by P Gaseaux
Chapter Fourteen
‘WAR ON THE STREETS OF OUR VERY OWN MANILA!’
‘From the information at hand it appears that drug gangs have been caught in a deal gone wrong and two baddies have been gunned down in broad daylight. It is estimated over one hundred and fifty shots were fired in Don Suarez subdivision yesterday morning, in a rampage resulting in loss of life and damage to buildings and vehicles. Terrified bystanders had a close call when hoodlums traded shots in a busy street in the old sector. Righteous citizenry are now outraged and up in arms. Enough is enough! Our very own beloved capital is looking like downtown Beirut after a battle. Gangsters and rascals beware! The authorities have collected a large amount of evidence including many packages of ‘Syabu’ (methamphetamine) and tainted money from the scene. We all rest assured police are certain to make arrests soon…’
“Yeah, right.”
Tanaka snorted and tossed the tabloid where he found it in the lobby. The condescending journalese had a cartoon-character tone, if the reader ignored all the Technicolor gore plastered on the cover. The Philippines had a lot more gun-crime than the US in any given year.
Strange, though…they’re so laid-back about everything. Just don’t get ‘em off-side.
So far every single Filipino he’d met was a nice person; the place just didn’t function the way he’d expected, that’s all. Their smiles were warm and genuine; they were more like Pacific Islanders than the rest of Asia. When PK Tanaka was growing up in ‘Lulu he’d befriended many Filipino-Americans. There were several hundred thousand living in Hawaii. They made loyal friends and terrible foes. They appeared to be a matrilineal society.
Now he had a much more serious problem or two to be precise. Anna was missing and he’d just been caught up in a double homicide. Washington was furious. Every move he made from now on would need to be signed off. There were few leads and the only help he could get had vanished with her. As far as the PNP were concerned the gun battle involved local gangs.
Jackson was beginning to get on Tanaka’s nerves -- he’d remained hidden in the Santa Lucia hospital lobby, turning up in the car while it was JJ Hatfield who had hauled him back to safety. Nearly given the old guy a hernia. Now Hatfield was safely within the confines of the embassy building, much to the protests of all and sundry but it was not worth the risk of placing him in a hotel. To lose the old guy would be a career ending event.
Tanaka began leafing through the documents and files he had with him. The name ‘Inspector R. Guinhava’ of the local Police area command jostled his memory…he dug the report out and read it. It was the best lead so far. Jackson hadn’t contacted the guy. There was a number but Tanaka was in a dilemma: Agent Jackson was being more of a hindrance than help and he had to think of a means of bypassing him now.
Unbeknown to him this dilemma would soon vanish.
He spent most of the day assisting Hatfield in the morbid task of repatriating the remains of his son to the States where he could be laid to rest. The old guy had no intention of returning just yet; he was baying for blood and badgering both agents, demanding arrests and insisting upon payback.
The clock was ticking; Tanaka had half a day to get hold of Inspector Rocky Guinhava. Figured it was best to front up there and wait. Tanaka knocked on Mike Jackson’s door. “Just reporting out for a couple of hours, won’t be long.”
“Wait up; I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Forget about it,” replied Tanaka. “Just remembered, I need a tetanus shot. The medic didn’t give me one. I should have asked.” He rubbed the graze on his face where Anna’s knee had struck. Turned into a nasty bruise by now; made for a good excuse.
Jackson was satisfied. Tanaka spruced up, wanted to make an impression. Stopped by Chuck Cortez’ room but the DEA agent was gone for the day -- not to worry, he’d manage.
Out the gate he hailed a cab and after some banter repeated the words ‘Police Headquarters’ which only made the driver ask a lot of questions. The cabbie agreed and Tanaka seated himself next to him. Despite the age of the vehicle the air con worked a treat, a welcome change from the steamy conditions outside. Tanaka was captivated by the delicate little shrine of the Holy Virgin, intricately crafted and encased in a glass case attached to the dashboard. After a while the driver remarked upon his fare’s interest; for PK Tanaka it was all very Mexican.
