Free Out on the Rim by Ross Thomas Page A

of topiary spelled out “Mansion House” in ten-foot letters), he became stuck in a traffic jam and noticed the soldiers who guarded the mansion entrance were selling film to tourists. Wu took it as a sign of the new entrepreneurial spirit abroad in the land.
    Because he would rather drive one hundred miles the wrong way than ask directions, Wu took a wrong turn and wound up going downhill on Sessions Road, which was Baguio’s steep main commercial street. This led him down into the gridlocked market area that he had to honk and swear his way out of. Finally, by luck and guesswork, he wandered onto South Drive and found the Hyatt Terraces where Mr. Welcome-Welcome had reserved him a room.
    Once up in the room, Wu took a bottle of beer from the mini-refrigerator, drank half, picked up the phone and called the woman he always thought of as the Rich Widow. A servant answered on the second ring. Then Emily Cariaga came on with a warm and low-pitched, “Artie! How nice.”
    â€œHow’ve you been, Emily?”
    â€œLet’s talk about that later. Here’s Quincy.”
    The first thing Quincy Durant said was, “Where are you—the Pines?”
    â€œQuincy,” Wu said. “The Pines burned down two years ago.”
    There was a brief silence until Durant said, “I blocked it, I guess. So. If you’re not at the Pines, you’re at the Hyatt.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI’ll pick you up downstairs in ten minutes and we’ll go see him.”

    â€œSee who?”
    â€œThe Cousin,” Durant said. “Who else?”
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    Camp John Hay served primarily as a country club for the U.S. airmen and officers stationed at Clark Air Base. In addition to its kilometer-and-a-half altitude, it offered golf, tennis, swimming, bowling, American films, a wealth of PX goods and an ocean of beer. But mostly it offered an invigorating change of climate. Well-behaved Filipinos could also use certain sections of the carefully tended grounds as a public park.
    It was almost dark when Quincy Durant stopped the Honda Prelude he had borrowed from Emily Cariaga at the camp gates and asked the MP on duty how to get to the post hospital. The MP handed Durant a map marked with a red X. As they drove on, Artie Wu asked, “Who’re we?”
    â€œBusiness associates,” Durant said.
    At the post hospital an enlisted orderly steered Wu and Durant into a small office where a young uniformed Army doctor, wearing a captain’s bars, sat with his feet on a desk, reading Time. He looked up at Durant, then at Wu and back at Durant.
    â€œYou the Durant who called?”
    Durant nodded. “I’m Durant; he’s Wu.”
    The Captain put his Time on the desk, his feet on the floor and rose. “I’m Doctor Robbie. Let’s go.”
    Wu and Durant followed the Captain down a hall, a flight of metal stairs, and along a short basement corridor. The Captain used a key on a lock and tugged open a thick door. Wu and Durant felt a rush of cold air.
    Captain Robbie reached around the door and switched on a light. Wu and Durant followed him into the room, Wu closing the door behind them. It was cold inside and the only furniture in the 9 X 12—foot refrigerated room were two gurneys. On one of them was a
man, naked except for a bath towel with Camp John Hay stitched across it in red letters. The towel covered the man’s crotch. He had light brown skin, a handsome playboy face, and appeared to be about thirty. His throat had been cut. Captain Robbie lifted the towel to give Wu and Durant a glimpse of the man’s crotch. “They got his balls too,” Captain Robbie said as he let the towel drop and turned to Durant. “Well?”
    â€œWhat was he wearing?” Durant said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhen they cut off his balls did they take his pants down, off or what?”
    Captain Robbie gave his head a small shake, as if he didn’t