There was a man leaving Paco’s apartment when I got there. An elegant older man who reeked of cologne and had skin darker than mine. Paco didn’t bother introducing us and the man averted his face and left without saying goodbye. Paco locked the door behind him. Then turned to me, all business.
Where’s Louie? Isn’t Louie with you?
No.
It’s kind of late. What’s your pleasure, Nick? Coke? Crack?
You seem pissed off.
I’m not.
I’ll leave if you want.
You can stay or you can go. It’s a free country, Nick.
Did I interrupt something? That guy— What guy?
Who was just here.
Rodel? He’s my lola’s DI. You know what “DI” stands for in this town? Dance instructor. That’s code for gigolo, if you haven’t guessed.
Your lola sounds interesting.
Paco burst out laughing. Oh she is. Believe me, she is.
He lit a cigarette for me, then for himself. Then he sauntered over to a cabinet and brought out a bottle of Patrón. He turned off his cell phone and put on some painful, sexy song by Nina Simone. We sat across from each other in the dimly lit mess of a living room and smoked and drank, playing staring games and prolonging the inevitable. Then Paco brought out the coke, cutting fat lines on a mirror. I thought about saying no. Getting up and making my grand exit. I had to show up for work in a few hours. When I didn’t move, Paco bent over the table and did a couple of lines. Then handed me the rolled-up thousand-peso bill and said, It’s a free country, Nick.
THE DISAPPEARED
Ours was a dark, dirty, thrilling secret. Not even Louie knew. Though he wasn’t a total fool and probably smelled that something was up. Now here’s the thing: Paco didn’t want to be seen with me in public; he’d made it perfectly clear. There was the issue of swanlike Gala, who he referred to—unironically—as “my fiancée.” There was the issue of his snotty associates. And underneath it all, I knew, there was the issue of me being who I was. But what the fuck, I kept telling myself. The coke was free and the sex was good. Did I hate him? You bet. Did I love him? You bet.
Then one day Paco disappeared, just like that. He didn’t call or text me back. Or Louie, or anyone else. I drove to his apartment in Malate one night after work. Sat outside like an idiot in my sad-ass car for hours, hoping he’d show up. My cell was on vibrate. Louie texted, then Tita Moning. I ignored them. By the time I got back to my aunt’s house, my father was dead.
CHISMIS
According to Louie, Paco owed some psycho Muslims in Caloocan and had to leave town. Or maybe it was some psycho cop in Precinct Five, or maybe some psycho military guy from Camp Aguinaldo. The gist of it was Paco had burned his suppliers and made them very angry. The chismis got wilder. His Range Rover had been found abandoned in Pagsanjan. A burned-out shell, picked clean by thieves. There were Paco sightings in Baguio, Palawan, Bangkok, Sydney, and Amsterdam. Gala’s father, who was high up in government and therefore privy to really inside shit, told her that Paco’s mutilated corpse had just been found floating in the Pasig. And that, furthermore, Paco’s pretty green eyes had been scooped out with a spoon.
We were at the Starbucks in Rockwell, where Louie and Gala liked to hang out, order mocha Frappuccinos, and be seen. Gala seemed pretty spooked. She kept looking from me to Louie. It can’t be true, right? Just my father and his chismis. Paco’s alive. Hiding out until it’s safe to come back. Nothing will ever happen, no matter who’s been double-crossed. Not with that family of his. They’ll always protect him. Right?
She was weeping softly now. People at the other tables were turning to gawk at us. I handed her a bunch of paper napkins. Louie looked uneasy and patted her hand. He asked if she wanted another Frappuccino. He sure did. And maybe a croissant. Then he turned to me. What about you, Nick? Another espresso? I shook my head. Gala stopped crying long enough to say she was badly in need of some coke. Did Louie have any? Louie shook his head. Gala didn’t bother asking me. She depended on Paco, she said. For her coke, for her fun, for her everything. And who was she supposed to depend on now?
SUNDAY, SIX P.M.
