“None that ever asked me to join.”
Espiritu drank more tea. “You’ve talked to many so-called terrorists, according to your book.”
Stallings nodded.
“The Polisarios?”
“Nice bunch of people for crazies.”
“The Shining Path?”
“They’re just crazy.”
“Why didn’t you ever talk to us, Booth? You gave us just two pages in your book. That’s all.”
“I only gave the Tupamaros one.”
“They’re out of business.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I figured I already knew all I needed to know about the NPA from that time you and I were in the low-intensity insurgency business.”
“The NPA didn’t even exist then.”
“But you did, Al.”
Espiritu started to reply, but before he could the big Filipino who had hammered Georgia Blue unconscious came into the hut followed by his smaller partner. The big man looked at Minnie Espiritu and, with a jerk of his head, ordered her out. She lit a cigarette first, carefully turned off the shortwave set — to conserve batteries, Stallings guessed — and left.
The big Filipino turned to Stallings and said, “Come.”
“No, thanks,” Stallings said.
“Better go with him, Booth,” Espiritu said.
Stallings rose slowly and followed the smaller of the two Filipinos out of the hut. The big man formed a rear guard. When they reached the bamboo stairs, the big man indicated that Stallings should go down them first.
As he started down the thirteen steps, Otherguy Overby started up. Waiting behind Overby on the ground was Carmen Espiritu who looked reasonably cool in her white duck slacks and black T-shirt. Overby, by contrast, appeared hot and tired. His polo shirt and gray slacks were soaked with sweat. He stared up at Stallings silently and backed down the steps.
Stallings went down the bamboo stairs briskly, his two escorts right behind him. “Hot enough for you, Otherguy?” he said and stopped, as if curious about the answer.
But Overby had retreated into his sealed-off preserve where nothing could touch him. He merely nodded at Stallings, much as he might nod at some not quite despised neighbor, and said, “Almost.”
Stallings grinned at Carmen Espiritu. “How you doing, Carmen-honey?”
“You’re only going to another house, Mr. Stallings,” she said, pointing. “Just over there.”
Stallings nodded agreeably and started for it, accompanied by his two mismatched escorts. Suddenly, he spun around and called to Overby who was nearing the top of the bamboo stairs.
“Hey, Otherguy!”
Overby turned, his expression indifferent.
“What d’you want me to tell that fucking Durant?”
“You’ll think of something,” said Otherguy Overby.
“This is Overby, the one I spoke of,” Carmen Espiritu said to her husband who looked up from his mug of tea.
They examined each other, neither trying to hide his curiosity. Overby found just about what he had expected — old dynamite, leaking nitroglycerine. One bump, he thought, and it’s big bang time.
“You look hot and tired from your long walk, Mr. Overby,” Espiritu said, indicating the chair Booth Stallings had just vacated. “Would you like a beer?”
“Thanks,” Overby said, lowering himself into the bentwood chair.
“Carmen would get it for you, but she has to leave,” Espiritu said as he rose.
“No!” she said, obviously shocked. “I stay.”
Espiritu went to the plastic sack by the Sony shortwave, took out a bottle of beer and brought it back to Overby. “Glass?” Espiritu asked.
Overby shook his head, twisted off the bottle cap, drank thirstily and leaned back in his chair to watch.
“I have the right to stay,” Carmen Espiritu said.
“If you stay,” her husband said, “there will be no discussion.”
Overby smiled at her. “See you, Carmen.”
She pointed a trembling finger at him. Anger flushed her face and made her voice vibrate. “This one,” she told her husband, “makes his living off old fools like you.”
“Could that possibly be true, Mr. Overby?” Espiritu said with obviously feigned shock.
Overby only smiled.
Turning to his wife, Espiritu gave her a final look of dismissal. “Mr. Overby and I have much to discuss, Carmen.”
They watched as she turned and strode from the room. When she was gone, Espiritu tilted his head to one side and studied Overby. “Well, now,” he said, “where shall we begin?”
“With the five million.”
“It really exists — this famous five million?”
“It exists.”
“And who’s supplying it?”
“You really care?”
Espiritu considered the question. “Not really.”
“But you want it?”
“Indeed yes.”
“Well, if you keep fucking around with Booth Stallings and them, the odds’re about five to one you’ll never see a dime. But if you do like I say, you’ve got a good shot at half. It’s up to you. Half or nothing.”
“Who gets the other half?” Espiritu said.
“Who d’you think? Me.”
Espiritu, still examining Overby with curiosity, smiled and said softly, “You really do deal in greed, don’t you?”
“What else is there?” Overby said.
At 4:15 P.M., Georgia Blue drove her rented Honda Accord four kilometers up into the Guadalupe Mountains and the virtually deserted country club whose 18-hole golf course had once been farmed by dozens of farm families. Only one car was in the clubhouse parking lot — a black American Ford sedan with CD license plates.
The clubhouse, which had seemed like such a good idea to the Marcos regime and such a bad idea to the farmers it dispossessed, was built out of beams and glass. The beams were mahogany; the glass was dirty. But it was not so dirty Georgia Blue couldn’t see into the clubhouse bar and discover it was empty save for the bartender and two male customers who drank beer at a table. The customers were Weaver P. Jordan and the ever elegant Jack Cray.
Neither man rose when she came in, pulled out a chair and sat down.
Instead of saying hello, Weaver Jordan said, “I didn’t tell you about Boy Howdy, did I?”
“You and I haven’t talked,” she said.
“That’s right,” he said. “You just left a message. Or was it a summons?”
She ignored Jordan and turned to Jack Cray. “I’d like a vodka on the rocks.”
Cray rose, went to the bar and returned with her drink. After she took a deep swallow, Weaver Jordan leaned toward her and said, “Lemme tell you about Boy.”
“All right,” she said.
“Well, the thing about Boy is — he’s dead. Shot. Twice. Up in his room at the Cebu Plaza. Three-nineteen. Buck naked. Except for his socks. He kept his socks on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Georgia Blue said.
“That he kept them on?”
“Ease up, Weaver,” Cray said.
Weaver Jordan ignored him. “Guess who found him up there dead in his room with only his socks on?”
“No idea,” she said.
“Artie-fucking-Wu.”
“Well,” she said. “You talk to Artie?”
“Yeah, we talked to him. One of the world’s great cuties, Artie.”
Jack Cray drank some of his beer and said, “Why don’t we just get to the point, Georgia?”
“The point’s the same,” Georgia Blue said. “Get Espiritu to Hong Kong, pension him off and make sure he doesn’t come back.” She looked first at Jordan, then at Cray. “Does that still have everybody’s seal of approval? I stress everybody’s.”
“Yeah, everybody back home’s finally on board,” Jordan said. “Except for one thing. The five million. Nobody wants Alejandro Espiritu buying Uzis and AK-47s and M-79 grenade launchers with that five million.”