The
FAMILY
BUSINESS
By Byron Bales
Smashwords Edition.
Copyright. Byron Bales
ISBN: 978-0-9844852-0-8
eBook published 2011
This book is a work of fiction. Other than for historical details and personages, all names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to other persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
For information, request through author@byronbales.com
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Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my editors, Chris Roarty and Richard Baker
To my longtime partner in crime, Nancy Dzupin York
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Prologue
Manila
“I think that sucker’s dead,” the pony-tailed backpacker shouted across to his buddy. He thumbed towards the lone figure at the far end of the communal table, face down in spilt beer. “He ain’t moved since we sat down.”
Buffalo Joe’s was packed, the volume deafening. Glassy-eyed hookers followed the backpacker’s thumb, looked over, indifferent. Alcoholic blackouts featured nightly at Buffalo Joe’s. But the guy at the end of the table wasn’t breathing.
“Yeah, you’re right, man.” His buddy drew on a reefer, zombie-like, exhaled, and added hoarsely, “Look at that crap comin’ outta his nose. Dude’s history.”
“Where did she go?” one of the bargirls asked, looking around for the girl with the oversized purse who’d been sitting with the dead man. Then her eyes fell on his gold wristwatch, and she forgot about the other girl.
The manager came over to investigate. He looked at the body from several angles, afraid to touch it, then called a waitress over. She felt for a pulse, announced that there wasn’t one. She asked if anyone knew CPR, but no one volunteered – not with all that slop on the guy’s face. She called for someone to phone the police, and at this, johns and whores, drunks and hopheads either left or scattered to other tables with extraordinary haste for people in their condition.
No sooner had the call been made when a police officer kicked open the screen doors. He was a large, chesty, dark brute in a tight-fitting blue uniform. He ordered the staff into the kitchen, pointed to the manager, and ran his finger across his throat. A chorus of bitching rippled across the saloon as the music died and blinding overhead lights came on.
“All right, everybody. Hit the bricks. Outside,” Officer Reno Marcellus shouted. He scanned the saloon, spotted the dead man’s coordinates in a sea of emptying tables, then walked over and stood behind the girl who had been eyeing the watch. She tried to dart past him, but he grabbed a clump of her hair and spun her around, tore the dead man’s wristwatch from her hand.
“That’ll look better on me, puta.” He held it up to the light, admiring it – a genuine diamond-studded Cartier. He kicked the girl into the crowd pushing towards the door. When the last person was out, Marcellus began emptying the corpse’s pockets. In the back of the joint, the manager cut off the air-conditioning. Marcellus yelled at him to turn it back on.
It was a typical Manila night – hot and sticky. Soon, the dregs milling about outside began thinning away, some to find another beer joint, others back to their cheap hostels with a hooker in tow.
An old, battered Ford screeched to a halt at the curb just before an ambulance arrived. A news photographer jumped out of the Ford, ran up the steps into Buffalo Joe’s. As the EMS team approached the saloon, a camera flash went off inside, followed by a torrent of curses from Marcellus. The newsman flew back out into the street, taking off the screen doors and bowling down the paramedics coming up the steps.
Officer Marcellus rode with the body to the hospital. On the way, he ordered the driver and the team to pull into an alley, to step outside for a cigarette. The driver started to say that he didn’t smoke, then they all got the message, and did as they were told. Marcellus turned off the light in the back of the ambulance. He took the corpse by the shoulders, hung the head over the gurney. He withdrew his nightstick, but thought better of it, rummaged around the ambulance, found a crowbar in the vehicle’s emergency kit. Gripping the metal bar, he took aim, smashed it down with all his might. The dead man’s skull cracked, caving in an inch between the eyebrows and the hairline.
Marcellus lit a cigarette, examined his work. It was a bit of overkill, but so what. Satisfied, he honked the horn and the crew came running back. Marcellus stepped out of the ambulance, looked at his new Cartier. It was 2:30 am.
*
Just before sunrise, Marcellus sat behind the wheel of his patrol car in the alley behind Buffalo Joe’s. He zipped up his fly, and Lolita moved away, and then began crying.
Marcellus withdrew a pint of rum from the glove compartment, took a swig. He watched drunks stumbling past his car, heading up the alley, dispossessing the rats in a pre-dawn search for old pros, well past their prime. Blowjob boulevard.
Lolita wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Brian was a nice man, Reno. He never hurt nobody.”
“Whadda you care? You got Jordan, now.”
“You said the pills would just make him sleep.”
“Get your pussy back on the street, girlie.”
When she didn’t move, Marcellus leaned over, opened the door on her side and kicked her out. The contents of her purse spilled across the alley.
“I’ll call you when I hear from Jordan,” he said, slamming the door. He put the car in gear, cruised slowly up the alley with his lights off, looking for drunks to roll, hookers to extort. He was having a banner night, although the stiff from Joe’s had been the real windfall on this shift.
Lolita squatted in the alley sniffling, and scraped her things into her purse – clean panties, tampons, cigarettes, a few pesos, and a vial of downers. “You bastard,” she screamed, knowing he was too far away to hear.
Chapter 1
The door of the go-go joint banged open, shooting daylight through the darkened club. The few customers inside shielded their eyes, shouted at the intruder to close the fucking door.
“Hey, I got limitations here,” Max Pollock returned with equal indignation. He grunted and tugged, trying to force his electric wheelchair over the door jamb. A diminutive, scantily-clad bargirl hurried over to assist him. She managed to get him through the door, for which he rewarded her with a pat on the ass. Max surveyed the girls shaking with minimal enthusiasm up on the stage. They returned his look, a few wondering if a quadriplegic was able to get it up.
He spotted Roth at the end of the bar reading a newspaper. On the stage above Roth danced a well-endowed girl who gave Roth her full attention, jiggled especially for him. She looked to see who was entering the club, and certainly got Max’s attention. But she ignored him; crippled pensioners were cheap charlies, plus Max had touched up the artwork on his tropical shirt with a dash of Big Mac special sauce.
Max wheeled over to Roth, ordered a drink. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his hand, flung it on the floor. “Damn furnace out there,” he said to announce his arrival. He craned his neck to read the newspaper headline: “Cano’s Last Round-Up At Buffalo Joe’s.” A photo of a dead man, taken from behind, covered the front page. A wide-eyed police officer, bent over the body, was caught in the frame.
