Moondogs - Alexander Yates [68]
They arrive. The bald dealers look like tourists in their lycra pants and Hawaiian shirts, and each pulls a little suitcase packed with shabu. They find Reynato right away and keep their distance as they speak. They eye his briefcase, talking to each other more than to him. Reynato reaches out to take one of the shabu-filled suitcases but they hold tight, pushing his hand away. Efrem scans the rest of the market. Lorenzo munches his durian, dropping chunks of spiky rind into the dirt and watching from a safe distance. Racha is alert as well, already fingering the cherry stock of the snubnosed revolver in his pocket. The mangy dog sits behind the dealers, sniffing their cases and pant legs. They don’t seem to notice.
Something isn’t right. Just behind Reynato is a fresh fish stall attended to by three young fishmen. Their table is covered with fat tanigue and spotted lapu lapu that shine on a thin bed of melting ice. The fishmen clutch slim fillet knives, but as Efrem watches he realizes that they aren’t scraping off scales or chopping away fins or really doing anything. When a woman comes to buy a fish they hand it to her clumsily, gripping the slippery head without hooking fingers into gills. They don’t look at Reynato but they don’t look anywhere else either. Their expressions are blank, their attention forcedly unspecific. Efrem flips open his phone and dials Racha.
“Go to the stall behind Reynato and buy a fish,” he says.
“You’re hungry?”
“The vendors aren’t vendors.”
“You’ll pay me back?”
Efrem hangs up and sights his Tingin. Racha moves quickly, both hands in his pockets. Lorenzo sees him, drops his durian and heads in the same direction. Racha arrives at the fish stall and gestures with his nose and chin to what he wants. The young fishmen don’t move, shocked like actors who’ve forgotten their lines. They turn and see Lorenzo closing in from the other direction. Efrem takes a breath and lets it out slow to keep his muzzle steady.
The fishmen move first. One stands and sinks his fillet knife up to the hilt into Racha’s chest. Racha steps back like a drunk, gawking at the handle sprouting from his ribs. Then he takes the snubnosed revolver from his pocket and makes a mess of the north slope of first fishman’s face. Second fishman pulls a pistol from a gapemouth grouper and aims it at Reynato. Efrem puts a hole in the back of his head big enough to hide things in. The sight of dead friends makes third fishman panic. He recovers the scale-speckled pistol from where it fell and turns on Lorenzo, who approaches jauntily. Third fishman fires. There is no bang. A festive flag on a miniature pole sprouts from the barrel; a red Ka-Pow! on spotless canary yellow. Third fishman stares at the gun, confused and betrayed and somehow a little delighted. He tosses the toy and stabs at Lorenzo’s chest with his fillet knife. The blade bends, floppy as gag-shop rubber. He doesn’t even put up a fight when Lorenzo relieves him of the limp knife. Lorenzo flicks his wrist and the blade straightens. He sheaths it between third fishman’s collarbone and top rib. He takes it out and puts it in again. He takes it out and puts it in again. He takes it out. Third fishman lowers himself to his knees, gulping air. Lorenzo puts it in again. Third fishman dies.
The bald dealers, who until this moment have been doppelgangers, have opposite reactions. One drops his suitcase and springs for the nearest exit while the other stays, fumbling with a gun in his too-tight lycra pants. Efrem is about to put one through the fumbler’s mouth when Reynato clocks him with his clipping-filled briefcase. Efrem pivots, hoping to hobble the fleeing dealer, but sees he’s already been tripped up at the heels by the black dog, jaws closing on his chubby neck. The crowd has been screaming since Racha’s first shot, taking cover under nearby stalls and inside arcade shops, but Efrem only hears them now.
He hurries down the ladder at