It was raining and I almost didn’t recognize him. He was huddled in the doorway of this skeevy noodle joint in Binondo, the kind of skeevy joint in a skeevy alley where you wouldn’t expect to see a guy like Paco. Or maybe you would. I pulled up and he got in the Corolla. The air-con wasn’t working, but I had made sure to clean the car before picking him up.
We’re going to my house in Forbes Park. McKinley Road, right by the Polo Club. You know how to get there, or shall I drive? His tone was curt. It reminded me of the way Louie talked to his driver.
Paco’s hair was cut short and dyed black. His clothes smelled funky, like he’d been living in them a long time.
I miss you, I said, which was a big mistake.
He kept jiggling his right knee and staring straight ahead.
I’m glad you’re not dead, I said. Another big mistake.
Just get me to Forbes Park in one piece, Nick. That’s all I ask.
Traffic was insane. Everybody either coming from or going to church, or heading out to have some big Sunday-night family dinner.
Coño, Paco kept muttering. Coño, coño, coño.
We were stalled at the world’s longest light. A ghostly beggarwoman and her baby appeared at my window. The woman’s face dripping with rain. She held an open tube of Rugby up to her baby’s nose. The baby wrapped in rags and not moving. It was either a doll or it was dead.
How much should I give her? I asked Paco, suddenly panicky.
Ignore her, Paco said.
I can’t.
Try, Paco said. He kept checking his phone.
The light finally changed. The woman snarled at me and ran back to the median. I stepped on the gas.
LEGACY
Funny, how Forbes Park is a gated community except for McKinley Road. Funny, considering who lives there. Paco’s grandmother, for one thing. And other old-money families, richer and even more venerable than his. Dynastic fortunes made from shipping, from sugar, abaca, timber, copra, steel. And owning vast tracts of land, soaked in bloody history.
The house was hidden from the road by a high fence topped by barbed wire and jagged pieces of glass. There used to be a guard at the gate named Dionisio, Paco said. But he got busted trying to sell my lola’s missing diamond necklace. Turned out he and one of the maids were robbing her blind.
He got out of the car and slipped his small hand—one of his least attractive traits—between the wrought-iron bars of the front gate and slid open the latch. I parked the car under an enormous acacia tree. The rain had stopped and the ground was muddy. We walked up to the entrance of the dark, sprawling house. I was nervous and starting to regret that I had come. Paco pressed the buzzer.
Back in the good old days, he said, you’d hear the intercom crackle before Miss Aguilar’s voice piped up: May I help you?
Miss Aguilar was Lola Conching’s secretary, and English was the language meant to put you in your place. It didn’t matter if you were a fucking taho vendor or a fucking congressman, or some high-society matron who played mah-jongg with my lola on Saturday afternoons. You had to announce yourself to Miss Aguilar and get ready to wait.
And so we waited.
Don’t you have a key? I asked him.
My lola had the locks changed when she kicked me out, Paco said. He pressed the buzzer again. When there was still no answer, he banged on the carved molave door with his fist. I thought I heard the faraway sound of a lost dog barking in a dream. My own fist throbbed with pain as I watched Paco bang on the heavy door.
It finally opened a crack. A man’s gravelly voice said in disgust, Oh, it’s you.
Paco pushed the door open and headed for the stairs, me attempting to follow. The man blocked our path.
You’re not supposed to be here, he said.
I recognized Rodel, the man I’d run into leaving Paco’s apart
ment. He and Paco were staring at each other with hatred. Rodel wore a robe over his fancy pajamas and looked very much at home.
Get out of my way, Paco said, trying to get past him. This is my house.
You mean your lola’s, Rodel shot back. He grabbed Paco by the arm to stop him from going any farther. You can’t go up there. She’s had enough of you.
And you? Paco asked, leaning in and never taking his eyes off Rodel’s face. Their lips close enough for a kiss. Have you had enough of me?
Your lola’s not well, Rodel said in a quiet voice. You and your friend should leave, before you get us all killed.
Paco wrenched his arm free. Then pulled a knife and stabbed Rodel in the neck.
