Moondogs - Alexander Yates [56]
The young man looked at Benicio, and Benicio looked at the young man. The right side of his face was a patchwork of white and ivory. Gauze and medical tape covered part of his forehead, his jaw and most of his cheek, leaving a hole that was too small for his bloodshot right eye. The dressings looked fresh and clean, but the skin beneath was purple. The left side of his face, the one farthest from Benicio, was unblemished and handsome. He seemed a very odd friend for his father to have.
“I’ve got it,” the young man said. “He’s a foreigner. It’s his first time here. He’s come to go scuba diving.”
“Quit teasing,” Charlie said.
“Actually, he’s right,” Benicio said, a little intrigued, if not charmed.
The young man winked, or seemed to—it was hard to tell through his bandages—and tapped two fingers on his forehead. “You see that?” he said. “Powers.”
“Yes, fine,” Charlie said, “but in addition to those things, he’s also Howie’s kid.”
“Is he now?” The young man leaned toward Benicio, as though to inspect him. “I’ll be damned. You look just like your pictures. Older, though. Is it Benny?”
“Benicio,” Charlie said. “He prefers Benicio.”
“Benicio?” The young man looked amused. “Well, that explains the pretty cappuccino complexion he’s got going.” He patted down his shirtfront and produced a clip of business cards on rigid ivory stock. He carefully removed one and handed it over. Beneath a golden filigree it read: Robert Danilo Cerrano, Atty and Political Consultant. Under that was a second name. Bobby Dancer. “I prefer Bobby,” he said. “So, your dad talks about you all the time. Why are we only meeting you now?”
“Because we don’t have much of a relationship,” Benicio said. His frankness put them both on their heels and, to soften it, he added: “Not for a while, anyway. We’re working back up to it.”
“Well, that’s good,” Charlie said in his oddly high voice. “That’s good.”
They were all quiet for a moment. Charlie motioned to the bartender and ordered something in Tagalog. The bartender set three tumblers before them, added ice to each tumbler and poured in a measure of fuming blue liquid. The drinks looked like Windex on the rocks.
Charlie didn’t touch his. Neither did Bobby. Benicio followed their lead.
“Have you seen Renny yet?” Charlie asked, looking back at the crowd of dancers like a fidgety kid. “He said he might be here tonight.”
“Saw him on the floor with some blondie about an hour ago,” Bobby said. “I don’t know where he is now.”
“Damn.” Charlie picked his glass up and set it down again. “I’m going to go find him. It’s not a celebration without Renny there, right?” He got off his stool and looked back at Benicio. “And don’t you disappear anywhere, either. Don’t get shy on us. You’re Howie’s kid, after all. Shyness isn’t in your blood! Anyway, I’ll be back before the ice melts, with Renny, and then we’ll really get this started.”
With that he disappeared into the crowd, leaving an open stool between them. Bobby turned back up to the television, ignoring the dancers jittering and jumping behind them, singularly focused on the quiet little screen. The numbers kept scrolling along, and he put a hand on his forehead. Smoke trickled up between his fingers, through his spiked hair. He brought his cigarette back to his lips and blew a long plume up at the TV. Then, whatever he must have been waiting for happened. The shot switched to a cartoon map of the Philippines, and one of the islands changed color. Bobby struck the bar top, hard, and mumbled: “Son of a fuck.” It was a happy exclamation.
“Good news?” Benicio asked.
“It’s looking that way,” Bobby said. He put his cigarette out, lit a new one and turned back to Benicio. “Hey, I’m sorry about this,” he said. “Charlie hates to be alone. He can get a little pushy. Don’t feel like you need to stay.”
He’d already considered excusing himself, but his curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t, for the life of him, picture his father sharing a drink or even a conversation