Roth acknowledged Max with a grunt, then turned his attention to the girl on the stage. She’d make a credible alibi. “Hey, Titty City,” he called, beckoning her down. She squealed child-like, slapped high fives with the other girls in the meat review.
“Whaddya doin’ here in Manila, Roth?” Max asked, his eyes glued to Titty City.
Roth shrugged.
“Whoremonger,” Max accused, joking-like.
“Nothing wrong with whores. They’re honest about what they are.”
Max tapped the newspaper headline. “I heard about this guy. People at the hostel were talking about him this morning. Guy boozed himself to death.”
“Bet he won’t do that again,” Roth mumbled.
“You working over here?”
“Yeah,” Roth said, watching Titty City’s anatomy jiggle as she negotiated the narrow steps at the end of the stage. Her six-inch heels didn’t make it any easier. She threw a shirt over her shoulders, a loud red nylon job with the club’s logo embroidered on the back, her number on the front. She scurried up to Roth. Her height on the stage was deceptive. Even in her come-fuck-me spikes, she didn’t reach his shoulders.
Roth wrapped his arm around Titty City’s waist. She snuggled up under his arm, hugged his chest, gave him a well-rehearsed innocent smile, her eyes starry with immediate adoration.
“Listen to this, Roth.” An enterprising scheme was working in Max’s mind.
Roth said to the girl, “Get your civvies on, honey. I’m bar-fining you.”
“Hey, Roth, you listening?” Max tugged on Roth’s sleeve to get his attention.
“Hanging on every word, Max.”
Titty City skipped back to the dressing nook by the DJ’s booth. Her cheeks bouncing around in her bikini string distracted Max for a moment, but he won the struggle, regrouped his thoughts. “When I get back to Bangkok, I’m gonna write my insurance company, tell them I was wheeling across Sukhumvit Road, see. Mindin’ my own business, crossing with the light, when this bus comes barreling down on me at fifty, sixty miles an hour, and damn near ran me over. Hell, man, everybody knows Thai drivers are crazy.” Max threw his shoulder into the action as he narrated. “But I jumped clear, threw myself outta my chariot, see, crawled to the curb, and barely made it as the bus flattened my chair. Flattened it to shit.” He made a spurting sound, spraying saliva over the newspaper on the bar. “This baby’s insured for three grand. Whaddya think?”
“Won’t work, Max.” Roth shook his head, drained his glass.
Max was indignant. His scam certainly sounded feasible to him. “Why not? You gonna snitch me out?”
“Only if your insurance company is my client”
“What! You wouldn’t lie for me?”
“To my friends and my priest, I lie. To clients, never.”
“Bullshit,” Max spat. “I know how you claims guys cheat your clients.”
Titty City returned in hot pants and a low-cut tank top that threatened fallout. She smiled at Max now, seeing how he was acquainted with her new customer. Maybe they were good friends. A girl could never be sure in this business; it paid to be nice to people connected to anyone she connected with. She really didn’t like him though; crippled customers had a strange hunger that made most of the girls uneasy.
Roth threw some pesos on the bar, shot Max a dark look, and headed for the door. Titty City trailed after him, waving goodbye to the gimp.
Max called out, “See you back in Bangkok, huh, Roth?” But Roth was already out the door. Max turned to the bartender, threw out his arms in innocence. “What did I say? Huh?”
The bartender ignored him. But Max was used to that.
Chapter 2
Roth’s rental car sat in front of the Immaculate Heart Hospital. It was a run-down medical facility so named to invoke some spiritual healing power more miraculous than what was practiced therein. Across the street, Roth occupied a child’s four-seater swing in a mini park, licking an ice-cream cone and reading a paperback.
The Avis driver sneaked glimpses at Titty City in the rearview mirror. She knew he was checking her out, but ignored him.
“Isn’t he taking me to his hotel?” Titty City asked, her pride injured by Roth’s indifference.
The driver shrugged. “Meester Roth has to see the owner of the hospital.”
As Roth swung the four-seater, a toddler came along with his grandmother, an ancient crone whose toothless face was criss-crossed by a thousand lines. The boy watched Roth, offended by this interloper. The swing was his domain. He inched forward.
Roth glanced at the boy, made a face.
Finally, the boy scowled and stomped his foot.
“Beat it, kid. I was here first,” Roth snapped. To drive the point home, he tantalizingly licked the ice-cream.
Uncertainty swept across the boy’s face; did he want his God-given right to the swing, or the ice-cream?
Grandma rattled off a rebuke in Tagalog just as Dr. Ignacio pulled up across the street in his car. Roth watched Ignacio extract his 300 pounds from behind the steering wheel. He locked his car door, polished the chrome side-view mirror with his sleeve.
Roth looked back at the grandmother, flipped the boy a casual salute. “Smart kid; always bring your muscle with you.” He abandoned the swing and shuffled across the street, intercepting Ignacio as he waddled towards the hospital entrance.
“Yo, Doc!” Roth called out. He extended his arm and pumped Ignacio’s hand.
“Do I know you, sir?”
“You will,” Roth said. “Here, hold this, Doc.” He handed him the cone of melting ice-cream and dug around in his pocket for a business card. He found one, stuffed it in Ignacio’s breast pocket.
Dr. Ignacio offered him back the cone, the ice-cream beginning to run down over his fingers.
“Nah, that’s okay, Doc. You can have the rest of it.” Roth pointed over to the mini park. “See that kid, over there?”
The ice-cream was dripping on Ignacio’s shoes. He held it away from him, looked around for a trash can, then at the boy in the park. “Yes, what about him?”
“Just don’t give him any ice-cream,” Roth said. “I don’t like him. He’s a bully.” Roth linked arms with Ignacio, walked him towards the entrance. “Gus didn’t write you about me, Doc? Gustavo Clemente? My amigo. I work with Gus in Tacoma.”
“Ah, Gustavo. Yes, my nephew. He is well, I hope?” There was no place to throw the ice-cream cone. Finally, Ignacio tossed it in the gutter.
“Your nephew? Right,” Roth said. “Gus is in the pink, Doc. Asked me to look you up.”
“It is my pleasure, sir.”
