Out on the Rim

by Ross Thomas

  “He thought once they got rid of Marcos, the right people would step in and run things the way they should be run.” Durant smiled without humor. “Pat always thought he’d make one hell of a foreign secretary.”

  Before Lt. Cruz could comment, the sergeant with the low comforting voice hung up the phone and left the living room. Lt. Cruz watched him go and then turned back to Durant.

  “Did Mrs. Cariaga share her husband’s political views?” he asked.

  “No,” Durant said. “She’s one of Mrs. Aquino’s strongest supporters.” He paused. “Was.”

  “You sympathized with those views?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then you’re a man of the left, Mr. Durant,” Cruz said, making it a declaration rather than a question or even an accusation.

  “No,” Durant said.

  “But since you’re clearly not of the right, that leaves only the center. Tell me, do you find it comfortable there?”

  “There’s a guy in Texas called Hightower who claims there’s nothing in the middle of the road but yellow stripes and dead armadillos. I tend to agree with him.”

  “Still, you obviously have more than an academic interest in politics.”

  “That’s because politics affects profits.”

  “And what kind of business are you in—primarily?”

  “Several kinds.”

  “Insurance?” Lt. Cruz asked. “Reinsurance, to be precise.”

  Durant nodded, staring at Cruz and longing suddenly for a cigarette. He’s even swifter than you thought, Durant realized. “I’ve considered the reinsurance business.”

  “You were in business with—or maybe I should say in league with—the late Ernesto Pineda. I believe you even identified his body. Up in Baguio. True?”

  “True.”

  “Poor Pineda was a distant cousin of our deposed President,” Cruz said. “Did you know that?”

  “Ernie may have mentioned it in passing.”

  “Isn’t it … regrettable, Mr. Durant, that you should be concerned with three horrible murders within the space of a single week? It must affect your asthma most severely.”

  While framing a reply, Durant again coughed delicately. But before he could say anything, the soft-spoken sergeant returned and whispered something into Lt. Cruz’s ear. Cruz replied, “Immediately.”

  The sergeant left the room. Cruz smiled pleasantly at Durant and said, “We have a visitor.”

  Both turned to the door as it opened and Artie Wu entered, wearing his white money suit, his Panama hat and his cane. Wu ignored Lt. Cruz, went directly to Durant, and placed a large comforting hand on Durant’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, Quincy,” he said. “I’m just as sorry as I can possibly be.”

  Durant said nothing.

  Wu turned to inspect Lt. Cruz, taking time to admire the vanilla silk suit, the two-tone shoes and the rest of the homicide detective’s getup. Artie Wu then nodded, as though in approval, and said, “And you, sir, are … ?”

  “Lieutenant Cruz,” the detective said, smiling and examining Wu’s outfit with the frank appreciation of a fellow fop. Still smiling, Cruz rose, extended his hand and said, “Welcome, welcome, Mr. Wu.”

  CHAPTER 19

  For the next hour, Lt. Cruz peppered Wu and Durant with questions about themselves, about the late Ernesto Pineda (whom even he had begun referring to as “poor Ernie”), and about Emily Cariaga.

  “What connection was there between her and poor Ernie?” Cruz wanted to know and seemed dissatisfied when Durant replied none that he knew of. After that, Cruz began asking Wu and Durant about each other.

  He inquired of Durant whether Wu was married and if so, what were the given names of Mrs. Wu and the children. Durant rattled them off. He then asked Wu if Durant had ever sought treatment for his asthmatic bronchitis. Wu nodded gravely, replying that Durant had sought out the best specialists in Los Angeles, Denver, Zurich and, in a few weeks, would be consulting a Harley Street specialist who looked promising.

  “We have good doctors here, you know,” Cruz said, not bothering to mask his jingoist feelings.

  “It was my doctor here who recommended the one in London,” Durant lied with what Artie Wu noted was his usual artistry.

  “We have the best dentists in Asia,” Cruz said, apropos of almost nothing.

  “In the world, for my money,” said Artie Wu.

  Cruz seemed to know when he was being gulled so he resumed his questions. “You’re obviously a well-educated man, Mr. Wu,” he said, his tone clearly anticipating a lying response.

