by Alan L. Moss
Before George’s deal with Ponsonby and Matautu, raising twenty-six thousand dollars would have been impossible. Now, George believed anything was possible.
He couldn’t borrow the money from Ponsonby. After all, it was Health-Cell’s need for cash which brought about the conspiracy in the first place. Approaching Matautu was a possibility, but George didn’t want Gale to see him as irresponsible. That left one ace in the hole, Sammy Finn.
He didn’t have to drop off the money until Monday evening, but George wanted to get his hands on it now so next week he could focus on the hearings. He was on his way to see Sammy, whom he had called earlier to arrange a visit. Sammy knew how George got into this fix and Sammy’s business was thriving. He was a prime candidate to make a short-term loan. In return, George would offer to pay him an additional ten thousand within the month.
At two o’clock George pulled up in front of Sammy’s house in a residential neighborhood of Pago Pago. George was surprised at the surroundings. This area was low income even by Pago Pago standards. Chickens and dogs roamed the front lawn. The house was a half-step above a rundown trailer.
George parked in the driveway behind a rusted-out pick-up truck and walked past barking dogs tied to the back of the truck. He knocked on a screen door that fronted a porch-like structure leading to the main part of the house. George could see an old Samoan woman sitting on the porch watching television.
Although the Samoan lady didn’t move, he heard Sammy yell from somewhere in the house.
“Is that you, George? Hold on, I’ll be right out.”
Sammy appeared in the doorway unshaven and wearing a T-shirt, stained cutoff shorts, and sandals.
“Well, come on in my friend. That was one hell of a killer hand you held the other night. Remind me never to bet an aces-up full house.”
Sammy led George to a table toward the rear of the house, which smelled like stale cigar smoke. The two men sat down and before George could make his request, Sammy spoke up.
“Look, George, I don’t know why you’re here but let me tell you one thing, that Korean group is bad medicine. They’ve got this community of thugs that live in Samoa and work fishing boats. They stick together and they don’t mind cutting off an arm or worse if you welsh on a bet. Normally, I wouldn’t play with these guys, but they showed up uninvited and, frankly, none of us had the balls to tell them to look for a game somewhere else.”
The timing of this crisis couldn’t have been worse, George thought. The last thing he needed was to be chased around Samoa by a group of bloodthirsty goons. He had to stay in town to make sure the hearings went as planned. If it weren’t for that, he could hop on a plane for Hawaii and take his chances.
“Sammy,” George began, “the crazy thing is, in a few weeks I’ll have more money than I’ll know what to do with. I can’t give you any details but if next week’s minimum wage hearings go as expected and if you loan me the twenty-six thousand now, I’ll pay you thirty-six thousand by the end of the month.”
Sammy grimaced and lit a cigarillo throwing the match on the floor.
“George, you know I like you. Hell, you’re my favorite golf partner, but I’m tapped out. Sure, I’m bringing in a lot of money from the Web site. I’m also pouring all that and more into a new home I’m building on Molokai. The thing’s walking distance to the Kaluakoi Golf Course, which, as you know, is incredibly beautiful and challenging. The hotel there is setting me up with a retail outlet on the premises and I’m building a workshop into the new house.
“What’s even better, my wife and her mother refuse to leave Samoa or the rock, as the kids call it. So, I’m quitting this place and starting over in a great house, with a golf membership in a super course and excellent business prospects to boot.”
Sammy took a drag on the cigarillo blowing smoke straight up.
“But until I get settled, I couldn’t raise twenty-six hundred, let alone twenty-six thousand. You may want to get your ass off Island until you can raise the money and get the Koreans off your back.”
George tried to disguise his disappointment but couldn’t hide the despondent look in his eyes.
