Klay gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“But you are not young. Forty-five?”
“More or less. I’m wondering, Father . . . I saw the ivory Santo Niño you used in your ceremony, the carvings here in your office.” He pointed. “They say you have the best collection of carvings in the Philippines. You know master carvers. I am thinking if people in the US could see these images, it might strengthen their faith.”
“Possibly.”
“We have a chain of funeral homes across the United States.”
“Is that so?”
“Do you visit the US much, Father?”
“Not for a long time. My home is here.”
Klay paused, annoyed at himself. He hadn’t needed to ask that question. He knew the answer already, and he didn’t need the priest’s lie. According to Eady’s dossier, Martelino coordinated a network of child exploiters. He traveled to the US an average of four times a year, entering by car through Mexico or Canada. Klay had copies of the priest’s Mastercard charges, Facebook posts, WhatsApp texts, and logs of his cell phone calls. Many of the calls were to a convent-orphanage on the other side of the island, which Klay suspected was supply for customers who preferred young girls.
Klay looked at this overfed, satisfied man smiling back at him through his folds of skin. He took in the ivory crucifixes hanging on the priest’s wall, the ivory child sculptures lying on his bookshelves—the living trophies who were everywhere. All of it a single tentacle leading back to Ras Botha.
Control yourself, he told himself.
“My brother is in the meatball business,” he continued, wondering where the hell that lie had come from and what he was going to do with it now that he’d said it. “He left our family funeral home to work for his wife’s father, making meatballs . . .”
“He left your family.”
“He told my father, ‘People die only once, but they need to eat every day.’ It broke my father’s heart, but my brother was right, you know? Funerals and faith are a dying business . . .”
The priest nodded.
“So, Father, I’m in charge of marketing.”
He reached into his backpack and brought out a brochure for O’Shea Funeral Home. On the brochure’s cover was an old black-and-white photograph of a little boy with his arm around a puppy, the pair sitting together on the front seat of a horse-drawn hearse. Klay Funeral Home was no longer in business but the photo was real. Beneath the photograph of Klay’s grandfather, the brochure read, “O’Shea Funeral Home. Serving the community since 1898.”
He’d designed the brochure on his laptop and printed it in the business office of Cebu’s Radisson hotel, where he was staying. Working up the brochure, seeing his grandfather as a little boy, brought back happy memories. Klay and his brother playing pirates in the chapel, riding casket carts and swinging gladiola sabers. The time he forgot to close the hearse door. His father’s humor.
“My stretch limousine, eh, champ?” his father had joked, sliding into the Cadillac’s front seat that last day, with a shoebox in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Klay started the car. When they arrived at Lewisburg prison, Jack Klay opened his shoebox. It was empty. He took off his Hamilton watch and his diamond pinkie ring and dropped them into the box. He leaned back in his seat, reached into his front pocket, and took out his Tiffany money clip. He took out his wallet and put them both in the shoebox, too. Then he closed the lid, set the box on the seat between them, and looked into his son’s eyes. “So, this is where I’m supposed to give you life advice. Okay, remember this: There’s always a who. If he’s done you a service, you thank him. If he’s done you a disservice, you never forget it. Use your head, hit before you get hit, look after Sean, and visit your mother.” He winked. “You’ll be all right. Sal has an envelope for you.”
His father got out of the car, tossed his cigarette, and walked away. Klay had walked away, too. He had not done enough for his brother. He had not visited his mother. Or his father. “Memories,” Klay said now, looking at the priest. “That’s the funeral business. What cemeteries are about. And gravestones. But Americans no longer live near their families, Father. They move all over. They don’t visit family graveyards. So, I thought, why don’t we make gravestones people can take with them? Carvings they can keep on a shelf to remind them of their loved ones, of their faith. Gravestones for their bookshelves . . .”
The priest smiled. “Bookstones!”
“Yes! Like that.” Klay crossed to a bookshelf. “May I?”
