“Oh, I know about you, Mr. Mathias,” he said. “Ricky told me. I think you will find a way.” The grin widened. “I think if Ricky’s daughter can be brought to Manila, you will bring her.”
“What the hell did Ricky-” Moon began, but the question was interrupted. A short plump woman slid into the room, bearing a black laquered tray. On it were two cups, a plate of rolls, and an oversized black Thermos.
“Mi, here is Electra,” Castenada said. And with a sweep of his arm: “Electra, we have with us Mr. Malcolm Mathias.”
Moon stood. “How do you do,” he said.
Electra’s expression reminded Moon of a woman he’d seen on a television newscast being introduced to Queen Elizabeth.
“This is Moon Mathias,” Castenada said. “This is the older brother Ricky has told us about.”
Electra was blushing. She performed something like a curtsy. She said, “Oh, yes, I am so glad to meet you,” and hurried out of the room.
Castenada poured, and served, and talked.
He assumed Moon knew Ricky had died intestate. That meant that in the absence of a will, and in the absence of any evidence that the child was actually Ricky’s daughter, Ricky’s heir would be his mother and-in most jurisdictions-his siblings. He said he understood Malcolm Mathias was the only surviving sibling. When Moon nodded, he said Ricky seemed to have been, as far as he could tell, a legal resident of Oklahoma, in the United States, even though his business address had been in the Republic of Vietnam. Therefore the estate would be adjudicated in an Oklahoma probate court and Moon would inherit- Castenada paused, sipped coffee, eyed Moon over the cup, continued.
“-one half of the estate. Presuming, of course, that there is no litigation.”
Castenada awaited a response from Moon, who had none to make. He hadn’t thought about this. He didn’t want to think about it now. How much could Ricky have accumulated-a retired army captain trying to get a business started?
“After legal fees, of course,” Castenada said, grinning at Moon. “Lawyers are known to be avaricious. International lawyers notably so. Your mother has asked me to handle this. I’ve retained a Vietnamese lawyer who did some work for R. M. Air last year. Reasonably honest, I think. But”- Castenada threw up his hands-“where is he now? When I tried to call him about the child, telephone service was no longer offered to his office at Can Tho. I think perhaps the Vietcong are running the telephone exchange there now.”
“Look,” Moon said, “I don’t want to talk about this. I want to talk about how to get the kid to Manila and from Manila back to the States.”
“All right,” Castenada said. “We talk about that. All I can do is give you the names of some of Ricky’s friends. Maybe they can tell you where to go.”
He flipped open a Rolodex file on his desk and began jotting notes on a pad. “Let us hope, let us pray, that they don’t tell you to go find her in Vietnam.” He glanced up at Moon, face somber. “Or, even worse, in Cambodia.”
1740 hrs. 4/16/75
TO: OfcMgrs
FROM: McK. Embassy
STATUS: Eyes Only-Burn. Rocket from H.K. this date orders top priority evacuation of nonessential personnel. Top limit essential U.S. citizens is 2000. Submit plan by 1400 hrs 4/17 listing essentials your mission and departure schedule for all others. Avoid any leak to non-U.S. personnel.
Still the Fifth Day
April 17, 1975
THE LIST OF FRIENDS MOON TOOK away with him was short, and only three of those named on it might have been in Manila. First came George Rice, a name Moon remembered from the letter in his mother’s purse. Rice, Castenada said, was in Manila “now and then, bringing things in and taking things out.” He had called some time ago about difficulties he was having about an aircraft he had flown into Quezon City.
Castenada had been leaning forward, expression quizzical, remembering the details. “Yes,” he’d said. “Mr. Rice said the customs people were talking of filing a charge and he wanted me to handle it. I told him this firm has no expertise in criminal matters and recommended another law firm to him.”
“Criminal?”
Castenada raised a hand, rubbed thumb against fingers. “It seems to have been some problem with the papers. The manifest. The customs agents of President Marcos follow the example of their leader and handle such things informally.” He smiled at Moon, making sure he understood. “And if the person involved is not willing to be sufficiently generous in rewarding this courtesy, there is sometimes the threat of arrest.”