I didn’t see where the knife came from, didn’t see Paco whip it out of his jean jacket, his boot, wherever he was hiding it. Blood was spurting out of Rodel and I remember screaming like a girl. He died without making a sound. Paco ran up the stairs and didn’t bother to look back at what he had done. I scrambled after him, not wanting to be left behind with Rodel’s corpse. Statues of angels and saints leered down at us from their recessed shrines along the stairway.
Lola Conching, an ancient crocodile of a woman, was propped up in her massive bed watching television. One bejeweled hand clutching the remote, the other a flute of chilled vodka. She didn’t seem surprised to see us. The air-con was humming, the lamps were lit, the news was on. More beheadings in Basilan by the Abu Sayyaf. Paco flopped down next to her and rested his head on her shoulder. I noticed the blood on Paco’s shirt and wondered if she did too.
You need a bath, hijo, Lola Conching said. Then she said: What happened to your hair?
You shouldn’t watch this depressing shit, Lola. You’ll have nightmares, Paco said.
The old woman sipped her vodka. You know I like to keep informed. Would you rather I watch a Koreanovela?
I miss you, Lola. I miss you so much, Paco said.
Lola Conching stroked his head. This went on for some time. Then she said: You need money? You’re always in trouble and you always need money. She took note of me standing there with a stunned expression. What’s wrong with your friend?
He needs a drink, Paco said. And so do I.
You know where everything is. Help yourselves. I’ve fired all the maids. Or maybe you boys haven’t noticed?
The bottle of Absolut was in a minifridge next to her dressing table. We each took swigs.
Do you remember when your Lolo Ramon was kidnapped on his way home from the airport? Lola Conching asked Paco, muting the volume but keeping her eyes fixed on the screen. It was midnight when he landed on the last plane from Hong Kong. Remember? They were waiting for him on the highway. Shot Peping. You remember Peping? A nice bodyguard, very polite. Anyway, they shot Peping five or six times, then the driver. Then cut their throats. Overkill, talaga. It was all over the news. You must’ve been nine or ten— Five, Paco said.
I was five.
The gang held your lolo hostage for over two weeks, the old woman continued. Terrible times, so much drama. I was convinced that everyone was in cahoots, including the cops. A lot of people hated your grandfather. And do you know why?
Because he was a son of a bitch and not afraid of anyone, Paco answered. Like you.
I paid the ransom, the old woman said. Like I was supposed to. After the cops brought your lolo home—the same cops who probably kidnapped him—I said to your mother, They’ll kidnap you and your son next. Or me. Mark my words.
Mom wasn’t there, Paco said.
Lola Conching tore her eyes away from the television. What?
Dead from an overdose the year I turned two. Just like my father.
Is that so? The old woman didn’t seem convinced.
Lolo bought you a gun, Paco said. I remember that.
That’s right. A 9mm. Glock.
Why’d you move him in?
Who?
Rodel.
The old woman shrugged. You have to understand, hijo. When your grandfather died, a sort of madness set in. I had the security system deactivated and fired everyone—Miss Aguilar, the driver, the gardener, the cook, the labandera, the—
Then you went dancing, Paco said.
I felt liberated! Ballroom, cha-cha, tango—
Then you moved him in.
That’s right. Rodel’s good company. Makes me laugh. He cooks for me. Sings to me. Sometimes he even does my hair.
People are after me, Lola. I need your help.
The woman’s gaze shifted from Paco to me. Where’s Rodel?
People are after me, Paco repeated. I need money. My money. All of it.
What money? It’s all been spent.
What do you mean, it’s all been spent?
Squandered, the old woman said. By you and everyone else in this cursed house.
They’re going to kill me, Paco said.
Me! Me! Me! You brought this upon yourself. Suffer the consequences.
I’m your grandson. Your only heir.
His grandmother was unmoved. Stop being so sentimental and self-pitying. It doesn’t suit you. Everything that’s wrong with his country is rooted in greed, cheap emotion, and the Catholic Church. It’s destroying us. There is no money left. Where’s Rodel? What have you done to him?
I grabbed Paco by the arm. Let’s go, I said.