Roth led Ignacio into the foyer, where he stopped and turned around to show him Titty City sitting in the back of his car. She returned their gaze, wondering if Roth maybe had a sick-dick problem.
“Doc, I need a very large favor,” Roth whispered. “You see, I gotta report back to the plant next week, or I’ll get fired.” He pointed to Titty City. “But Titty– Theresa – has agreed to marry me, sweet darling that she is. So, I need more time. For a honeymoon. You understand.” He winked at Ignacio. “Gus thought that you could fix me up with a medical certificate, give me an excuse, buy me some extra time.” He guided the doctor inside, past an attractive receptionist, slipped a 1,000-peso note into Ignacio’s breast pocket, next to his card.
*
Fifteen minutes later, in the doctor’s office, Roth reviewed the fictitious certificate that Ignacio had created for him. “This is perfect, Doc. Let’s see, fifteen-day hospitalization, starting today. Typhoid fever. Terrific.”
Dr. Ignacio smiled. He stood, extended his hand to Roth.
But Roth just stood there, a wicked smile coming to his mouth. “But you see, Doc, the truth is, I’m such a good liar that I oughta’ be a lawyer.”
Ignacio’s smile faded. “I don’t understand, my friend.”
“Don’t you? First, I ain’t Gus’s amigo, and you and me ain’t friends.” Roth stuffed the bogus certificate into his coat, pulled out another, this one an insurance claim form on Gustavo Clemente. “Second, Gus is nothing more than a fraudster. And you gave him this phony certificate. Just like mine. It’s a fake, Doc. Bogus. Fraud-u-lent. You’ve been caught, right along with ol’ Gus, trying to dick his insurance company.”
“But I was only doing Gus a favor. He also needed time off.”
Roth laughed. “Of course you were, Doc. Hell, I know you didn’t do it to split the 48,000 U.S. buckaroos he’s claiming.” Roth read the certificate, chuckling. “A two-week hospitalization, round-the-clock nursing, medications . . . oh, Christ, this is rich . . . consulting physicians, therapy, X-rays, lab work-ups, ambulance, private room at 700 clams a day, plus, plus, plus.” Roth threw his arms open and turned, taking in the room. “Forty-eight thousand dollars is a lot of ice-cream cones, Doc. For this toilet?”
Ignacio plopped down in his chair, rested his head in his hands.
“Doc, your picture should be in the post office.”
Ignacio jerked his head up. “I am not a crook.”
“Doc, Doc, Doc.” Roth shook his head. “That denial is reserved for presidents. Okay, you’re no thief. You’re no sleazy, lying, two-bit scam artist. You’d never do it for the money.” Roth reached over, plucked the 1,000-peso note from Ignacio’s pocket. “So, I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do, Doc. Write me up a statement. Something that reads that good ol’ Gus was never hospitalized here. That it was all a big mistake. A clerical error.” He snapped his fingers. “Better yet, blame it on that luscious little secretary sitting out front. Save your face, keep the Philippine Hospital Association off your ass, and get me out of your life.”
*
Roth walked out of the hospital, tucking Ignacio’s signed statement in his jacket pocket.
Ignacio hurried after him. “Couldn’t we come to some sort of an arrangement, Mr. Roth?”
Roth opened the rear door of his car, turned to Ignacio. “For a piece of forty-eight grand? Don’t insult me.” He got in and rolled down his window, pulled a miniature tape recorder from his jacket. “And Doc, don’t even think about recanting your statement. My little witness heard it all.” He rewound the tape, and they listened to Ignacio’s excuse: “But I was only doing Gus a favor. He also needed time off.”
Ignacio bit his knuckle, spoke through his fist. “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Roth. Gustavo was counting on the insurance money. What shall I tell him?”
Roth chuckled, his eyes hard. “Why, tell him that you betrayed him, of course.” He reached over and tweaked Titty City’s chin as the car pulled from the curb. She giggled, happy at last to have her customer’s attention.
Chapter 3
Lori MacMillan crossed Roxas Boulevard and walked towards the US Embassy. The afternoon heat was oppressive, and her black, lightweight cotton suit had already lost its crispness, her bouncy blonde hair now flat. She envied the Filipinas, whose thick black hair defied humidity, who always looked fresh and never perspired. On her flight over from the States, she’d read that Southeast Asians had lower body temperatures, giving them immunity against the blistering heat with matching humidity.
She passed the long line of Filipinos, visa applicants, waiting outside the embassy, drawing attention as she usually did. Lori was 23 years old, five feet eight, slim, busty, curvaceous. She carried herself with a model’s poise; the beauty mark high on her right cheek seemed to suggest this, in fact.
The crowd near the heavy steel gates funneled open as she passed through. She asked directions to the American Citizens Services section. The Filipino guards didn’t bother to check her passport, for she was obviously an American. Women with her looks filled fashion magazines.
But there was something different about this Cana. Americans are quick to smile, Filipinos say, because life in America is good. But Lori MacMillan wasn’t smiling. She looked miserable, and her black outfit told her story – a recent widow on the verge of tears. Typical of Filipinos, they sympathized with long faces, and whispers followed her progress. Filipinos were great mourners – a trait well-practiced – for the country is awash in tragedy, the most dangerous on the Pacific Rim. Violent death was common here.
The gates closed after her, barring the flow of humanity desperate to set foot on American soil. Inside, Lori waded through another, smaller crowd snailing up the stairs into the consulate. Again, the hopefuls yielded immediately.
Inside, visa applicants formed long lines at a dozen service windows, and hundreds more sat waiting to be called. The US visa office in Manila – the busiest in the world.
Huge air-conditioners labored full-blast against the heat of this humanity. After a few moments, Lori felt cold as the air chilled the sweat crawling down her back. She asked a Marine for the American Citizens Services section. He pointed to an area where only a few people waited at windows reserved for Americans. She thanked him, walked on, and the Marine discreetly conducted a visual reconnaissance of her ass.
In the American section, Lori looked around. A little girl squirmed restless in a seat next to her mother, a Filipina-American service wife, pestering her about when they’d be going back home to Oregon.
Lori took a number and sat as far away as possible from the little girl. She withdrew a handkerchief from her purse, wiped perspiration from under her eyes, dabbed at her hairline. She looked around for a ladies room to freshen up, knowing she looked a little frayed around the edges. Don’t bother, she thought; it was just as well.