“Oh,” Moon said. “So, what happened?”
Castenada shrugged. “The lawyer I recommended is experienced in such matters. I heard no more about it.”
“So he may still be here?”
“Or he may be gone. He said he had flown in an old aircraft that needed some sort of equipment installed. How much time does that take?” Castenada’s expression said he had no idea.
Next on the “possibly in Manila ” list were Thomas Brock, who Castenada described as marketing manager for R. M. Air, and Robert Yager, at the Quezon Towers Hotel. Yager was the name Moon remembered seeing scrawled at the end of the letter to Ricky in his mother’s purse. What did Yager do?
Castenada could only guess. “In Asia in these troubled times a business like Ricky’s needs someone who knows everybody, has connections everywhere, can find out-” Castenada hesitated, looking at Moon quizzically again, seeming to ask himself how much this American would understand such things. “Someone would know if General A actually works for the CIA. if General B is about to be fired. If Imelda Marcos is fond enough of this third cousin to cut him in on a construction contract. That sort of thing. I think Mr. Yager is a person who-if he does not know everything-knows someone who does.”
“I see,” Moon said. If Mr. Castenada was giving him accurate information, Ricky’s business seemed to be-well, less orthodox than he’d assumed.
“That is just an impression,” Castenada said. “Just an impression.” He made a deprecating gesture. “One hears things,” he said. “Some true. Some not.”
On the page he’d torn from his notebook to list the friends, Castenada now added the address of Ricky’s Manila apartment. He creased the page into a precise rectangle and put it in a folder. Then he extracted a small envelope from his desk drawer, waved it at Moon, and said, “For you. It came this morning.” He added the letter to the folder, then tore the top sheet from his memo pad and dropped it in.
“Someone named Lum Lee called for you,” Castenada said. “Yesterday. It’s all there on the memo sheet.” He reached across the desk and handed Moon the folder and, with it, two keys on a ring.
“The keys to Ricky’s apartment,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable there than in the hotel, and it’s cheaper.” He glanced up at Moon.
“Remember, I am at your service. And at your mother’s. I think you will have to be here in Manila for a while.” He considered that and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so.”
And Moon had thought, Like hell I will! But now as he dumped the contents of the folder on his hotel room desk, he had a sick feeling that the frail little lawyer might be right. Maybe he’d be here forever. The alternative was going back and telling Victoria Mathias he’d failed her again. Not that she would be surprised. But this time he would have failed in what was likely to be the last opportunity she would ever give him to succeed.
He sat for a moment considering the wallpaper. It was brownish and gold in some sort of geometric design. Then he looked at the memo page. It was dated 10:20 A.M. yesterday.
Please would Mr. Malcolm Mathias telephone to Mr. Lum Lee concerning a matter of mutual interest: room 919, Pasag Imperial Hotel.
Moon put the memo aside. Mr. Lee would still be hunting his ancestor’s bones, or an urn full of cocaine, or whatever it was. A tired old man on an impossible quest. But no more impossible than his own. Moon smiled, remembering Lum Lee in Los Angeles, offering to help him find Ricky’s child. Playing Sancho Panza to Moon’s
Don Quixote. The metaphor fit rather well. In this part of the world the old man would be the wise one, the one who knew the reality of Southeast Asia and the rules of the game. He’d call him. But first he picked up the letter.
The envelope was a standard business size, addressed to Mr. Moon Mathias in care of Castenada’s office. No return address. The postmark was faint, but it seemed to read KUPANG, TIMOR. Timor? An island, Moon thought. Something like Ceylon. But where? And who there would know him as Moon? Know him at all? Have any business with him? He tore it open. The single sheet of paper was as plain as the envelope.
Dear Mr. Mathias:
I am a former client of Ricky’s and I think of him as a friend as well. Only today did I hear the sad news of his death. First please accept my condolences. I am sure that the immense admiration Ricky felt for you was mutual and that the loss must be a terrible one. I, too, have a brother with whom I am very close.
