Moondogs - Alexander Yates [75]
The rooster has been crowing this whole time, and it rises to crescendo now. It sounds close, but muffled, as though the wall extends between them. A sudden blade of light, nearly a yard long, opens up opposite Howard’s feet—the sliver of space under a closed door. “Fuck off!” someone yells. It’s the taxi driver. “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. How many times do I have to tell you? It is too goddamn early!”
The light goes out and a door slams somewhere. The rooster clucks a bit, as though grumbling, and is quiet. The sound of the taxi driver’s voice spooks Howard a little, but also fills him with anger. He reaches instinctively for his belt loop. But of course his cell phone isn’t there. His pockets are empty, and they’ve taken his shoes and the cash inside his shoes. But it’s all right. It’ll be all right. You were stupid last night, he tells himself, but not completely stupid. You called the police. You gave them your name. They’ll check in with your hotel. They’ll contact your phone provider and do that satellite thing you’ve seen on TV. They’ll find your phone. And they’ll find you. And you’ll be fine.
He says this out loud, quietly. I’m going to be fine. It’s not the end of the world. He also says: These idiots are in big, big trouble. When I get out of this it won’t be fine for them. It will be the end of the world.
SOME TIME LATER, he can’t tell how long or if he’s slept, the sun creeps in through a square window set just below the ceiling. The window is tiny, maybe nothing more than a placeholder for an eventual condenser or vent, but it lets in enough light for Howard to get a sense of the room. It’s about the size of his bathroom at the Shangri-La and is bare save the tiniest scraps of tape where something had, until recently, been pasted to the wall. Half the floor is tiled with glossy blue ceramic while the other half remains covered in a crumbling mosaic of vinyl-asbestos. There’s one door, and it is new and sits on heavy brass hinges. The room has the look of an unfinished home improvement job. It also looks fuzzy, and oddly lopsided. It’s not just shoddy workmanship. The floor inclines dizzyingly and the walls all limbo back. Howard realizes that one of his contact lenses is missing—it must have been knocked out when they dragged him to the street and beat him. The remaining lens hurts and gives him a squinting headache. It’s been in almost a day too long. He considers popping it into his mouth to give his eye a rest, but that’d invite an infection for sure. And he isn’t ready to give up seeing, just yet.
THE POLICE ARE COMING. The police are coming. He repeats this, under his breath, to pass some time. Sometimes he varies it. The police have come. The police are here. The police are beating those idiots senseless. The quiet chanting dries his mouth out, and reminds him that he’s very thirsty. He thinks about calling for water, but doesn’t. It’s up to the idiots to make the first move.
The light ages. Clouds roll in to soften it. No one comes inside Howard’s little room all day. The rooster crows, occasionally, and somebody on the other side of the door watches television at high volume. Sounds from the outside world flit in through the square window. Water dripping from gutters. Car horns, urgent and close. Howard imagines that, were he on his toes, he could look out there and get his bearings. He braces himself on the floor and pushes up gingerly. A vague tickle strokes the inside of his right knee. Something clicks lamely, like a misaligned cog. Howard loses his balance and falls back on his butt, breathing hard. He can hear footsteps outside the window. There are fading voices. What was it he’d read in the Bulletin last week? Something like eleven out of every ten Manileños have cell phones—or, there are eleven cell phones for every ten Manile