Players from a semi-pro basketball tour poured into the section and lined up against the wall, their anxious, youthful energy working overtime. They jostled each other and horse-played until, one by one, they noticed Lori. Hormones kicked in and demeanors improved. When her number was called by an attractive brunette at Counter Three, Lori stood and walked over. Predatory eyes followed her every movement.
At the window, Lori presented a Western Union mailgram, pushing it under the glass to the brunette, who smiled at her – until she read the message.
Lori watched the smile fade.
“Hello, Mrs. MacMillan,” the brunette managed. Through the thick security glass, her voice over the intercom sounded like a long-distance telephone connection. “We weren’t sure when to expect you. I’m Millie O’Hearn. Mr. Towers – he sent you the mailgram – just stepped out from his office. He’ll be right with you.”
Lori nodded, made a mental note of Millie’s name.
“You have our sincere condolences, Mrs. MacMillan.”
Lori forced a faint smile to her lips.
Millie scanned out front, took in the jocks propping up the wall, their eyes glued to Lori MacMillan, and as only a woman can about another, reached a conclusion.
“Here he is now. Just one moment, Mrs. MacMillan.” Lori looked back behind the counter to see William Towers coming over. He was tall, pleasant-looking, with the nondescript features that typified State Department personnel.
Millie intercepted Towers. She whispered, “Hard-on country out there.”
“What?”
“I said, handle Counter Three out there. It’s Mrs. MacMillan.”
Towers glanced at Lori. His expression went somber. He nodded to Millie, walked over to the window. Off to the side, Lori saw another consul – a man of about forty – lean sideways to get a glimpse of her. The late Peter MacMillan was obviously a topic of conversation.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. MacMillan. I’m William Towers.”
Lori sensed that he wanted to shake hands, impossible of course through the window. He gave his condolences, then excused himself, said that he’d get Peter’s file.
Peter MacMillan reportedly died five days ago, his body discovered in the middle of a packed honky-tonk on Mabini Street around 2:00 a.m. No one knew how long he’d been dead. The staff and everyone else had assumed he’d passed out.
Towers returned with the file. He laid it on the counter on his side of the glass, discreetly slipped a tacky newspaper headline beneath the stack of papers. Lori’s eyes fell on the typed label that ran across the file tab: “Macmillan, Peter – Report Of The Death Of An American Citizen Abroad.”
She blinked wide, mist in her eyes.
Towers avoided eye contact, although he knew he must – at least intermittently – look at her. Every consul hated this part of the job. He imagined what terrifying thoughts had haunted the widow MacMillan this past week, starting with his mailgram. Confusion, disbelief, denial of the horrible truth, and finally, accepting the unacceptable. Then the hasty travel plans followed by an interminable flight among unknowing, uncaring strangers. A sad journey, he thought. People in Lori MacMillan’s predicament should be entitled to wear an insignia, like battle ribbons, a sign bearing their grief to the world: ‘I lost someone dear and I’m alone and going to get him, what’s left of him. I want the world to understand that I’m miserable and frightened by the unfairness of what’s happened to me.’ The sign should flash whatever her emotions dictated at the moment: ‘Leave me alone to grieve’ or approach me with genuine sorrow for my loss, understand my loneliness and pain as though it were yours; grant me a special dispensation from all worry, fear, heartbreak, and loneliness, just for these first few horrible days.’
Towers cleared his throat. She made him feel awkward. It wasn’t just her fabulous looks. He sensed an inner strength, a quiet resolve that enhanced her very obvious charms. He’d met others on similar missions, visiting the consulate as though they were on an errand, like picking up the laundry; or worse for some, like picking up the garbage. The family garbage; black sheep and deadbeats, deserters and absconders who disappeared to these islands to live squandered lives; men whose eventual demise brought relief from further family embarrassment, answered long-held doubts, brought closure. But that wasn’t the case here. No, he could see that hers was a real loss. A painful one.
Lori spoke first, and Towers realized that she probably thought he didn’t know where to begin, even though he’d been through this routine a hundred times.
“My husband’s associate–” she fumbled to find a facsimile in her purse, and then read the name – “a Mr. Morales, left word at my hotel that he couldn’t meet me. I’m at the Manila Hotel. He had to leave for Zambo . . .” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then stuffed it back into her purse and focused on the paper. She couldn’t pronounce the city.
“Zamboanga?” Towers offered.
“Oh, yes.” She looked up, tried to smile. “I guess that’s it. I always thought that was some mythical place, like Mandalay or Bora Bora.” She grimaced at her own ignorance.
“Actually, those places also exist,” he said, then smiled, assuming that most Americans didn’t know where these places were.
“Oh. Well,” she said, “that’s where Mr. Morales is, I guess. He won’t be back in Manila until next week. What day is it? Friday? I seem to have lost a day somewhere. Isn’t that silly.”
“No, Mrs. MacMillan. Not silly at all. You lose a day when you fly to Asia. We’re a day ahead of the States.”
“Yes, of course. Stupid of me. When the flight landed, they announced it was Friday morning, but I really didn’t think about it.” She shrugged. “Mr. Morales has been very helpful. I only wish he could be here, although I’ve never met him. In fact, I never heard of him until I received your telegram.”
“Did anyone accompany you from California?”
“No,” she said, looking down, blinking away tears. “Mom couldn’t get away and there was no one.”
“I see,” Towers said. That was unfortunate. This business was bad enough without a widow being alone. “This Mr. Morales was notified by the police who, in turn, contacted us. He has your husband’s business papers and a few things from his hotel room. We received his personal effects and passport, found your name and notified you immediately.”
“You have his things?” She held back no longer, tears began welling in her eyes. She dug into her purse for the handkerchief. The little girl from Oregon stood by her mother at the next window, holding her skirt. She asked why the lady was crying.
“Mrs. MacMillan, please come inside the office,” Towers offered, pointing to a door to the side. She heard the little girl ask her mother again why the lady was crying, then passed into the office. A sign on the door read, “Staff Only.”
Inside, Towers pointed to another door beyond. “Let’s use the staff lounge.”
