Uncle tried to conceal his mounting impatience. “I need your help, Planas. It’s very important—”
“Maybe it’s lapchong—” Sergeant Planas said, “Chinese sausage.”
“Planas—I have to see Carreon,” the old man said, quietly.
The fat cop slowly lowered his fork and spoon, a gleam of interest flickering in his speckled eyes. Two other men, also in Metrocom uniform, entered the café. They sat down a few feet away, nodding to the Sergeant. He barely acknowledged their greeting, keeping his gaze focused on the old man sitting across from him. “How can I help you?”
“Set up the introduction,” Uncle said. “Tell Carreon I can be trusted.”
“Carreon! That’s big-time, pare—too big-time for me. Don’t forget, I’m just a policeman,” Planas said, with fake humility.
“Come on, Planas—I don’t have time for your bullshit. You’re not just some cop. You work for Carreon. You work for Carreon and you love it.” Uncle enjoyed watching the fat policeman squirm under his scrutiny. “I’m an old man with vital information. Information that could affect national security. Carreon trusts you—pass the message along.” Uncle was conscious of the two men watching them with curiosity and talking softly to one another.
Sergeant Planas’s eyes were no longer friendly. “What kind of message.”
Uncle smiled. “In my younger, psychic days, Planas—I would’ve warned you about the perils of too much drinking, eating, and too many putas in your life. You’re going to die of some new and deadly venereal disease, if your liver doesn’t go first.”
“Putang ina mo. Do you want me to kill you right here?”
“You can’t kill me yet, Planas. This information is valuable to you—confidential, boss. A matter of life and death. Don’t forget to mention that to Carreon.” The old man savored the English words coming out of his mouth. “Confidential” and “a matter of life and death,” just like the clipped dialogue he remembered from old American gangster movies. Paul Muni or Paul Henreid, George Raft or James Cagney—it didn’t matter if he mixed them up. The phrases still rang in his ears, after all this time. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t been to a movie in over thirty years.
An amused look crossed Sergeant Planas’s sweaty face. He shook, his head slowly in mock admiration. “Uncle, Uncle, Uncle—you pimp son of a dead whore, you bastard! May you burn in hell for eternity, and may the Blessed Virgin Mary squat over your burning body and piss the hot piss of hell on your face, goddam national security my ass!”
“Sounds divine,” Uncle murmured. Sergeant Planas slapped Uncle fondly on the back. “You pimp,” Sergeant Planas said, “what are you involved in now? This stinks like big-time trouble.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Look, old man—I’m a cop no matter what you say. I’m a cop with a greedy wife and quite a few children. I have to think of myself, di ba? In risky situations like this, I have to think of me. What’s in it for me?”
“You’ll be rewarded,” the old man interjected swiftly. “I have something planned for you…”
“Oh. Is that right?” Sergeant Planas let the old man’s words sink in. This was going to be an extraordinary day. My goodness, he would later exclaim to his wife, when you least expect it! Good fortune comes in the most shocking disguises. Take that old bastard Uncle, for example. Sergeant Planas was sure he was handling things well, sure his enormous greed wasn’t apparent. “I don’t want trouble, old man. You got me in trouble once before.” Sergeant Planas was smiling.
“I got you out of it, didn’t I?” Uncle snapped, his voice rising.
Sergeant Planas glanced quickly at the two men nearby, who were busy eating. He shot a warning look at Uncle, who gazed back at him with undisguised hatred.
“Things got nasty. Things got out of control,” Planas said, evenly. “You almost cost me my job—maybe more. I don’t want that kind of trouble again. When Carreon’s involved, the stakes are going to be high.”
“It’s worth it,” Uncle assured him, “I guarantee that, Planas. You know I keep my word. I’m the one sticking my neck out. You don’t even have to get involved, except for giving Carreon my message. It’s a fucking easy way to make money—”
Sergeant Planas frowned. “You’re not going to tell me more?”
“It’s for your own protection,” Uncle said smoothly, “it’s better you don’t know anything yet.”
“How much? I have to think of me.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How much?” Sergeant Planas was eager now, a hunter circling his prey. He sat very still as Uncle leaned over to whisper in his ear.
