Moondogs - Alexander Yates [4]
“I don’t know what this is,” the Imam says.
“Of course you don’t.” Ignacio winks. He taps the side of his nose twice, significantly. He kicks the washroom door closed and seals them both in hot half-darkness.
“No.” The Imam drops the license on the tile between his feet. “I really don’t know what this is.”
Ignacio stares at him. He can hear Kelog crowing impatiently outside. The chain net jingles as the teenagers shoot hoops. Engines rumble distantly on the main road.
“I have that,” Ignacio says, pointing down at the license.
“You have what?”
Ignacio puffs his cheeks in frustration. For all he knows, there is a team assembling on the corrugated rooftops outside. They’ll be waiting by the exit with a bag for his head and shackles for his wrists and legs. He doesn’t have time for these games. Ignacio scoops the license up and mashes his finger into the white man’s face. “That!” he yells. “This! Him!”
“You have the person?”
Ignacio nods.
“I understand,” the Imam says, in a crackly voice. The crackly voice encourages Ignacio. He’s caught him off guard, and that’s always a good position to bargain from.
“So I was thinking, that, you know, you, being who you are … I watch the news. I have subscriptions. I follow what’s going on. It wasn’t a leap for me to imagine that someone like you would be interested,” Ignacio says.
The Imam puts his head in his hands, as though thinking. Ignacio, on a roll, can’t stop talking.
“Because I’m not stupid. I’ve seen enough movies to know that if I try and do the whole … that, you know, if I call up his family. If I say meet me at such-and-such with this much money. That shit never ends well. And I know plenty about you guys and those guys. I mean, there’s a war on, am I right? They call it a war. They call it that on their websites. And you do too—don’t argue. I don’t judge. I don’t have a dog in the fight. I’m just here to check if you want him. Or if you know folks who’ll want him. You know who I’m talking about. Abu Sayyaf. MILF. Jemaah Islamiyah—don’t think I haven’t looked into this. I’ve done my research. They’ve paddled all the way to Malaysia to kidnap tourists. I’m making it easy on them. And on you.”
Joey the Imam looks up from his hands. “So you’re here to ask if I want this person?”
“I’m here to ask if you want to buy this person. Buy.” Ignacio leans back and nearly tips into the tub. He adjusts his weight and tries to look comfortable.
The Imam says nothing for a long time. Then he stands and opens the washroom door, once again flooding the small space with sunlight. He disappears without a word. He returns some moments later, flanked by the shirtless teenagers who were playing basketball outside the mosque. They’ve taken their caps off, and their heads and chests glisten with sweat. They look larger in the confined space of the washroom. Not boys, but soldiers. Older, in a way, than Ignacio himself.
“We need to talk about this,” the Imam says. “You have proof he’s still alive? Proof he’s well?”
Ignacio nods, trying to restrain his grin. He doesn’t want to overplay his hand. Joey the Imam closes the door and approaches with the teenagers. They all stand around Ignacio. He feels their breath on his skin even before he opens his mouth to speak.
Chapter 2
AFTER THE FUNERAL
Benicio Bridgewater left the main building of Montebello High, crossed the parking lot and sat at one of the carved-up picnic tables. He pulled a paperback history of the Philippines from his bag, found the dog-eared page he’d bent over at the end of lunch and picked up again where he’d left off—Bataan had just fallen to the Japanese. Americans were rounded up while hundreds of their Filipino allies were made to dig their own graves. Japanese soldiers saved bullets by executing their prisoners with ceremonial blades. Cut off from the mainland, soldiers on Corregidor Island prepared to mount a final defense against the Imperial Army. The authors of the history didn’t attempt to sustain tension or drama—they made it clear