“That’s an idea,” he answered. “Unfortunately, I need to be here to make sure the minimum wage hearings don’t get fucked up. I have one other prospect. In the meantime, if you think of a way out, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”
George wanted to avoid meeting with Matautu about his problem. Each Sunday for many weeks they talked by phone, tracking their progress and discussing strategies for next moves. These conversations were strictly business — contact information, transfer of funds, and the like. George sensed a growing respect from the Governor’s top aide.
On the other hand, George knew Matautu was not a generous man. He treated you well when he needed you. Once you delivered, he wiped the slate clean. He owed you nothing and you received no favors. If you displayed weakness, the consequences couldn’t be predicted.
It was close to three in the afternoon and George decided to stop along the seaside road. He purchased some barbecue from one of the charcoal grills set up for weekend traffic. Sitting on a large black rock and looking out at the Pacific, George had an uneasy feeling that things were turning against him. With no alternative and time running out, he decided to seek the loan from Matautu.
Despite his reservations, George saw no other way. He wiped the barbecue sauce from his lips, got back in his car, and drove down Route No.1 to Gale’s. At ten minutes after seven, Gale’s black Spyder pulled into the driveway alongside George’s rental. George got out of his Jeep and Gale walked over to him.
“What’s going on, George? I thought we’d limit our communications to phone calls. Is there a problem with Ponsonby?”
George, with his head down, asked if they might go inside and sit by the pool. Once inside, he explained the problem. Matautu remained silent.
“I know it was stupid and I apologize, but we can’t afford publicity that would get the Samoa Press or even the Governor interested in me right now. If you can find twenty-six thousand dollars and get it to me by Monday morning, that will end it. To show you how grateful I’d be, just subtract fifty thousand from my take.”
Gale smiled, feigning compassion.
“That will not be necessary, my friend. You’ve done an excellent job and we all make mistakes. Far be it from me to hold a gambling debt against a partner. However, we shouldn’t meet again out in the open. Let’s get together tomorrow night at ten at the first tee of the Lanu-eka Golf Course. I’ll have an envelope for you with the money.”
Feeling relieved, George and Gale shook hands and decided to go over the details of their plan one last time. Having agreed on the future course of events, George headed back to the Agelu Lodge. To celebrate his good fortune he planned to call Yun and take her to Sophia’s, making up for their lost date.
***
Matautu changed into shorts and a light shirt and mixed a vodka martini. He sat by the pool and looked out at his cove. Soon, he thought, he would be a very wealthy man.
He placed his drink on a poolside table and made the call.
SEEDS OF DOUBT
July 11, 2004 – July 20, 2004
CHAPTER 32
GREYMOUTH
July 11, 2004
Greymouth, New Zealand
The pounding in Michael’s head forced him to open his eyes. He looked for Joy, but her seat was empty, except for a neatly folded blanket.
The pain in his head competed with the soreness in his shoulder. Then, it all came back. Russell James must have fired some kind of tranquilizer dart at each of them.
Where was Joy? Did she awaken earlier and go for help?
Michael tried to stand but his legs were rubbery and his vision blurred. He sat back down and attempted to clear his head. As he made another try at standing, the conductor rushed down the aisle.
“Hey, they never came back for you! What the bloody hell is going on? That doctor said he’d be right back.”
Michael’s heart fell and his stomach threatened to erupt.
“What are you talking about?”
The conductor, his hand shaking and eyes full with concern about liability, lit a cigarette.
“When we pulled into Greymouth, all the passengers detrained, but you two didn’t even move. One of the passengers alerted me and I called emergency services. They arrived in just a few minutes and a doctor said both of you had to go to hospital. They removed the girl first and said they’d be right back for you, but they never returned.”
Before he could continue, another man in uniform interrupted.
“Hey, another emergency crew just arrived. They claim they don’t know anything about the men who took the girl.”
Michael’s eyes froze, locked on the conductor’s face and its blank look.
It was happening again. First, it was Karen, now Joy. What had he done! Why couldn’t he just retreat into a life of anonymity? How many innocent people would die over his obsession with Health-Cell’s conspiracy?
The conductor broke in.