  Artie Wu only shrugged. It was Durant who supplied the details. “Princeton. He even made Phi Beta Kappa.”

  “And you, Mr. Durant. Are you also a Princeton graduate?”

  “No. I went but failed to graduate.” Durant saw no need to explain how he had sat through all of Artie Wu’s classes not as a student, but as the ever-present bodyguard of the pretender to the Chinese Emperor’s throne.

  Lt. Cruz abandoned all efforts to suspend his disbelief. “What you’ve been trying to sell me is that two intelligent grown men—well educated, well traveled, a couple of real been-arounds—let themselves get taken by a three-peso buy-and-sell hustler.” He gave his head two quick skeptical shakes. “Let’s hear it all. Even the dirty parts. You first.” He pointed his chin at Artie Wu.

  Wu’s sigh seemed full of embarrassment. “I’m afraid poor Ernie was, as you say, Lieutenant, nothing but a confidence trickster.”

  “Really,” Cruz said, making sure his sarcasm was heavy enough to be noticed. He then smiled a gleaming smile that had been fashioned in part by one of the best dentists in Asia. “How much did Ernie take you for?”

  “Three hundred thousand.”

  “Pesos?”

  Wu shook his great head sadly. “Dollars.”

  “Mother of God,” Cruz whispered. “If you did kill him, they might rule it justifiable homicide.”

  “But you’ve already been in touch with the Baguio cops, haven’t you?” Durant said.

  Cruz hesitated, then nodded.

  “So you know we didn’t.”

  “Who do you think did?”

  “A guess?” Wu said.

  Cruz moved his tailored shoulders in a “why not?” shrug.

  “An NPA sparrow team,” Wu said.

  The answer made Cruz frown. But then the frown went away and he nodded reluctantly. “Makes sense,” he said. “A little.”

  There was a long silence while Lt. Cruz examined Wu, then Durant and then Wu again. “You two,” he said softly, “may be the best liars I’ve come across in years.”

  Wu smiled. “I take it that means we can go.”

  “But not far.”

  “Cebu okay?” Durant asked.

  Lt. Cruz bristled. “Cebu! What’s in Cebu?”

  “Business,” Durant said. “We still have to eat.”

  Lt. Cruz stared at Artie Wu. “Ever been in any of our jails, Mr. Wu?”

  “Never.”

  “They’re an absolute scandal.”

  Wu nodded. “How does one avoid them?”

  “One keeps in touch.”

  “What if one has nothing to report.”

  “Our jails, although horribly overcrowded, can always hold two more.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Wu said.

  Durant taped his own chest in the Peninsula Hotel Mercedes that Wu had parked across the street from a big Forbes Park house that flew the West German flag. A uniformed Filipino security guard eyed them suspiciously but didn’t interfere. Wu cut off strips of surgical tape with a pair of scissors and handed them back, one by one, to Durant who sat in the rear with his shirt off. Wu had bought both scissors and tape at the hotel pharmacy at Durant’s request. Durant taped his chest with quick sure movements.

  “Cracked?” Wu asked.

  “Maybe not.”

  “Hurts though?”

  “Not like it did.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.” />
  Durant looked down at his now taped chest, gave it a light thump, grimaced a little, and started putting his shirt back on. “Emily’s guard was dead when I got there. The door was open. Just a little. I kicked it all the way open and that Big Stoop who bounces for Boy Howdy came through it with a knife. He missed and I got him in the eye with a brass nozzle—one of those garden hose jobs.”

  Wu nodded.

  “It didn’t bother him much and he tried to kick me in the balls and caught my chest instead. Some kick.”

  “Why didn’t he finish you off?”

  “Who knows? Maybe nobody told him to.”

  “Maybe nobody told him to do Emily either,” Wu said.

  “I thought of that.”

  “Which is why you didn’t tell Cruz about him.”

  Durant nodded.

  “We’d better go talk to Boy,” Wu said.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “What do I do?” Wu asked.

  “You hold him.”

  A $100 bill slipped to the bartender bought Wu and Durant the one-long, two-short buzzer code into Boy Howdy’s locked office. Wu rang the code and when the unlocking buzzer sounded he pushed open the metal door and stood there, leaning slightly on his cane and staring at Boy Howdy whose right hand strayed toward the desk drawer that contained the .45 automatic.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Boy,” Wu said. “That fucking Durant might not like it.”