“For safety!” said the taxi driver in a gravelly voice. “Faith in our Lord, for me and my family…for safety.” The driver gave a conspiratorial grin and lifted his trouser leg revealing his inner left ankle. Strapped there was a holster with a snub-nosed revolver, perhaps a family heirloom; an ancient Dick Tracy type thirty-eight.
“Also this, for safety!” The taxi driver smiled and pushed his trouser cuff back. “Kind sir…if you would lock your door please…” They paused in traffic and the urchins were trying to mob the car.
“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” mumbled Tanaka but the driver did not say much more for the rest of the drive.
Would’ve been quicker to walk, anyhow. Stuck in traffic most of the time. When they arrived the fare was cheap…about seven bucks. Tanaka tossed in an extra note as a tip. The cabbie leaned over; he whacked Tanaka’s shoulder-blades and shook…nearly tore his arms out of the sockets.
Unlikely any Punjabis would try muscle in on his turf.
He entered the building housing the Philippine National Police precinct and waited in front of a young policewoman who was engrossed in the computer.
Looks busy, probably social-networking.
Tanaka was struck by the fact there were no members of the public waiting in the lobby, only cops. If there were any civilians here they were probably locked away in a dungeon somewhere. Then he remembered Agent Jackson’s comment -- Filipinos never bothered with the police.
The lady cop looked up. She said something in Tagalog. It was a rapid sentence.
“I’m sorry Officer, I only speak English,” replied Tanaka. “I’m an American.”
She giggled, covering her mouth and answered in a chirpy voice: “Oh, sir I apologize. But how can we help?”
He produced the report and handed it to her. Had the official seal and the inspector’s signature; it’d impress them no end. “I was hoping I could find Inspector Rocky Guinhava. Does he work here?”
She read the document and beckoned a young male officer. They perused the piece of paper for a minute and woman looked up. “Inspector Guinhava is a very busy man, sir.”
“Identification please,” said the male officer with an officious tone, now they wanted to know who might be after their boss.
Tanaka produced his badge and green passport and passed them over. Their eyes widened. Like dinner plates. He had their attention now.
“Special Agent P. Kelvin Tanaka, United States Department of Justice,” the male cop read out loud. He held Tanaka’s ID up to the light like a gold doubloon washed up on the shore.
“Sir, you are with the embassy here?” asked the young woman. “Official business?”
“I guess you could say that. I’m not with the embassy though; I’m from Washington DC.”
“I’m sorry sir; I thought you were one of us when I first saw you,” she replied. The male officer was dialing a number on a land-line as fast as he could.
“I’m a US citizen, of course,” replied Tanaka. “The Federal Government only employs citizens of the United States,” he added.
“Special Agent…Tanaka…What kind of name is that, sir?” the female cop asked looking at him intensely.
“It’s a Japanese name,” replied the agent.
The bright and chirpy sparrow evaporated in a second, replaced by a black and sulky look. She frowned disapprovingly and the male cop dumped his ID on the counter.
“There.” She abruptly pointed to some plastic chairs and said nothing more. He was dismissed for the time being.
When Rocky �
��Rambo’ Guinhava of the PNP showed up he was apologetic. “We have had a terrible week. Even for here…”
The two men shook hands and proceeded up the flight of stairs, followed by the stares of the uniformed cops behind the service counter.
“First this very sad case about the Hatfield boy followed the spate of killings the other day,” remarked the inspector. “You heard about the big gun battle at Don Suarez?”
“I think so,” said Tanaka in a guilty tone.
“Everything is out of control these days,” Guinhava continued as he led the agent into his office, closing the door behind them.
Coffee was ordered and they spoke at length. The Filipino cop had never met a real FBI agent, or anyone from the American embassy before. Tanaka was mystified as to why Jackson had not arranged a meeting, even as a courtesy. Not even a telephone call; nothing.
“You know, your people would only liaise with our NBI,” Guinhava sniffed. “They are the equivalent of your FBI from our standpoint.” The Filipino lowered his voice. “Agent Tanaka, they would never deal with mere mortals like me.”
