Dogeaters (25 page)

Tito pours himself another beer. He has just finished his third shot of Jack Daniels. “What did I say? I didn’t mean to offend her—”

“Women,” Pepe Carreon mutters. He is glad she is gone, and hopes she won’t return. The men sit in silence, the afternoon light soft and flat on the golf course before them. The children and their
yayas
have long gone.

Severo Alacran, Pepe’s father-in-law, appears in the green distance, intent on a game with two Americans. In their torn and muddy Converse sneakers, the caddies lag behind respectfully, hauling cumbersome leather golf bags and oversized golf umbrellas on their bony backs. Severo Alacran waves absently as he passes the younger men sitting on the terrace. “Are you going to play another round?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. Pepe smiles automatically and waves back.

Tito looks around for the waiter. “
Ano ba
,
pare
—the service stinks. You’d better tell your in-law.”

“I’ll inform the Secret Squadron,” Pepe quips, but no one laughs.

Silence hangs heavy over the deserted terrace, broken only by the low, rustling hum of cicadas. Tito wonders if Girlie will come back. She’s a little too touchy, but what the hell. He’ll apologize for his behavior, offer to buy her dinner. If he persists, he knows he can persuade her to go with him to a nearby motel and finish off the hot, tense afternoon. Tomorrow promises to be grueling, the start of work on a new movie. Tito prays for Girlie’s return. A day without sex is inconceivable to the movie star. Satisfying his desires comes easily to him, and he doesn’t give up until every whim is gratified. He remembers the manicurist running across the lawn, her long black hair streaming down her back.

Boomboom Alacran is happy, content to listen to his friends brag about real or imagined exploits. He hopes the afternoon goes on forever. The identity of the man who confessed, the confession itself are inconsequential to Boomboom. All Boomboom craves are the details: the look on the man’s face as Pepe’s meticulous agents or Pepe himself prodded and probed in their search for answers, the exact number of seconds, minutes, or hours before the man finally succumbed.

Pepe Carreon rubs his stomach. “
Pare
, if you offered me a bowl of the purest cocaine on one hand, and a bowl of my cook Francisca’s
adobo
on the other, and I had to choose—” Joselito Sanchez rolls his eyes. Tito Alvarez begins to laugh. He knows the punchline, but he plays along with the earnest military man. “You’d choose a game of golf!” Boomboom blurts out. Tito slaps Pepe on the back as the other men join in the laughter. Pepe looks at them with suspicion. He does not appreciate being the butt of anyone’s jokes, especially the jokes of a fool like Boomboom Alacran. It only takes some slight insult, real or imagined, to set him off, and he makes sure everyone knows it. Fortunately, the alcohol has relaxed him; Pepe’s tight, thin lips break into a reluctant smile, then his mouth falls open with the force of his high-pitched, hooting laugh.

For one drunken moment, Tito Alvarez is terrified by the man shaking with laughter in front of him. He is convinced Pepe has been transformed into a salivating dog howling on the terrace of the Monte Vista. The hallucination only lasts a few seconds. Tito’s hand trembles as he brings another cigarette up to his mouth. The acrid taste nauseates him, and he quickly puts it out. He rubs his burning eyes, and feels badly in need of a bath. “I better go home,” he says, “I don’t feel well.”

“You need another drink.
Hoy
!” Pepe shouts belligerently, looking back toward the shadowy, deserted hallway, “Is anybody there?” The table is littered with empty beer bottles, too many glasses, ashtrays crammed to overflowing, and a half-filled bowl of peanuts. A warm breeze scatters ashes on the white tablecloth. Pepe Carreon curses under his breath and smashes his fist on the table.

M
ANILA, PHILIPPINES (IP)—THE
police commander in a trash-filled district of Manila has offered to pay residents $5 for every 1,000 flies they capture.

Lt. Col. Romeo Maganto, who is well known for going after suspected communist assassins in the slum district of Tondo, said the bounty is part of his area’s effort to prevent an outbreak of insect-borne diseases.

“If we cannot do away with this garbage, I think it is better to eliminate these creatures that bring sickness,” said Maganto. He said inmates in his station’s jail have been assigned to count the flies before they are burned.

Tondo is the site of Manila’s dump, called Smokey Mountain, where officials say 300 tons of garbage is dumped daily. The bounty project is being funded by several civic and business organizations.

