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.
In fact, it was a little early for the person he most wanted to reach. Dr. Serna was in surgery and “not available.” The nurse in his mother’s ward reported her officially in serious condition but sleeping comfortably.
The receptionist answered Debbie’s office number. Someone new. She reported Debbie was off today. She’d called in sick. Try her at home. Moon called his home number, let the phone ring twelve times, and hung up feeling uneasy. Sick? How sick? Debbie was never sick, not even during her period. But Debbie often didn’t bother to answer the telephone. And sometimes Debbie wasn’t home when people thought she was. And for Debbie, calling in sick would not necessarily have much to do with the state of her health.
Moon called the paper. Shirley sounded delighted to hear his voice. How was his mother? How was he? How was Manila? When would he be home? Shirley was going by his house every day to feed her dog and wanted to know how soon- “Why?” Moon asked. “Debbie can feed the dog until I get back.” For Shirley, “going by” his house meant driving a dozen miles in the wrong direction. She was sticking herself with a long round trip just because she was too proud to accept a favor from Debbie. Downright silliness. Moon’s mood had shown in his tone, and Shirley’s tone showed she had noticed it.
“I think Debbie may have gone off on a little journey. Or something.”
“Well,” Moon said, wondering how he could make amends, trying to remember how he came to be tending Shirley’s spaniel. Yes, it was because her apartment had changed ownership and the new landlord didn’t allow pets. She needed a dog tender until she could work something out. “Maybe Hubbell could feed the dog,” Moon said. “What do you think? You know he rents a room from me.”
Shirley laughed, placated. “I think he’d tell me to take care of my own damn dog,” she said. “Or maybe something a little worse.”
“You’re right,” Moon said. “But switch me over and I’ll ask him.”
Hubbell said he’d be willing to haul Shirley’s dog out into the San Juans and let the coyotes solve the problem. And how was Moon’s mother? And were the Manila women as slick as they were when he did his navy time in the Islands, and when was Moon coming back, because it was time to get going on the damned vacation edition, and he was pretty sure Rooney was nipping at the bottle again.
“Bad?”
“You tell me,” Hubbell said. Papers rustled. Hubbell read three of yesterday’s headlines and started a fourth one.
“Lordy,” Moon said. “Did they go to press like that?”
“Those were the ones I didn’t catch.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“He just left,” Hubbell said.
“Tell the son of a bitch to stay sober until I get back or I won’t just fire him, I’ll whip his butt right there in the office.”
“All right,” Hubbell said.
“What else? Any good news?”
“J.D.’s been asking about his truck,” Hubbell said. “Said he wanted to go to Denver.”
“Tell J.D. it was the fuel injection pump. I fixed it, and all he needs to do is put in new glow plugs. He can put it back together himself. Or ask one of the guys down at the truck stop if he has troubles.”
Hubbell laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Can you imagine that happening? Getting his hands greasy?”
Moon couldn’t, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He told Hubbell he’d be home as soon as he could. Then he just sat on the bed awhile staring at the telephone, mood somewhere between dismal, disgruntlement, and sleepy stupor. He fell back against the pillow, yawned hugely, and went to sleep.
The phone awoke him. Nine-ten. Who would be calling?
It rang again.
He picked it up and said, “Mathias.”
“Hello. Is this Mr. Mathias?” The voice was hesitant, accented, and feminine.
“Yes. Yes,” Moon said, “this is Mr. Mathias.”
Brief silence. “This is then the room of Moon Mathias? Am I correct?” The voice was small, tone abashed. Moon had a vision of Shirley’s spaniel when Debbie yelled at it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound-so grouchy. But, yes, this is Moon Mathias talking.”
“I am Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden. I had written you a letter. I hope I can talk to you.”
“Of course,” Moon said. What was the accent? Probably Dutch, from the sound of the name. “What can I do for you?”
Silence again. Moon waited. “It is too complicated for the telephone,” she said. “I had hoped we could sit down and talk.”
“Probably,” Moon said. “Where are you calling from? And what will we be talking about?”
“I am at the airport. The Manila airport. I called Mr. Castenada, and he told me you were here. He told me he had given you my letter instead of mailing it on to America. And we would be talking about getting my brother out