The widow Amor pulled the curtain aside and peered out of her kitchen. It was now 7:35 in the morning. Her eyes rested on the old man called Uncle and the greasy policeman Isidro Planas. “Hoy!” She yelled at them rudely, “You want something else, or you want to hurry up and pay me now?” Her broad hands rested on her hips as she stood facing the table. Sergeant Planas seemed preoccupied, picking at his teeth with the edge of a matchbook. He handed the widow a wad of pesos. “Keep the change, Missus,” he murmured absently. The widow Amor looked momentarily startled. Then, unimpressed with his sudden generosity, she gave him one last disapproving look before waddling away.
Redemption
JOEY WOKE IN A pool of sweat. The light bulb dangling from a cord above his head glimmered faintly. In Uncle’s hot, windowless room, Joey had no sense of whether it was day or night. He sat up panting heavily, jolted from his dreamless sleep by the dog’s incessant barking outside the door. Joey’s head was still sore, a dry metallic taste in his mouth. Unbearably thirsty, he reached for a dirty glass half-filled with water on the floor beside him.
He looked slowly around the room, trying to remember and rearrange events in his dazed mind. A collage of pornographic centerfolds covered Uncle’s walls, making the room feel even smaller and more claustrophobic. Joey shut his eyes to close out the sprawling, leering images of painted girls and blank-eyed boys with erect penises fondling each other without enthusiasm. Joey knew he was one of them—the ominous and holy children of the streets. “Scintillating Sabrina and Gigi.” “Boys at Play.” “Bangkok Bombshells.” “Lovely Tanya and Her Sister.”
He reached up and unscrewed the light bulb. No light came in from two rectangular openings Uncle had sawed near the ceiling, the only sources of ventilation in the small room. It was definitely night, Joey decided, unnaturally quiet except for the dog’s rustling movements outside the front door. How long had he been asleep? In the distance, Joey heard the sound of a man’s voice calling out to someone. Then laughter, followed by the buzz of more male voices and footsteps walking by Uncle’s shack. The dog barked; a man laughed again. It could’ve been one of the gangs out for the night, on their way to hang out in front of the sari-sari store to drink tuba or basi and exchange stories about ghosts and women. It could’ve been Jojo or Junior, gang boys who sometimes bought dope from Joey and Uncle. Through Uncle’s paper-thin walls, all sounds seemed to come from the same darkness Joey was sitting in. The dog was restless; Joey could hear every panting breath and low growl, as if the animal was in the room with him. The footsteps and voices faded away. Joey was overwhelmed by loneliness.
He bit down hard on his lower lip, wanting to cry out for help but restraining himself. He knew the friendly sounds outside could just as well have come from Metrocom or Special Squadron agents sent to find him. He realized the old man had tied the dog up outside to prevent him from leaving. Fucking Uncle, Joey cursed—the old man was always one step ahead of him. The adrenalin coursing through his body made him want to jump up and run. Fucking Uncle, fuck it. He could just say fuck it, take his chances with the damn dog and run. Joey gulped at dry, dead air. He felt sick but there was nothing left to vomit.
He crawled to the chair in the center of the room, clutching it for support as he pulled himself up to his feet. His hand brushed over the objects scattered on the table next to the chair, finally curl
ing around Uncle’s Eveready flashlight. Exhaling with relief, Joey switched it on. A path of dim light opened up in the stifling darkness. Without being seen from the street, Joey had to find Uncle’s cache of drugs and whatever cash he might have lying around before making his escape.
The old man was going to kill him, or have him killed. Joey felt too weak to laugh. He had been waiting for this all his life—this moment of betrayal from Uncle. It had been his destiny, and he welcomed it. He wondered how the old man had figured it all out. Uncle never ceased to amaze him. For the right price, he was capable of anything. Who would he blackmail, now? The man with the lean, pockmarked face? The bait, as usual, would be Joey. Uncle was more than willing to sacrifice his surrogate son.
The revelation was almost a relief, but in spite of himself, Joey felt hurt. He had expected betrayal, but was not ready for despair and anger at being betrayed. In his way, he loved the old man. Zenaida, Zenaida, Joey whispered to himself, Mother of God, my god, the bastard buried you. He had not said his mother’s name in years, and steeled himself against the tears welling up inside him. He was disgusted by his own sentimentality; he had never considered himself capable of self-pity, terror, or yearning for his long-deceased mother. He had always felt cheapened and humiliated by the memory of her, Zenaida, and his unknown father. And so his litany went: GI baby, black boy, I am the son of rock’n’roll, I am the son of R and B, I can dance well, you can all go to hell! Putang Ina Ko!