—Associated Press

G
UILTY MOTHER WAS THE
first jeepney to slow down and stop for Joey on Epifanio de los Santos Avenue. Joey didn’t care which direction the jeepney was headed. All he wanted was to get away as fast as possible from what he had just seen.

Across the windshield, a smaller, hand-painted sign boldly proclaimed in bright blue letters:
FOR CHICKS ONLY
. Joey gave the driver money and squeezed in between two women obviously on their way to market, carrying their straw and plastic
bayongs.
Next to one woman sat a chubby boy of six or seven, his bristling crew cut shiny with pomade. Dried mucus encrusted the boy’s nostrils. His khaki pants were neatly pressed, his starched shirt embroidered with the fleur-de-lis emblem of the San Antonio de Jesus Academy. He stared at Joey with sleepy curiosity. Joey forced himself to meet the boy’s gaze, trying to appear at once friendly and detached. Children made Joey nervous. He attributed to them too much power, the uncanny ability to see through other people’s disguises. Joey shifted uneasily, trying in vain to settle himself comfortably in the jeepney’s cramped space. The boy’s mother moved her bags away from Joey, frowning. The child kept staring, his mouth slack and partially open. Joey looked away.

Across from Joey sat a row of triplets, their jaws moving as they chewed betel nut. They appeared to be in their nineties, two men and one woman. The brothers were dressed in identical soft
camisa
shirts and loose brown cotton pyjamas, and leaned forward on carved, pearl-inlaid walking sticks. Their slightly hunchbacked sister sat in the middle, regal and delicate in a handwoven camisole with butterfly sleeves worn over an ankle-length, rainbow-striped skirt. She smiled prettily at Joey, her sunken eyes like glittering beads, her teeth stained red with betel. Resting at her feet was a magnificent white rooster in a bamboo cage. An omen or a sign perhaps, Uncle would say. The white rooster surely meant death, but the triplets might bring Joey luck. His heart beat wildly.

Turning slightly, Joey faced the back of the jeepney driver’s head. He looked like an ordinary man, with long black hair and an orange TruCola T-shirt that showed off his muscular chest and tattooed arms. He was whistling along softly with Kool and The Gang on his transistor radio, his eyes shielded from the glaring morning sun by futuristic wraparound sunglasses. Joey felt the driver watching him in the rearview mirror, which was adorned with scapulars, assorted medals, a single rosary, and a rabbit’s foot keychain from the Manila Playboy Club. Joey sat up straight, preparing himself to jump out at any time.

The fat schoolboy made a face and stuck his tongue out at Joey. Joey’s first reaction was to lunge at the boy, but he smiled feebly instead, as if he were amused. The boy’s mother scowled, pinching his arm. The child grimaced in pain but never made a sound, giving Joey an evil look. The ancient triplets studied Joey and the schoolboy curiously. As
GUILTY MOTHER
pulled up to a busy intersection, Joey jumped out.

He knew he was somewhere in Cubao, and the unfamiliarity of the area was a great relief to him. Joey felt safe enough to wander around and clear his head. He even considered showing up for work later at CocoRico. He’d surprise Andres by showing up on time; he’d say hello to the boys, make some money, forget all the bullshit that went down. No one would connect him to the assassination at the exclusive hotel. Anyway, Senator Avila would’ve been murdered sooner or later. He was always saying his days were numbered on those stupid TV interviews. What the fuck, Senator Avila had asked for it. Someone had to shut that big mouth of his.

Joey wondered if he should tell Uncle. He desperately wanted to tell someone. The matter-of-fact brutality of the murder seemed unreal, like a gangster movie, but he was unable to erase the vividness of the actual moment from his mind, the Senator’s body sprawled in a pool of blood on the plush carpet, the blood so red it vibrated black in Joey’s buzzing mind. And the holes in the wall behind the reception desk—there must’ve been dozens of holes, maybe hundreds. How many times can you shoot a man? Joey decided making him a witness was God’s peculiar way of punishing him for his sins.

