by Dawson, Mark
“I-I—”
“The same goes for your friend on the train,” he said. “He was just as sloppy as you. Now—piss off and enjoy the weather.”
He took one of the yellow airport taxis and asked to be taken to the city. The driver pulled away and Milton watched through the rear window as the woman fumbled in her purse for her phone.
The driver made no effort to engage Milton in conversation, turning on the radio and resting his forearm out of the open window as they set off. Milton was fine about that. He was happy to look out of the window, remembering the occasional buildings and landmarks from his previous visits to the city.
It was a twenty-five-minute drive from the airport to the city. Milton took out his phone, waited for it to connect to the local network, and then called for an Uber to meet him at Raffles. They arrived in Makati and Milton leaned forward and told the driver to drop him off. He paid the fare, not commenting on the fact that he had grossly overcharged him, and got into the waiting black BMW.
“Makabat Guesthouse?” the driver said, consulting the booking information on his own phone.
“That’s right,” Milton said. “In Malate.”
The Uber driver was chattier, telling Milton that he used to be a driver for KFC, delivering chickens and supplies to local restaurants. He complained that he had been making five hundred pesos per day but now he made fifteen thousand a week. Milton congratulated him on his new job, but then settled back to watch out of the windows to check that he wasn’t still being followed. The driver was happy to fill the silence and all Milton had to do was make encouraging noises every now and again. In the end, the driver turned up the radio and they continued along the route in companionable silence.
* * *
HE HAD found the place on TripAdvisor before he left London and had booked a room for three nights. It was mid-range, and the reviews suggested that the rooms were clean with reliable air conditioning. It was just as advertised: small, tidy rooms, and a pleasant respite from the heat of the morning outside. Milton put his carry-on suitcase on the bed. He wrote down the address of the two o’clock meeting and ordered another Uber.
It took twenty minutes to drive to the Church of the Holy Trinity. It was a busy meeting and Milton was five minutes late. He made his way to the back of the room and sat down on a metal folding chair.
The proceedings were being conducted in Filipino, and, since Milton didn’t speak a word of the language, they were incomprehensible. The structure of the meeting was identical to what he would have expected at home, however, and, as the secretary handed over to the evening’s speaker, Milton was able to close his eyes and tried to relax.
He realised that he was nervous. It wasn’t something that he was used to feeling. Milton planned everything that he did with exacting precision, and, as much as he could, he minimised the effects of chance. Excellent preparation reduced the scope for surprises and that, in turn, gave him confidence. But the future was impossible to plan for. He had no idea what Jessica would say to him and no idea how he would feel. It made him uneasy. She had suggested that they meet in a bar, too, and that made him even more nervous. There was an old AA adage that he had always found particularly apt: if you go into a hairdresser’s, eventually you’ll get a haircut.
Milton knew himself too well: he would be tempted to drink. He would be unable to make a plan that would insulate him, and the conversation that he would have with Jessica tonight had the potential to change his life.
He concentrated on his breathing, maintaining an even rhythm, in and out, and tried to tune out the thoughts racing through his mind. He listened to the speaker, the clatter of the unfamiliar language, and tried to find his usual quiet space of calm.
10
LOGAN FOUND the bar. It was called the Lazy Lizard, and it was in Poblacion in Makati. It was hot outside, the heat pressing down on the busy streets like a dead weight. The temperature seemingly incited the drivers, who thronged the roads impatiently, and he ignored a cacophony of horns as he reversed his rental into an empty bay a hundred feet down the road from the bar. One of the drivers who had been forced to wait until the conclusion of his manoeuver opened his window and gave him the finger. Logan ignored it and walked back to the bar.
Logan had been in the city for twelve hours. Milton had flown in after him. Logan had been irritated, although not especially surprised, that Milton had made the tails who had been following him. Logan didn’t like to feel bested, but he didn’t allow it to bother him. It was temporary, and, of course, Milton had no idea what he was walking into. He would let him have his small victory.
The bar was a cheap dive that catered to tourists. It lacked any semblance of glamour, the decor resembling a hut rather than the sleek futurism of the glass and chrome establishments that were popping up elsewhere. Those places were not suitable for what Logan had in mind. He needed somewhere quieter, somewhere he could exert influence over the staff. The Lazy Lizard was perfect.
He went up to the bar. The owner was the only member of staff here today, as Logan had expected. The man was not much older than thirty-five. He had a sleeve of tattoos all the way down his right arm and long, lank, black hair. Logan sat on the stool and smiled at him until he came over to serve him.
“Hello, Rodrigo,” Logan said. He used English; he knew that the owner spoke it well.
“How do you know my name?”
“That doesn’t really matter.”
“Who are you?”
“You can call me Logan.”
Rodrigo looked flustered. “What do you want?”
“A drink would be a good start.”
“Sure. I—”
“What beers do you recommend?”
“We have Cerveza Negra,” he said. “Or Colt 45. It’s stronger.”
