Moondogs - Alexander Yates [44]
Echo and return. Silence. Heavy leaves rustle and three men step out onto the grass before them. “Isn’t that nice?” Reynato says.
The man in the middle still cradles his bushel of fruit. Knife dangling at his side, he speaks with a full mouth: “What’s that?”
“His name is Efrem,” Reynato says. The man cocks his head, evidently favoring a good ear. Reynato repeats himself. “He’s my new friend. Maybe yours too, Lorenzo.”
“Yeah? I got too many already.” The man, Lorenzo, pauses to chew. “Is he what I think he is?”
Reynato does not answer, but he smiles.
“I figured. He looks weird like that. So, what’s he do?”
“He kills people.”
Lorenzo swallows and smiles right back, his teeth pulpy. “We all do that.”
“Well, he does it better,” Reynato says. He turns to Efrem. “Treat these boys with care, Mohammed. They may someday be like family. This idiot ruining his appetite is Lorenzo Sayoc. The handsome one,” he points at the man with gnarled and twisted skin, “is Racha Casuco. And finally we have sweet, simple Elvis Buwan. They leave a little to be desired, as family goes. But I promise you’ve got more in common with them than any fucking soldier boy. They’re all bruhos, like you. And like me.”
He claps once and rubs his hands together. “Let’s eat.”
LUNCH AT THE UNFINISHED FUENTES house is a big affair. Efrem walks through the kitchen into an open dining area where the maid sets food out on a long table made of varnished Philippine mahogany and flanked by benches of the same wood. Brig Yapha and Charlie, already seated, seem to have been in the middle of a hushed conversation, but they clam up as everybody enters. Charlie, a little startled by the appearance of Reynato’s bruhos, signals to the maid to grab some extra plates. She adds them to the tabletop already covered with ceramic platters and stewpots, all set under the crossing breezes of electric fans to keep away flies. A big bowl of shredded purple banana flower fried with bits of pork fat, a crispy duck baked to near-blackness and served on layers of foil, beef-shank bulalo with chopped ampalaya and carrots sitting in a vat of oily broth, a whole braised grouper covered in diced garlic. There’s rice of course, heaped and steaming in a plastic tub beside a bowl of sliced calamansi, soy sauce and a bottle of peppered coconut vinegar. Under the table is a cooler of beer, and a pilsner is set behind every plate, shortnecks and caps glistening with icy sweat.
At the sight of mismatched china and clean silverware, Efrem hesitates. He’s used to field-issue crockery, eating on the ground by the mess trailer. He’d rather go hungry than take a seat not meant for him. Lorenzo pushes past, discarding his bananas to get a spot near the bulalo. Racha sits as well, eyeing the maid’s threadbare dress. Elvis and Reynato join them. Efrem hovers.
Lorenzo breaks his staring contest with the food to glance at Efrem. “Ain’t he even housetrained?”
“Never mind him.” Reynato gestures to an open spot with his spoon. “Sit.” Efrem leans his Tingin carefully against the wall and sits. Brig Yapha and Charlie bow their heads in prayer, but everyone else reaches out hungrily for scoops of rice and duck. Reynato gets the bony grouper head. Lorenzo comes away with the best piece of beef shank and goes right for the marrow. Charlie lets them fill their plates with his food before serving himself. He eats like a bird, chattering about the upcoming election—just twenty days away now—more than he chews. He’s nervous about how he did today, and not shy about showing it, which lowers him even further in Efrem’s esteem. His campaign manager’s in the hospital, will be for a while yet, and this is his first trip solo. No talking points. No prepared remarks. Everything on-the-fly. He really hopes he didn’t screw up.
“Fuck your nerves,” Yapha says. “You’re a natural. Did you even see the kids today. Swooning like girls at a concert.”
They keep at it, and the pace of their talk makes Efrem’s eyes unfocus. The discussion is difficult to follow. What they’re saying, even who’s saying what—it all pushes past