Moondogs - Alexander Yates [50]
The hallway on Howard’s floor is quiet and empty, save an unmanned housekeeping trolley decked with towels and sheets and rich person freebies. The dark heavy doors are all closed, some with do-not-disturb signs lynched from their handles, others glowering over the remnants of room service, or newspapers in plastic sacks. Ignacio and Littleboy walk the length of the hallway twice, looking for some clue. Or at least Ignacio is looking for a clue. But Littleboy gets distracted by the papers. The front page bears an airbrushed cover photo of Charlie Fuentes under the headline: On Election Day, Senate Braces for Dose of Justice. That smarmy jackass has been on the cover of everything this month.
Littleboy stops by one of the closed doors, plucks up the paper and tears open the plastic sack. “Don’t do that,” Ignacio says. “Someone’s going to notice.”
“But, there’s plenty,” Littleboy says, gesturing down the hall. And he’s right, there are plenty. Every third door has a special May 10 Election Edition of the Bulletin sitting before it. And Ignacio guesses that the other doors only lack newspapers because the guests inside have already claimed them. The guests inside …
Holy Christ. God is clearly, clearly on their side. Ignacio races back to the far end of the hall where he sees a door that has not one, but three newspapers lying before it. Monday May 10, Sunday May 9—bearing a cover story about some headless body found in Iraq—and Saturday May 8—the Presidential Palace promising honesty at the polls. When had they taken Howard again? Sometime on Saturday, but before dawn. Before the early edition, for sure. He jabs the key into the door and a little green light blinks welcomingly. The locking mechanism makes a futuristic unlocking sound. And as easily as that, all of Howard Bridgewater’s wealth and power are rendered open and available to Ignacio.
BUT NOW WHAT TO DO? Ignacio and Littleboy stand dumbstruck in Howard’s Bridgewater’s room—or rather in his rooms. He expected the suite to be nicer than his home, sure, but not bigger. Ignacio kicks off his shoes and walks through the rooms one by one. Bedroom, kitchenette, study, bathroom. Carpet on his toes, cool tile on his toes, carpet again, tile again. He ends his circuit in the study, where a neat stack of important-looking papers sits atop a table. Putting on an air of informed purpose, Ignacio plants himself in one of several office-style swivel chairs and begins leafing through the papers. He’d noticed a wet bar off the kitchen, and he tells Littleboy to make him a drink.
Littleboy returns with a brimming tumbler—he’s poured the scotch as though it’s juice—as well as a plastic tray of bluefin sushi from the fridge. It’s a few days old, but smells all right, and the scotch helps burn away the after-tang. And it feels good, doesn’t it? Sitting here in Howard’s room. Drinking Howard’s scotch and eating his sushi. Snooping through what are no doubt very important business documents.
Ignacio allows himself to laugh a little. He feels so good he gets up and, sloshing tumbler in hand, turns on the stereo, scanning stations until he comes to “Bakit Papa?” by the SexBomb Girls and blasting it. Because why not? The empty, pristine suite confirms that fatty is a bachelor. A bachelor who hasn’t been missed—not yet at least. They have plenty of time to figure out what to do. Time to compose the perfect ransom letter. Time to take this suite apart panel by panel searching for cash and whatever else. Feeling confident, feeling downright kingly, Ignacio swings open the balcony door and steps out into the heat. All of Makati cowers at his feet—all the shops and towers and banner-waving election marchers. All the Americans and Chinese and rich-ass high-nosed Forbes Park coños. Ignacio lifts his ridiculously overfull tumbler to them, as though to toast, and gulps down as much of the expensive scotch as he can bear.