Tanaka was impressed at the degree of care and diligence put in. Guinhava showed him reports completed by the PNP’s scientific services along with witness statements and numerous crime scene stills that had never even made it beyond Jackson’s desk. It was clear the local precinct had left nothing unturned in the investigation but they’d ended up against a wall.
Tanaka raised the subject of the Santa Lucia hospital shooting: “Do you think these two crimes may have been connected in any way?” He asked gingerly; he did not wish to push his luck.
Inspector Guinhava paused before answering. “I don’t think the murder of William Hatfield was linked to drugs.” He looked intently at Tanaka, eyebrows raised. “Do you think there is a connection?”
“Did you manage to locate any associates or friends of the victim, Inspector?”
The Filipino grinned. “Funny you should ask. He had an associate, apparently -- a lady friend. Both of them worked in the same place. They were legit and their work permits were in order.” The inspector pulled another file from a cardboard box and handed him a scan of a passport image: the Thai woman. “She has also vanished, off the face of the earth. For all you and I know she may have been killed too.”
“Guess it’s likely,” said Tanaka.
“After we found the young man’s remains I organized a raid on the apartment. It had been burgled and we didn’t find much. However…” the inspector continued, “I did locate some correspondence addressed to Hatfield from a local bank, being held downstairs at the guardhouse.”
Guinhava produced an invoice for a safety deposit box leased out to Billy Bob Hatfield. “Whoever got into Hatfield’s apartment may well have been the same person who killed him. It seems they had no luck getting into his bank deposits but it was no problem for me…”
Jackpot!!
Tanaka’s heartbeat raced and his eyes widened as he looked at the prints. Sure enough one of them mentioned a deposit box located in the center of Makati City.
“Inspector, how difficult to get a warrant for this safe deposit?”
“One better, my friend…I have them already. Took ‘em as soon as I found the invoices you’ve got there. Excuse me...”
Guinhava got up. On the walls of the office framed pictures, trophies and awards. The guy was an achiever. A few minutes later he returned with a paper bag, an evidence brief resembling a shopping bag. Clearly marked, taped and sealed.
“Never ceases to amaze me,” said the inspector as he sat back down. “Everybody is so busy and important; nobody has the time to do any legwork.” He looked seriously at Tanaka shaking his head. “I was the only person who even bothered to check the fellow’s condo.”
Tanaka wanted to keep the questions coming, wanted to find out more but he just sat there looking at the things once they were on the inspector’s desk. He couldn’t say a word…there in front of him: one US passport, a bundle of greenbacks, a key ring and two little packages. Opened them up like they were alive and wriggling. The very stuff Billy Bob Hatfield had taken from the bonded warehouse that day. The first box had a digital camera, a web-cam attachment and had a CD-ROM; the other box had a tacky little knockoff cell phone with a charger. One possible key to the investigation. He felt uneasy.
“Inspector-”
“Rocky, my friend,” the Filipino cut in.
“Rocky…does anybody else know you took these things?”
“Only the clerks and the guard in evidence pool,” replied Guinhava. “Like I said, none of the other agencies even bothered to return my calls…”
He looked wistfully at a framed portrait on the wall, one of himself and a top-ranking officer pinning a medal on his tunic at a parade. “I’m a caveman who kills bank robbers and I keep this city safe.” He grinned and made a pointing sign with his right hand. “All the big-shots and tough guys in this city…they know me well and are afraid. All the gangsters in this town know my name and tremble when they hear it. I shoot to kill, Mister Tanaka. I don’t miss.”
“PK,” replied Tanaka. “All my close friends call me PK.”
Tanaka bundled the items into the evidence bag. The Filipino cop pointed at the floor
“Don’t forget the dough, my friend.”
Oh, no…Tanaka cringed; he was a little edgy and hoped the inspector didn’t take it the wrong way. It really had been knocked off the edge of the desk.
