Moondogs - Alexander Yates [22]
The short man moves up on him, so close that the bill of his cap grazes Efrem’s forehead. “Well shit, Mohammed, now it just sounds like you’re bragging.”
“It’s better if you don’t call me that, sir.” Efrem says.
That’s too much for Brig Yapha, who puts himself between them. “Button up,” he hisses, glancing back at the reporters. “You have any idea that’s the Reynato Ocampo you’re talking to?”
Efrem blinks. He looks from Yapha, to Charlie, to the short man. Are they having another joke on him? The short man laughs and rubs a hand against his stubbly chin, making a sound like sand underfoot.
“What,” he says, “you think they straight-up invented that shit? Mohammed … don’t tell me. I mean, movie people get paid to lie, but could some Manila hack have dreamed me up?” He steps back so he and Charlie are side by side. “I give you this, they found an actor who looked plenty like the real thing, but you really think this pretty boy earned the street name Snaggletooth?” The short man—Reynato—bares his twisted metallic smile. Beside him, Charlie grins, sheepishly, perfectly.
For a moment Efrem feels disoriented. To him—to most of the Boxer Boys—Charlie Fuentes and the supercop Reynato Ocampo were always the same person. And to see them now, standing side by side, gives him a feeling like seasickness. But the moment passes, and just like that Efrem’s lifelong esteem for Charlie Fuentes withers. Charlie is nothing to him. Charlie is worse than nothing. Charlie is a pretender—just one among a long line of false prophets. Nothing but a soft-ass Manileño who more than likely kisses boys. Reynato is the real thing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I forgive you, Mohammed,” Reynato says. “Now let’s just forget those silly targets—that’s baby games. If you’re anywhere as special as you look, you should be able to hit something a little more challenging.” He gazes out at the clearing. Brig Yapha has a pair of field glasses strapped to his belt, and Reynato snatches them, saying “thanks darling” as he does so. He scans the rice paddies by the tree line where the tenant farmers are still working and the water buffalo is still munching reeds and the underfed puppy is still running about madly. “You see that carabao?” he says.
Efrem can see sweat beading the animal’s nose. He can count the flies perched on its horns and distinguish individual sun-bleached hairs on its flanks. “Yes,” he says.
“How far away would you say that carabao is?”
“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight hundred meters.”
“Ahh, I’ll find something else.”
“I can hit that, sir,” Efrem says. “No problem.”
Still staring through the glasses, Reynato smiles. “Well now, Mohammed, I’m not up on my caliber stats, but I think the maximum effective range for the BMG is just about two thousand.”
“I can do it,” Efrem says.
“Please …” Charlie stares at both of them, distressed. His cigar is almost burned down, and he hasn’t puffed it in a long while. “Could you at least wait until the crew splits? I mean, we just made such a big deal about how the kid had no bullets.”
“You mean you did.” Reynato lowers the glasses. “I’ll wait five. After that, I need to see some shooting.”
Charlie must know Reynato is for real, because he doesn’t waste any time. He rushes back down to the assembled soldiers and henpecks the camerapeople into joining the other reporters in the jeep. The vehicle isn’t halfway down the green before Reynato gives Efrem the order to fire. He hits the animal mid-rump, and it lurches forward like a wasp-stung child, thrashing through the mud. Then, with a sigh and a faint shudder, it sits down.
“What about a moving target?” Reynato asks, not missing a beat. “Can you hit a runner at that distance?”
Efrem shifts his weight. He doesn’t want to appear cocky, but he also doesn’t want to lie. “At any distance,” he says.
Reynato glances at Charlie and Brig Yapha. “Christ. I got the chills. I love a showoff. So …” turning back to Efrem, “I guess that dog would be no problem?”
Efrem sights his Tingin. The boy and his puppy have left the paddies and are running along the jungle’s