by P Gaseaux
Chapter Seven
The attaché tossed his cell on the desk and snorted. That DC guy could complain to his heart’s content about the hours he worked, wouldn’t impact on Jackson’s own little fiefdom here in paradise. The case belonged to Washington anyhow.
Serve ‘em all right for living there.
He had no intention of returning to his roots. An idyllic existence, Special Agent Mike Jackson drew a federal salary with allowances and hardship loadings in a city he tolerated, made all the more bearable by employee benefits. Had other perks too -- the hierarchy knew he’d quit on the spot if they ever recalled him -- he’d made that one clear.
Checked his gear and pockets before shutting down his workstation and heading out; made sure there was nothing to link him with his true occupation. A long night lay ahead. A task force was taking down a watering hole a few hours to the north of the city and he was the international observer.
Making certain all that aid money was well spent, destroying human-traffickers with gusto. Keeping all the NGOs and middle-America happy. Pinkie-politicians who liked to feel good. Clearly nobody ever noticed the kids in the burger-joints back home, nobody ever heard of South Central and Ward-Nine…they had it every bit as bad as anybody living in Asia. Maybe worse.
Not like any of that bothered Jackson. He’d been in the Philippines eighteen months now. Enough time to build up a great little earner. Taken him a while to get the contacts but in his position they had approached him quickly, first some US citizens then their friends, followed by friend-of-friends and that was where he drew the line. He only dealt with two contacts nowadays: a guy from Louisiana, a beneficiary of a large family fortune who had moved in and was attempting to either price or force his competitors out. In Manila and Makati City there was a local crew that ran the show, Jackson had befriended them too. Political connections, a little help from the constabulary and if all else failed hired gunmen were always available to fix any problems.
Jackson waited near the guard house at the embassy gate and before long was seated in the back seat of a vehicle with his contact, an officer of the National Bureau of Investigation, his counterparts. They had a big night ahead; the NBI would be hitting a venue in Angeles City about midnight local time. Jackson would be with them as a legit observer since much of the funding was drawn from foreign aid as well as numerous NGOs. From everybody’s viewpoint it was a ‘win-win’ situation, the exception was the community of expatriates who had invested in bars and nightclubs.
The majority of foreigners had resigned themselves to long hours and little income as they endured raids, coughed up a fortune in bribes and kidded themselves they were there for the love of the place, better than nine-to-five back home. Everybody put up with flooding, power outages. Problems with banks and law and order. Yet the naive expats kept on coming like lemmings, with planeloads of ravenous single males following hot on their heels. At least the tourists could leave with just an empty wallet, empty pockets but still have a have a shirt. Only a fool would place their retirement savings in a circus such as this.
‘Never invest a single dime in Asia you can’t afford to lose’, the experienced hands said, those who survived.
The driver hit the emergency lights and the traffic jam that clogged the city every night dissipated in front of them. They would rendezvous with other local bureau vehicles and a SWAT team in a van on Manila’s outskirts and sail along the mostly empty ‘superhighway’ to the north, a journey taking two hours in good conditions made better by sirens and flashing lights.
Twenty minutes to midnight. Much of the countryside was still under water in a lull between the last typhoon and the next one to hit, fortunately the highway north was in good repair and the evening traffic gave a wide berth to the convoy, they travelled steadily and with a purpose and menace. Carnivale was coming to town but not to entertain, it was a search and destroy mission. The convoy left the relative sanctuary of the superhighway and pressed its way into town, splashing and throwing up water as the police vehicles labored through the streets and traffic.
The van glided to a halt and the diesel was cut. A blinking neon sign ahead on a heart-shaped board with a cartoon-kitty-cat…very original:
‘PINK BITZ NIGHTCLUB AND GRILL’.
Milling crowds outside on the road, ‘Fields’ was packed. By the time the doormen saw the Black Shirts inching toward them it was way too late. The SWAT officials swarmed the place, Armalites clattering on the doorway as they surged into the establishment like they were storming a siege in a bank.
Screams and chaos cloaked the stage in the center of the floor. One trooper leapt at the floor DJ and knocked him flat. The expensive PA system and turntables were battered with rifle butts. The only customers that evening was a group of five or six, each one arrested and handcuffed before being pushed to the walls and pinned. Same for the employees. Some of the dancers on stage had managed to reach for towels and dressing-gowns to cover their bikini outfits; others folded their arms around themselves in a vain attempt to preserve modesty as the black-shirts herded them like sheep to the far end of the establishment. Commandos to crush a choir group, the SWAT were trained by none other than Jackson’s people and they were every bit as good. Thirty minutes and it was all over, the place boarded up and barrier tape covering the front:
‘POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS’.