“Rocky, could I trouble you for a squad car to run me back to the embassy, please?” The packages felt like dynamite in his hands. He stood up and shook warmly and thanked the inspector. Wanted to hug the guy.
As Tanaka left the building the same policewoman was seated behind the reception desk. When she saw him she narrowed her eyes.
Little wonder so many things in this country are named after MacArthur, Tanaka thought, they really do have long memories here.
Her hatred of the Japanese had come from her father and his father before that. Generations. The Philippines! They’d forget to meet you at seven-thirty this evening but they sure hadn’t forgotten the war.
Little could he have guessed but the strangest introduction was about to take place…just before the embassy closed for the day.
Tanaka returned to the compound and carefully stashed the things given him by the Filipino policeman. He found JJ Hatfield and stopped by Jackson’s office; that was when the line on the desk rang. Jackson received the call and then passed the handset to Tanaka.
“For you,” he said.
Tanaka spoke briefly to reception on the other end before replacing the handset. He was puzzled. “There’s some Irish guy wants to see me, down in the lobby.”
He looked around at the old guy and Jackson. They headed downstairs and entered the waiting area which was quieter in the afternoons; visa applications closed after midday and the crowds of hopeful immigrants had gone.
Lowenstein hadn’t waited too long, they came downstairs right away. He’d put in a lot of effort, preparing for the meeting. He knew all about the three Americans, his Intel was precise and accurate. He rose when they came down and offered his hand.
“Special Agent Tanaka, I presume. My name is Brian Flannery. Pleased to meet you.”
The ‘Irishman’ had a thick European accent.
“If you’re Irish then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle…” Tanaka mumbled. “How did you get my name?”
“We get what we want, when we want…most of the time.” After a pause the man turned to Jackson.
“Sir, if you would please excuse us. I need to speak with these two gentlemen-”
Jackson was quicker off the mark in his reply: “Hold it Pal, what’s your game here?” he demanded. “I’ve got every right to be here; this is my investigation. Who the hell are you, anyhow?”
Tanaka gave a look of disapproval but kept quiet.
“I think it might be
a good idea to get back to what you were doing and leave me with Mister Tanaka and Mister Hatfield if you wouldn’t mind,” said the man with the Irish passport.
Jackson began arguing. The running man removed from his pocket an internet phone, switched it on and passed it over. It was playing something. Jackson hurled the device on the ground. “You asshole! I’ll fucking break your arms!”
Tanaka grabbed Jackson and held him back. Jackson was young, buff and clearly fancied himself. The one-time linebacker stood at six foot one, weighed two hundred pounds and had been a Taekwondo black belt by the time he was twenty two years old. The running man, who was short and decades older, calmly stood his ground; relaxed with his arms folded. Only he knew many different ways to kill a person with his bare hands and he had killed -- more times than he cared to remember.
“I see you’ve met the charming Matilda of the Red Rocket Club in Makati,” said Lowenstein. “We pay her a lot more than you do…we have done so for years.” He smiled. “And we’ve been keeping an eye on you, my friend.”
Lowenstein held up his arms. “On my right hand I can make you an offer. You get out of my sight and do not let me see you again. That footage of you with the bargirl shall disappear forever.” He took a breath and made a stern face. “On my left hand your little escapade will be uploaded and go viral; I promise you that. It’ll make the Secret Service scandal look like nothing…I’m told your employers have a zero-tolerance for this kind of thing, especially by a bum who makes his living terrorizing fellow countrymen who own girlie bars…”
“But…I…she…that’s not what you think…that’s not what it looks like,” stammered Jackson. He’d turned pale and was shaking.
Lowenstein leaned forward and quietly spoke, one last time to Jackson. “If you would kindly excuse us…”
By the time Jackson had retreated up the staircase the man turned to Tanaka and Hatfield. “Coffee, gentlemen? My treat…there is something you might want to hear. Please come with me; we can walk.”
PK Tanaka and JJ Hatfield trailed after the running man who looked back over his shoulder as he walked out the gates.
“Do not concern yourselves with Mister Jackson…he’ll be leaving the bureau soon.”