I am asking Mr. Castenada to forward this letter to you. By the time you receive it, or very soon thereafter, I will be in Manila at the Hotel Del Mar. Please call me there. I would not ask this of you if it was not a matter of extreme importance. In fact, it is a matter of life and death.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden
Moon found the Hotel Del Mar in the phone book, picked up the telephone, and then put it back. Life or death or not, it could wait until tomorrow. Mrs. what’s-her-name probably wasn’t even here yet. He did a bit of mental arithmetic and set the alarm beside his bed for two A.M. if he had the time zones right that would be ten A.M. in L.A. and eleven in Durance, a decent time to be ringing telephones there.
In fact, it was a little early for the person he most wanted to reach. Dr. Serna was in surgery and “not available.” The nurse in his mother’s ward reported her officially in serious condition but sleeping comfortably.
The receptionist answered Debbie’s office number. Someone new. She reported Debbie was off today. She’d called in sick. Try her at home. Moon called his home number, let the phone ring twelve times, and hung up feeling uneasy. Sick? How sick? Debbie was never sick, not even during her period. But Debbie often didn’t bother to answer the telephone. And sometimes Debbie wasn’t home when people thought she was. And for Debbie, calling in sick would not necessarily have much to do with the state of her health.
Moon called the paper. Shirley sounded delighted to hear his voice. How was his mother? How was he? How was Manila? When would he be home? Shirley was going by his house every day to feed her dog and wanted to know how soon- “Why?” Moon asked. “Debbie can feed the dog until I get back.” For Shirley, “going by” his house meant driving a dozen miles in the wrong direction. She was sticking herself with a long round trip just because she was too proud to accept a favor from Debbie. Downright silliness. Moon’s mood had shown in his tone, and Shirley’s tone showed she had noticed it.
“I think Debbie may have gone off on a little journey. Or something.”
“Well,” Moon said, wondering how he could make amends, trying to remember how he came to be tending Shirley’s spaniel. Yes, it was because her apartment had changed ownership and the new landlord didn’t allow pets. She needed a dog tender until she could work something out. “Maybe Hubbell could feed the dog,” Moon said. “What do you think? You know he rents a room from me.”
Shirley laughed, placated. “I think he’d tell me to take care of my own damn dog,” she said. “Or maybe something a little worse.”
“You’re right,” Moon said. “But switch me over and I’ll ask him.”
Hubbell said he’d be willing to haul Shirley’s dog out into the San Juans and let the coyotes solve the problem. And how was Moon’s mother? And were the Manila women as slick as they were when he did his navy time in the Islands, and when was Moon coming back, because it was time to get going on the damned vacation edition, and he was pretty sure Rooney was nipping at the bottle again.
“Bad?”
“You tell me,” Hubbell said. Papers rustled. Hubbell read three of yesterday’s headlines and started a fourth one.
“Lordy,” Moon said. “Did they go to press like that?”
“Those were the ones I didn’t catch.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“He just left,” Hubbell said.
“Tell the son of a bitch to stay sober until I get back or I won’t just fire him, I’ll whip his butt right there in the office.”
“All right,” Hubbell said.
“What else? Any good news?”
“J.D.’s been asking about his truck,” Hubbell said. “Said he wanted to go to Denver.”
“Tell J.D. it was the fuel injection pump. I fixed it, and all he needs to do is put in new glow plugs. He can put it back together himself. Or ask one of the guys down at the truck stop if he has troubles.”
Hubbell laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Can you imagine that happening? Getting his hands greasy?”
Moon couldn’t, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He told Hubbell he’d be home as soon as he could. Then he just sat on the bed awhile staring at the telephone, mood somewhere between dismal, disgruntlement, and sleepy stupor. He fell back against the pillow, yawned hugely, and went to sleep.
The phone awoke him. Nine-ten. Who would be calling?
It rang again.
He picked it up and said, “Mathias.”