Midnight…the best time for a raid. The punters drunk and the girls tired and sore from dancing all night on the stage.
He’d stayed well back, precisely as instructed; he was an unarmed observer which suited him fine. On many such raids the NBI often ‘arrested’ him along with the other foreigners and he would travel in the closed van with them to HQ in Metro Manila, listening to banter and gossip from the detainees. Not tonight though, he had to see someone. A westerner; a rich and successful one. Just like Jackson hoped to be one day. He tip-toed from his vantage point and swapped notes with the NBI commander before wandering off, clicking his speed-dial as he threaded his way through the crowds of onlookers.
“Let Mister Harland know I’m here, please.”
The bar manager, a solid brown complexioned Filipino adorned in facial scars and twenty-four karat chains, had a mean look about him; that kind of mean look that came with the territory.
“Who wants him?”
That Jackson had mentioned his name was the only reason the manager gave him the time of day. He disappeared for a few minutes and upon returning a changed man, gushing hospitality, ingratiating, leading the way and swinging doors open. Jackson followed through the maze of corridors and out to a room at the back that was relatively silent. They stopped; the manager knocked once and opened the door a crack.
“Sir, it’s your visitor. He’s here.”
A moment then the door opened and Jackson entered the room. The staged moans and slapping noises of an illegal movie emitting from an old style analogue TV set drifted across the office. Clouds of fragrant smoke from a Havana cigar lingered like a blue fog. The entire room was dripping with plush velvet and mirrors on the ceiling. Perched above the huge papa-san chair. Tobacco infused red velvet.
“It’s done…Pink Bits is outta commission,” proclaimed Jackson, not waiting to greet the fat guy in the chair. “Thought I’d mosey on over.” The gargantuan figure behind the desk opposite him wheezed audibly and shifted his massive bulk. Jackson broke a Cheshire cat smile.
“Wanna hear the ugly details?”
“Cigar, Officer?” The obese man reached and offered a box of Cuban cigars to Jackson who shook his head. More like a wheeze than a whisper. Looked like he was glued to the papa-san chair; never moved, not once in his life.
“Things’ll kill you, Harley-boy. I was hoping for something more substantial, sure you know what I mean. A little southern hospitality.”
“A note of thanks is in order Mike; y’all stay ‘round…hear now? The asshole in Pink Bits wouldn’t get on board wit
h our drink prices and now he’s paid the price,” said the fat man. Looked like a walrus on his perch. Hadn’t showered in a while. Jackson moved slightly and thought of the poor peasant girls who had to keep him happy just to keep their jobs on the stage.
In contrast Jackson was young and buff. Been that way since his teens, a typical college-jock, getting drunk and deflowering cheerleaders since age fourteen. These days he liked them any way but preferably young and fresh. Tonight would be no different...
The deferential tap on the door was soft enough that Jackson missed it. “Come!” yelled the fat man. “’Li’l surprise for you, Mike.”
The door opened and two teenagers entered, with the gold-adorned gangster behind them. He gently pushed them through into the office, and then he retreated out, closing it. Shy and unsophisticated, neither of them a day over nineteen. Cherry-girls. Just off the boat from the southern islands that very week. Hardly kids but certainly not show-girls, not by any stretch; they should’ve been in high school, should’ve been going on family outings, dating boys and church sing-alongs.
Jackson’s heart rate upped a little…perfect! Apprentice bargirls like these were fair game…he’d be nice to them. Break ‘em in like a brand new car.
“My name is Marylou.” The first one giggled and placed her hand over her mouth.
“Hi, sir, I’m Edna,” said the second.
Names Grandma would’ve had. Jackson smirked. “Hello ladies. I’m Uncle Mike.” He stood; his six foot frame towered over the malnourished pair. “Care for a drink? A soda maybe?”
“Tanduay-Coke!” they chorused. More shy giggles.
“Geez…don’t wanna corrupt you two ladies,” said Jackson. He snickered.
“No problem, Mike, both legal. I’ve got their cedulas on file; need ‘em for their health cards.” The fat man leaned toward a metal cabinet, opened it and took out two pieces of crumpled documents; proof and place of birth.
Jackson flashed a grin at the girls who giggled in return. “Rubbers, Harley…I’ll need half a dozen-”
“Whaddya need those for? Told ya already, both chaste. Cherry girls in the fullest sense. They’d be worth 50,000 Peso a pop, pardon the pun. Saved ‘em specially.”
