Moondogs - Alexander Yates [36]
“Welcome to the Shangri-La Makati.” The concierge at the front desk repeated the greeting. She had a British accent and never broke eye contact or stopped clicking away at her computer while she spoke to Benicio. She told him that his father had reserved a single room adjacent to his own suite with a connecting door, and put up a slim, flat hand when Benicio slid his MasterCard across the desk. “It’s already taken care of, sir. Your father asked that the bill be added to his own.”
“I insist,” Benicio said. The concierge hesitated only briefly before accepting the card from him. “My father didn’t meet me at the airport like we’d planned,” he added. “I think he may have forgotten to tell me about a last-minute trip. Did he leave any forwarding details?”
She continued clicking away at the computer, glanced for a moment at the screen and told Benicio politely that they didn’t have anything. “Your father’s suite is reserved through next January, but it’s not at all irregular for him to leave it empty due to unexpected travel. Just in case, we’ll slide a note under his door tonight. If you still have trouble reaching him just contact our business center and they’ll put you in touch with your father’s company.” Benicio thanked her and collected his key-card. “Your father is one of our very special guests,” she went on. “You’ll find everyone here very eager to accommodate you.”
He wished her a good evening and followed the bellboy to a bank of elevators beneath the mezzanine stairs. Up in his room, the full weight of his exhaustion hit him. He’d planned to take a shower before sleeping, but there was nothing doing. The room was cool and the bed soft, and he fell into it with his clothes on. Just as he was about to drift off, he remembered something Doug had said in the Osaka airport. He pushed himself back up and stumbled over to the window, pulling the curtain back and gazing out at the night sky. He was looking for the moon, but Doug was right, he’d already missed it.
Chapter 7
SAMPAGUITA
Monique was the last to leave the office on Friday afternoon. She turned off lights, spun combination locks on filing cabinets and retrieved her cell phone from a heavy metal safe by the door. She was about to set the alarm when she noticed that she’d left something on her desk—an envelope with the words: From the other man in your life, scrawled across the front in red marker. How careless of her. Marines roved the offices at night, and any of them could have seen it! The envelope had arrived that afternoon and contained a flyer picturing a pair of illustrated dancers waltzing over a hardwood floor. The Shangri-La Hotel Presents: Summer Ballroom Nights. Both cartoon dancers were faceless, like mannequins in an upscale boutique. The self-described “other man in her life” had embellished the pictures, penciling his likeness over the man, and filling out the breasts and butt of the woman. He’d added the words me and you beneath their feet. On the back were several partially erased attempted haikus, and one that had been filled in with pen:
Slick shoes, shiny floor.
Let’s forget for a night that
this will not end well.
The envelope was for official embassy interoffice memos, and she had no idea how he’d gotten hold of it. He was Filipino—a person of some importance to city politics, which was a professional reason to keep their relationship quiet on top of all the personal ones.
Monique folded the envelope twice, shoved it into the bottom of her purse and finished locking up. Joseph had come to the embassy that afternoon to pick up traveler’s checks at the cashier and work out at the gym, and they planned to catch the late shuttle to Makati together. His spirits had risen as the countdown to home-leave entered single digits, and he’d suggested a date night. She’d said yes on impulse—she always said yes when he wanted to do things, which was infrequently—but regretted it now. Despite running late, she didn’t rush. Her wedge heels echoed in the empty annex halls. She stopped to check her