Moondogs

by Alexander Yates

  “Describe yourself to me. I can’t see so well.”

  Monique answered in Tagalog, hoping to catch him off balance. She said she was five foot five. She said her brown hair was dyed blond and cut shorter than usual this year, that she weighed a hundred and forty pounds, that her dress was black and her measurements were so-and-so. She wasn’t a knockout, but she was out of his league. And besides that, she was married. “You want me to describe you, now?” she asked. “It’ll be easy.”

  “No point.” He waived a small hand in the air. “You got you wrong. That’s not what you look like at all.” Then came some nonsense about her being the tallest woman in the room and not wearing any shoes. Her feet were part of the floor and went all the way down into it, like tree roots into the ground. She had a glow. An aura. A how-do-you-call-it. He was obviously drunker than he looked. Monique left him where he stood and she and Joe returned home. That night, after sex, he asked what she’d said to him. She answered honestly, and he got mad, called her a flirt, and slept in the den, like an infant.

  Reynato telephoned the next morning. Monique asked how he got her number and her name. “I really, really wanted to talk to you,” he said. That’s all he said.

  THERE WAS NO VALET PARKING, but that didn’t stop Reynato from leaving his Honda at the security checkpoint and tossing the guards his keys. He braced his foot on the front tire and tugged hard to open Monique’s door. They walked up to the hotel, through the tremendous glass doors and into the Shangri-La. The lobby was packed. People in barongs and business suits mingled by the staircases and lined the mezzanine railing with drinks in hand. Two or three of the Filipinos recognized Reynato and pointed him out to others who pointed him out to more others. He waved as they ascended the stairs, stopping once to sign an autograph and again to be photographed with someone’s wife. They asked him what he thought Charlie Fuentes’s chances were, and he answered that Charlie Fuentes was a great friend and a good man. Monique started to wonder if coming here wasn’t a bad idea—if it wasn’t begging to be caught. After all, she was with a man who still sent flowers to her apartment and love notes to her office. If he pulled just one cutesy stunt here, that was it.

  Thankfully, Reynato seemed as eager to ditch these people as she was, hurrying them both into the ballroom. He strode right to the floor, ignoring Monique’s protest that she’d rather watch first, not even waiting for a new song to begin. She quickly set her arms like she remembered—she and Joe took a three-week course in the lead-up to their wedding—but before she got her feet right Reynato started moving. Using their outstretched arms and clasped hands as a wedge, he cut through the crowd to an open area by the low stage. The steps were familiar enough—Monique stared down, watching her toes trace box corners on the parquet—but everything else felt awkward. She bumped hard into an older woman and got a dirty, mascara-faced glare.

  “You’re all right,” Reynato said, leaning in close, awash in his particular fruity smell, more perfume than cologne. “But you’re drifting left.”

  She glanced up from her feet and they stopped doing what she wanted. Reynato’s hand went firm on her back as he moved her out of a passing couple’s way. “I was just trying to follow the line of dance.”

  “Ah,” he grinned, almost apologetically. “No such thing here. Manila dancing is like Manila driving. If you see space, take it. If there’s no space, make it. Also some of our dances are different. Your hustle is our swing. Your swing is our boogie.”

  Monique didn’t know hustle, swing or boogie. The song ended and when a new one began Reynato came around behind her. He took her hands in his and stepped on the shadows of her feet. “Lindy hop,” he whispered, as though lindy hop meant something.

  “You’re a cheater. You said you didn’t dance.”

  “I said I didn’t dance well. I don’t. You dance terribly.”

  “Ha.” She let go his hand and discreetly pinched his outer thigh, hard. She focused on the floor below. When he started moving, she did too.

  MONIQUE FELT CONSPICUOUS after four dances with the same partner, so she mixed it up. She did a few turns with a tuxedoed Korean and then waltzed with a bespectacled economist from the AmCham who kept saying: “It’s all right,” even though she didn’t exactly know what she was doing wrong. She watched Reynato over the shoulders of her other partners, looking solid and confident and charming. He was still going strong when she called it quits and grabbed a stool at the bar. His latest partner, a skinny-armed girl in a sparkly prom-style dress, seemed very taken with him. Reynato visited Monique between dances to dab his forehead on a cocktail napkin, down one of the two Southern Comforts she’d ordered and announce that the Argentine Tango could kiss his saggy ass. His new partner waited, awkwardly patient in the middle of the floor. She reminded Monique of Leila, which was odd because Leila was younger and not as conventionally beautiful. Still, she imagined Leila in that silly dress, standing alone, just waiting. She pictured Leila with that hopeful, rejected expression. It got so that she couldn’t look at the girl anymore.