Employees glanced at Lori, trying not to be obvious. Yes, Lori thought, word on Peter MacMillan had certainly gotten around. She followed Towers through the office to an unmarked door leading deeper into the consulate. The lounge was spacious if sterile, a typical government space, with tile floors. Nestled at one end of the room were four leather couches squared off around a huge coffee table. A Filipina clerk was brewing a fresh pot of coffee.
“Please sit down,” he offered. He edged around the coffee table to the couch adjoining hers. She sat at the end of one couch, abutting one he sat on, their knees almost touching. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, but it didn’t cover her knees.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Tea, if it’s no trouble.”
“Of course, no trouble at all.” Towers pulled his attention from her knees, turned to the clerk. “Maria, could you, please? A tea?”
As he turned back, Lori asked, “Do you have Darjeeling?”
“Uh, I’ll check.” He turned again and inquired, then shifted back.
“And honey?”
“Yes…? Oh, excuse me?”
“Honey rather than sugar?”
“Oh . . . let’s see.” He twisted again, relating this request, then turned back, feeling rather like a puppet.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Lori concluded.
“No bother at all,” he said, nonplussed by her preferences at such a time. He started to say that this was job, but checked himself. That would sound too impersonal. “That’s what we’re here for,” he managed, diplomatically. But the business at hand was unpleasant. He’d just have to slip in the necessary details matter-of-factly. But her closeness was unsettling, and he had trouble organizing his thoughts as he felt her warmth, absorbed her heady perfume. He held the file in his hands, inches from the distraction of her legs.
Maria brought her tea on a small tray. There was only instant tea and, sorry, no honey. Towers shrugged an apology, but Lori pushed the cup and saucer away.
Towers opened the file. The preliminary police report – completed by an Officer Reno Marcellus – read that Peter MacMillan died an ignominious death in a sleazy dump where prostitutes trolled amongst Manila’s wasted expats. Buffalo Joe’s was legendary, the inspiration for lewd jokes in the American community. Towers wondered how a guy with a wife like this could end up in such a rat-hole. It just didn’t make sense. But this was Asia and a lot of things didn’t make sense here.
MacMillan had eventually been identified through a hotel room key found in his trousers. At the hotel, Officer Marcellus reportedly found MacMillan’s passport, which had been hidden somewhere in the room. Naturally, by the time the police had tossed the place, there were only a few pesos found amongst his belongings. Just his clothes, toiletries, and some business papers remained. No wristwatch, rings, camera, laptop; nothing negotiable aside from a return ticket to the States and a few traveler’s checks in small denominations. Mr. Morales had offered to keep the business papers for Mrs. MacMillan, adding that he had removed anything that would injure her feelings, specifically a photograph of a young Filipina, and condoms from his toilet kit. In retrospect – now sitting only inches apart from the widow MacMillan – Towers was grateful for Morales’ astuteness, because in the Philippines, philandering was the national pastime.
He handed Lori her husband’s passport. She opened it and looked at the smiling shot of Peter MacMillan. His handsome face and clear blue eyes stared back at her.
“I hadn’t seen him for a while.” She sighed. Her eyes watered, and before Towers could distract her – could deflect what he feared most – the dam broke and tears gushed forth. He bit his lip, eyes downcast, helpless to comfort her. He felt compelled to shift next to her, to hold her, soothe her, but he didn’t dare. Her face contorted in anguish, her hands moved as if to reach for him – for someone, anyone – but instead she clutched her knees so hard her knuckles turned white. He covered her hands with his, impotently muttered, “Now, now.” But there was nothing to say. She cried hard, shaking her head, then gasped for breath. She withdrew her hands from beneath his and clutched her handkerchief to her face, unballed the damp cloth, wiped her eyes and nose.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed quietly.
“No need to be, Mrs. MacMillan. It’s quite all right.” He suddenly realized his hands were on her knees just as Millie pushed open the door to the lounge. He jerked his hands away, but Millie had seen. He wished she’d seen the deluge. Millie just stood at the door, studying them.
He and Millie had been an item six months back. It hadn’t lasted long; just long enough for an occasional pang of jealousy on Millie’s part, punctuated by frequent bouts of sniping. As for him, losing what could have been hurt more than he let on. After a cooling-off period, they settled back into the friendship that preceded their affair. They were compatible as friends, but as lovers, the worst in both came out: absurd competitiveness, jealousy, inane pettiness. They squabbled over anything, the affair ending one morning in a shouting match over who used the hair-dryer first.
But the diplomatic community was close-knit, and, after all, they still liked each other, had similar interests, which had been the mutual appeal in the first place. They just shouldn’t have been lovers. They kept each other company, which encouraged gossip that they still had a thing. But they didn’t and never would again. Eventually their post-affair relationship returned to what it had been before the sex. They went off together on weekends, usually with friends, but they no longer shared a room. This weekend – a three-day holiday, since Monday was Labor Day – they planned to visit a resort at Puerto Azul with John Warbell, the section head.
Towers excused himself and stood, walked over to Millie. She studied his face, her eyebrows arched, worked to perfection – her way of asking pointed questions that always made him cringe.
He leaned close to her, whispered, “She’s a mess. I’m trying to console her.”
“Starting with her thighs?” Millie whispered back, wide-eyed, mock confusion on her face.
“I’ll explain later.”
“No need to. It’s not my business. But maybe it’s good therapy. I should have tried that last week. Remember when old Mr. Walters came in, all broken up over his wife’s death. I should have held his dick, don’t you think?”
Towers pulled his attention from Lori MacMillan. “What do you want?” he snapped.
“Just to remind you: Puerto Azul? We’ve got to leave by four if we’re going to beat the traffic.”
“Oh. Right.” Towers grimaced. “Okay, this won’t take long. Are we going in John’s car?” he asked, distracted, again looking over at Lori MacMillan.
“Yes, Bill. In John’s car. Where our bags are. Where our bags have been since this morning. They were still there when we talked at lunch. She mimicked telephone static and white noise. “Earth calling Bill, lost somewhere up Planet Your Anus; are you all right, or has Mrs. MacMillan caused you to run a fever?”
“Hmm…? Oh, very funny, wise ass. I told you, she’s a mess.”
Millie peeked around Towers. “She looks pretty good to me. You didn’t see how she stopped traffic out in the section.” She turned to leave and called back over her shoulder, “Puerto Azul won’t wait.”
