“Lum Lee,” Brock said. “We’d done some hauling for him before. Antiques, so he said.” He smiled. “I think Mr. Lee is one of those fellows who catches big fish in troubled waters. You know, a temple gets looted, or a museum, or some maggot’s house, and all of a sudden there’s valuable stuff for sale at a bargain.”
“Maggots?” Moon said.
“Rich moneylenders,” Brock said. “Bankers. I think it’s a Chinese word. Maybe Vietnamese. And I guess you’re supposed to pronounce it mah-go. Anyway, Mr. Lee was in a hell of a hurry. He’d just heard that the Cambodian army was pulling out of a district up in the north, and he had some stuff he wanted to retrieve before Pol Pot’s little savages got there.” Brock grinned. “He said it was ancestral bones.”
“Ancestral bones?”
Brock laughed. “Yeah. That’s what he claimed.”
He studied Moon, nodded. “Your brother said you were good at figuring things out.”
“Not really. Mr. Lee contacted me too. I thought it might really be ancestral bones he was after.”
“Anything’s possible out here. Maybe so,” Brock said, grinning. “We were shorthanded, so Ricky flew a chopper up there himself. Then he radioed in and said to tell Mr. Lum Lee he had the cargo and he was going to stop at Vin Ba and then come on in.”
“Vin Ba?”
“It’s a little rice village up on the edge of the hill country. Next to the Nam border. It’s where Eleth’s family lives. They’re in the charcoal-making business. She was visiting up there, and he was going to stop and pick her up.”
Brock paused, thinking about it. No happiness in his face now. -
“I guess he did,” he said, and paused while the gusting wind blew rain against the windows. “Her body was in the wreckage with his. Eleth and Ricky.”
For the very first time as Brock described this, it became real to Moon that his brother was dead. It was no longer an abstraction in which Ricky dead was merely a phrase that meant no more than Ricky away. For much of Moon’s adult life Ricky had been away. Now Moon was conscious of a void that would never be filled. He closed his eyes.
But Brock was talking again, about the site of the crash, near the Vietnam-Cambodia border. About an ARYN patrol finding the wreckage after some farmer reported a fire. About flying over the place, looking down on the site, finding a place to put down, and walking up into the hills to see about the bodies.
“I called your mother about that. The soldiers had buried them right there by the wreckage. She said just leave them be. Let him rest in peace,” Brock said. “That sounded like what he would have wanted anyway. You think?”
“Yes,” Moon said. “Ricky wouldn’t have wanted to be messed around with.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, opened them. “You talked to our mother about the little girl?”
“I didn’t think about it,” Brock said. “I guess she was in shock, hearing Ricky was dead. I guess she didn’t think of it either.”
His mother would have thought of it, no doubt about that. It meant she didn’t know about the child. Ricky hadn’t just kept the secret from him.
Brock had seated himself on the chair beside the kitchen door. “Coffee’s steaming,” he said. But he did nothing about it.
“It was an accident,” Moon said. “That’s what the embassy people told my mother.”
“I guess so. Or maybe some of Pol Pot’s Khmers were up that way and shot it just for fun. What’s the difference?” Brock got up, disappeared into the kitchen. “Black or cream or what?”
“Everything,” Moon said. “If it’s handy.”
“That Chinaman wanted to know about his cargo. I told him the copter was all burned up. Nothing in it. He wanted me to fly him up there to make sure. I said no way. if the Khmer Rouge had shot one copter they’d shoot another. But when I was away he talked Rice into flying him up. Rice’ll do absolutely anything. Doesn’t give a shit.”
“I guess they didn’t find it,” Moon said. “Mr. Lee is still looking.”
“Rice thinks he’s immortal,” Brock said. “Kismet. Fate awaits. That’s the George Rice slogan.” He emerged from the kitchen with two cups, gave one to Moon, reseated himself. “But I was surprised Ricky flew up there. What for? What was he doing? Nothing up in those ridges but three or four little villages. Hill tribes. But the Vietcong hide out up there, and nowadays I guess the Khmer Rouge too.”
