Moondogs - Alexander Yates [49]
But even before Part One, at Part Zero, he and Littleboy run into complications. Ignacio had hoped to arrive in the morning, before the commotion of checkout and the attendant bustle of housekeeping. But he hadn’t reckoned on how much the already-terrible Manila traffic would be worsened by the elections. He hadn’t, in fact, even remembered that today was Election Day. But there it is; a big-ass rally right in the middle of EDSA, with Charlie Fuentes appearing in person to get out the vote. Littleboy asks if they can stay and watch and Ignacio says no. But it makes no difference. They idle in the gridlock for over an hour, catching most of the speech, Littleboy clapping and cheering out the passenger window.
It gets no easier when they finally arrive at the Shangri-La. Guards at the giant glass entryway take time patting them down and staring into their faces. They are allowed inside but aren’t in the lobby—and Christ, what a lobby—for a full minute before a prim little concierge sets on them. “What do you want?” she asks, wasting no time on hospitality, or English.
“We are guests from—”
“What room?” she asks, a hand already on each of their arms, already walking them back to the giant glass doors.
“Room 506,” Ignacio says, setting his heels but unable to resist the pull of her hard, tiny fingers.
“There is no room 506,” the concierge says.
“I bet you there is,” Ignacio says.
“Fine,” she says, “there is. But it isn’t yours.” They have reached the glass doors now. Not wanting to make a scene, Ignacio frees himself from her grip and exits on his own steam. But the concierge follows. “These two,” she says, talking now to the guards. “No. No. They are not allowed.” The guards look at their shoes, ashamed. And Ignacio and Littleboy retreat to a Starbucks across the street, drinking frothy iced drinks for hours as they wait for a shift change.
THEY TRY AGAIN in the afternoon. Through the glass doors, past the new guards—staring, patting, cupping just as suspiciously—and into the shiny lobby. There’s the bank of elevators just ahead and Ignacio goes for it at a jog-walk with Littleboy stumbling gape-mouthed behind. “Iggy,” he says, “Iggy, are you seeing this?”
At the elevators Ignacio presses the button, hard. He and Littleboy wait. He presses the button again. And again.
“What do you want?” He turns and sees another concierge, this one just as prim, just as little, just as beautiful and cold. But now he’s ready for her.
“Driver, ma’am,” he answers, in broken taxicab English. “Boss stays here,” he points above, vaguely. “Sends text he needs me.” Then, remembering Littleboy: “Us.”
“What room?”
“Room 506,” Ignacio says. He has to restrain his smile. He feels that by repeating this arbitrary number he is somehow sticking it to them. And he is.
The concierge sighs—a light, scolding sigh—and tells them to next time use the service entrance. Then she takes a card from her uniform pocket and inserts it into a slot above the elevator button. The doors open promptly. Ignacio and Littleboy step inside and wave thanks to the concierge. The doors close, and now Ignacio restrains nothing. He smiles and he laughs and he gives her the finger. Littleboy does as well. And they remain like that, flicking off their reflections in the shiny doors as they are ferried upward to the fifth floor of the Shangri-La.
THEY DON’T GET OFF when the elevator stops, though Littleboy tries, saying: “But, 506?” when Ignacio pulls him back. Together they wait for the doors to close again. Then Ignacio removes Howard Bridgewater’s key-card from his wallet. He’s noticed a slot above the polished regiment of numbered buttons—a slot much like the one in the lobby below. Could it really be this easy? Howard’s key-card fits in