“Hello. Is this Mr. Mathias?” The voice was hesitant, accented, and feminine.
“Yes. Yes,” Moon said, “this is Mr. Mathias.”
Brief silence. “This is then the room of Moon Mathias? Am I correct?” The voice was small, tone abashed. Moon had a vision of Shirley’s spaniel when Debbie yelled at it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound-so grouchy. But, yes, this is Moon Mathias talking.”
“I am Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden. I had written you a letter. I hope I can talk to you.”
“Of course,” Moon said. What was the accent? Probably Dutch, from the sound of the name. “What can I do for you?”
Silence again. Moon waited. “It is too complicated for the telephone,” she said. “I had hoped we could sit down and talk.”
“Probably,” Moon said. “Where are you calling from? And what will we be talking about?”
“I am at the airport. The Manila airport. I called Mr. Castenada, and he told me you were here. He told me he had given you my letter instead of mailing it on to America. And we would be talking about getting my brother out of Cambodia.”
Good God, Moon thought. What next?
“Look,” Moon said. “I don’t know anything about Cambodia. Or getting people out. What makes you think-”
“I thought you would be taking charge of Ricky’s company. And you are getting Ricky’s daughter out,” she said. “From what Mr. Castenada told me, I understand you are doing that.”
Now the silence was on Moon’s end. Was he doing that? He guessed he would if he could. He didn’t have much choice. But, of course, he couldn’t.
“I would if I could.”
“It won’t be much out of your way,” she said. “And I could be of some help.”
“How?” And what did she mean, out of your way? Did that mean she thought she knew where he was going? Did she know where the child might be?
“If you don’t speak the Cambodian version of French, I could be useful there,” she said. “And I speak one or two of the mountain dialects. A little, anyway.”
“Hey,” Moon said, “what did you mean, getting your brother wouldn’t be much out of my way? Where is your brother? What’s the-”
But now Moon was hearing Osa van Winjgaarden saying something to someone away from the telephone mouthpiece. She sounded angry and tired.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“You’re calling from the airport?” He was thinking, The woman has just got in from Timor, wherever the hell that is, and probably on some little prop-driven airline. She sounded exhausted.
“Yes. A coin telephone box here by the doorway. I am trying to hold a taxi. I’m-”
“Look,” Moon said. “You go ahead. Check into your hotel. The Del Mar, isn’t it? Take a shower. Get some rest. Then call me, and we’ll get together tomorrow morning. Maybe you could come over here and have breakfast and we’ll talk.”
“Oh, yes!” she said. “Thank you!”
He paused. “But I think you are wasting your time. There’s nothing I can do for anybody in Cambodia.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Mathias,” she said. “I don’t think so. Ricky told me about you.”
Special to the New York Times
WASHINGTON, April 16-Secretary of State Kissinger said today that the United States Embassy in Saigon had been ordered to reduce the number of Americans remaining in South Vietnam to “a minimum level needed for essential duties.”
Evening The Fifth Day
April 17, 1975
MOON WALKED DOWN THE dark streets, emerged into the lights of Quezon Boulevard and the busy noise of traffic, and stopped to get his bearings. He loved to walk. It restored the spirit, cured him of whatever ailed him. But tonight it wasn’t working.
This new task was one he could do absolutely nothing about until tomorrow. Only tomorrow would bring the information he had to have before he could decide what to do. Thus there should be no pressure until then. But the pressure was there. He’d watched the evening news on the TV in his room. Mostly Philippine stuff, but enough videotape of refugees flooding into Saigon to remind him that time was running out. So he went through it all again.
Tomorrow he would meet the woman from Timor. He’d asked the hotel desk clerk the location of that island. The clerk had revealed ignorance even deeper than Moon’s.
“It is somewhere way down on the south coast of Leyte,” the man had said, after thinking about it a moment. “Dirty little port town, I think. Nothing much to see there.” He had wrinkled his nose, made a motion of dismissal. “Smells bad. You don’t want to go to Timor.”
Finding Moon Page 6