“I heard Rice was in Bilibad Prison,” Moon said. “I was going to see if I can get in there and talk to him tomorrow to find out if he knows what happened to Ricky’s daughter. But they say he’s not there. And I need to know what you know-”
Brock’s expression went blank. He held up his hand. “What are you saying? You saying Lila’s not here?”
Brock’s wife was standing in the bedroom doorway, “Oh, God!” she said. “What happened to her?”
“What happened?” Brock repeated. “You telling me Castenada doesn’t have her?”
“I don’t know what the hell happened,” Moon said. “Castenada said someone was making arrangements to bring her out, and Victoria-that’s our mother-was flying out to Manila to pick her up. But she had a heart attack, and Castenada doesn’t seem to have any idea what happened to the child.”
“Son of a bitch,” Brock said. “I guess Rice must have-”
“Screwed up? I guess he did,” Moon said. “I heard he might have got distracted into another line of business. I heard he was arrested and stuck in Bilibad. But they say-”
“He’s not in Bilibad,” Brock said. “President Marcos and Imelda have Bilibad ifiled up with politicals. They sent Rice down to Palawan Island. To the prison down there.”
“Oh,” Moon said, not knowing how to react to this.
“You’re looking for little Lila, then,” Brock said. “They didn’t get her on a flight to Manila? I thought that was all set up.”
“By you?”
“By Rice,” Brock said. “Well, sort of by me. After Ricky and his lady were killed, we were moving things down to Long Phu. We were sort of expecting you to show up and take over, but we figured you’d have made the move anyway. Too risky where we were and things beginning to go to hell at Saigon. And then one day the Vinh. woman showed up. Eleth’s mother. She said they were trying to get moved out to Thailand but they weren’t having any luck because everything was blocked off, either by the army or the Khmer Rouge. She said Ricky and Eleth had planned to move to the States someday. They’d told her if anything should happen to them she should send Lila to her American grandmother. The old lady believed that with the Khmer Rouge coming they couldn’t keep the baby anyway because Pol Pot’s people were killing all the foreigners, and the baby looked American. So I called Castenada and talked to him about it and then I called this fella we work with in Saigon. I told him to get an airline ticket for the girl and fix up the documents she’d need and call me when everything was ready. Then the plan was for Rice to fly Lila up there and send her along to Castenada.” Brock paused. “Now you’re telling me Rice didn’t get it done? Is that right?”
“Castenada says the child didn’t arrive. So whatever you set up didn’t work,” Moon said. “Where’s the girl now, do you think?”
Brock heard the anger as well as the questions. He sat staring at Moon.
“Well, it ain’t as simple as I made it sound,” he said, finally. “We couldn’t get the goddamn papers. We couldn’t get an airplane seat. The wise guys in Saigon were hearing things that scared them, so the line in front of the U.S. Embassy was about a mile long and not moving. And the fat cats and generals’ wives were filling up the outgoing traffic.”
“And so you let it go,” Moon said. “Just dropped it.”
“I thought we’d get it fixed up. I had to come here to take care of problems. I told Rice to bypass the embassy and work on the CIA people. They owed Ricky a lot of favors. I said, Call in the IOUs, and I figured he would do it. I figured it was all taken care of.”
“From what I hear, your
Mr. Rice managed to get a load of heroin flown out to Manila,” Moon said. “Why couldn’t he leave a little of that behind and crowd the kid on?”
Brock took a sip of his coffee, eyeing Moon over the brim. From the bedroom came the sounds of the woman getting dressed. Brock put down the cup.
“You want to hear about this or you want to fight about it?”
“All right,” Moon said. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”
“George must have thought he had it handled. I know for sure he took the girl up to Saigon with her grandma. Then he came back to Long Phu. There was a load of things there waiting that a customer wanted out. So George flew it down to Singapore. We had an old DC-Three we’d bought down there, getting it fixed. George picked it up and flew it over to Manila to pick up a spare engine and some spare parts we’d located there. And some Filipino customs people nailed him.”
Brock sipped his coffee.