HAPPY ENDINGS
In the first version, a lightbulb goes off in the old woman’s head. She grabs her gun from under a pillow and shoots Paco. Not once, but twice. He’s thrown back against the wall and slides down into a sitting position. The walls and ceiling are splattered with blood and bits of him.
Do you believe in God? Lola Conching asks, after a few moments have passed.
I don’t know, I say. Then I throw up.
Paco’s green eyes are open and amazed. Lola Conching never leaves her bed. She turns up the volume and stares at the television. A movie comes on. Some comedy from the ’70s, starring Dolphy.
When I’m done throwing up, Lola Conching says: Get out of here, young man. Save yourself.
In the second version, Granny pulls out her Glock but doesn’t shoot him. I grab Paco’s arm and we hurry down the stairs, slipping on the bloody floor, stumbling over Rodel’s splayed corpse as we run out into the night. Paco won’t get in the car.
This is my house! Paco howls, staggering around the garden of orchids, palmyra, and bamboo. My house! My money!
The dogs of Forbes Park howl back at him in response. It’s almost funny. I glance back at the house before getting in my car. The lights go out in the old woman’s bedroom. And I leave Paco behind, and drive as fast and as far as I can in a last-ditch attempt to save myself. It starts to rain.
DESIRE
BY
MARIANNE VILLANUEVA
Ermita
Which parts of a bird are edible?
Epifanio did not know.
He would guess. Yes, he could do that: Not the internal organs. Not the beak. Not the feathers.
He wrote, laboriously: eyes, tail, breast.
Afterward, when they were all gathered in the small lobby, they were offered warm Coke in thick glasses, no ice.
Why would anyone ask them a question about birds? They were there to study to be seamen: most of them were from Negros, like Epifanio. The rest were from Marinduque, Zambales, Cagayan de Oro, Davao. After two years on one of the interisland ferries, and provided they received good evaluations, they might get the chance to work on one of the cruise ships that went to Hong Kong and Singapore. Epifanio clung to this hope.
He liked the young woman who had been waiting to greet them the day they arrived in Manila, but there was no sign of her the next day, or the next. By the third day, he began to notice a fat man who sat in a little room on the first floor. The room had desks and filing cabinets, like a regular office. Epifanio learned later that the man’s name was Leandro.
Epifanio pretended that the young woman had lent him some toothpaste and he wanted to repay her. “Is she c
oming back?” he asked Leandro.
The man smirked. “She’s sick. Morning sickness. What’s your name again?” Epifanio gave his name. The man gazed down at a sheet divided into two columns. “From Bacolod,” he said, and smirked again.
“Silay,” Epifanio said. And, he thought, but didn’t say aloud, I have been to college. I have had two years of San Agustin. And you—! He lowered his gaze and shrugged and gave a self-deprecating smile.
When Epifanio later replayed the conversation in his head, he hated the way Leandro seemed to know instinctively what Epifanio was after. And Leandro’s smirk would return again and again to his memory.
The rules of being a seaman: The shared toilets must be cleaned and ready for inspection at five a.m. When a passenger requests assistance, the seaman must smile and show his willingness to be of service. Even the most unreasonable guest will appreciate a smile.
Manila, this teeming city, pressed on him: dense, impenetrable. The sounds were many and various and ill-tempered. They abated only a little, toward dawn. His eyes were heavy from his dreams. Sheryn, I love you, he would dream himself saying aloud. In the dream she always laughed, as if she could hear him speaking, even across so many islands. I love you, I love you, I love you, he would say, his fists clutching the thin mattress.
On the sixth day, there was no one in the little office. Papers were scattered on the floor. The filing cabinet drawers hung open. The desk had been overturned. A policeman stood by a window, speaking into a cell phone.
Epifanio stared. He thought he heard the policeman say, “Ngunit”—But—and then, “mga estudyante.” Epifanio did not want to listen anymore and turned away.
He found a few of the men gathered by the front door, whispering urgently to one another. Epifanio forced himself to approach.
Manila Noir Page 14