“Cerveza will be fine. In a cold glass, please.”
Rodrigo took a bottle from the fridge, popped the top, and poured it into a chilled glass. He set a napkin on the bar top and rested the glass on it. He rang up the purchase and laid the ticket next to the glass.
“Thank you,” Logan said. He raised the glass in salute and then drank a little.
The bar was quiet. Logan could tell that Rodrigo would have liked to leave him be, but there was no one else to serve. He made do with taking a cloth and wiping up a puddle of spilled beer. Logan watched. He could tell that he made the man uncomfortable.
“Do you need anything else?”
Logan picked up the napkin, folded it in half and then meticulously wiped his lips. He laid the napkin down again and rested the glass atop it.
“Can I speak frankly with you, Rodrigo?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Your financial situation.”
“I’m sorry,” Rodrigo said. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. You’ve got your beer. I have work to do.”
“Can I tell you what I know?” He loosened his top button and went on before the barman could react. “You’ve been open here for six months. You took a large loan from the bank to get started, but now that money is nearly all gone. How am I doing?”
Rodrigo didn’t respond; he looked confused.
Logan went on. “The rent was late last month and your landlord threatened to throw you out unless you paid. Your bank manager isn’t flexible, and you knew there was no point in asking for any more money. So you had to be creative. One of your regulars has an under-the-counter loan business and, when no other options presented themselves, you approached him. This lender—Espinosa, I think his name is—was happy to front you the cash. He encouraged you to let it ride for a month or two, but then, when you had the money and were ready to pay it off, the interest had doubled the amount that you owed.”
“This is none of your business.”
“I’m afraid it is my business,” Logan said. “Mr. Espinosa sold me your debt. I paid him a little less than he was owed. Men like him will always tell you that the full amount must be repaid, but, in my experience
, they are businessmen. I’m sure he looked at you and saw that you would never be able to do that, especially with the interest that was accruing. My offer was generous, so we were able to do business.”
“I don’t understand. I—”
“It’s simple, Rodrigo. It means that you don’t owe him anything any longer. You owe me instead. I suppose you could say that I own this bar. So you can see what I mean when I say that your financial dealings are very much my business.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I have a use for you.”
“You’re wasting your time. I couldn’t afford to pay him. I can’t afford to pay you.”
“There are different ways to meet your debts. Money is one way. You have another option. There’s something that you can do for me.”
Rodrigo watched as Logan reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small clear plastic bag. It contained a dirty white powder. Logan left it on the bar.
“Drugs? I don’t do drugs. Have you seen what happens to drug dealers under Duterte?”
“Relax,” Logan said. “This wouldn’t upset the president. It’s not drugs.”
“So what is it?”
Logan ignored the question. “Two people are going to come into the bar this evening. A man and a woman.” He reached into his pocket again and took out a piece of folded paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the bar next to the bag. “Look, please.”
Rodrigo looked down at the paper. It was a printed photograph of Milton. The photograph had been taken at a police station in Texas; Milton was holding up a board with a number, a name—SMITH, JOHN—and measurements that recorded his height as six feet and his weight as two hundred pounds.
“His name is John,” Logan said. “And John is going to be meeting this woman.”
He took out a second piece of paper. It was a photograph of a woman. She was good-looking, with long dark hair and soulful eyes. “Her name is Jessica.”
“So?”
“I want you to put half of that powder into his drink and half into hers.”
Rodrigo pushed the pieces of paper back across the bar. “Are you mad? No!”
“Then pay me my money.”
“Drug them?”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“So do it yourself.”
Logan pushed the photographs back across the bar. “It’s up to you, Rodrigo. You owe me sixty thousand pesos. I know I look different to Espinosa, but just because I wear a suit and tie shouldn’t blind you to the fact that I am more dangerous to you than he would ever have been.” Logan reached back his left hand and pulled back his jacket. He was wearing a shoulder holster with a pistol beneath his arm. “You have a choice. Put that powder into their drinks and have your debt written off. Or pay me back. But if you want to do that, I’m going to need all the money—plus another thirty thousand for my inconvenience—tonight. So it’s up to you.”
Rodrigo swallowed down on a dry throat. He pointed down to the bag of powder on the bar. “So what is that?”
“A tranquiliser. It’ll just loosen them up a little.”
“And I put it in their drinks?”
“That’s right. It’ll dissolve. You wait until it’s invisible and then you give it to them. And that will be that. You won’t owe me or Espinosa anything.”
“All right,” he said.
Logan stood. He straightened his jacket so that the pistol was hidden once again. “Very good.”
“The money?”
“You do that for me, and everything goes away. You’ll be a free man.”
Logan took out a note to cover his beer and laid it on the bar. He took a final swig, replaced the half-finished glass, nodded his farewell, and made his exit.
11
MILTON DISTRACTED himself by spending the rest of the afternoon looking around the city.