On the shelf lay a sleeping Christ child, naked and anatomically correct, with the thumb of one hand touching its lower lip. The child lay incongruously next to a plastic gumball machine filled with candy. Klay hefted the ivory, feeling the weight in his hands. It was the size of a human infant but much heavier, carved from a single tusk. The elephant had been enormous, as big as Voi. Klay ran a hand along the infant’s pale arm. It had the same cold feel as a dead man’s skin.
“Extraordinary craftsmanship, Father. Ivory is elephants, right? This must have been a big one.”
“I think so,” the priest said. Martelino signaled the altar boy to help him to his feet. The priest circled his desk and joined Klay. He wore purple Crocs, Klay noticed.
“See,” Klay continued, “we could put the name and date of birth and death on its back here, just like on a gravestone. How much would something like this go for?”
“Depends. This one is Delarosa. I designed it myself.” Martelino touched a fleshy index finger to his upper lip in the same way as the finger of the infant touched its lips. “Delarosa brought it to—”
“Here you go, Father.”
Klay handed the sculpture to the priest, but Martelino wasn’t prepared for the icon’s sudden weight. He pitched forward, and would have dropped the sculpture if not for the altar boy, who darted to the priest’s aid. The boy steadied Martelino, but in his rush he knocked the gumball machine off its shelf. The plastic toy hit the floor and shattered. Blue candies skittered across the tile floor.
“Idiot, Sixto!” the priest shouted. “You pick up every goodie!”
Klay bent down to help the boy. The candies weren’t candies. They were quaaludes. The fat fuck was drugging the altar boys.
The young boy looked terrified. “Sixto,” Klay said to him quietly, smiling. “I’m six two, too.”
Sixto looked back at Klay with uncomprehending eyes. Klay helped him scoop the quaaludes up with a piece of paper and pour them into a tissue box. Sixto retrieved a dustpan and swept up the broken dispenser and dropped the pieces into Martelino’s wastebasket. Watching the boy, Klay felt the weight of powerlessness in the face of evil. He got to his feet. “You know, I don’t think we could do ivory, Father. It would be better, certainly, but it could be a problem. There are laws about ivory, aren’t there? Let’s think about wood, okay?”
The priest dropped heavily onto a sofa. “Batikulin is the best wood,” he said without interest. “Santol is cheaper.”
“I would only want to do this for our wealthy clients. Price is no object. They only want the best.”
“Then ivory! Ivory is what we want, Tomas!”
We.
Klay looked at the ivory sculpture. “It is beautiful.”
“Of course. Ivories will be the perfect memorial for your dead ones.”
“How would I get these to the United States?”
“There are ways. For the Vatican, I wrapped a dormido in dirty underwear, covered the underwear in chicken blood and human shit, like a dirty diaper. No one opened it. When the cardinal asked about it, I told him his Niño was so real he even smelled like a baby.”
Klay laughed.
“Could we get the Vatican to bless it?”
“The Holy Father, no. The papal nuncio, no. But I have many contacts in the Holy See. They know my relics. First, we will discuss with my carve
rs. Get me my phone, Sixto.”
When the boy had left, Klay continued, “We would need a supplier in Africa. Do you know someone?”
Martelino slapped Klay’s knee. “That’s the easy part!”
The priest leapt from his sofa with surprising speed, crossed the room, and took a book from a shelf above his desk. It was a Koran. He opened it, and a handful of photographs spilled from the book onto his desk. “The Muslims bring it from Africa.”
“The Muslims?”
“On Mindanao! Look at this.” The priest handed Klay a photograph of a commercial pier, and a pair of large ships rigged with purse seine nets in the background. In the foreground rows of plastic tubs the size of refrigerators appeared to be filled with small fish in crushed ice. Klay did a quick count of the tubs, multiplying the number he could see on each axis; there were hundreds of them. Standing among the tubs were four men holding automatic weapons.
“That’s a lot of fish.”
“Zamboanga is the sardine capital of the Philippines.”
Martelino handed Klay more photographs featuring the same pier. A steel nozzle sucked sardines out of the large plastic tubs and dumped them onto a conveyor belt rolling into a building Klay assumed was a cannery.
