Twenty-one years had passed since Overby had first checked into the Magellan Hotel. That had been right after he’d run his $29 stake up to $200 in a touch-and-go deal for ten cases of PX Camels, smuggled down from Subic by the second mate on a Panama-registered freighter. As soon as the $200 was safely buttoned into his hip pocket, Overby had checked out of the YMCA and into the Magellan.
The five-story hotel was built in the shape of a Y. It boasted two hundred rooms and more bellhops than it really needed. Three of them now saw Overby and his bag out of the taxi and into the hotel. As he entered and glanced around, Overby noticed that the lobby still reeked of maximum tolerance. It was the same atmosphere he’d found the world over in commercial hotels that made a point of not being overly curious about their guests or their guests’ friends. He remembered that at one time such hotels could always be found down by the train station. Now they were all out near the airport.
Conservative by instinct, Overby was also pleased to see that almost nothing had changed in the Magellan’s lobby. There was still an honest-to-God cigar stand next to the elevators, right where it should be. Across the lobby from the elevators were the reception desk and, next to it, the barred cashier’s window. To sit on, there were the same low comfortable chairs and couches, now occupied, he saw, by packaged Japanese tourists in their twenties and thirties who seemed to be wondering where the action was.
At the reception desk, Overby asked about his reservation. The young room clerk sent his eyebrows up and down in the Cebu salute and murmured that the manager would very much like a word with Mr. Overby. The clerk went away and returned with Antonio Imperial.
Overby didn’t try to hide his shock. “Jesus, Tony, you’re the manager?”
Imperial, a short wide man with a wide brilliant smile, spread both hands in a gesture that encompassed the entire hotel. “Imperial of the Magellan — at your service,” he said and reached across the counter to grab Overby’s right hand and pump it vigorously. “How long’s it been, Otherguy?” Imperial said, still pumping.
“Eight years,” Overby said. “Hell, maybe nine. But back then you were still working the front nights.”
“Remember when you checked in here the first time twenty-one years ago and I was the kid who carried your bag up?” Imperial gave his head a “time flies” shake and turned to the hovering young clerk. “Mr. Overby is to have the best of care, Zotico. The very best.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said.
“I’ve got some other people coming in, Tony,” Overby said.
Imperial recited their names from memory. “Blue and Stallings later today; Wu and Durant tomorrow. Correct?”
Overby grinned. “No wonder they made you manager.”
“Maybe we could have a drink later, Otherguy — catch up on things.”
“I’d like that,” Overby said.
When Antonio Imperial, general manager of the Magellan Hotel, turned, banged the bell and barked, “Front!” at the cluster of bellhops, Otherguy Overby felt that perhaps, at long last, he really had come home.
Seated in front of the window air-conditioning, Overby had just opened his second bottle of beer when the phone rang in his fifth-floor room that offered a view of the golf course. He crossed to the phone and answered with a hello.
The woman’s voice said, “Mr. Overby?”
“Yes.”
“The same Overby as in, ‘Out of the five, Overby’s the one’?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Overby said, “Could be.”
“Then I think we should meet.”
“Where?”
“Guadalupe.”
“The church?”
“Yes, the church.”
“That’s way on the other side of town.”
“Yes,” she said.
Again, Overby hesitated. “All right, when?”
“Four?”
He looked at his watch. “That doesn’t give me much time.”
“I know.”
“Okay,” Overby said. “I guess you’ll recognize me so I don’t have to worry about recognizing you.”
“That’s right,” she said and hung up.
When Overby came out of the hotel entrance, the first thing he saw was the large yellow, blue and black sign of the Rotary Club of Metro Cebu that offered a four-question test. “Of the things we think, say or do,” the sign read, “four questions should be asked: 1. Is it the TRUTH? 2. Is it FAIR to all concerned? 3. Will it build GOODWILL and BETTER FRIENDSHIPS? 4. Will it be BENEFICIAL to all concerned?”
After reading the sign carefully, Overby answered all four questions with a silent, “You goddamn right,” and turned into the adjoining Avis office where he rented himself a gray Toyota sedan.
Overby drove west on General Maxilom Avenue, turned right into Rama Avenue and followed it out to the northwest edge of the city. There the Church of Guadalupe occupied an oblong plot of several acres that was encircled by a broken asphalt drive. Built something like a racetrack, the drive ran straight along the stretches, curving into half circles at both ends.
Ever suspicious, Overby drove around the church three times. It was a large structure with a massive gray dome at its center. A concrete cross had been placed atop its gabled south entrance. Below the gable was an elaborate stained-glass window. Two huge doors formed the entrance, which was shielded from rain by an arched concrete canopy. A woman stood beneath the canopy. Overby was too far away to see whether she was young, old or in between, but he could see that she was wearing something blue.
He parked the gray Toyota almost 50 yards away, locked it and started toward the concrete canopy. The woman turned and watched him approach. As he drew near, he saw that she was young, no more than 25 or 26, and wore a plain pale blue cotton dress that looked cheap. Over her right shoulder hung a tan woven fiber bag. He also noticed that she had large brown eyes and kept her right hand down inside the shoulder bag.
When he was a dozen feet away he stopped and said, “I’m Overby.”
“I’m Carmen Espiritu.”
“You his daughter, granddaughter, niece — what?”
“His wife.”
Overby examined her skeptically. “Been married long?”
“Nearly half a year.”
“Well, do we talk here or go somewhere else?”
“First, you tell me in one short sentence why Overby’s the one,” she said.
Overby smiled slightly. “Twenty-five words or less, right?”
She shrugged.
“Okay, here goes: they’re going to cheat him out of the five million, but if he does what I tell him to, he can keep half.”
She ran the sentence through her mind, her lips moving slightly. “Twenty-three words.”
“I didn’t count.”
“He gets to keep half, you say. Who keeps the other half?”
“Me.”
“Then you’re motivated solely by greed.”
“What else is there?”
“How’re they planning to divide it?” she asked.
“Who?”
“You, Stallings, Wu, Durant — and that woman of theirs, Blue.”
“An even split.”
“A million each then?”
“Right.”
“Aren’t you worried about what they’ll do when they find you’ve betrayed them?”