Moondogs - Alexander Yates [24]
“Give it a minute,” Efrem says.
Reynato gives it two. He puts the phone on loudspeaker and holds it out for everyone to hear. There’s a whole lot of nothing, and then finally a faint whine, followed by wet coughing, followed by one person screaming, followed by two people screaming, followed by between four and six people screaming. Frightened obscenities and orders to take cover. The guard informs them that the jailhouse is under attack. Someone’s shot the prisoner’s face off. The guard has found a place to hide under a desk. Could they please send help very, very quickly? Reynato hangs up on him. He bends over at the middle and braces his little hands on his knees. It seems that even he wasn’t expecting this.
“You can do that whenever you want?”
“Every time I’ve tried,” Efrem says. “Sometimes I have trouble finding the right person, but with a name and a place it’s easy.”
“Shit. Shit.” Reynato looks sick, and giddy. “You should … you need to come with us. We need to talk.” He straightens up shakily and takes Efrem’s arm. “Tony, is it cool if your boy tags along for the afternoon?”
“Hey, whatever … it’s your call, Renny.” Yapha sounds woozy, like he just woke.
Reynato pulls Efrem to the lead jeep and stows him in the back like luggage. Brig Yapha and Charlie Fuentes follow. From the backseat, Reynato salutes the troops. “Wave goodbye,” he says. “If you ever see those boys again, it won’t be soon.”
Efrem glances back at them. Skinny looks utterly confused, but he’s got his arm up in a wave, his opposite hand supporting his elbow to keep it airborne. They hadn’t been close. Efrem keeps his arms at his sides. The driver releases the emergency brake. The engine shouts, and they’re rolling. Down the marching green, past the tenant farmers and their wounded carabao, out into the trees still wet with dog’s blood, away from the Boxer Boys.
Chapter 5
THREE STRAYS
Howard leaves the club an hour after it closes, and when he gets out to the lot all the waiting taxicabs have left. That’s all right. It’s a fine, unusually quiet night, and he’d like to walk some of this drunk off anyway. He crosses Roxas to the promenade and heads south, hardly stumbling. The bay crumbles gently on the seawall to his right. It isn’t long before he hears a sound in the darkness; something like a cough behind him. He hears it again—a sick sound, followed by footsteps and heavy breathing. He turns and sees three stray dogs, slouched and stinking. They’ve been skulking around the club for a month now. He’s complained to the owner, but has she done anything? No, she has not.
“Get!” Howard says, but the dogs don’t get. One of them approaches with a floppy, careless step. It looks at him and lets out another cough that skids into a faint, trembling growl. With some difficulty, Howard gets down on one knee and pantomimes picking up a stone. His chauffeur at the hotel taught him how to do this—our strays know what it means to have rocks thrown at them, he explained. The strays pace and whine, but they don’t scatter. Howard holds up his cupped, empty fist. He makes a throwing motion and the dogs flinch, but regroup. They glare, awash in bluish moonlight. “Go home!” he says. The words ring lame in the empty night.
The closest dog, its patchy hair yellow as hay, takes another step. Howard drops the fake stone act and starts searching for a real one. Hesitant to take his eyes off the dog, he quickly scans the chipped, honeycombed promenade. Nothing but paper and gum. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his ratty old wallet, swollen with receipts. He chucks it at the dog, striking it on the nose. The animal yelps in surprise and all three scamper darkly back across Roxas, making an off-duty taxi brake hard. Howard chuckles, bracing his hands on the sidewalk as he recovers his wallet and tries to stand back up. It takes some time. He’s a large man.
Howard keeps walking. The promenade is silent and