  “That fucking Durant might rip your face off,” Durant said over Wu’s shoulder.

  Boy Howdy’s right hand stopped. “He didn’t kill her,” Howdy said. “She was dead when he got there. The watchman, too.”

  Artie Wu strolled into the office and looked around. Durant moved to Wu’s left, not taking his eyes off Howdy. Wu examined the acrylic-on-velvet painting of the fat carabao and the plump tiger. “Anyone ever mention, Boy, that you have what may well be the worst taste in Asia?”

  “He didn’t kill her,” Howdy said. “She was dead when Ozzie got there.”

  “Ozzie?” Durant said.

  “Osmundo,” Howdy explained.

  “How is Osmundo?” Durant asked.

  “Lost his left eye, didn’t he?” Howdy said. “Blinded him, you did.”

  Wu looked around the room and selected a straight-backed chair, the same chair Otherguy Overby had chosen. He sat down, removed his hat, put it on the floor, and folded his hands over the top of his cane. Durant leaned against a wall on the opposite side of the room, his eyes still fixed on Boy Howdy.

  “What was Ozzie doing at Mrs. Cariaga’s, Boy?” Durant said.

  Howdy made his reply to Wu. “I rent him out, don’t I? I mean, if somebody’s got a bit of cash they want to see inside the bank safe and sound, they rent Ozzie at five hundred pesos per hour. Nobody in his right mind wants to fuck with a giant. So I get a call this A.M., going on noon. A woman. Says she’s Mrs. Cariaga and lives over in Forbes Park. Says she’s going to the airport and wants Ozzie to go with her and make sure she gets on the plane. So I ask what time she wants him and she says half past three and I tell her the price and say he’ll be there.”

  “Did you know her husband?” Durant said.

  Still looking at Wu, Boy Howdy said, “If his name’s Pat Cariaga, then that’s right, I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? But he’s almost three years dead now, isn’t he?”

  Wu nodded and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands that were still folded over the head of his cane. He stared at Boy Howdy with deep interest.

  “So Ozzie got there at half past three?” Durant said.

  “Right. And there the watchman is in the bushes with his neck broke. So Ozzie goes to the door, finds it open and steps inside. He says hello a couple of times. You know. But nobody says hello back so he looks around. No servants, he says. Not a soul. So he goes to the back of the house and finds her lying there by the bed, stone dead. Well, Ozzie’s not all that quick, is he, but he knows when it’s time to leave.”

  Boy Howdy stopped as if waiting for encouragement. When none came, he cleared his throat and continued: “Well, Ozzie hears something then. He hears this car driving in and a bit later somebody running toward the house on the gravel walk and that somebody turns out to be that fucking Durant.”

  Howdy turned to stare at Durant for the first time. “So Ozzie does what he does and you do what you do and poor old Ozzie ends up blind in one eye.” Howdy paused for a moment. “He’s thinking maybe you done her and the watchman too. And for all I know, he’s right.”

  “Boy,” Artie Wu said.

  Howdy looked at him. “What?”

  “As I see it, you have three choices. You ever hear of a homicide lieutenant called Cruz?”

  “Gildo Cruz? Yeah. Sure. I’ve heard of him.”

  “He’s one of your choices. You and Ozzie can talk to him. If you don’t much like that, then I’ll leave you alone with Durant and you can talk to him. He might have a cracked rib or two, but Durant’s pretty steamed. Maybe you can handle him; maybe not. I don’t think so.”

  Boy Howdy looked at Durant. “He’s not all that much. I’ve settled worse. A lot worse.”

  “Leave me your cane, Artie,” Durant said. “I may want to slice him up a little.”

  “As I said,” Wu continued, “Durant’s a bit steamed. He and Mrs. Cariaga were good friends. Very good friends.”

  A ribald look began to form in Howdy’s eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut when he looked at Durant.

  “Your third choice, Boy,” Wu said, “is to tell me and Durant what really happened. If it was only business, and Ozzie had nothing to do with Mrs. Cariaga’s death, then we can proceed from there.” Wu paused. “You have about ten seconds to decide.”

