Out on the Rim (31 page)

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Authors: Ross Thomas

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: Out on the Rim
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When Booth Stallings came down to breakfast at 6:30 the next morning after three and a half hours' sleep, the only other customer in the Magellan Hotel's Zugbu restaurant was the retired Colonel, Vaughn Crouch. Stallings helped himself to rice, fruit and scrambled eggs from the breakfast buffet and sat down at Crouch's table.
“What time'd you get back?” Crouch asked, spearing the last piece of ham on his plate.
“A little before three this morning.”
“I got back yesterday afternoon—around four-thirty.”
“You didn't have to walk as far.”
“The rest of your bunch sleeping in?”
Stallings nodded and tried some of the eggs, which tasted like eggs had tasted when he was a child.
“Then I guess they haven't seen this yet,” Crouch said, handing Stallings a Cebu City morning newspaper. “My kids made the front page,” he announced proudly. “Had themselves a hell of a time.”
Booth Stallings read the headline first, which claimed in 48-point Bodoni bold italics across three columns: ‘SURRENDER' REPORT DISPUTED. He then read the story, or at least its first three paragraphs:
CEBU CITY
—Yesterday's surrender of 24 rebels in Catmon Town, north of this city, was immediately branded as an “elaborate psy-war operation run by the CIA and the army's Regional Unified Command to demoralize revolutionary forces.”
The statement challenging the alleged surrender was issued by the Cebu Provincial Operational Command of the New People's Army (POC-NPA) and signed by “Commander Min,” the nom de guerre (war name) of Miss Minerva Espiritu, sister of NPA legend, Alejandro Espiritu.
The 24 alleged rebels who “defected” yesterday were accompanied by two men eyewitnesses described as “European males.” Catmon Town police refused to identify the two European males and later denied their existence.
Stallings gave up on the story, handed the paper to Crouch and went back to his breakfast. After another forkful of eggs, he said, “Where were you?”
The retired Colonel grinned. “Once I shadowed the kids and those two Langley shitbirds down from the hills, I kind of disappeared.” He indicated the newspaper. “Sure you don't want to finish the story?” he said. “It gets better.”
“Who cares?” Stallings said and pushed his breakfast plate away.
Crouch slipped on his trifocals to give Stallings a closer inspection. “Something happened, didn't it—up in the hills?”
Stallings nodded. “Al got himself killed. I guess you could call that something—something you'd better not tell anyone.”
“By God. Old Al,” Crouch said, leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and stared off into blurred nothingness for almost a minute. “Well, I think he was just about due, don't you?”
“I don't think Al thought so,” Booth Stallings said.
 
 
At a few minutes after nine that morning, Otherguy Overby came out of the entrance to the Magellan Hotel, heading for the air-conditioned hotel van that would take him, Wu, Durant, Stallings and Georgia Blue to the Cebu airport and the eleven o'clock flight to Manila.
Something blue, yellow and black caught his eye. It was the Rotary Club of Metro Cebu's four-question billboard whose fourth question still wondered: “Will it be BENEFICIAL to all concerned?”
“All but one,” Overby replied, surprised that he had spoken aloud and even more surprised to find Artie Wu standing just behind him. Wu looked where Overby had been looking, read the Rotary Club billboard and smiled.
“In Manila, Otherguy,” Wu said, “we'll talk about it.”
“What?” Overby said.
“The correct answer to question four.”
 
 
Booth Stallings was assigned a window seat on the port side of the Philippine Airlines plane. Next to him sat Quincy Durant. Across the aisle were Georgia Blue and Artie Wu. Otherguy Overby sat by himself in an aisle seat two rows forward.
After the plane gained altitude, Stallings stared down at the long green skinny tropical island of Cebu until he could no longer see it. As he leaned back in his seat, Durant lowered his newspaper and said, “Did you find it?”
“What?”
“Whatever you were looking for.”
“I was looking for a nineteen-year-old second john who went in on an I and R patrol armed with a carbine, six grenades and the collected poems of Rupert Brooke.”
“And?”
“I found him.”
“How was he?”
Stallings turned to look at Durant. “Older. That's all. Just older.”
“And wiser?”
“Not so you'd notice.”
 
 
At 12:06 P.M. that day, Quincy Durant walked into the Manila International Airport's main entrance concourse. Ahead of him were Artie Wu and Otherguy Overby. Just behind him were Booth Stallings and Georgia Blue. At 12:07 P.M., he was arrested by the Manila homicide detective who had two of the smartest brown eyes Durant had ever seen.
As another detective snapped the handcuffs on, Durant said, “May I ask why?”
“No,” said Lt. Hermenegildo Cruz.
“May I call a lawyer?”
“No.”
“What about my rights, such as they are?”
Lt. Cruz smiled, as if enjoying the exchange. “What rights?” Artie Wu had now turned back and was striding toward Durant when a third detective stepped in front of him, blocking the way. Wu stopped and glared down at the five-foot-seven detective with such menace that a fourth detective hurried over to form a two-man barrier.
Lt. Cruz led Durant over to where Wu stood, still blocked by the two detectives. “You wanted to say something?” Lt. Cruz asked.
With as much bombast as he could manage, Wu said, “You can't do that—he's an American citizen.”
“Dear God, I had no idea,” Lt. Cruz said as he led Durant away.
 