“I tell my supplier his ivories stink like fish. It gets me a discount!”
Klay studied another photograph and suddenly realized elephant tusks were poking up among the sardines. It was not only a sardine cannery. It was an elephant graveyard on ice.
“Oh, that’s clever, Father. How much can your people get for us?”
The priest shrugged.
Klay felt a growing urgency. His digital recorder had been running all morning. He needed a connection to Botha. The public had an interest. He had an interest. “Which countries would it come from?”
The priest’s eyes sharpened. “Why do you care?”
“We’ll need a reliable supplier. Not from a country at war . . .”
“Yes. Well, I don’t know that side. They talk about Zanzibar because of the Muslims. But I don’t know. I don’t need to know. It’s not a problem.”
“I used to hunt with a South African who might be able to help us,” Klay said. “Ras Botha. He’s a professional hunter, works all over southern Africa.”
The priest shook his head.
“He does a lot of international business,” Klay said.
“I don’t know him.”
Klay studied the dilation in the priest’s pupils, the moisture along his upper lip, the flush in the capillaries in the man’s cheeks. Martelino was telling the truth. He picked up a photograph and pointed to a pair of men on the pier holding assault rifles. “Is it dangerous, Father?”
“Oh, it is some crazy people down there. Very, very bad,” Martelino said. “Abu Sayyaf. The communists. But not all . . .”
“That’s right. Mindanao. It’s a Muslim state, isn’t it, Father?”
“It deserves to be. Full of very proud people, Mindanao. Never conquered. You Americans promised them independence during your war with Spain, so they stayed out of that fighting. Then you put us, the Catholics, in charge of them. Now they have what you call ‘trust issues.’”
“I don’t understand, Father. Islamic State is there, isn’t it? A Catholic priest trades with Muslim terrorists?”
“My mother is Moro. I have cousins on Mindanao. It is family I see when I look at these people, not terrorists. It is why I was selected by the president to facilitate the peace negotiations. We have created a new region for them called Bangsamoro Autonomous Region. It is here.” A map of the Philippines hung on the wall beside the desk. Martelino pointed to Mindanao Island, and put his finger on a thin sliver of the large island that was colored red.
“Not much,” Klay said.
“Not much,” he agreed. “But a start. Contiguous territories will be permitted to opt in over time. We are a poor country, and these are our country’s poorest people, Tomas. Over half cannot read or write. They work the Zamboanga docks, but they need more to have a future. We talk so that we do not fight.”
Klay had encountered ironies all over the world, but nothing beat this: the pedophile ivory trafficker was a peace negotiator.
Martelino sifted through his photos. “I have something.” He opened a desk drawer and shuffled through papers. “Their troops have agreed to turn over their weapons. It is wonderful. We will have peace after so many years. Yes, this is what I mean.” He withdrew a color photograph from a manila envelope and handed it to Klay.
In the photo, six men and a woman stood in a line behind a long table covered in food.
“This is a boodle fight. Do you know boodle fight?”
“I am not a fighter, Father.”
“Oh, ha ha. You could be. A boodle fight is not a fight. It is a feast. Like your Thanksgiving. It’s how the cadets used to eat at the Philippine Military Academy, you know . . .” He shoveled at his face with his hands.
Klay was looking at the figures, memorizing their faces.
“We cover a long table with banana leaves. Then lay down a wide road of rice. Let’s see. It is shrimp, mussels, crabs, bangus—milkfish, which is our national fish. Ampalaya, which I don’t like, too slimy. Adobo. Tilapias. Pork. Chicken. Duck. Anything.” Martelino licked his lips. “You must repeat the ingredients over and over so that everyone can get some of everything. You eat it with your hands. Oh, not pork.” Martelino tapped the photograph. “I remember. We did only seafood and chicken for this because pork is haram. You see, I wanted to honor my uncle. They eat boodle-fight-style because they need to move quickly and cannot have glassware breaking. And also, you eat standing up, shoulder to shoulder, for the team building.”