Mother of a whore, his phantoms chanted, whore of a mother, son of a whore! They beckoned to him: Once a whore, always a whore! Was the German home in Germany, safe in his warehouse full of art and cats? Joey’s tears were blocked by the force of his growing rage. He knew he had to escape, somehow. Past the growling dog to somewhere safe, somewhere safe and anonymous. He needed food and shelter—for how long wasn’t important. He knew he wanted to live: it was that simple and basic. Joey was not going to let the old man or anyone else kill him.
There was no time to lose. Joey ransacked the room, flipping through Uncle’s neatly folded clothes, overturning the cardboard boxes Uncle used for storage. He found a case of bullets, but no gun. Joey whimpered and cursed in frustration, flinging Uncle’s possessions around him: a useless iron with no plug, two towels, a black rosary, letters bound in twine and addressed to “Ismael Silos” in beautiful, faded handwriting, a water-stained photo album with all the pictures removed, three cans of Vienna sausages and one tin of Spam, one black Converse sneaker without shoelaces, and a pile of Uncle’s treasured collection of foreign magazines. The old man had paid a small fortune for black-market copies of Hustler, Lolita, Spartacus, Penthouse, and High Society—some still unopened and wrapped in plastic. The raunchier, the better. “You know I like to look,” Uncle used to gloat. The sight of Uncle poring over glossy pictures of naked white women had always made Joey feel ashamed and sad. Feeling ludicrous, he tore up as many magazines as he could; in a final fit of malice, he unzipped his jeans and pissed all over Uncle’s strewn possessions.
Joey never found money or Uncle’s cache of drugs, but inside the Converse shoe he came upon the sleek butterfly switchblade Uncle had brought back years ago from Batangas. “Guns are efficient,” Uncle used to say, “but knives give you more satisfaction.” He preferred knives, he said, because sometimes things got personal; you simply had to make that kind of grisly contact with your victim’s flesh and bone. “When you stab someone, you look him in the eye. Always look him in the eye,” Uncle told him, “and let him know exactly who you are…It’s a way of paying your final respects.”
Joey had never killed anyone. There had been a moment once, with a customer. Joey had been thirteen, wise enough to carry a knife for protection. The man had gotten out of hand, and things had threatened to get ugly. Something sparked in Joey’s eyes; his body tensed and shifted. The man realized he’d gone too far; he backed off, murmuring apologies. Nothing else had to be said. Joey was paid a little extra. The moment passed quickly, and was just as soon forgotten. He never saw the man again.
It was extraordinary, how Joey had managed to sidestep the violent encounters common in the lives of everyone else around him. He’d never been arrested or had to pay a bribe to get himself out of a jam. “You’re a lucky boy,” Uncle often marveled, “I knew it when I first took you in. You bring me luck.”
Joey pressed himself against the door and softly called the dog’s name, “Taruk,” imitating the coaxing tone the old man used to lure his pet. Cautiously, Joey opened the door just wide enough for the dog to see and smell the piece of Spam he held in one hand. The dog whined in anticipation, wagging his tail as Joey undid his chain and let him inside the shack, bolting the door carefully behind him. Joey watched as the animal lunged at the canned meat thrown on the floor.
There was nothing to keep Joey from escaping now. The dog was preoccupied; Joey could easily slip out the door. But he felt another rush of anger; the switchblade opened like a gleaming fan in his hand. Omens, signs, Uncle’s language of the spirits…He had to leave a message the old man would understand.
It was essential to act immediately, without thinking. Emitting a muffled scream, Joey grabbed the scruffy fur at the back of the dog’s neck and held on for dear life, thrusting the sharp blade below the dog’s right ear. Blood spurted everywhere as the dog jerked in response. Joey kept stabbing the animal, the queasiness in the pit of his stomach rising to his throat. Once again he tasted metal on his tongue. The dog yelped and whined with each thrust of the knife, horrifying Joey. He began to weep, furious with the dog for not dying quickly. His anguished cries and the animal’s became one and the same. His arm grew numb with the effort of killing, but Joey wouldn’t stop until the shuddering dog finally lay still.