Towers returned to the couch and sat down. Lori had stopped crying but held the handkerchief to her nose. He gently took the passport from her hand. “Well, then, I’ll just have this–” he started to say “canceled,” but thought that might open the floodgates again. “Taken care of.”
He went to the door and called Maria over. “Have this canceled and bring it right back,” he whispered.
Passports of Americans who died abroad were cancelled and returned to the next of kin. Otherwise, they had a way of disappearing, since they carried a high street value, selling for as much as 20,000 dollars, depending upon the statistics of the bearer and the length of validity remaining. For those who could afford one, it was, literally, a ticket to freedom and opportunity.
Towers returned to the couch and opened his file. He pulled out State Department Form 2060: “Report Of The Death Of An American Citizen Abroad.”
“This report, Form 2060, will assist you with matters back home. For changing records, creditors, insurance, that sort of thing. Also, you might like to know, when a credit-card holder dies, many of the institutions have a built-in life insurance feature which automatically kicks in, canceling the outstanding balances on the card.”
“Oh! I didn’t know that.”
He smiled, feeling like a bearer of gifts, relieved that they could talk now. He’d just have to watch how he said things. Her crying jag had subsided, and he didn’t want the flood to start again. Lori MacMillan had obviously been deeply in love with her husband. He admired her loyalty and wondered if Millie could ever be that devoted. Maybe she could be, to the right guy.
He continued: “The report isn’t finished, since we haven’t received the medical certificate yet.” ‘Medical certificate’ sounded better than ‘death certificate.’
Lori nodded, read the document. “Do I need to sign?”
“No. In fact I sign it once we have the medical certificate. I can give you as many copies as you like. Most families require a dozen or so.”
“What’s the purpose of the report? I don’t see why I need it. Won’t I need a death certificate?”
“There’ll be a local death certificate also,” he answered, thinking that since she felt comfortable using the D word, there was no reason he shouldn’t. “In fact, I need it first to complete this report. You see, in many countries, death certificates are naturally in a local language. Fortunately, here in the Philippines, they’re in English, but in other places, they’re often in a strange format, sometimes extremely brief, even vague to the point of being unclear, so the State Department long ago devised Form 2060 to facilitate surviving family members.”
Lori looked confused. “You mean the local death certificate isn’t any good?”
“Yes. Yes, of course it is. But Form 2060 is like a death certificate that people recognize at home. Back there, you’ll find that people – financial institutions, that is – will prefer seeing this. Some foreign death certificates are even spurious.”
“Spurious?”
“Questionable.”
“I see. I guess. Then I’ll be needing one of these?”
“It’s best you have one, yes.”
“What else will I need?”
“That’s about it. Just this, really.” He tapped the 2060. “And the local death certificate.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not really. I’m sure the NBI will provide you with a copy of the post-mortem report if you like, but I don’t see why you’d need that.”
“Post-mortem?”
“Autopsy,” Towers said, as softly as he could. “It’s necessary in matters such as this.” By ‘matters’ he meant a violent death. Autopsies were conducted so that coroners could rule out foul play, although it appeared as though Peter MacMillan just fell down in a drunken stupor and cracked his skull.
Lori’s eyes watered, but she kept her composure. “NBI?”
“Yes. The National Bureau of Investigation. Sort of like our FBI, but unfortunately nowhere near as efficient. Cases such as this are turned over to the NBI, whose pathologists handle post-mortems.”
“The death certificate, where is that?” she asked, paging through the file.
“Ordinarily, in America, it would be available by now. But this is the Philippines, manana is always another day. We should have it by Monday. Oh. I forgot, Monday is Labor Day. And we’re closed. Tuesday then. It’ll be here Tuesday.”
“Where is my husband?”
The NBI had few medical facilities, so it conducted autopsies at funeral parlors. MacMillan’s autopsy had been performed at the Las Flores Funeraria in Ermita, where his body remained. He handed her a slip of paper with the address. “As for your husband’s things, I tried calling this Mr. Morales yesterday,” he said. “His number just rings and rings. But you said he was away?”
“That’s what his fax said.”
Normally, the consulate inventoried a dead American’s personal effects if no family members were available. Towers had sent Ernestine Scales, an intern, to the post-mortem once they were notified by the police where the body was. Ernestine then went to MacMillan’s hotel with the police, where she collected his personal effects. Towers pushed a large manila envelope towards Lori. “This is all there is, I’m afraid. Mr. Morales has his clothes and business papers, which we assumed appropriate, since they were in business together, and we made certain there was nothing negotiable amongst those things.”
Lori looked at the envelope, felt the wallet through the paper. She put it aside, studying the incomplete Form 2060.
Maria entered and stood by the door. Towers excused himself again and went over to her. The cancellation stamp was nowhere to be found, and she’d looked everywhere. Towers couldn’t recall where he last saw it. He told Maria to keep searching and asked her to make a photocopy of the preliminary police report.
He sat down again and explained the delay as Lori read the 2060. She pointed at a blank space, under “Disposition Of The Remains.”
“Ah. You can provide me with that information afterwards.” He trailed off. After the funeral, he meant, or however she decided to dispose of the body. This was the part where delicacy was nearly impossible. “Mrs. MacMillan, after the NBI’s post-mortem, most families prefer . . . cremation.”
He studied her face as she digested the words. Her expression asked why. How could he tell her that autopsies were horribly ugly, and the NBI pathologists did sloppy work, so when they released the body to funeral homes, embalmers had to practically rebuild the human form to meet a family’s expectations. Especially if the body was to be repatriated to the States. Consignees Stateside always complained about the condition of corpses they received, and usually recommended a closed-casket service to the family.
“Of course,” he added quickly, “if it isn’t against your faith.”
She kept her eyes on his and he resisted an impulse to squirm, wondering why she made him particularly edgy. He’d given this talk countless times. But her eyes were like magnets.
“It’s simpler,” he went on, “and of course far less expensive than shipping to California. This is your choice, of course, but I must caution you not to expect too much when you see your husband.”
Thankfully, there were no more tears on the way. She’d probably cried herself out, he thought, emotionally numb by now – a stage that grieving relatives eventually reached – unable to process further trauma to the psyche. Her eyes sank to the carpet and she nodded her understanding.
