Out on the Rim

Chapter Fifteen

At 7:15 the following morning Booth Stallings came out of the Manila Hotel coffee shop, where he had been among its first customers, and strolled into the lobby. He dumped the three somewhat strident Manila newspapers that had been his breakfast reading into a wastebasket and turned to watch an ABC television news crew fret over the logistics of loading its equipment into a waiting van.

Stallings wondered what the crew’s story might be and what percentage of its viewers would know or care that the Philippines were not, after all, in the Middle East just to the left of Syria. That’s the Philistine Islands you’re thinking of, hon. Maybe ten percent, he decided, but immediately raised that to twenty and then, mostly out of unfounded optimism, increased the percentage to thirty.

Knowing where a country is doesn’t make you care what happens to it, Stallings thought, not even if you’d once been enrolled in the ultimate geography lesson of a world war. With a small private grin he recalled what the Marines had said about the Carolines: Who gives a fuck about Truk?

The ABC news team carried out its last big black box and Stallings crossed to the reception desk to see whether he had any messages. The clerk turned, looked and turned back with an envelope. It was a plain white envelope, neither cheap nor expensive.

It was addressed to Stallings in a handwriting that he recognized as Filipino, which he thought to be the prettiest in the world. He also knew his judgment was influenced by the striking similarity of much Filipino penmanship to that of Mary Helen Packer who had sat in front of him in the fourth, fifth and sixth grades, and whose firm but graceful hand had won her a prize every year.

He wondered whether the high quality of Filipino handwriting was a legacy from the Spanish friars or, less likely, from the 540 American schoolteachers who had shipped out to Manila in 1901 aboard the S.S. Thomas, a first echelon that had fanned out over the islands, bringing both English and the Palmer method to the provinces. He remembered Espiritu once mentioning that he had been taught by an elderly Thomasite. From Kansas, Stallings seemed to recall.

He crossed to one of the lobby chairs, sat down and examined the envelope. It was handsomely addressed to Mr. Booth Stallings, The Manila Hotel. Down at the lower left-hand corner were the words: By Hand.

Inside was a once folded sheet of good quality white paper. Black ink had been used to write two lines so straight they seemed almost ruled. The lines formed more of a command than an invitation: “Meet me at nine this morning under my name at the American Memorial Cemetery in Makati.” The letter was signed Hovey Profette. Stallings used a weak smile to block the chill the dead medic’s name was meant to cause.

The reception clerk wasn’t able to remember exactly who had delivered the letter, although he thought it might have been a small fairly clean boy of no more than nine or ten. Stallings thanked him, turned and walked through the doors of the hotel’s front entrance and out into the morning heat.

He put on his prescription sunglasses as the doorman whistled up an air-conditioned taxi. Stallings’ eyesight was still close to 20–30 and the sunglasses only served to correct a mild astigmatism that he otherwise ignored.

He knew that benevolent genes had left his sight virtually intact and permitted him to keep most of his hair and all but one of his teeth. He also knew it was pure luck that he had never had an operation, broken a bone, or experienced any real pain that aspirin wouldn’t cure — except the occasional acute hangovers. For those he relied on Bromo-Seltzer and a beer or two.

Stallings even regarded his sex life as tolerable, if erratic. Most of the women he now went to bed with were divorced, nearly a generation younger than he (in their early forties), and still puzzled over why their husbands had left them for someone younger. Stallings always claimed to be as puzzled as they and the mutual puzzlement provided a never-ending topic of conversation.

The one thing Stallings occasionally did worry about was his mind. He feared losing it. He had long recognized that his mind, if not brilliant, was clever, quick and facile. And if it had a few quirks and loose boards, it also had a carefully cultivated streak of objectivity. Should his mind ever really start to crack, Stallings counted on the objectivity to sort out the options and go with suicide. He had decided years back that he would rather be dead than dotty.

To get to the American Memorial Cemetery the young taxi driver drove (or detoured, for all Stallings knew) through a residential section that featured high walls surrounding big houses that were watched over by tough guards. Stallings asked what the area was and the driver said it was Forbes Park and that the rich and the foreign lived there. Stallings caught a glimpse of the flags of Spain, West Germany and the tricolor of France. There were also several others, but he sped by too quickly to identify them.

After Forbes Park came the long U-shaped drive that led up to the first flight of marble steps at the American Memorial Cemetery. Beyond the first flight was yet another flight and beyond that was a five- or six-story tower of marble with a black door. Above the door were some huge bas-relief figures that Stallings at first took to be the fallen dead but, on closer inspection, turned out to be nurturing female nudes.

