Moondogs - Alexander Yates [58]
“But … Charlie didn’t even want to watch this. How could he have been so sure?”
“He was sure because I told him to be sure. And I was sure because I managed his campaign, and I’m good at what I do, and I saw it coming.”
“Oh,” Benicio paused. Now he was the one back on his heels. “Wow.”
“Thanks, but there’s not so much wow about it. It wasn’t as big as an American campaign, but we do our best, God bless us.” Bobby lit another cigarette and smoked it the way people in movies smoke cigarettes in bed after sex—languidly and happily. “Charlie has some money. A lot of money. So that helps. And he’s a movie star. That helps even more. I mean, with his filmography, winning was pretty much a foregone conclusion. The voters know his name. They come out for all the speeches and parades. His movies are big with the jeepney set—all bang-bang and save the girl. Or girls. Or orphans. And this one time, an endangered eagle. He always plays a poor cop who doesn’t take prisoners. The Ocampo Justice series. Heard of them? Just think of Schwarzenegger or Reagan, but with less experience. And I’ll tell you, they eat it up. Charlie comes on stage, and they’re playing his theme music, and he has this replica six-shooter holstered to his belt … it’s a show! He’s not your average baby kisser.”
It was hard not to get caught up in Bobby’s energy, and though he’d hardly touched his lambanog, Benicio felt a little tipsy. He felt as though his life—or at least his night—had become as opulent as the ballroom itself; filled with light and crystal and music and melodrama. It was exciting.
“I’m going to text him the good news,” Bobby said, removing a cell phone from his jacket pocket. “You should know that he’ll probably want to go someplace more booze-oriented than this. You can still bail out if you need to.”
“No,” Benicio said, “I’d love to come along.”
THEY FINISHED THEIR LAMBANOGS while they waited for Charlie to finish schmoozing. Benicio got cozy on his stool and watched as a song ended, giving dancing guests an opportunity to sit and the sitting guests an opportunity to get up and dance. The instructors all stayed standing. As a new song began a woman in the crowd caught his attention and held it. A Filipina in a green dress stood near the edge of the dance floor, tapping lightly on shoulders as she tried to get by. She had black hair and skin a shade darker than most other women in the room. Her dress shimmered a bit as she turned, clinging loosely to her body and to the full swell of her small breasts. He watched her as she went, taken. Not just taken—turned on. She was heading for the bar.
The woman slid into the open space between him and Bobby. She leaned across the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention. The back of her dress was open and Benicio watched her muscles and shoulder blades move beneath the surface of her skin. Green fabric hung low around her hips—so low that he guessed she must be using some kind of tape to make sure the top of her ass stayed hidden—and then met again in a metal clasp at the back of her neck. The bartender came down to their end and her dress moved as she leaned farther forward to order a gin. He asked for her key and she patted down the sides of the dress, as though there were pockets there, and told him a room number.
“I’m sorry, I can’t charge to a room without a key. You have cash?”
The woman snapped at him in Tagalog and to Benicio’s surprise the bartender, who’d been so patient with Bobby, snapped right back at her. She sighed with theatrical exasperation and looked as though she were about to storm off. It could have been the lambanog, or the bright, buzzing feeling that his father’s friends had given him, but Benicio felt something misguided rising inside him. He reached into his pocket, took hold of his key card, and paid for her drink. “She strikes again,” Bobby said, with surprising humorlessness.
The woman in the green