“Look, mate, I don’t know what’s going on here but I’d be glad to give you a lift to the emergency room to look for your friend.”
“She won’t be there,” Michael deadpanned. “She won’t be there.”
Then, Michael came to his senses. The more he made of Joy’s disappearance, the greater the chances that he would wind up in jail. He accepted the conductor’s offer and was dropped off at Greymouth Hospital.
When the conductor asked why he and Joy couldn’t detrain, he told him they took a prescription they thought was for motion sickness but turned out to be a sleeping pill. The overriding concern of the conductor was for the liability of TranzAlpine, so he accepted Michael’s explanation without question.
Michael reasoned that the kidnapping had to be an act of desperation by those in charge at Health-Cell. With no stomach for cold-blooded murder, they snatched Joy to fire a warning shot and deny Michael his one ally. Perhaps he would end his efforts or at least they would become less effective. While they might use Joy as a bargaining chip, if they were capable of murder, they would have taken them both and ended their lives right then and there.
Michael believed it was the Samoan arm of the conspiracy, those who had sponsored Karen’s death and sent the assassin to his room, which had no qualms taking a life. They would be the lethal menace he had to avoid until he was ready to close in. In the meantime, Michael would follow the plan he and Joy devised. She would be proud of his professionalism under fire.
It was two-thirty in the afternoon and Michael was exhausted. He had to locate a hotel and get some rest. He found a taxi at Greymouth Hospital and the driver recommended the Westland Hotel. It was in the center of Greymouth along the Grey River. Michael was given a room in the hotel’s tower. In ten minutes he was fast asleep.
He awoke about four hours later and tried to organize his thoughts. First, he wanted to find out how they were followed. Joy was confident they had avoided any surveillance. Now, it seemed they were watched all along.
Michael’s next step would be to gather information on their assailant, Russell James. Could Michael confirm that James was a member of Health-Cell’s security team? Finally, he had to arrange travel to Samoa and try his best to carry on alone.
Michael showered and took the elevator down to the Rapahoe Bar, located in the original section of the hotel. Built nearly one hundred years ago, the bar had maintained its wrought iron, brick, and dark wood decor. Michael stood by the fireplace that heated the pub.
Warmed by the wood fire, he took a seat at the bar. The barmaid came over, a shapely young lady with a brown ponytail, large brown eyes, and thin lips.
“Hi, what can I get you?”
Michael looked into the girl’s eyes and thought of Joy. Was he abandoning her, the brave sweetheart who risked her life to save his? If he went to the police and told them everything, would they believe him? Or would they see who he was, lock him up, and wait for extradition? He couldn’t take that chance. He had to press on.
“Did you want a drink?” the barmaid repeated, losing patience.
Michael came back to the moment.
“Sure, B&B on the rocks.”
“No problem.”
After a second B&B at the bar, Michael made his way to Mount Cook Restaurant, located in the newer wing of the hotel. He hadn’t eaten all day and a generous portion of lamb stew and two draft beers hit the spot.
He returned to his room and decided to search through all his belongings to see if some kind of tracking device had been planted. The tote bag was his only luggage, so he turned it inside out. There, deep within, he found a remote GPS tracker.
James must have planted it when he and Joy walked out onto the platform at Arthur’s Pass. In retrospect, Michael realized it would have been easy for Health-Cell security staff to attach a similar device to their car while it was parked in the company lot. They should have checked.
At first, Michael thought of flushing the device down the toilet, but then reconsidered. Perhaps he could use it to throw the conspirators off track.
***
The next morning, Michael walked back to the Greymouth train station, hoping to discover useful information about Joy’s abductors. He walked onto the platform and spotted what looked like orange and black paper on the ground, about thirty yards away. With no train in sight, he lowered himself onto the tracks, jogged over, and scooped it up.
