Moondogs - Alexander Yates [104]
“And you want to sell this person to me?”
“To you, or to someone else. I have other prospects,” Ignacio says. He runs his bare foot through the trough at the base of the concrete tub, so as to look relaxed. But he is not relaxed. No one has answered his coyly worded postings online, other than to ask if he’s for real or to call him an idiot. He has no other prospects.
“Is the American nearby? Did you bring him with you?” one of the young ballplayers asks. The thinly veiled desperation in his voice is promising.
“Never mind where he is now,” Ignacio says. “If we come to an arrangement then he’ll be here. As soon as tonight.”
The Imam sits beside Ignacio, leaving a half-space between them. “And how do I know you didn’t just pickpocket a tourist? The license is even expired. You could have found it on the street.”
Ignacio grins at this. He takes Howard’s ear out of his pocket and holds it out so the Imam and ballplayers can see. It’s become wrinkled, but hasn’t completely dried, and it smells. “You think I found this on the street?”
“You’ve hurt him,” the Imam says, his voice getting crumbly.
“Not hardly,” Ignacio says. “This is nothing compared to the shit you people will pull. I saw that video on the news—that unlucky motherfucker in Iraq. Sick stuff, if you ask me …” Ignacio pulls a pack of cigarettes from his slacks. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Yes, I do,” the Imam says.
Ignacio lights up anyway, because it’s essential to never cede ground while negotiating.
The Imam watches him smoke and does nothing. “He needs to be healthy,” he says, finally. “I need to know that he’s alive and in no medical danger.”
Ignacio’s grin widens. He’s made ready for this question and is therefore happy it’s been asked. He takes out his cell phone, extends his arm, snaps a picture of his own smiling face and sends it to his wife. He hands the phone to the Imam, and in less than a minute a picture of Howard arrives in reply. His head is bandaged and the front page of the Philippine Star is pasted to his chest. Wednesday, May 12—today.
“Is that the kind of proof you’re looking for?” Ignacio asks. It strikes him that he should do this for a living.
“Yes,” the Imam says, looking down at the photo. “Just one more thing, before we can talk about money. We need to know that you are not a policeman. They’ve tried to entrap us before.”
“Hey, that’s fair,” Ignacio says, his palms flat in concession. “That’s a reasonable, smart request. Search away.”
The two young men approach Ignacio and stand on either side of him. Everyone in the ablution room exchanges a glance and shares an awkward pause. This is something they’ve all seen on TV, but have never done before, and they’re seized suddenly by stage fright. The young men reach down and tentatively pull his shirt up. They grope along his pant legs, down his thighs and calves. His shoes are still sitting by the entrance to the prayer room, but they inspect his bare feet anyway, because the feet are supposed to be inspected. Then they roughly grip his forearms and pin them to his sides.
“Easy, there,” Ignacio says.
The Imam stands and removes his wire-frame glasses. He places them in his shirt pocket. He looks Ignacio in the face, sadly. The energy in the room has changed. “You are a bad person,” he says. He sounds so let down. “You are a terrible person.”
After saying this soft, damning thing, Joey, the prissy Manileño Imam, uses Ignacio’s phone to call the local barangay sentinels. “I need you here now,” he says. “I need the police, also.”
Ignacio’s worst nightmares are realized. It’s a Moro double-cross! In a full-on panic, he bucks against the young men, tipping back into the concrete water tub with a splash, his cigarette fizzling. He kicks his bare feet at the Imam, shouting like a broken bellows, calling for his brother and his rooster to come and save him.
“He’s a crazy person,” the Imam says to the sentinels on the phone. “Come as fast as you can, please.”
“No!” Ignacio yells. “No. Not Iggy. I won’t go down that way!”
The young men let out odd, embarrassed chuckles