 
Two of the plainclothes detectives put the still handcuffed Durant into the front seat of a black Nissan Maxima and waited until Lt. Cruz
slipped behind the wheel. The detectives then melted away into a small crowd of airport gawkers who had gathered to see whether something awful would happen to Durant.
Lt. Cruz backed the Maxima out of a parking space whose stenciled sign claimed it was reserved for the assistant airport manager. Neither man spoke until they were well past the airport and turning into EDSA.
It was then that Lt. Cruz said, “I think I'll charge you with the murder of your lady friend, Emily Cariaga.”
“I notice this isn't the way to police headquarters,” Durant said.
“I could build a very tight case against you—opportunity, motive, all that.”
“A crime of passion, right?”
“What else?”
“You can take the cuffs off now.”
“Later,” Cruz said and drove on in silence except for the sound of his horn, which he honked every four seconds regardless of need. “I know who killed her,” Lt. Cruz said after four blocks of verbal silence.
“So do I.”
Lt. Cruz flicked a glance at Durant and then looked back at the traffic, which he decided could use another toot from his horn. “How long've you known?”
“Days.”
“And you didn't come forward.”
“I was busy.”
“Down in Cebu.”
“Yes.”
“A pleasure trip, wasn't it?”
“Strictly business.”
There was another silence, four blocks long this time, until Lt. Cruz said, “I know who killed her but I can't prove it.”
“I probably can,” Durant said, “but it'll have to be done my way.”
“That would pose some rather delicate problems.”
“Not as delicate as the one you've already got.”
“I'll think about it,” Lt. Cruz said.
“You've got until eight tomorrow morning.”
“What happens then?”
“I fly to Hong Kong.”
Lt. Cruz said nothing. Instead, he turned off EDSA and onto Ayala Avenue, which led into the heart of Manila's financial district. It was down Ayala Avenue that Mrs. Aquino's white-collar and middle-class supporters had liked to parade.
Lt. Cruz drove past the Ritz Tower on the right and the Rustan's department store on the left. After he drove past Fonda Street and the Rizal Theatre and crossed Makati Avenue, Durant said, “My hotel's back there, the Peninsula.”
“I know,” Lt. Cruz said but didn't slow the car until he reached the Associated Bank Building and pulled over to a stop. A man of about thirty, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, silently opened Cruz's door. The shirt covered but didn't conceal the gun lump on the man's right hip. After Lt. Cruz climbed out of the car the man slipped behind the wheel.
Durant was now on the sidewalk and staring up at the building when Lt. Cruz joined him. “A bank,” Durant said.
“A bank,” Lt. Cruz agreed and used a nod to indicate they should go inside where they rode an elevator to the fifth floor, walked down a long corridor, went through a door with no name on it and into a receptionist's office that contained no receptionist. Lt. Cruz crossed the small room to a dark slab door and knocked. A voice behind the door said, “Enter.”
“That means you,” Lt. Cruz said.
“I'm still flying to Hong Kong at eight tomorrow.”
“I'll talk to you long before then,” Lt. Cruz said and removed the cuffs from Durant's wrists.
Durant nodded at the slab door. “Does what you do depend on who's in there?”
After a moment, Lt. Cruz answered with a slight nod.
Durant turned, opened the door and entered a large office whose furniture consisted of two gray metal chairs. One of them had arms; the other didn't. In the one without arms sat a woman in her middle thirties who wore a dark blue dress that looked like silk.
Before Durant could say anything the woman said, “We met once at Emily's.”
“I remember.”
She indicated the chair with arms. “Please.”
Durant sat down, deciding she was easy to remember because of her eyes and mouth. The eyes were far too large and much too sad. Her mouth was too full, too wide and too melancholy. Emily Cariaga had claimed that men made fools of themselves just to see if they could make that wide mouth smile.
Durant also remembered that before being richly wed, the seated woman had been expensively educated in Switzerland and Dublin. She also had two children, played the piano well, wrote moody quatrains and spent just one hell of a lot of money on clothes. And now, he thought, she's going to tell you who she really is and why you're meeting in a room with two chairs and no witnesses.
“First, let me apologize for what must've been the rudeness at the airport,” she said in her low contralto whose slight Filipino accent was flavored with a hint of Gaelic.
Durant nodded but said nothing.
“We've been receiving reports from Cebu about your dealings with Alejandro Espiritu.”
“We?”
“The government.”
“The Aquino government?”
Her large eyes grew even larger. “You don't think that—”
“I don't think anything.”
“The government is anxious to … to neutralize Alejandro Espiritu. It's our understanding that he's been offered twenty million U.S. dollars to exile himself to Singapore.”
She paused as if waiting for Durant's confirmation or denial. When he offered neither, she said, “You're making this very difficult, Mr. Durant.”
“I'm listening.”
“The government would have no objection if Espiritu were to exile himself to wherever he chooses, providing, of course, that he is not supplied with funds to purchase arms.”
“Like Aguinaldo was.”
She almost smiled. “Yes, like Aguinaldo.”
“What you seem to be looking for is another crooked British consul like the one who cheated Aguinaldo out of his money.”
“You know your Filipino history, Mr. Durant.”
“Not really.”
“He need not be British,” she said. “He could also keep the twenty million dollars.”
“What if I say no thanks.”

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