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Authors: Finding Moon (v4) [html]
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handle such things informally.” He smiled at Moon, making sure he understood. “And if the person involved is not willing to be sufficiently generous in rewarding this courtesy, there is sometimes the threat of arrest.”
“Oh,” Moon said. “So, what happened?”
Castenada shrugged. “The lawyer I recommended is experienced in such matters. I heard no more about it.”
“So he may still be here?”
“Or he may be gone. He said he had flown in an old aircraft that needed some sort of equipment installed. How much time does that take?” Castenada’s expression said he had no idea.
Next on the “possibly in Manila” list were Thomas Brock, who Castenada described as marketing manager for R. M. Air, and Robert Yager, at the Quezon Towers Hotel. Yager was the name Moon remembered seeing scrawled at the end of the letter to Ricky in his mother’s purse. What did Yager do?
Castenada could only guess. “In Asia in these troubled times a business like Ricky’s needs someone who knows everybody, has connections everywhere, can find out—” Castenada hesitated, looking at Moon quizzically again, seeming to ask himself how much this American would understand such things. “Someone would know if General A actually works for the CIA. if General B is about to be fired. If Imelda Marcos is fond enough of this third cousin to cut him in on a construction contract. That sort of thing. I think Mr. Yager is a person who—if he does not know everything—knows someone who does.”
“I see,” Moon said. If Mr. Castenada was giving him accurate information, Ricky’s business seemed to be-well, less orthodox than he’d assumed.
“That is just an impression,” Castenada said. “Just an impression.” He made a deprecating gesture. “One hears things,” he said. “Some true. Some not.”
On the page he’d torn from his notebook to list the friends, Castenada now added the address of Ricky’s Manila apartment. He creased the page into a precise rectangle and put it in a folder. Then he extracted a small envelope from his desk drawer, waved it at Moon, and said, “For you. It came this morning.” He added the letter to the folder, then tore the top sheet from his memo pad and dropped it in.
“Someone named Lum Lee called for you,” Castenada said. “Yesterday. It’s all there on the memo sheet.” He reached across the desk and handed Moon the folder and, with it, two keys on a ring.
“The keys to Ricky’s apartment,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable there than in the hotel, and it’s cheaper.” He glanced up at Moon.
“Remember, I am at your service. And at your mother’s. I think you will have to be here in Manila for a while.” He considered that and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so.”
And Moon had thought, Like hell I will! But now as he dumped the contents of the folder on his hotel room desk, he had a sick feeling that the frail little lawyer might be right. Maybe he’d be here forever. The alternative was going back and telling Victoria Mathias he’d failed her again. Not that she would be surprised. But this time he would have failed in what was likely to be the last opportunity she would ever give him to succeed.
He sat for a moment considering the wallpaper. It was brownish and gold in some sort of geometric design. Then he looked at the memo page. It was dated 10:20 A.M. yesterday.
Please would Mr. Malcolm Mathias telephone to Mr. Lum Lee concerning a matter of mutual interest: room 919, Pasag Imperial Hotel.
Moon put the memo aside. Mr. Lee would still be hunting his ancestor’s bones, or an urn full of cocaine, or whatever it was. A tired old man on an impossible quest. But no more impossible than his own. Moon smiled, remembering Lum Lee in Los Angeles, offering to help him find Ricky’s child. Playing Sancho Panza to Moon’s Don Quixote. The metaphor fit rather well. In this part of the world the old man would be the wise one, the one who knew the reality
“Oh,” Moon said. “So, what happened?”
Castenada shrugged. “The lawyer I recommended is experienced in such matters. I heard no more about it.”
“So he may still be here?”
“Or he may be gone. He said he had flown in an old aircraft that needed some sort of equipment installed. How much time does that take?” Castenada’s expression said he had no idea.
Next on the “possibly in Manila” list were Thomas Brock, who Castenada described as marketing manager for R. M. Air, and Robert Yager, at the Quezon Towers Hotel. Yager was the name Moon remembered seeing scrawled at the end of the letter to Ricky in his mother’s purse. What did Yager do?
Castenada could only guess. “In Asia in these troubled times a business like Ricky’s needs someone who knows everybody, has connections everywhere, can find out—” Castenada hesitated, looking at Moon quizzically again, seeming to ask himself how much this American would understand such things. “Someone would know if General A actually works for the CIA. if General B is about to be fired. If Imelda Marcos is fond enough of this third cousin to cut him in on a construction contract. That sort of thing. I think Mr. Yager is a person who—if he does not know everything—knows someone who does.”
“I see,” Moon said. If Mr. Castenada was giving him accurate information, Ricky’s business seemed to be-well, less orthodox than he’d assumed.
“That is just an impression,” Castenada said. “Just an impression.” He made a deprecating gesture. “One hears things,” he said. “Some true. Some not.”
On the page he’d torn from his notebook to list the friends, Castenada now added the address of Ricky’s Manila apartment. He creased the page into a precise rectangle and put it in a folder. Then he extracted a small envelope from his desk drawer, waved it at Moon, and said, “For you. It came this morning.” He added the letter to the folder, then tore the top sheet from his memo pad and dropped it in.
“Someone named Lum Lee called for you,” Castenada said. “Yesterday. It’s all there on the memo sheet.” He reached across the desk and handed Moon the folder and, with it, two keys on a ring.
“The keys to Ricky’s apartment,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable there than in the hotel, and it’s cheaper.” He glanced up at Moon.
“Remember, I am at your service. And at your mother’s. I think you will have to be here in Manila for a while.” He considered that and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so.”
And Moon had thought, Like hell I will! But now as he dumped the contents of the folder on his hotel room desk, he had a sick feeling that the frail little lawyer might be right. Maybe he’d be here forever. The alternative was going back and telling Victoria Mathias he’d failed her again. Not that she would be surprised. But this time he would have failed in what was likely to be the last opportunity she would ever give him to succeed.
He sat for a moment considering the wallpaper. It was brownish and gold in some sort of geometric design. Then he looked at the memo page. It was dated 10:20 A.M. yesterday.
Please would Mr. Malcolm Mathias telephone to Mr. Lum Lee concerning a matter of mutual interest: room 919, Pasag Imperial Hotel.
Moon put the memo aside. Mr. Lee would still be hunting his ancestor’s bones, or an urn full of cocaine, or whatever it was. A tired old man on an impossible quest. But no more impossible than his own. Moon smiled, remembering Lum Lee in Los Angeles, offering to help him find Ricky’s child. Playing Sancho Panza to Moon’s Don Quixote. The metaphor fit rather well. In this part of the world the old man would be the wise one, the one who knew the reality
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