On the right was a large thick slablike building of white marble with an American flag on a tall pole. To the left was a matching building, matching pole and the flag of the Philippines. There were trees behind the memorial buildings and several acres of nicely kept grass in front. But there were no cars or visitors. At least none that Stallings could see.

After negotiating the price of a 30-minute wait, Stallings left the cab and started up the steps. Upon entering the memorial he found that the names of the dead were listed alphabetically. Rank was given first, then the name, then the military unit and, finally, the dead warrior’s home state.

Each name was lettered in gold leaf several inches high. There were, a plaque claimed, 36,279 names. Beyond the twin memorial buildings was a proper cemetery where the white crosses and Stars of David grew, row on row, just as they did at Meuse-Argonne, Château-Thierry and, Stallings presumed, Shiloh and Little Big Horn, although he had never visited those last two killing grounds. And he wasn’t at all sure whether they had Stars of David. He resolved to look it up.

The Ps were toward the rear of the breezy, open-sided memorial building. Stallings walked slowly past the Pattersons, the Penningtons, the Phillipses, the Pitts, the Powells and the Prathers until he came to T/5 Hovey Profette 182 Infantry Arkansas. He stared up at the gold name, third from the top, and thought what all combat veterans think when confronted by their own war’s dead: Better you than me, buddy — a first reaction frequently followed by vague and not easily defined feelings of guilt and pity.

Well, if I’d’ve shot old Al when I had the chance, Hovey, said Stallings to himself and the long-dead Profette, maybe all three of us could’ve had our names up there in gold leaf. He was still staring up at Profette’s name when the woman’s voice behind him said, “I must apologize for the trick I played on you, Mr. Stallings.”

Stallings continued to stare up at the dead medic’s name. “No need to apologize,” he said and turned to find a young Filipina nun in a modern gray habit. She wore dark glasses and carried a large leather shoulder bag. Stallings noticed she was not very tall and seemed quite fit.

“Al send you?” he said.

“Al?”

“Espiritu.”

“Yes, of course. You called him that, didn’t you? Al. He wants me to bring you to him.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where is he?”

“Cebu.”

“Tell Al I appreciate the offer but I prefer to make my own travel arrangements.”

The nun shook her head with regret. “I’m afraid I really must insist.”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, dear,” she said and reached into the shoulder bag, as if for a handkerchief, fumbled briefly and produced a medium-size semiautomatic pistol. She pointed it at Stallings with what he took to be practiced ease. He also noticed it was at least a .38-caliber and that her hand didn’t shake.

“What’s that supposed to do?” he asked.

“Make you come with me.”

“Guns give people funny notions,” he said, trying to make his tone as musing as possible. “If you shoot me, old Al’s going to be out a lot of money. Therefore, you won’t shoot me. Therefore, I won’t come with you.” He smiled. “You’re not really a nun, are you, Sister?”

Instead of replying, the woman quickly backed up two steps and dropped into a pistol shooter’s stance. It was a crouching wide-legged stance that employed a two-handed grip on the semiautomatic. Stallings’ first impression was that the stance made her look both silly and faintly erotic, until he realized she actually might shoot and even kill him.

He tried to think of something conciliatory to say, something soothing and full of sweet reason. But before it came to him, a voice snapped out a one-word command: “Don’t!”

Stallings was between two walls of gold names. The nun with the pistol had backed two steps into the corridor. The voice came from her right flank and there had been absolute authority in its crackling tone. Stallings recognized the voice. The nun glanced quickly in its direction. What she saw made her flinch and slowly lower the pistol until it pointed at the marble floor.

“Kneel,” the same voice ordered.

The nun knelt.

“Put it down.”

The nun gently placed the pistol on the floor.

“On your stomach, hands behind your head.”

It was an awkward position but the nun managed it with a certain amount of decorum. Georgia Blue appeared in the corridor, the Walther in her right hand. She squatted to pick up the nun’s weapon, rose and glanced at Stallings. “How’s it feel to be at death’s front door?”

“Rotten.”

Quincy Durant appeared in the corridor and stood just to the right of Georgia Blue, staring down at the nun. “You can put your hands down,” Durant told her.

The nun removed them from her head and placed them palms-down on the floor. Durant knelt and removed her sunglasses. Her head twisted to the right and her shining brown eyes stared up at him.

