Moondogs - Alexander Yates [123]
Efrem says that is not why he is here.
“That’s right, you’re not,” Ignacio says. “Now get your hands off me and listen. My terms are fair and easy. This is how much I want …” he hands Efrem a crumpled paper with a number written on it. Efrem glances down and nods. “That’s in dollars, not pesos.” Efrem nods again. Ignacio looks very surprised and then tries to hide that he’s very surprised by drumming his knees again.
“Also, if we do this deal we do it tomorrow, no later. I’ll only meet you outside the city, on Corregidor Island. You know that place? It’s in the bay. You come with one other person, not more. You buy two roundtrip Sun Cruise tourist passes to the island. Me and my brother take our own boat there and land on the northwest side, past Battery Point, away from the ruins and the hotel. We trade on the beach. You give us your return tickets and we go home with all the tourists. You take our boat and the American and you go wherever the fuck you want.”
Elvis strays down Efrem’s temple and dips his spider head into his ear. Efrem repeats his whisper as though the words are his own. “That’s a bad idea. Corregidor Island is full of foreign tourists. That’s the worst place in the world if you get caught.”
Ignacio smiles and quits drumming himself. He glances about. “No,” he says, “it’s the worst place in the world for a Moro like you to get caught. You try anything and I’ll be star witness at your trial.” His voice goes up an octave: “Oh, the terrorists were trying to kill our foreign guests! They shot that poor American. They desecrated the ruins. Their geopolitical vision would erase our history, depress our economy and embarrass our leaders! You got me, Moro?”
Efrem imagines killing this tiny man with the change in his pocket. He could go to Howard Bridgewater right now and rescue him. But for all that’s happened, he still trusts Reynato and Reynato wants it done this way. “I get you,” he says.
“Good. I’ll need some cash now, too. Like, an advance. I’ve got a little boat down by the harbor, but it needs gas. And I’ve got to rent a truck to move him through the city.”
“Whatever you need,” Efrem says.
Down in the pit another fight begins. Gamecocks paw the dirt and puff up large. They leap at each other just as they’d do on any farm; neither realizing that the longspurs on their feet mean higher stakes.
EFREM ONLY SAW THE HOLY MAN once after leaving home. It was in Davao City, in front of a shabby enlistment office abuzz with electric fans. Efrem had just come from the outdoor movie house, his resolve to sign up hardened by an afternoon watching Renny-O stick up for the unstuckup for, when he noticed the Holy Man lurking by garbage bins across the street. He was almost unrecognizable in torn slacks and a bright Lakers jersey that fell past his knees. His scalp and chin were bald and razor-burned. All he retained were his little round sunglasses and the lopsided look of an amputee.
As Efrem crossed the street the Holy Man busied himself picking through trash, not daring to look up. “This is humiliation!” he said, his voice trembling on the sharp edge of a whisper.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Efrem said, with real concern. “It’s not safe.”
“Not for you either.” The Holy Man grabbed at his shirtfront. “This is mistaken,” he hissed. “Come home with me.”
Efrem shook his head.
“Apostasy! You betray your people!”
“My people are dead,” Efrem said, his throat tight. “The people who became my people are dead, also. One of your bombs sank their ferry. I watched them drown.”
The Holy Man let go his shirt and smoothed it out. “Efrem. Son.” Tears rolled from behind his dark glasses in perfectly straight