Moondogs - Alexander Yates [90]
The girl huffed impatiently and Monique imagined overlong bangs skipping in the plume of her breath. “I’m not selling anything.”
“I said a month ago that you weren’t to bother him again.”
“Which would mean something if you were my mother. I’m not bothering anyone.”
“You’re bothering me.” She took the phone from Reynato and held it tight. “My son’s thirteen. I don’t know or care why you can’t find a boy your own age, but you’re crossing a major line here.” She took a breath, trying to find the tamest version of the threats inside her. “Put your father on the phone.”
“Step off, cunt.” The girl hung up.
“Snap,” Reynato said. “This girl. This girl is asking for it. Doesn’t know who she’s messing with.”
Monique dropped the cell phone, still open, on the floor. In the den she found the school directory and dialed the girl’s home number. A maid picked up after a few rings but before Monique could say anything she heard the girl’s voice as well on another line. “It’s all right Lucy,” she said. “It’s for me.” The maid apologized, called the teenager ma’am and hung up.
“Your father,” Monique said. “Now.”
“What’s wrong with you lady? Why do you have to be such a bitch?”
“Listen to me. Just because your parents let you act like trash doesn’t mean everyone else will. My son is not in the Philippines for your entertainment. You’re never to speak to him again, and I’ll be seeing the police about the drugs you’ve given him.”
“Get a life, bitch. Everyone we know will say I didn’t give him shit, just a phone and some clothes. He’s embarrassed to wear the kiddy shit you still buy.” The girl hung up. Monique let the round hum of the dial tone fill her head. She called three more times but the line was busy. Then, as calmly as she could, she went into the bedroom and took one of Joseph’s old sports bags from the closet. She opened the locked drawer, fished out the diamond earring she’d confiscated that spring and dropped it into the empty sports bag. She brought the bag into Shawn’s room and filled it with the clothes she’d piled on the floor. Reynato helped, stuffing in the bling chain, the cuff links, the cell phone, the glass pipe and swollen baggies. The school directory said that the girl lived in Dasmariñas Village, a gated community not three miles from Fort Bonifacio. Reynato offered to drive. Minutes later Monique stood outside a strange house on Calamansi Street, Reynato waiting in his Honda across the road, in case she needed him.
The maid answered Monique’s knock at the gate and told her “for a while,” which meant wait. She heard an argument moving through the house and out into the yard, alternating between some kind of Chinese and Tagalog, but not enough of the latter for her to make it out. It was the girl’s voice, for sure, and an older man who must have been her father. They spoke for nearly a minute on the other side of the door before the father opened it, looking more conciliatory than Monique expected. He wore a business shirt and slacks, his tie draped loose around his shoulders, reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. The girl stood with her arms crossed tight over her chest, white high-heel shoes puncturing the grassy yard.
“I understand that you called earlier,” the father said. “Unfortunately I wasn’t home. I’m sorry you went through all the trouble of coming here. Something like this is better discussed over the telephone.”
“It wasn’t any trouble,” Monique said, pleased to be so in control of her voice, “and I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. I just wanted to return these things.” She hoisted the swollen sports bag through the open gate and spilled the contents out on the flagstones. The basketball rolled over wet grass to rest at the girl’s feet. Two of the plastic baggies protruded from the top of the pile. “These are gifts that your daughter has given my son. They look expensive, and he can’t accept them. You should also know that she’s been giving him drugs.”
The girl whipped a few consonants at her father’s back and he smiled, sadly. He