Moondogs - Alexander Yates [103]
Lorenzo repeats the routine with less flair. Now neither half moves at all. Blood snakes about the warehouse floor, seeking a drain to the Pasig. Lorenzo puts a finger on the tip of his chin and looks contemplative. He announces that the only kind of news he has is bad. He’s never, come to think of it, tried this on a man. “Only ladies,” he says. “Correction—only pretty ladies. It works on them, honest to God.”
The weather outside gets bad and some garbage blows into the loading dock. Reynato uncuffs the pirate’s upper half. He uncuffs the warehouse men. They look at one another, confused. He tells Lorenzo to try one more time and Lorenzo tries one more time. The pirate remains dead in two pieces. Reynato squats and massages his temples. One of the warehouse men messes his pants. Another prays in Latin. Reynato plucks a pack of cigarettes from the pirate’s shirt pocket. He snaps the filter off of one, clusters it with three more in his fist and has Ka-Pow draw lots. Efrem loses the game, and he doesn’t know what that means, at first.
CELEBRATION ON THE RIDE home starts out a little forced. Racha blinks at them through the hole in his palm, grinning because he considers this getting off easy. Lorenzo sings along to English tunes on the radio. He stomps to the beat, muddy feet on a bright blanket of spilled money. Back at the high-rise flat they pile into the kitchen for beers. Efrem washes his hands a long time and fills a glass with the tapwater that only he dares drink. He retires to his room, sits on the edge of his bedroll and listens to toasts and roughhousing down the hall.
Efrem wipes away the signs of his crying when he hears Reynato coming. He walks past the open door twice, cigar backward in his mouth, before looking in and saying: “There you are, Mohammed. We’re missing you.”
“I’ll be right there,” Efrem says. But what he wants to say is: What I did tonight does not feel like sticking up for the unstuckup for.
“Hey. Hey.” Reynato sits beside him, taking his measure with a long, sympathetic stare. “I see the look behind that look. No need to fake happy, if it’s fake. But I’ll tell you what; I’m a little surprised at you, Mohammed. Not in a bad way. It’s just …” Reynato puts a hand on Efrem’s knee. “Given the time you spent killing rebels, given your tally … I guess I assumed this’d be business as usual for you. Hardly thought you could feel anything about it—figured if you let even a splinter of that in then you’d have hung yourself with your army belt years back. But you know, I’m kind of touched that I’m wrong. It’s good to know this isn’t easy for you. It shouldn’t be.”
Reynato’s hand tightens, just slightly, on his knee. When it lifts Efrem sees a neat stack of thousand-peso notes. On top is the one with the pirate’s network written all over it in blood and ink. Efrem wonders: Will I be asked to execute these people, as well? He wonders: Will I do it, if I’m asked?
“Get some rest,” Reynato says. He squeezes Efrem’s shoulder, and leaves. Efrem turns out the light and lays down on his bedroll. His room is fantastically large, but empty of furniture. With the bedroll unfurled in the middle of the floor, it feels just like camping. Just like when he was a boy.
Chapter 18
MEANWHILE, AT THE BLUE MOSQUE
Ignacio sits in the ablution room, negotiating Howard Bridgewater’s sale to Joey, the Imam. He tries hard to keep his poker-face from crumbling into a big, stupid smile, but it isn’t easy. Not since Kelog’s heyday as a gamecock has his life ever vibrated with so much promise. The Imam goes into a huddle with the two young ballplayers and they whisper in a foreign language. Ignacio imagines they’re discussing pricing, timing and delivery. He leans back on the edge of the concrete tub, confidence cutting a quick track through his belly like alcohol.
The Imam breaks the huddle and turns back to face him. “Please forgive me,” he says. “I just want to be sure I’m not misunderstanding you … so, you have, in your personal custody, a kidnapped American businessperson?”
“That