He had been to church only twice in his life. For Joey, God was definitely a white man, Charlton Heston in robes, with flowing white hair and matching beard. He toyed briefly with the idea of finding sanctuary in the church across the street—he could interrupt the morning service and demand to see the parish priest. Was the parish priest also the Father Confessor? Joey wasn’t sure. “Father,” he would say, “You’ve got to listen to me. I don’t know what I’m doing here…I don’t know how to confess but I have to confess, now. I don’t think I’m baptized, but if I have to die I want to go to heaven. I’ve only been to church a couple of times—one time was to bury my mother. I don’t remember much about the service—I think I fell asleep in the arms of an old man called Uncle. The second time was a catechism class some nun was teaching. She found me on the streets, selling cigarettes. She kidnapped me, dragged me into the parish hall of a church in Malate where she had all the other street kids rounded up. We held open bibles and little
stampitas
she handed out, with dreamy pictures of the Virgin Mary ascending into heaven on the front, and a prayer on the back…I saw Boy-Boy and Carding, giggling in the back of the room. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ the nun asked me. She was a foreigner or something, with very white skin and red cheeks. She pointed to a passage in the bible. ‘I can’t read, goddammit!’ I yelled, throwing the book on the floor. The other kids laughed, cheering me on. The nun was petrified but she slapped my face, and when I tried to hit her back this priest came running in and took me to another room filled with statues. Jesus Christ stared at me from the cross, his face all twisted and bleeding. The priest pushed me down on my knees and ordered me to pray for penance. ‘Or else I will call the police,’ he said. Fuck penance. I had no idea what penance meant. I ran away as soon as the priest left me alone. I told Uncle later, and he laughed about the foreigner nun. Slum missionaries, he called her and her kind. He warned me to stay away from churches. ‘They round up all you lost children,’ he said, ‘and brainwash you in special slum missionary camps far, far away.’ Father, my name is Joey Sands. I’m a whore and the son of a whore. I just saw Senator Avila murdered. How come I feel guilty?”

A plane appeared to float in the clear blue sky. Slow and majestic, it flew in a sure, straight path. Joey’s heart fluttered and sank. What time was it? Did Rainer make it to the airport? Or was he looking for him this very minute, looking for his missing cash and his drugs? Perhaps someone had actually spotted Joey lying on the curb in front of the Intercon. General Ledesma’s infamous secret police were probably on his trail, with Rainer leading the pack. “Yes, Sergeant,” Joey imagined the German saying politely, “I know the man who did this. He stole my wallet—” Rainer’s sad, hangdog expression would never change. He had expected Joey to betray him, as others had betrayed him so often. The Sergeant would be wearing the dark uniform of the Special Squadron’s Urban Warfare Unit. Joey could picture him clearly, grinning obsequiously and shaking the famous German director’s hand. When the Sergeant removes his futuristic wraparound sunglasses, he reveals that he is the tattooed jeepney driver with the Prince Valiant hairdo. “Okay, boss! Okay! Now Mr. Rainer, where did you say the suspect lived?” the Sergeant would inquire, his manner friendly and efficient. Rainer would gladly cooperate. Momentarily lost in his own fantasy, Joey swore at himself—he had told Rainer everything, down to detailed descriptions of Uncle’s shack and its exact location.

Joey shivered in the heat. He tried to shake off the ghostly apes that squatted down on his shoulders, blaming the phantoms on the unexpected violence he had just witnessed and on Rainer’s coke. With enough rest and some food, the mournful
kapre
would surely disappear. Cautiously, he approached a man carrying a briefcase and rolled-up newspaper. The man was dressed in the gray slacks, cut-rate shoes, and conservative tie of a bank teller or office clerk. A passing van advertising holiday sales blared Nat King Cole crooning “Chestnuts / roasting / on an open fire…” from loudspeakers set up on the van’s roof. Joey made an effort to sound casual. “Excuse me,
pare
—what time is it?” The man slowed down, gave Joey a suspicious look, then glanced at his watch. Joey’s eyes were bright with fatigue. “Ten to eight,” the man said, hurrying away to catch his jeepney. “
Salamat
!” Joey yelled his thanks. Knowing the exact time solved nothing: it set artificial limits on the hours that stretched out before him, but the dreadful emptiness and confusion were still there, along with the fear.

He wandered aimlessly, block after long block, waiting for night to fall. He blended into the crowds rushing to offices and schools, to modern department stores with garish window displays of paper lanterns, plastic reindeer, and Santa Claus in a sleigh. MALIGAYANG * PASKO * MERRY * XMAS is sprayed in fake snow on the glass.

Joey walked and walked, avoiding eyes. When he got too tired to walk, he found alleys and back doorways where he could snort up minuscule amounts of Rainer’s powerful coke to keep him going. Smelling the pungent odors of cooking from open windows and the
ihaw-ihaw
stalls in the market place, Joey salivated. Garlic, vinegar, chocolate meat. Pig entrails stewing in black blood. He gagged at the thought of his favorite dish. It was better, he finally decided, just to keep walking.