Maria returned with copies of the preliminary police report, but still couldn’t find the stamp used to perforate the word ‘canceled’ through the passport cover. Towers sneaked a look at his watch: 3:50 p.m. He was running late and still had a stack of papers that required his signature before he left for the weekend. He excused himself, went out into the general office, quickly reviewed what still needed attention.
Too much. He found Millie at Counter Two, finishing with the last American for the day, a businessman who required extra pages added to his passport. He trailed her to her desk as the office staff was stampeding for the doors.
“Look, there’s no way I can make it. I don’t know what happened to the time. It’s like I lost the afternoon.”
“Did you look for it up Mrs. MacMillan’s skirt?”
“Cut it out, will you?”
“So what else do you have to do? When can you split? John’s anxious to hit the road.”
“I gotta put my signature on a pile of papers and I’ve got to finish with her.”
“She’s still here?” Millie asked, a little too loud.
“Shhh,” he urged. “Have you seen the cancellation stamp?”
“No, I haven’t.”
John Warbell came up to them. He’d changed from work clothes into Bermuda shorts, a tropical print shirt, and tennis shoes. “Hey, you guys, ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”
“Running behind, John. Very behind,” said Towers.
John glanced at Millie, said, “Translate ‘very’.”
“It’s not me,” Millie objected. “Ask Mr. Fondles here.”
“Will you cut it out?” Towers said through clenched teeth. “I need an hour, maybe more.”
“Damn!” John exclaimed. “That’ll put us in the middle of traffic. It’ll be bumper-to-bumper all the way down to Puerto Azul.” Late traffic on the National Road meant sweltering behind rolled up windows. Traffic crawled at that hour, with diesel-belching trucks sputtering long trails of nauseous, black plumes.
“I know. I know,” Towers said testily. “Look, you guys go on ahead. Take my stuff and I’ll drive down later. Have the resort hold my room. I’ll be there for a late dinner, but you guys have a swim before dark.” He turned to Millie. “Just go with John.”
John looked to Millie. “Okay by me.”
“Sure,” Millie said, slamming her desk drawer closed with her knee. “Why not?”
They watched her storm off, exchanged shrugs, and John headed for the exit. Towers was sick of Millie’s attitude. If the weekend was going to be like this, who needed it. He headed back to the staff lounge. Midway, he spotted the cancellation stamp sitting on a window sill and started for it. But he stopped short and looked around. Maria was hurrying to leave but hadn’t given up the search.
“Maria, you go on home. I’ll find it later.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Towers. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too,” he said, staring at the stamp. He left it where it was and went back into the staff lounge to find Lori MacMillan paging through the file. She was certainly entitled to whatever he had, but he didn’t appreciate her taking the liberty of going through government papers. Moreover, he wanted to protect her from reading the unsavory details of the death, or seeing that newspaper article. The reporter – a muck-raker named Otero – liberally salted the story with repeated references to whores, drugs, and the dregs that patronized Buffalo Joe’s. Peter MacMillan’s body had been looted, or so the NBI presumed. There was a slight bluish lividity impression of a watch or band on his left wrist, but the item didn’t appear on their inventory of his personal effects. That, plus his body had been callously treated. Drunks had flipped cigarette butts at the corpse, angry that the dead man gave the police cause to empty the joint.
But maybe it was better that she read it for herself than have him tip-toeing around her emotions. She seemed to be handling the situation much better now. Her handkerchief was in her hand, held next to her cheek, but she was soberly digesting the file. Logic was replacing emotion, he guessed.
He handed her the preliminary police report – a three-page summary – and an envelope. “We still can’t find the cancellation stamp,” he lied. “It’s around someplace. Tell you what; I’m running late as it is, and there’s still more I need to do. Perhaps you’d like to visit Las Flores funeral home in the meanwhile to finalize things. I’ll drop the passport at your hotel when I leave here. Would that be all right?” The Manila Hotel was a two-minute walk from the consulate, just across Luneta Park.
“Yes. That would be fine. Las Flores . . . is it far?”
“Maybe five minutes in traffic. You can catch a taxi just outside, on Roxas Boulevard. I’d suggest you have the driver wait, then have him return you to the hotel or wherever you’re going next.”
Lori stood, digesting his instructions. “I have nowhere else to go,” she said, looking lost. “I don’t know anyone here.”
Nowhere else to go, he thought. Her husband’s death was bad enough, but being on the other side of the world on such a mission had to be the loneliest thing imaginable.
“I understand Manila is dangerous,” she said.
“Not as dangerous as road rage in Los Angeles.” He smiled. “And not unless you’re looking for trouble. Then you’ll surely find it.”
Lori’s face went white.
Shit, Towers thought. He had to go and say that. Obviously, Peter MacMillan wasn’t attending choir practice in Buffalo Joe’s. He thought again of the stash of condoms Mr. Morales had found in the hotel room.
“Just take normal precautions,” he mumbled.
He showed her to the door, confirmed that he’d drop off the passport at her hotel no later than six o’clock. He watched her walk out through the visa section, his eyes sliding down her form. Fabulous-looking woman. Fabulous everything. He cleared his throat and closed the door.
He wouldn’t reach Puerto Azul before nine o’clock once he met Lori, then went home, showered, changed, and drove down. Suddenly, going down there this weekend didn’t seem so urgent. Yeah, Millie. You just go on with John. Towers was due for another posting in the New Year. Wherever it would be, it couldn’t come soon enough. Transfer; a clean break. Maybe settle down. Maybe find the right woman.
He went into his office, waded into the paperwork on his desk.
Shortly, Joselita, the section telephone operator, peeked in on her way out. “Call for you, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“A Mr. O’Toole. He’s called from Boston several times this week about his missing brother.”
Towers looked at his watch. It would be 6:00 a.m. in Boston. “All right, put him through. Then close the switchboard.” He punched a key on the telephone. “William Towers here. ”
“And Kevin O’Toole here,” a brusque Bostonian accent came back at him. “I’ve been calling you people all week to see what you’re doing about finding my brother.”
Towers remembered seeing a note. He rummaged through the disarray on his desk, and not finding it, asked a few general questions, not really paying attention. He summarized by telling O’Toole that since his brother hadn’t registered with the embassy when he arrived in Manila, all they could do was file a report with the police.