“And seized our DC-Three, of course. That’s one of the reasons I’m still here in Manila: trying to get the damned thing released so I can fly it back. And working with this shyster lawyer trying to get George sprung out of prison. And trying to finalize a contract Ricky had started negotiating last winter.”
“So the little girl, she’s still there in Saigon, you think? With her other grandmother?”
“I don’t know. Maybe so. Maybe not. The old lady’s Cambodian. She doesn’t have any connections in Saigon.”
“Okay, then. Where the hell else would she be?”
“I guess you’re going to have to talk to George,” Brock said.
SAIGON, South Vietnam, April 19 (Agence France-Presse)-A spokesman for U.S. Ambassador William Martin told a Vietnamese television interviewer last night that the ambassador and his wife are still in Saigon “and have not packed any belongings.”
The Seventh Day
April 19, 1975
GETTING INTO THE PRISON ON Palawan Island and arranging a conversation with George Rice would be what the woman at the U.S. Consulate called “relatively simple.”
“The Marcos government keeps the important criminals up here at Bilibad to keep an eye on them,” she told Moon, looking up at him over her bifocals. “The Communists, the Huks, the wrong kind of politicians, old family types who have bad ideologies but good connections-they’re kept up here in Manila. They use Palawan for the regular criminals: robbers, burglars, murderers, car thieves, smugglers, rapists, so forth. The ones the government doesn’t have to worry about.”
The consulate clerk paused with that, rubbed her plump and dimpled chin, and considered what she might add to make sure Moon had received her message. Thinking of nothing, she looked up at him again and nodded.
“I think we can get you in, under the circumstances,” she said. “It seems to be a good cause. Finding a missing relative, I mean. And there doesn’t seem to be anything political about this Rice fellow.”
Then she suffered an awful second thought.
“There isn’t, is there?”
Looking into her determined stare, it seemed to Moon that this was another of those rare times when fudging a little on truth was ethical.
“I think he’s a Republican,” Moon said, and restored the clerk’s helpful attitude. She smiled at him.
“I don’t think they’d keep anyone there they considered dangerous,” she said. “I mean politically dangerous. I understand it doesn’t have any walls. Just sort of a big rice plantation surrounded by the jungle.”
“What keeps the prisoners from escaping?” asked Moon. The unexpected good news had stimulated his natural urge to be friendly.
The consulate clerk felt no such urge. “I have no idea,” she said. “Leave me your number and you’ll be informed when we get clearance.” While she was saying it she closed the folder in which she’d placed the request Moon had typed out, a copy of the relevant page from his passport, and the rest of the paperwork, and opened another folder and pushed the button that would send the next problem into her office to be dealt with.
“How long do you think it will take to get clearance?” Moon asked. “Any idea?”
“Probably two days if you’re lucky,” she said. “But don’t count on being lucky.” And she dismissed him with her official consulate clerk’s smile.
Moon had retreated to the Hotel Maynila to wait. He collected his laundry. He bought more socks and underwear. With the help of a vastly overweight cabdriver he solved the problem that large Americans have in Asian countries. The owner, either in ignorance or whimsy, called the shop L’Obèse Boutique, and in it Moon found two shirts, a water-repellent jacket, and jeans big enough to fit him. Then he got on the telephone to L.A. He talked to the nurse in the Intensive Care Unit and learned that Victoria Morick was still not ready for transfer to the Cardiac Care Unit but was “doing as well as can be expected.”
He left word for her doctor to call him at the Maynila. He called his own number in Durance and reached Debbie. Debbie reported that J.D. hadn’t been able to find anyone to put his engine back together, and what could he do about that? Shirley’s dog was no longer on the premises, and no, she didn’t know what had happened to it. She’d had his car washed. And don’t forget he’d been gone for her birthday. Also, she missed him terribly.
“I miss you too,” Moon said. “I dreamed about you last night.” True. And, of course, it had been an erotic dream. After he hung up, he sat awhile on the edge of the bed, glumly thinking about that. Why did he kid himself about the Debbie relationship? Why? Because for some reason he had never been able to fathom, he always needed to think of himself as the guy in the white hat. Moon, the good guy hanging around to save the poor maiden when J.D. and the other predators dumped her. Never Moon the going-to-seed lecher kidding himself about his motives with this sexy youngster.