  The next time Reynato came to the bar she said she wanted to go.

  “Your wish, my love.”

  “You don’t love me, remember?”

  “I do, actually,” he said. “Between then and now, I started.” He stared at her. He clearly wanted to kiss her. She wanted him to. But thank God he didn’t. He just squeezed her hand, and they both made for the exit.

  They were almost to the double doors when Charlie Fuentes—she recognized him from billboards splattered above Roxas, from his televised campaign speeches, from the absurd little dance he’d done during the candidate debates—tackled Reynato in an enthused hug. Monique kept walking, her ears and cheeks turning red as a drunk’s. Everybody knew Charlie, or knew of him. He was even on the embassy guest list for the July Fourth barbecue.

  She walked a safe distance away and listened. “Son of a whore. Look at you, you son of a whore,” Charlie quit hugging and began shaking Reynato’s hand. “What, you don’t answer my calls? You must have heard the good news. It’s not a victory party without you!”

  “It’s not a victory without me.” Reynato’s irritation seemed lost on his tipsy friend, who beamed warmly. “No parties tonight. I’m on my way out.”

  “Aww, hell, don’t tell me. You’re probably going to some super-secret-stakeout, am I right? Look at this man,” Charlie paused to lean back and give him an exaggerated eyeballing. “Renny never stops working. I guess if I’m a dud as senator then I can at least count on you to generate enough good material for another few Ocampo flicks.” Charlie wouldn’t let go his hand. People at a nearby banquet table noticed the pair and began snapping photos of them.

  “I’ll do my best,” Reynato said, his expression pained.

  “No, but honestly, for real …” Charlie leaned in. He must have thought he was lowering his voice, but it remained the same volume and just got huskier. “I couldn’t have done this without you. I mean that. One of these days I’ve got to invite you and Lorna over for—”

  “We’ll do it. I know. Dinner or something.” Reynato pulled his hand free and made for the doors. Charlie followed, chatting him up, causing a stir. Monique rushed to the mezzanine, down the curved stair and out into the hot, sooty evening. Reynato caught up some minutes later, grinning bitterly.

  “You should’ve stayed. I’d have introduced you to the republic’s least promising new senator.”

  “This isn’t a joke,” she snapped. “We could have gotten caught.”

  Reynato’s wry, oddly cavalier smile slackened. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I joke about lots of things that aren’t jokes.” He came in for a kiss and she pushed him away. “No one can see us here,” he protested.

  “Not until we get home,” she said, the sound of her blood still filling her ears.

  He’d never been to her place before. He didn’t ask for the tour. They started undressing in the entryway and were naked by the time they got to the master bedroom. Sex
was usually a rush deal. They did it in hotel suites, friends’ apartments and once in Reynato’s office. Now the whole night hung over them.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, “and it’s not whiskey-dick.”

  “I’m sorry.” Monique covered herself with the blanket and he uncovered her. “Can we not do it here? I mean in this room.”

  “Of course.” Reynato hopped out of bed and followed her back into the den. He walked with his gut stuck out, his hands on his lower back, his long skinny penis pointing the way like a ridiculous divining rod. Uncomfortable as she was, Monique had to laugh a little, which is what she knew he wanted. He swung his hips to point at the open door to Shawn’s room, where the gecko had begun chirping again, demanding more crickets.

  “My son. Too creepy.”

  He spun again and pointed to Amartina’s quarters.

  “That’s the maid’s room.”

  “Hot. Do you fit into her outfits?”

  “No. But they’re not sexy, anyway.”

  “They would be on you.” He negotiated her onto the couch facing the television. Monique was afraid of getting sweat—or something worse—on the leather, but she figured things were already awkward enough and went with it. Reynato had lied about the whiskey-dick, and it took him a while to finish. From where she lay, with her head on the armrest, Monique could see right into Shawn’s room. The gecko pressed up against the glass, all eyeballs and throat. Somehow seeing the animal thrilled her with remorse so strong it approached grief. That was her son’s pet. Never mind he only bought it because he was angry with her—he loved it. And that was his room. And this was the den where he and Leila sat sullenly and argued over television channels. This was the couch that Joseph slept on when he was angry, or desperately tired, or both. And here she was with Reynato, a nice enough guy but also a creep in a lot of ways, humiliating them all in absentia. She was cheating on everybody. And as awful as she felt, she didn’t think she could stop.