The smell of blood in the dark, airless room was unbearable. Joey stripped off his T-shirt but kept on his jeans, now stained and splattered black with gore. He wiped the sticky knife blade on his shirt, then folded and slipped the balisong into his back pocket. Using water from the giant oil drum Uncle kept in a corner, Joey washed up hurriedly. Shivering in his damp jeans, he bent down to lap at the water in the drum, trying to quench his terrible thirst. That done, he took a clean T-shirt from one of the overturned cartons. It was the best he could do; Uncle’s pants would never fit him. Leaving his bloody shirt and the butchered carcass of Uncle’s dog behind as souvenirs, Joey slipped out the door.
The balmy night air hit him in the face. Fresh and unexpected, the almost sweet scent of rotting food and open sewers mingled in the night breeze. Joey darted in the shadows, past makeshift squatter’s huts leaning at precarious angles over the fetid canals where oversized rats foraged and swam, ignoring him. He crossed the open field that led to the main highway. The moon was full. Joey guessed it was late, perhaps past midnight. He no longer had Rainer’s money; it had vanished with the old man. What was left was a worn hundred peso bill and Rainer’s coke, wrapped in foil next to the knife in his pocket. His best bet would be to find Boy-Boy at Studio 54. Ask to spend the night. Maybe Boy-Boy would cook for him. One good night’s sleep and hot food—then he could make plans, devise a strategy. Boy-Boy was like a brother to Joey; he could be trusted. He never asked too many questions, or passed judgment. Joey suspected Boy-Boy was also infatuated with him, and decided to take advantage of the situation.
He walked to 54 Alibangbang Street, which wasn’t too far away. On the sidewalk out front, a group of young men loitered, staring curiously at Joey as he approached. “Hey! Joey Sands! What’s happening, boss? It’s me, Dodoy—” one of them greeted him, grinning widely. He was a Chinese-Filipino with a spiky haircut and a tight T-shirt, cut off to reveal his midriff. “Hey,” Joey nodded, smiling uneasily. He could not for the life of him remember Dodoy, if he’d actually ever met him. Something about the eager young man felt instinctively wrong. Brushing past him, Joey pushed open the unmarked door and started up the narrow stairs. Music drifted down to the street below, the urgent, nasty rhythms of James Brown’s “Se
x Machine.” He was stopped by the insistent voice of the unfamiliar young hustler. “Hey Joey—you got anything?” Dodoy touched Joey’s arm. “We’ll trade you downers, boss—” His voice was loud and obsequious, but his eyes were hostile, appraising Joey coolly. Cigarettes loosely dangling from their pouting lips, the others encircled Joey, hopeful and menacing. Ears pierced with gold hoops, studded with gold crosses and fake diamonds, their lean young bodies were tense with nervous, undirected energy. The boys waited for Dodoy to give them the signal to pounce on Joey, who kept smiling. “Not tonight, guys—” Joey said, “I’m all out. Maybe tomorrow—” He paused, focusing on Dodoy with an unswerving gaze. “How about a cigarette?” he asked, taking the hustlers by surprise. With obvious reluctance, Dodoy handed Joey his pack of local Marlboros. Joey swiped a couple, saluting his thanks as he bounded up the stairs toward the pulsating music. Dodoy stared sullenly after him, gathering his thoughts. You’re safe for now, he said to the retreating figure silently, but I’m not gonna forget, motherfucker. Then he shrugged, a display of false nonchalance for his friends.
Upstairs, Joey waited in merciful darkness next to the stage of the crowded nightclub. Boy-Boy and the shower dancers were going through their routine, the third and final set of the evening. “Sex Machine” segued into a slower, more agonizing, sexual funk. The audience was riveted by Boy-Boy’s performance. Lighting one of Dodoy’s Marlboros, Joey forced himself to relax.
Facing the empty street, the young hustlers resumed their idle positions, leaning against the unmarked facade of Studio 54. “Putang Ina,” Dodoy muttered, unable to restrain himself, “Who does that nigger think he is?” The others howled with laughter, their raucous male voices jarring the night’s heavy silence. The air smelled of rain, the impending typhoon that heralded a tropical Christmas. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, signaling the approaching dawn.
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