Enough of that. He called the newsroom and learned from Hubbell that Rooney was threatening to quit, that their Sunday editorial about the ski basin had produced indignant telephone calls, that the Ford dealer on the school board was threatening to pull his advertising if the sports editor didn’t lay off the football coach, that nothing much was happening on the vacation edition, and that they’d had an electrical fire in the darkroom and were farming out their photo printing until the rewiring was done. That was playing hell with the newsroom budget.
Those duties done, Moon considered what was left. He should call Mrs. van Winjgaarden and tell her about Rice. He should return the three calls he’d had from old Lum Lee. Instead, he walked to the window and looked out at the evening. Lights coming on along Roxas Boulevard and Manila Bay. Clouds blowing out to sea. Stars appearing.
He picked up the telephone. What would he say to Mrs. van W.? Now that it seemed likely he could find Rice and talk to him, he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to go to Palawan Island and visit this jerk in his jail cell, and she would certainly expect him to go. He didn’t want to go to collapsing Vietnam. Or bloody Cambodia. He wanted to go home.
Failing that, he’d go for a walk.
He walked faster than his army regulation pace at first because he was tense and he needed to burn off nervous energy. But the mild air got to him quickly. April is April, even in a climate where winter hardly makes itself noticed, and yesterday’s rain seemed to have provoked a sort of renewal. The perfume of flowers overpowered the aroma of decay. He could hear songs of frogs in the ditches, insect sounds, some sort of night bird he couldn’t identify, other noises strange to him. And on a night like this, Manila slept with its windows open. Somewhere someone was playing a violin. He heard laughter. A radio far off to his right broadcast Bob Dylan exhorting Mr. Tambourine Man to play a song for him. He meet three boys on bicycles. He met a couple hand in hand, the man grinning, the woman giggling. He met an old man carrying a cat. He thought about the priest in the confessional.
The priest had said his name was Julian. if this stroll took him past the cathedral, he’d go in and see if Father Julian was waiting to absolve his evening quota of sinners from their
guilt. If he was there, if no one was waiting to confess, he might go in and ask if Julian would like to continue their conversation. Moon guessed he would. After all, he’d left the confessional with the priest’s curiosity unsatisfied. And he’d been rude. He’d like to apologize for that.
What was that big sin, Julian had asked, and he’d told him he’d killed a man. There had been silence then: Julian surprised, Julian shocked. The priest must have wondered if Moon was simply mocking him. His response, when it finally came, suggested that. The tone was light. As with the secular law, he’d said, the church has degrees for homicide too. Had he committed murder, premeditated and done with unrepented malice? Or had it been homicide committed in a sudden rage? Or perhaps Moon had left a fellow to starve stranded on some isolated cliff, simply out of forgetfulness. That would be another sort of sin altogether. Probably no sin at all. And the litany might have continued, had not Moon interrupted and cut it off.
It was murder by self-indulgence, he’d said. Far too many bourbons with water and then too much insistence on driving when Halsey wanted to drive and should have driven. Then driving too fast, losing control, flipping the jeep, killing Gene Halsey, killing the best friend he ever had.
And Julian had said, Ah, that is a terrible tragedy but not a terrible sin. To be a terrible sin it would need to be done with deliberation, an intentional, defiant violation of God’s prohibition against killing one’s fellow human being. And Moon had been able to bear no more of these sterile truisms. He had interrupted Julian again.
“I understand all that,” he’d said. “I was an altar boy. I memorized my catechism answers. That wasn’t the terrible sin I meant. That only set the stage for it.” And he’d stepped out of the booth and walked into the darkness and the rain. Tonight there was no sign it would ever rain again. The moon, about two days short of full, hung over the yacht basin and made a bright yellow streak across Manila Bay toward Moon. It cast his long shadow ahead as he walked down the broad path and sidestepped this evening’s migration of roaches and turned onto the bricked corridor that led to the cathedral steps. But the moonlight didn’t follow him inside. It seemed darker than he remembered.
Finding Moon Page 11