Moondogs - Alexander Yates [108]
His vitriol took them both off guard and Solita seemed to lose her balance for a moment. She took another step forward and the boy lost hold of her skirt and stood frozen—stranded atop the plush carpet. “He gives me some extra,” she said. “Not enough that I don’t have to work. School, for June. Food, for June. Some books. He’s late with the money.”
“Then it’s his business,” Benicio said. “Whatever arrangement you have with my father, you’ll have to sort out with him. He’ll be back any day now. But I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t care.” He turned his back on them, grabbed his dive bag and headed for the bank of elevators below the mezzanine stair, going just slow enough so he didn’t feel like he was running. After a moment Solita collected her son—if it even was her son and not her baby brother, cousin or just some kid who lived on her street—and followed him. When Benicio stepped into an open elevator she jammed her elbow against the door to keep it from closing.
“He’s a week late,” she said. “They’ll take June out of his class.”
“Talk to Howard about it.”
“Howard’s not here.” The elevator door bounced lightly off of Solita’s elbow as it tried and failed to close. A pair of small speakers began releasing a pleasant chiming noise. Benicio felt trapped. Like there was no way today for him to act like, look like or feel like a good person.
“Please,” he said. “Go away.” He held down the close-door button. When Solita still wouldn’t move her elbow he moved it for her—a measured shove just strong enough to send her a half step backward. The doors closed, and even through them he heard her shouting. First English and then Tagalog.
Once in his room he dropped his dive gear more roughly than he should have. There were three messages on his hotel room phone, but rather than anything from his father they were all just notifications from the front desk that a woman had arrived at the hotel and needed to speak with him, urgently. After listening to all three Benicio pulled the cord out of the wall and threw the phone, handset and all, across the room. When he heard hard, determined knocking on his door he felt about ready to explode.
“I don’t know how to say it better,” he almost screamed. “Leave me the fuck alone.” He swung the door open, his fist tight around the handle.
“Mr. Bridgewater?” A white woman in business attire stood in his doorway. Benicio stared at her. He didn’t know her, but he knew why she was here. She introduced herself as Monique Thomas and said something or other about American Citizen Services. Benicio said nothing at all. He imagined soldiers, on a doorstep, in America, in the forties. Their hats were in their hands. That’s how real this was to him.
“Do you mind if I come in?” she asked. “I think it’s better that we talk in private.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Benicio said. Hearing it in his own voice made it final, and then he was sure. “My father is dead.”
Chapter 20
CONTACT PEOPLE
The Marine manning Post One seemed to know something was up. He slid an after-hours sign-in ledger under the bulletproof glass and opened the blast door leading into the chancery. “Am I the last one here?” Monique asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” He had to lean down in his elevated booth to get his soft pink lips to a microphone. He couldn’t have been more than six years older than Shawn. “They’ve been coming in for the past hour. Ambo’s chopper touched down a few minutes ago.” Well, that was just great. Monique rushed though the blast door.
A small crowd was gathered in the Country Team conference room upstairs. The ambassador sat at the end of a long Philippine-mahogany table, reading a stack of papers and looking incongruous in denim and plaid. Beside him was the deputy chief in a bowling league jersey, who’d be taking over next week as chargé d’affaires when the ambassador flew back to Texas to attend his own divorce proceedings. Tom, who was filling in for Joyce, represented Public Affairs. He chatted with Jeff and the new legal attaché, whose name Monique hadn’t learned yet and who was still green from