Any jovial mood vanished from the smoky room. “I’m serious, Harley. No tracks in the mud, you know. I got my morals too. No way I’m gonna get one of these chickadees after my ass for paternity down the trail…” Jackson held a camcorder up, tiny, expensive and hi-def. Just the ticket for amateur uploads or personal purveying. “Don’t mind if I take some happy snaps?”
Edna and Marylou were fidgety by now; they had no choice but to play along. Saved them having to audition with the stinky old fat man…Jackson was like a movie star in comparison. A knock at the door. The hoodlum in the gold chains poked his face through and entered with two mixers and a beer on a tray.
“In the VIP room,” said Harland with a wheeze, pointing upward.
Jackson took Edna by the hand; Marylou following. “Show time, folks... See ya Harley-boy. Thanks for that.”
“Well, more thanks to you,” replied the fat man.
They shut the door behind them leaving the fat man to watch his movie, enjoy his cigar and do the books. He preferred that…too much trouble to bring up a showgirl. After how many years in the industry the real thing bored him to death. Showgirls tended to do that. They learned everything they knew from Japanese movies they streamed on their iPhones.
Not a brain in their tiny little heads.
Jackson was collected the next morning at dawn by an embassy car and slept most of the way back with the window down. Slept right through it all. A long night does that to a man, even in his prime. He found his office; he shut the door, switched off his cell and crashed out with his head on his desk.
When Jackson woke he checked his emails, most of which got the ‘delete’ treatment, that magic little ‘X’ on the top of his screen. Besides the recent and nasty homicide he was handling a number of extradition requests, something that intrigued him. The Philippines had current treaties with just about every country yet so many fugitives came there, many disappeared whilst others found trouble or trouble found them…
Others just turned up dead, like the Hatfield case. But Hatfield was neither suspect nor fugitive. Seemed like he was important.
The email hit Jackson between the eyes, officially tagged ‘internal transcript’.
One line stood out: ‘…if at all possible I hope to organize a teleconference next week, depending on approvals…’
Persistent prick!
He read and re-read it, wondering how he could squirm out of this one. Took him a few hours to relax, though, he hadn’t done anything wrong in this case but he didn’t want any outsiders. There was one other in the Feds with whom he collaborated on occasions -- the DEA Agent, Cortez on the same floor. They’d liaised when Hatfield brought the goods in; he had to eliminate the possibility of drug trafficking and they’d examined the items.
Jackson printed the transmission and wandered down the corridor to Cortez’ workstation. It was good; they all had offices with some privacy. Stateside everybody was working in open plan offices…no way he could have slept on his desk like that back at headquarters.
“Hey, Amigo,” said Jackson, pushing his way through the door.
“Jackson,” replied Cortez. He was a bullnecked federal agent from Albuquerque with a moustache who dressed more like he belonged in the Reagan years. “How was Angeles? Rescue any virgins?”
“Not sure. All come out in the wash.” He chuckled. “They’re all in custody now. NBI shut the place real good.”
“Be back in business before you know it. They’re all the same these operators. In the lockup a week, pay off the right people and they’re out.” Cortez stood and gazed out the window, folded a big thick pair of hairy forearms. He’d always regarded the human trafficking taskforce as a feel-good exercise. “Guess it’ll give the consular assistance guys something to do; go see ‘em in the lock-up-”
“Cortez, you recall the stuff we went through in September?”
“Given recent events, how could I not?” Cortez swung around. “Any leads?”
“With the Philippine National Police and the NBI took over, as we speak,” replied Jackson. “Hey Cortez, take a look at this.” He passed the printout to the DEA man who read it, his eyes opened wide and jaw dropped. He read it again.
“Shit, small world. I knew Tanaka. How come you never mentioned he was in on this?”
Jackson didn’t reply for a moment. “You knew him?”
“Yeah sure, we worked together in the Bureau before I jumped to the DEA.” Cortez handed back the transcript. “He’s an upstanding guy. Dedicated.”
“Thanks for your input.” More like thanks for nothing.
“Forgeddabowdditt …hey Jackson…up for a brew? We’re headed up the Manila Bay…”
Mike Jackson peeked into the corridor, still hung over. “Maybe, you go on ahead.”
Jackson had been hoping to find an ally, somebody who agreed with him. He’d have to be disappointed this time. Still, it wasn’t like the old days. Staff-stripping and all, be very unlikely The DC guy would have the time or resources to get involved. Figured he had nothing to be concerned about; it’d blow over soon enough.
As far as Chuck Cortez was concerned, Jackson represented everything about the modern world…nice enough guy but useless. All anybody needed these days was enough degrees, diplomas, attendance at team building sessions and they were on a winner. The era of old fashioned policing was ancient history.