Apparently, before they whisked Joy away, James found the disposable camera he used to take their pictures and threw it on to the tracks. Somehow, it avoided damage and now Michael could have the pictures developed. The last shot should be a photograph of Russell James. With that picture, he might be able to find the man’s real identity.
While the pictures were being processed at a local pharmacy, Michael caught a taxi to the Greymouth waterfront, where the wide mouth of the Grey River meets the Tasman Sea. Smaller boats went up river for whitewater rafting and trout fishing. Larger vessels went out to sea for deep water fishing.
Several charter operators told Michael they wouldn’t risk a trip to Pago Pago this time of year. The waters were too rough and there was talk of a storm brewing in the South Pacific. They advised Michael to hitch a ride on a purse seine trawler headed that way. These large ships caught troves of tuna in nets. Once full, the nets were raised and the catch transferred to tanks filled with brine, freezing the fish quickly.
Michael walked along the commercial area of the waterfront looking over the docks. Talley Company’s deep-sea fleet dominated, with four modern vessels tied up in the trawler basin. Michael wanted to look for a more modest operation, one that might appreciate a few hundred dollars in return for passage to Pago Pago.
He found a good candidate at the end of the basin. A dirty sign announced Ranks Seafood Fleet, just across from a white building that housed an ice-making plant. The single trawler opposite the Ranks sign, designated Rank No. 1, was about a third the size of the Talley trawlers. The ship was painted dark red with the wheelhouse white. The smell of raw fish filled the air and seagulls circled above looking for discarded pieces from a recent catch.
Michael spotted a large man working on-board. He had a navy wool cap on an oversized head, a thick gray moustache, and large bags under his eyes. Before Michael could say hello, the man caught a glimpse of him and turned toward his visitor.
“Hey, you’re no bloody fisherman. If you’re looking for a job, go downtown and ask the restaurant.”
Michael stood on the side of the dock viewing the disorganized deck and its gruff captain.
“What makes you think I’m looking for work?”
The man tossed a piece of rope aside.
“Well, if you’re not, what the hell you doing here?”
“My name is Jim Green. I’m a writer with Deep Sea Magazine. I’m looking for a ride on a trawler to Pago Pago. I could contact Talley’s but I thought a smaller operator like you would
appreciate the five-hundred dollars my editor has allowed for the story.”
The captain looked at Michael with skepticism.
“Five-hundred for a ride to Pago Pago?”
Michael could see the wheels turning. The captain wasn’t buying his story. On the other hand, Ranks Seafood looked like it could use every penny of Michael’s offer.
“You have your ass down here at four-thirty tomorrow morning. We dump our fish at the canneries in the Samoan harbor and turn right around. You’ll need to find a ride for the short way to Pago Pago, and make sure you have your passport with you. I don’t need any problems with immigration.”
“That’s great. See you in the morning,” Michael said, relieved that he found his ride.
The captain turned away and then back again.
“And stop by the Army-Navy store to get the right clothes. You’ll need boots, waterproof pants, and a warm coat. Until we get into the South Pacific, it’ll be nasty out there.”
Michael returned to the pharmacy and retrieved his pictures. He turned away and thumbed through the snapshots, staring at Joy and the happiness in her eyes. He prayed he would see her again, that she would be okay. When he reached the picture of Russell James, Michael walked back to the photo counter. The man in charge came over.
“Can I help? Is there a problem?”
“No, the pictures are just fine, but I wonder if you recognize this man. He was so nice, taking most of these shots for us. I failed to get his name and I’d like to send him a thank you.”
The man behind the counter looked at the photo.
“Why, that’s Harold Beamer. He’s from Ashburton and works for a company called Health-Cell. He has a boat and vacation home here and comes in quite often. I think he’s in personnel or maybe security.”
“Thanks. I’ll get his local address from the phone book and send him a note.”
Before leaving, Michael walked over to the Kodak machine that instantly makes duplicates. He fed in Beamer’s photo. He would send the picture and a letter to Joy’s assailant to let him know Michael knew who he was and where he lived.