He had forgotten how much he liked it. It was a dizzying confection of influences: the cosmopolitan nature of Paris, the glitz of America and the naïve capitalism of China. Apart from Filipino, Milton saw signs in English, Spanish and Arabic. The traffic was relentless, the heat brutal, the poverty everywhere and the growth rampant and seemingly out of control. One street would be chaotic, the sidewalks crammed with pedestrians and the roads choked with cars and trucks, yet, just a turn or two away, he found peaceful alleys that led to souks and courtyards that were like oases amid the sound and fury. He visited the citadel at Intramuros and had a savoury brioche of ensaymada for his lunch. He walked to the Marikina shoe museum and shook his head at Imelda Marcos’s vast collection. He went to Binondo, the colourful four-hundred-year-old Chinatown, and had a halo halo—a concoction of shaved ice and evaporated milk jumbled with candied fruit, nata de coco, and crème caramel—to cool him down when the heat became too oppressive.
He returned to his room at five, stood under a cold shower until his skin prickled, and then shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. He knew he looked different from when Jessica had seen him last. He was older, and the weight of the passing years and the worries that they had brought with them had been written in the fresh lines on his face and the grey in his hair. He looked at his tattoos, each of them testament to some event in his life. The biggest—the angel wings across his shoulders and back—was from his drinking days; he couldn’t remember having it done. The newest—the IX across his heart—was a reminder of his constant need to make amends, and a testament to the example set by Eddie Fabian.
He took out the ironing board and ironed his only other clean shirt. He dressed, checked himself in the mirror one final time, and went out into the night heat to meet his Uber.
* * *
JESSICA HAD emailed Milton to say that she would meet him at the Lazy Lizard in Poblacion. Milton sat quietly in the back as the driver took him to Makati. The bar looked unappealing from the outside, but Milton had eschewed places like this for long enough to know that he was far from an expert as to what was passing for chic these days.
He went inside. It was quiet, with just a few other drinkers. Jessica was already waiting for him. She sat at the bar, looking down at her phone, and didn’t see him as he came inside. He stood and watched her for a moment. Skype had not done her justice. The years had only touched her lightly. She was as beautiful as he remembered, her long black hair reaching down her back and a single silver bangle shining against the brown of her skin. She was perched on a stool, her slender legs crossed elegantly and offset by an olive dress and a pair of black heels.
Milton felt the burn of the tension in his stomach. He was frozen to the spot and had started to entertain thoughts of leaving when she pushed the phone away and turned in his direction.
She saw him and smiled.
Milton was committed now. He couldn’t turn back.
He didn’t want to.
He crossed the room.
“John!”
Jessica stood and, smiling again, put her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. Her perfume was of apples; Milton was dizzied, the smell immediately casting him back to the last time they had met.
“You look great,” he said.
“You too.”
Milton allowed himself a smile. “I look old and tired.”
“Tired, maybe. How was your flight?”
“Long.”
“And your hotel? Where are you staying?”
“Malate. It’s fine. Clean and tidy. That’s all I need.” He pulled up a stool. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“That would have been your fault. It was your choice to leave.”
“Not really. I couldn’t stay, could I?”
“No. I suppose not.”
“And you could have come with me. I offered.”
“To England?” She shook her head. “The Philippines have many problems, but cold weather is not one of them.”
She sat, and Milton did the same.
“Do you want a drink?” she said, nodding down to the empty glass before her on
the bar.
“I’ll get them,” he said.
“No, let me. What would you like?”
“I’ll have orange juice.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Sorry?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Really? You used to drink all the time.”
He flinched with discomfort. “I told you lots of things have changed since the last time.”
She had seen him at his worst. She probably remembered the foolish things that he had done and said even as the alcohol had wiped them from his own memory. The realisation made him cringe with shame.
“What happened to make you stop?” she asked.
“I was drinking too much,” he said. “It took me a long time to realise, but, when I did, I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. I’ve been in recovery for a few years.”
Her face fell. “Recovery?”
“It’s nothing that big,” he said, trying to minimise it. “I go to meetings. We sit around and drink coffee and talk about how we ended up there. They’ve made all the difference.”
“Is this okay?” she said, gesturing around at the bar. “We could go somewhere else.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ve been dry long enough that I can come into a bar and not get a drink.”
* * *
LOGAN PARKED his car down the road, not so close to the bar that Milton might spot him, but close enough to attend to things when the time was right. The windows of the rental were tinted. Milton wouldn’t be able to see him.
Logan had received a text to confirm that both the woman and Milton had arrived and that they were talking at the bar. Jessica had instructions to keep him there long enough for his drink to be spiked. She had impressed him with her ability to dissemble. She and Milton had a lot of reacquainting to do, he supposed. He didn’t think that Milton would be leaving any time soon.
He had stopped at a 7-Eleven on Juan Luna Street on the way to the bar and purchased the things that he would need for his work this evening: two bottles of vodka and two six-packs of strong beer. He had moved on and bought a box of powdered green nitrile gloves in the pharmacy next door. The items were in a plastic bag on the seat next to him.
