Tony Hillerman - Finding Moon

“After legal fees, of course,” Castenada said, grinning at Moon. “Lawyers are known to be avaricious. International lawyers notably so. Your mother has asked me to handle this. I’ve retained a Vietnamese lawyer who did some work for R. M. Air last year. Reasonably honest, I think. But”- Castenada threw up his hands-“where is he now? When I tried to call him about the child, telephone service was no longer offered to his office at Can Tho. I think perhaps the Vietcong are running the telephone exchange there now.”

“Look,” Moon said, “I don’t want to talk about this. I want to talk about how to get the kid to Manila and from Manila back to the States.”

“All right,” Castenada said. “We talk about that. All I can do is give you the names of some of Ricky’s friends. Maybe they can tell you where to go.”

He flipped open a Rolodex file on his desk and began jotting notes on a pad. “Let us hope, let us pray, that they don’t tell you to go find her in Vietnam.” He glanced up at Moon, face somber. “Or, even worse, in Cambodia.”

1740 hrs. 4/16/75

TO: OfcMgrs

FROM: McK. Embassy

STATUS: Eyes Only-Burn. Rocket from H.K. this date orders top priority evacuation of nonessential personnel. Top limit essential U.S. citizens is 2000. Submit plan by 1400 hrs 4/17 listing essentials your mission and departure schedule for all others. Avoid any leak to non-U.S. personnel.

THE LIST OF FRIENDS MOON TOOK away with him was short, and only three of those named on it might have been in Manila. First came George Rice, a name Moon remembered from the letter in his mother’s purse. Rice, Castenada said, was in Manila “now and then, bringing things in and taking things out.” He had called some time ago about difficulties he was having about an aircraft he had flown into Quezon City.

Castenada had been leaning forward, expression quizzical, remembering the details. “Yes,” he’d said. “Mr. Rice said the customs people were talking of filing a charge and he wanted me to handle it. I told him this firm has no expertise in criminal matters and recommended another law firm to him.”

“Criminal?”

Castenada raised a hand, rubbed thumb against fingers. “It seems to have been some problem with the papers. The manifest. The customs agents of President Marcos follow the example of their leader and 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 of Southeast Asia and the rules of the game. He’d call him. But first he picked up the letter.

The envelope was a standard business size, addressed to Mr. Moon Mathias in care of Castenada’s office. No return address. The postmark was faint, but it seemed to read KUPANG, TIMOR. Timor? An island, Moon thought. Something like Ceylon. But where? And who there would know him as Moon? Know him at all? Have any business with him? He tore it open. The single sheet of paper was as plain as the envelope.

Dear Mr. Mathias:

I am a former client of Ricky’s and I think of him as a friend as well. Only today did I hear the sad news of his death. First please accept my condolences. I am sure that the immense admiration Ricky felt for you was mutual and that the loss must be a terrible one. I, too, have a brother with whom I am very close.

I am asking Mr. Castenada to forward this letter to you. By the time you receive it, or very soon thereafter, I will be in Manila at the Hotel Del Mar. Please call me there. I would not ask this of you if it was not a matter of extreme importance. In fact, it is a matter of life and death.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden

Moon found the Hotel Del Mar in the phone book, picked up the telephone, and then put it back. Life or death or not, it could wait until tomorrow. Mrs. what’s-her-name probably wasn’t even here yet. He did a bit of mental arithmetic and set the alarm beside his bed for two A.M. if he had the time zones right that would be ten A.M. in L.A. and eleven in Durance, a decent time to be ringing telephones there.