“Look,” O’Toole objected, “I know there’s somethin’ wrong. Brian called me every day while he was there. You people can do a lot more than that.”
“No, sir. That’s really all we can do. Perhaps refer you to a local investigator who might be able to assist you.”
O’Toole told him to check around, insisting that the consulate must have started a file on the matter after all his calls. Towers lied that the files were locked for the night, and started to provide him with the number for the Tourist Police.
“I’ve already talked to them,” O’Toole cut in. “And I’ve got a private investigator flying over from Boston. You people just be damn sure you’re doin’ everything you can.” O’Toole slammed down the receiver.
Towers, stunned, responded in kind. “You’re very welcome.” He steamed for a bit, waxing defensive. It’s not my fault if your brother didn’t register with the consulate. The embassy tried to help in cases like this, supplied a menu of emergency telephone numbers and a list of local attorneys.
He brushed off another call from a young Filipina married to a World War Two veteran who’d expired at the Makati Medical Center. He’d been comatose for the last day – his death imminent – and his twenty-year-old bride had been calling all week, inquiring about veteran’s benefits, social security, widow’s benefits and, of course, whether she was still eligible for a visa to the States. She’d married the old geezer on his deathbed, and Towers wondered if the ancient campaigner was under strong medication when he said ‘I do’ to the little gold-digger.
“Is that switchboard closed?” he yelled. There was no answer; Joselita had gone. Good. She was a sucker for callers in distress, had a hard time saying no to anyone. Well, he didn’t. No sir. Office hours were posted and they should be adhered to. Everyone seemed to have an emergency these days. Well, he also had a life, and emergencies, real or imagined, would just have to wait.
His thoughts returned to Lori MacMillan. He’d see her again soon. If she wasn’t back at the hotel, he’d wait for her. Couldn’t leave a US passport with just anyone, could he? Even if it was canceled. No, he’d wait at the hotel until she returned. But since she’d be returning to the consulate on Tuesday, there really wasn’t any reason to take it to her tonight.
But he knew why he’d offered to.
Chapter 4
At 5:45 p.m., the giant air-conditioner went off with a violent shudder. Towers finished the last of the 2060s, sorted them in the mail room. There were five death reports, a busy week. Most were for older American veterans who had retired in the islands after military service, many settling in Angeles City, outside the old Clark Air Base. Life in the Philippines was easy and inexpensive. Paradise. These deaths were expected, whereas MacMillan’s had been the only one out of the ordinary.
But then, MacMillan had probably thought it was paradise, too.
Towers thought about the widow, as he had a dozen times since she’d left. There was something special about her, not something any fool could obviously see, but something more than her beauty. An inexplicable depth he couldn’t define, couldn’t put his finger on. A knowledge and maturity beyond her years. He re-checked her birth date on the photocopy he’d made of her passport. She wasn’t yet 24 years old. Incredible. But then Lori MacMillan was incredible.
Within minutes, the building warmed up; the general office would soon be a sauna. He remembered the cancellation stamp. He took Peter MacMillan’s passport from the file, went into the general office as staff cleaners began coming in. He pressed half-inch-high perforations which read “Canceled” across the face of the passport, then entered it into the logbook.
*
The Manila Hotel was a famous establishment, a century-old institution. Towers asked for Mrs. MacMillan’s room at the desk. The clerk found a note in her box instructing callers that she was at the swimming pool.
The pool area was nearly deserted. He walked out onto the patio and spotted her on the far side of the pool. Her lounge chair was wedged between those of two older, chunky American business execs who were trying to engage her in conversation.
She ignored them, got up and stood at the edge of the pool, drawing quiet stares. Towers was mesmerized by her figure, the way she filled out her modest one-piece tan swimsuit. She dived in, surfaced. One of the businessmen hoisted his bulk off his lounger, sucked his gut in, and toed the edge of the pool. He tried to execute a smooth dive, but belly-flopped next to her, splashing water in her face. She sprang out, shot him a look that could kill, and just then spotted Towers.
“Hi,” she called, and waved to him. The exec turned around in the water to see Towers skirting the pool towards Lori. Disappointment crossed his face as she went up and took Towers’ arm, conveying a definite message that a significant someone had arrived.
“Let’s sit over there.” Lori pointed out a table at the other end of the pool. She threw a towel over her shoulders, picked up her cigarettes and lighter, and walked ahead of him, tossing a departing scowl at the jerk in the water. Towers tried but failed to avert his eyes from her shape.
She led Towers to a table, where they sat down. He felt good just being with her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” She pointed with her cigarette, past Towers. He turned to watch the spectacular light show of the sky changing colors, while the sun – an orange ball now – sat behind the mountains on Bataan. The reflection gave Lori a warm glow on her face, which, he wanted to believe, was from his company.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I got out here ten minutes ago and found that area empty.” Her eyes shifted cat-like to the lounge chairs. “For all of two minutes, that is.”
Towers looked over at the paunchy executives commiserating to each other, fortifying themselves that it didn’t matter. It didn’t really; there was no shortage of available women in Manila. But Lori was a blonde, a rare item in Asia – like a trophy, compared to the local talent. Hell, like a trophy compared to any woman.
“They’ll survive,” Towers said, turning back. “Manila’s a friendly town.” Damn, watch what you say, Bill. Searching for companionship probably caused Peter MacMillan his last night on earth.
Lori’s smile evaporated, replaced with a look commensurate with the business at hand. “Yes, I suppose,” she said flatly. “Care for a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, she summoned the waiter, a smart-looking young man with a drinks tray tucked under his arm.
“Sure,” Towers agreed. He forgot the time, forgot his plan to drive home, shower, change, and head down to Puerto Azul.
“I’ve just had a marvelous concoction,” she said with a curious mood swing, rolling her eyes. “A Sunset something or other, and, yes, I think I’ll just have another.”
“Sunset Surprise,” the waiter corrected. He was tall, trim, smiling, and smooth. Towers read the name tag on his jacket.
“Of course, Antonio. That’s it,” Lori affirmed. “Sunset Surprise. Two, please.” She gave Antonio a warm smile and looked back at Towers. “And it’s really a surprise.”