  “How long’ve you and Durant known me, Artie?” Boy Howdy said.

  Wu lifted his chin from the fingers that were still wrapped over the head of his cane. He leaned back in the straight chair, stuck out his left leg and thoughtfully tapped his shoe with the cane’s end. “Years, Boy. Too many, really.”

  “And we’ve done our fair share of business together—you, Durant, Otherguy and me. And we’ve had our giggles, too, we have.”

  “I can’t remember any,” Durant said.

  Howdy ignored him. “So a piece of business comes my way. That’s all. A job of work, it was. A certain party needs a frightener. It seems like the Cariaga lady’s been nosing around where she shouldn‘t’ve. But the Cariaga lady’s quick enough to know she shouldn’t’ve turned up what she turned up and so she’s leaving town. Going to Spain, they say. Well, the party that needs the frightener wants to make sure the Cariaga lady don’t grass before she gets on the plane. So I rent the party old Ozzie to do nothing—and I swear this—but nervous the Cariaga lady up a bit. And I swear to God it’s just like I said it was from the moment he gets there. She’s already dead. Her and the watchman both. And that’s the sweet Jesus truth.”

  “Who hired your frightener, Boy?” Artie Wu asked in a soft voice.

  “Why don’t you ask me to cut me own throat, Artie?”

  “Either you cut it or I do,” Durant said.

  Howdy seemed suddenly bored. He yawned and even stretched. After the stretch his right hand casually drifted down to the back of his neck. He almost had the knife out of the neck sheath when the huge white blur that was Artie Wu smashed the cane against Howdy’s right elbow. He yelled, but by then Durant was around the desk and had the half-drawn knife in his own right hand.

  Durant placed the knife point just under the tip of Howdy’s chin, forcing his head up. “Tell it,” Durant said.

  Boy Howdy let a small moan escape from between his almost closed lips. “Give us a rest, Durant,” he said.

  Durant took the knife point away. Howdy dropped his head, closed his eyes and said, “I’m dead, I am.”

  Wu sighed. “Get it over with, Boy.”

  “It was that cunt that rented Ozzie, that’s who,” Howdy said, his eyes still closed.

/>   Wu and Durant stared at each other, jumping simultaneously to the same conclusion. “The Espiritu woman, you mean?” Durant said. “Carmen Espiritu.”

  Boy Howdy opened his eyes to glare at Durant. “Quit jacking me around, Durant. I don’t know any Carmen whatever the fuck it is.”

  “Boy,” Artie Wu said in a soft and patient voice. “Just give us the name.

  “It was that killer bitch of yours that rented herself Ozzie,” Howdy said. “Georgia Blue. That’s who.” Despite his pain he smiled at the accidental rhyme and when he noticed Wu’s and Durant’s sudden bleak surprised expressions, his smile grew even broader.

  CHAPTER 20

  It was 10:33 that night when Georgia Blue arrived by taxi at the Manila Hotel. She slowly entered the vast lobby, sweeping it with practiced eyes as she crossed to the elevators, her right hand down inside the leather bag that hung from her shoulder.

  She rode an elevator alone up to the fourth floor. From there she took the stairs to the fifth floor, slipped past the dozing floor porter and hurried down the corridor to suite 542 where she knocked softly. Booth Stallings opened the door a few seconds later.

  “I think I’m in a little trouble,” she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

  Stallings poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. “Come in,” he said, opening the door wide enough for her to enter. He then closed the door, shot its dead bolt and fastened the chain. Turning, he found Georgia Blue in the center of the suite’s sitting room, her posture awkward, her expression uncertain. Stallings thought she almost looked as if she were missing something, maybe a key part of her body—a foot, or even an arm—until he realized it was her tremendous poise that had vanished. She’s lost it somewhere, he decided. Or somebody took it away from her.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  For a moment she seemed not to have understood him. Then she smiled, as if it were the kindest invitation ever offered. The smile vanished as she turned to make her choice of where to sit. It was obviously a difficult choice and possibly the most important of her life. Finally, she decided on a green armchair, which she sank into, keeping her right hand deep in the leather shoulder bag.