“You get around,” Durant said.

“You know her?” Georgia Blue asked.

“We met on the way down from Baguio where she and four other guys had the kilometer sixteen roadblock concession.”

“You’re Durant,” Stallings said.

The still kneeling Durant looked up at Stallings and nodded. “And you’re Booth Stallings.”

“Who’s she?” Georgia Blue said.

Durant looked back down at the nun who had turned her head away from him. “Let’s ask her,” Durant said. “You want to give us a name?”

The prone woman said nothing. Durant picked up her large purse and looked through it, itemizing its contents aloud. “Five hundred pesos, an extra clip, a sanitary napkin, some aspirin and no ID.”

“She knows Espiritu,” Stallings said.

Durant gave him a skeptical look. “Knows him or claims to?”

Stallings took the handwritten letter from his pocket and handed it to Durant. After reading it quickly, Durant passed it up to Georgia Blue who also read it.

“Who’s Hovey Profette?” Durant asked as he rose.

Stallings pointed to Profette’s gold name. Durant looked at it and then back at Stallings. “He was somehow hooked up with you and Espiritu during the war, right?”

Stallings nodded. “She said she wanted to take me to him. Down in Cebu. When I said no thanks, she pulled the gun.”

“Funny,” Georgia Blue said to Durant. “I mean it’s funny how you and she have already met.”

“She also met Artie,” Durant said. “Which makes it hilarious.” He looked at Stallings. “Otherguy claims you’re sole source on this deal.”

“So I’m told.”

“Then why’d she want to kill you?”

“Let’s ask her,” Stallings said.

“She won’t give us a straight answer,” Georgia Blue said.

“Well, what do we do?” Stallings asked, almost beginning to enjoy the improvisation. “Get rid of her?”

There was a silence until Durant said, “If she really is tied to Espiritu, that would send him a message. If she’s not...” He shrugged.

The woman on the floor turned her head and looked up at Durant. “You won’t kill me.”

Durant nodded. “I won’t but she will.” His eyes indicated Georgia Blue.

The woman on the floor sat up quickly. “My name is Carmen Espiritu and I’d like a cigarette, please.”

Stallings looked at Durant. “You smoke?”

“I quit.”

“Georgia?” Stallings asked.

She shook her head. Stallings squatted beside Carmen Espiritu, his knees up in his armpits, his hands dangling, his rear hanging down between his ankles, an interested look on his face. “Nobody smokes,” he said.

The woman said nothing.

“You Al’s daughter?”

“Granddaughter.”

“Why were you going to shoot me, Carmen?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sure looked like it.”

“We don’t approve of the people you’ve hired and I was trying to convince you to come to Cebu alone.”

“What’s wrong with them — the people I hired?”

“Everything,” Carmen Espiritu said. “You were observed from the time you met Harry Crites in Washington until you arrived in Manila.”

“You mean followed?”

“Observed. Watched.”

“By Al’s folks?”

“In Los Angeles,” she said, “our people talked to that Blondin girl, the drug addict, and paid her to tell us about Overby. That led us to him,” she said, looking at Durant, “and also to the big Chinese.” Her lip curled slightly. “We already had files on them, but we decided to test their competence.” This time she looked at Georgia Blue. “What we saw on the Baguio road was not impressive.”

Durant smiled.

“So you really weren’t going to shoot me?” Stallings said.

“No,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Just wanted to scare me into dumping my associates, huh?”

“Associates,” she said, looking at Georgia Blue. “A cashiered Secret Service agent.” She turned to Durant. “A sociopath adventurer whose Chinese partner suffers from infantile delusions.” She turned back to Stallings. “And then, of course, there’s Overby, the hooligan. They made my grandfather uneasy. Suspicious. So we were instructed to make you come alone.”

Stallings nodded as if it all made perfect sense. He looked up at Durant. “I’ll have to send old Al a message, I guess.”

“She’s already got the message,” Georgia Blue said.

Stallings looked dubious. “Maybe. How’s your memory, Carmen?”

“Quite adequate.”

“I want you to give your granddaddy a personal message from me. You tell Al if he tries to fuck me over again, he’ll never see a dime. Got that?”

“If he tries to fuck you over again, he’ll never see a dime.”

Stallings rose slowly.

“May I leave now?” Carmen Espiritu said.

“Sure,” said Stallings.

Durant took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and handed it down to her. “I lied about not smoking,” he said.

“How childish,” she said and drew the smoke deep into her lungs.