  Then the building moved. Reynato gripped the leather and let out a shout—not the good kind. The terrarium toppled from its stand and crashed to the floor. The door to Shawn’s room slammed closed. Books leapt off shelves and Joseph’s big eighties-era speakers face-planted like drunks. It wasn’t a big earthquake, but they always feel worse in high-rises. For people on the topmost floors it’s like being perched atop a palm in a whipping storm. Reynato held on to her tight and shouted, “That’s enough. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop.”

  Chapter 13

  THE SQUARE WINDOW

  Howard wakes to the sound of a rooster crowing. It’s dark. Not night-dark, but blind-person dark. The floor below him is cool, and slick. He thinks he should try to sit up. He sits up. That was easy, he thinks, determined to be an optimist about this. I’m not bound, or gagged. I have strength enough to move. And my sitting-up parts still work. So far, so good.

  Sitting in the dark, Howard takes stock of how badly he’s been hurt. The news here is less good. His fingers are in terrible shape; all but the thumb on his left hand are swollen and can hardly bend. There’s a menacing numbness floating beneath his right kneecap that, in a pinch, turns into an unforgettable shooting pain when he tries to move. He runs his hands over his lap, grazing glass chips and feathers soft as ash, and then touches his shirtfront, rigid with rivulets of dried blood. He can only imagine what his face looks like. He hesitates for a moment and then puts his good thumb on the tip of his nose. It’s still in the right place, at least. He moves his thumb down to trace the lines of his cheekbones and chin, his lips and eyebrows. It’s a slow process. There are ridges where there shouldn’t be, some open cuts cresting bruises. The gash in his cheek is still oozing freely, and the molars beneath it are loose. Howard works his tongue over them and rocks them in their sockets, the way he used to do as a boy, with baby teeth. Not good, all in all. But not the end of the world.

  After feeling his body out, Howard feels out the space. He reaches in front and finds nothing but air. He reaches behind and his tender hands strike a wall. Sliding on his butt, he backs into it and runs his palms over the baked oatmeal texture of cinder block. No paint, no molding, no outlets or fixtures. Just the blocks, placed irregularly, and some nubbins of overflowed mortar like welling puss. It’s an amateur job, for sure. Howard has contempt for amateurs.

  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 Manileños? Something like that.

  He tries again, pushing up with his good leg and arms. He stands. The pain is inte
nse, but subsides as he leans into the wall. He hops to the base of the window, reaches up and finds that he can pass his hand through—there’s no glass or screen at all. Bracing his swollen fingers on the base, he jumps and gets a brief glance outside. The news is good. The news is fucking excellent. He can see Makati out there. He can see the Shangri-La. The idiots must be keeping him in their house—the same place the taxi driver stopped at the night before.

  Hoping to get a better look, Howard squats and jumps again, but this time he fouls the landing. His knee crumbles under him. An agonized, percussive cry springs out of his chest. There’s very shortly a commotion in the other room. Something large is pushed or pulled across the floor, and the door opens. The slim taxi driver steps inside, framed in fresh, expensive wood. He’s quiet for a moment, twitching, looking almost confused.

  “Be careful,” he finally says with an air of vague threat. “You don’t want to hurt yourself.” He pauses, significantly.

  Even with his brain still ringing with pain, Howard takes the chance to peer past the taxi driver, into the adjacent room. He sees the scuffed back of a loveseat and a patio table with plastic chairs. The far wall is virtually plastered over with movie posters—mostly for Tarantino and Ocampo Justice films, and the sight of his pal Charlie Fuentes staring at him heroically is a jarring one. A television sits against the wall, partially covering Ocampo’s Stick Up for the Unstuckup For motto. It’s tuned to the international news. Two young women, one of them in a lovely neckerchief, discuss bombings at police recruitment centers in Iraq.

  “I have money,” Howard says, still not making eye contact with the taxi driver, hoping he looks submissive. “Plenty. Cash. A lot more than what you found in my shoes. More than you could spend in a year, even if you spent it stupidly. More than you need.”

  The taxi driver squats down on his haunches and clasps his hands together. Behind him the news changes to international weather. “What do you know about what I need?”