Moondogs - Alexander Yates [47]
“Well all right,” Reynato says. “I’ll probably regret this, knowing how hard these jerks will squeeze the lemon.” Reynato puts an arm over Efrem’s shoulder and chuckles. His breath is rot. “You all can fax me his discharge paperwork, and I’ll have my girl back in Manila get him into our system. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I need to get him oriented. Especially if you all plan to bring me on tour.” Together he and Efrem walk out to the yard. Racha, Lorenzo and Elvis follow close behind.
Outside it’s brilliant bright, and everybody must wear sunglasses. Task Force Ka-Pow moves back into the banana trees, up toward the road and the waiting jeep. Efrem feels himself pushed forward by a sea-swell. He can’t grab onto anything, not a branch or vine, because it’s all moving with him.
Chapter 9
HOWARD’S ROOM
It’s crazy-making how heavy this motherfucker is. Ignacio takes his legs and Littleboy his shoulders, but they only make it a few steps before the American slips fatly, wetly, out of their grip. Littleboy takes his legs and Ignacio his shoulders. Not much better—they get to the curb and again he defeats them with dead heft. This is bad. Late as it is, it’s still Manila. Any minute now a car, a jeepney, a motor-trike or night-roving squatter will be along. Early risers will hit the pavement as insomniacs stumble home. Someone is sure to hear this commotion in the steamy, after-rain quiet. Someone is sure to notice what they’re doing. God, what on earth are they doing?
After a few tries it’s clear they’ll never get him up the concrete steps and through the front door without more help. Ignacio goes inside to wake his wife. Waking his wife is hard. She’s crashing after a five-day tweak, courtesy of the rough shabu that Ignacio manufactures in his bathroom and sells to some of his regular taxi customers. Like all of Ignacio’s schemes—the short-lived rental store for pirated movies, the cockfight training academy opened in the wake of Kelog’s retirement—this one is small scale; successful mostly in maintaining their private stock. Always enough meth on hand to chase the dragon, should they care to. And they care to often. Ignacio is chasing the dragon right now. He’s on three days running without sleep.
Finally he rouses her and drags her outside. To his surprise she takes the sight of the American, facedown and bleeding from his head and fingers, in stride. She only asks once what Ignacio is doing, and accepts his hollered response that he has no fucking idea without comment or critique. Together the three of them hoist the fat man up the steps and through the front door, which Ignacio closes and locks behind. Then they pause, catch their breath, and look at one another as though for answers. Kelog, roused by the commotion, hops atop the unconscious man and pecks at the blood spots speckling his shirt.
“Is he dead?” she finally asks.
“Of course he’s not!” Ignacio pauses to check. And there it is—the tiny, regular spasm of a pulse. “Of course he’s not.”
She is clearly pleased by the news. “Well, where’s he going to stay?”
“He can have my room,” Littleboy says. “I can take the couch, no problem.”
“Guys.” Ignacio removes Kelog from the American’s chest. “He’s not a fucking houseguest.”
“Ah-ha,” his wife says, breathing evenly. “All right then, what is he? Who is he?”
A good question. Ignacio goes through the fat man’s pockets and finds a ratty wallet, swollen and old. An expired driver’s license inside identifies him as Howard Bridgewater, from Illinois. Ignacio had been confident he was from the States when he barked obscenely into his cell phone back in the taxi, but now there is no question: the man lying on his living room