers from all over the world descending on that section of the city in high season. Once they had cleared border security at the new airport the only challenging task for them was to keep a low profile for a few days and pay their room tariffs on time.

  ‘Arcana’ had spread its wings now and was on the move.

  Major Lowenstein and his expert from C41 were in a different part of the city and as the troops caught their breath he faced the task of logistics, assisted by the signals technician. They were in a modest bungalow close to Bang Saen on the Eastern Seaboard, leased by a European speculator with sympathies and ties to the land unit’s controllers. The tenant was away on business and had granted a short-term lease to the running man and the land unit who would need as much space as they could lay their hands on.

  This section of town had just enough foreigners as not to arouse excess curiosity, but not so many as to invite the attention they’d brought upon Pattaya, an hour to the south by road. In any case the businessman from Poland was reputed to have a close friendship with the police precinct, or so it was said.

  The running man remembered the seaside town of Bang Saen well. It had changed and the prosperity and sheer energy of the place was in stark contrast to the decay and dysfunction of Manila, a place that was reverting to nature in some ways. Years ago the eastern seaboard had been at the centre of an undeclared urban war between several powerful families who had battled for the lion’s share of a real estate carve-up. The factions had often been referred to as the ‘unusually rich’. Disputes over gold were settled with lead and by the mid-nineties the ‘seaboard’ resembled Chicago during prohibition but the dust had cleared in the present day. Now the area was safer than most western cities. These days the rich and powerful locked each other up in the courts.

  He stood out on the streets that evening and lit up. His first for the day. It was nice to be back in the Kingdom again; the Asian tiger bounced along and things had changed. Young Thais cruised by on brightly colored scooters two and three aboard, tapping on the latest smart-phones. It seemed to him the traffic had abated somewhat on what it had been. Korean clothes for the girls and Japanese hairdos for the boys.

  Those pungent odors still there, the same food trolleys and the atmosphere he remembered, raucous noise from television sets and vendors at the end of the street. Community! He smiled -- he was surprised -- pleased to be back again. The lights and labels were new but the heart and soul of the place would remain unchanged in another two hundred years from now. He stepped out onto the road and got a barbequed corn cob from a passing vendor.

  Well over ten years. Enough reminiscing.

  Inside was a mass of wires and other junk to be sorted, maybe a full evening’s work to do. The running man would have loved to catch a taxi to the seaside, pull up a stool at a bar and have a brew; maybe a massage from one of the local guys. Not tonight.

  A group had gathered that day at the
lawn cemetery behind the country Baptist chapel. The FBI man had a wreath delivered; couldn’t make it in person. College buddies, a couple of old friends and a handful of neighbors from around the district. The padre gave Billy Bob a good send-off and some parishioners from the chapel had assembled to sing. Hatfield was slumped and had been limping, he was having a bad day today and the gnawing cramps had gone to his legs and feet -- everything ached. His heart ached. He was the only one left now.

  When the hymns started the sun came out and that was when Hatfield really hurt the most. Snow had fallen the night before and it shone back at him, dazzling him. He was sick and wondered how much longer he had.

  JJ Hatfield was the last to leave, he sent the padre away, night fell and he stayed on then walked up to the shack. Bitterly cold that night, he hadn’t lit a fire. He stood on the landing then back inside, took his automatic and stuffed it in his jacket. Went across the trail and slumped down by the side of the road. Took the gun out again, dropped the mag, then he whacked it back in and cocked it. The forty-five was heavy; he rested it on his knee.

  That big ACP…one thing to just think about it but another go out and do it. Just the thing to shoot a rattler or scare away a brown bear. Or end it all, right here; right now. You could do it now, take the back of your head right off and there’d be nothing left. Just a dead guy in the woods, wouldn’t be the first. Penniless, very ill and alone, what’s the point?

  A noise down at the neighboring farmhouse startled him, the widow next door and the two teenagers there. Heaven forbid if they saw him now. Hatfield watched one of them gather up some firewood and go back inside. Now he was getting cold, his butt was frozen. His Timber wolf sidled over and sat obediently, staring, clouds of condensate as it panted. Almond-shaped brilliant blue eyes. Eyes with no emotion, unblinking, it stared for ages, like it was guarding him.

  “Alrighty, old fleabag, alright…shoot! Git!”

  He waved his arm at the dog, hauled his aching body up and crossed the trail. It ducked, circled round and followed him. It wouldn’t let him out of its sight.