“Who are these people, Father?”
Martelino leaned forward and lifted his glasses. “Of course that is me.” He pointed a chubby finger to himself at one end. “I am the president’s peace negotiator. There is the leader of the Abu Sayyaf. That one is MILF, who is my uncle. There is the one for the communists. Here is Mr. Wei from the Chinese embassy.”
“China?”
“Ah, so close to the South China Sea. The president said we must involve them. I told him it is a mistake—the Moros will not do business with China. But he has other concerns . . .”
Klay studied the photograph. At the photo’s edge was a tall woman with closely shaved hair and skin the color of milk tea. She seemed uncomfortable, leaning at the edge of the photo as if to evade it. “This one?”
“Ah, that one is called Mapes, or something. The Moros would not accept an American government observer, so then we got her. She is a businesswoman.” He shrugged. “She works for the Perseus Group companies.”
A SURPRISE ENCOUNTER
Ninoy Aquino International Airport
Manila, Philippines
He was wading through Manila’s crowded airport, on his way home, when he saw him. It was only for an instant, but Klay was certain. Crew cut, protruding ears, dark eyes. Botha’s head had appeared in a gap among Filipinos. Then he was gone. Klay hurried forward. He spotted Botha again walking toward a fast food restaurant.
“Botha!”
The South African turned. He scanned the gallery and seemed not to recognize Klay. Then, suddenly, he smiled. Klay pushed through the crowd. He felt his heart pumping, his adrenaline rising. Ras Botha waited, still smiling. Klay broke from the crowd, and paused. A young boy stood beside Botha.
Botha seemed pleased at Klay’s hesitation, as if he had achieved something. “Merlin,” he said, “this is an old friend of mine, a very famous journalist from The Sovereign. Tom Klay. This is my son, Merlin.”
Botha and his son wore matching red-and-yellow rugby shirts. The boy was the spitting image of his father.
“Hello, Mr. Klay,” Merlin said with none of his father’s harsh Afrikaner accent.
“Hello,” Klay
said awkwardly and shook the boy’s outstretched hand.
For a moment no one spoke.
“Are you here for the rugby, Mr. Klay?”
Botha smiled even broader, his eyes awaiting Klay’s response.
“No, Merlin. I’m here on a project.” He looked at Botha.
“Merl, pick us out a table inside and I’ll get the food.”
“Okay, Papa.”
Botha nodded toward the Jollibee counter. “Walk with me,” he said. “You look upset, my bru.” Botha stepped to the counter. “Ya, hon, I’ll have us two Yumburgers. Two chocolate milkshakes. And a halo-halo for my boy.” He turned to Klay. “And something for my big friend here. What’ll you have? How about the Aloha Yumburger? That’s a good one. And a Coke for him, too.”
She brought the drinks. Botha handed Klay the Coke. “You here for the girls? I know you’ll stay away from little boys. But the women, if that’s what you want, it’s worth your trip. I got even better ones, though. You come see me. Czechs. Russians. Thais. I don’t go in for the fish heads, myself. Like getting sucked off by a bullfrog, you know? But Russians. They got noses and real tongues.”
“I heard you like Russians,” Klay said quietly. Inches from the man who had murdered Bernard, Klay could barely contain his fury.
“What’s got your broekies in a knot?”
“You murdered my friend,” Klay hissed. “You shot me.”
“I shot you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Hang on.” Botha accepted a tray loaded with food from the girl at the counter. “You was in the wrong place wrong time what I heard. You know, miss. Could I have his Aloha burger packed up separate to go? Thank you.” He turned to Klay. “Wasn’t me. But that oke was going to cut you was a real meat butcher. I got you the best doctor I could.”
“Say again?”
“I did what I could,” Botha said.
Klay stepped toward Botha. “Those were your people in Kenya. I know it.”
“Know? You know it? Knowledge is a very interesting thing. Thank you, sweet. Like I said, I did the best I could.” Botha handed Klay his sandwich.
In the Company of Killers Page 6