Moondogs

by Alexander Yates

  “Nothing. I don’t know anything about what you need,” Howard says. He pauses. An expert at the weather desk discusses the minor earthquakes in Taiwan and Mexico. There have been disturbances all along the ring of fire and she expects more to come. Someone else at the weather desk points out that this isn’t really weather related, is it? They both laugh about this.

  “So tell me then,” Howard says. “Tell me what you need.”

  The taxi driver shifts on his haunches. “What’s wrong with your voice? You sick or something?”

  Howard shakes his head. “Just thirsty.”

  The taxi driver looks about the little room. Then he disappears, leaving the door open. This jars Howard. He contemplates breaking for it. But he doesn’t know where the front door is, and with this knee any mad dash will be short. New experts come on the news, listing precautions one should take against the bird flu. Everybody should have canned goods and bottled water on hand. You should be able, if necessary, to be indoors for a very long time. Duct tape is an incredible, versatile tool, they say. Buy some.

  The taxi driver returns with a plastic bowl filled to the brim with water. “Thank you,” Howard says, and drinks. “Thanks.”

  The taxi driver takes the bowl back from him.

  “Let’s talk about this,” Howard says. “Let’s talk about what you need, and how I can give it to you. There’s no reason this has to be hard.”

  The taxi driver slaps him across the face with the empty plastic bowl. It hardly hurts, but Howard cups his cheek and squints so that his eyes water. He looks at the floor like he’s cowering. It’s important that this turd feel powerful.

  The taxi driver leaves the room and closes the door. The floor vibrates as he slides a makeshift barricade—it must be the loveseat—back into place. Outside the sky clears a little and the room brightens. Light comes through the square window and dances about on the walls of Howard’s small cell. For a brief moment a sagging palm frond breaks the light into thin shadows that resemble prison bars. Then, with a gust, they look like feathered wings. Then they settle, and just look like a palm frond.

  THE NEXT TIME HE WAKES, it’s night. The air is cool. The window is a narrow box for the moon. Howard breathes slowly, his body sore as he changes positions on the hard floor. He turns to the door and sees that it’s cracked open. There’s a woman there, staring at him. He closes his bad eye and tries to get a better look at her. She’s young, and her black hair is streaked with peroxide-blond highlights. She slides a cardboard tray toward him—his refilled water bowl and a dish of boiled rice.

  The television is off and Howard recognizes a familiar sound coming from the adjacent room. His cell phone is ringing. That’s wonderful. The fact that it’s still on and that it’s so near means the police will definitely be able to do the satellite thing he’s seen on TV. They’ve had time enough to double-check with the hotel and learn he never made it back. They could be here as early as tonight. The particular quality of the ring raises Howard’s spirits even more. He’s set a different tone for each of his favorite contacts. This is Benny’s ring. Benny is calling him. The ringing stops and starts again after a few seconds. Still Benny.

  Howard looks past the woman, into the room beyond. The taxi driver and his big friend—the one who beat Howard with the PVC pipe—sit at the plastic patio table. They stare down at Howard’s ringing phone, which sits in the middle of the table. They look perplexed, as though agonizing over what to do. There’s also someone new, someone weird-looking beside them. It takes Howard a moment to process the fact that it’s a green rooster, smoking a cigarette. The rooster stares intensely at the air. It jukes its head to ash the cigarette. Then it crows, erupting with smoke like a science-fair volcano.

  “Ignacio!” the woman calls. “Littleboy! He’s awake.”

  The taxi driver, Ignacio, looks up. “Goddamnit woman,” he hollers. “Weren’t you paying attention to our briefing? I said no names!”

  Briefing? Howard laughs—he can’t help it. Ignacio pushes past the woman and starts kicking at Howard gingerly. That makes him laugh even harder. He forces himself to stop, which is difficult and feels a little like choking, which happened to him once, at a wedding. He can’t believe these morons—these wannabe badasses. They’re clearly afraid of hurting him any more than they’ve already done, and rightly so. They’re too frightened to just answer the phone and make demands, and too stupid to have smashed the phone in the first place.

  “Listen,” Howard says, blocking Ignacio’s last kick with his elbows, panting like a man tickled. “Listen. This is silly. We both know you didn’t really think this over. You’re not prepared to do the whole ransom thing. That’s fine. I’ve got enough cash in my hotel room for you to retire on. I’ll tell you where it’s all hidden. Be smart about this. There’s no need to drag it out.”

  Ignacio leaves the room. He returns with a curved razor blade that Howard recognizes as a cockfighting spur.

  “What’s wrong with you? Why threaten me? You’ll get what you want if you just—”

  Ignacio braces Howard’s head between his knees and slices his ear off with the spur. It takes a moment for the pain to register, because his ear couldn’t have just been sliced off. It’s his ear. Ignacio staunches the bleeding with a dishcloth and crams the cloth into Howard’s mouth to stop him screaming. Because he’s screaming now. Because his ear’s been cut off.

  Ignacio stays with him until he passes out.

  MORNING AGAIN, AND THEN NIGHT. Ignacio and Littleboy seal up the square window with plywood and spackle. Hon calls, and then Benicio calls, and then the kidnappers place the phone beside Howard like a fellow captive and smash it to pieces under their heels. The woman comes inside and changes Howard’s bandages, and it’s only then that he realizes he was bandaged at all. She brings him a bucket to shit in and some toilet paper, but Howard doesn’t need it, because the police will be here soon. The police are coming. The police are coming. The police are here. Any minute, now. Any day.

  MORNING. NIGHT. REPEAT. Ignacio and Littleboy do not come in and they do not answer when Howard calls out to them. Roaches, attracted by Howard’s gauze and uneaten dinners, crawl in through holes in the mortar. They flutter lightly over his fingers and run straight up the walls and he is wowed by their abilities. His cheeks become stubbly, and then velvety. His eye hurts more and more. He starts giving it little breaks by popping the lens into his mouth, but it always feels like a hot dime under his lid when he puts it back. Finally he gives up and deposits the lens in his water dish. He pushes the dish into the far corner of the room, peels off his filthy button-down and covers it. The woman believes him when he says she forgot his water, and brings him a new dish with his next meal.

  Essentially blind now, Howard has time to think. He feels as though when he could almost see he was busy almost seeing, but now he’s not busy with anything. He tries to account for the days that have passed and becomes certain that his son is in Manila by now. Benny’s already so oversensitive—he’ll be furious that Howard wasn’t there to meet him. Then, when he finds out what really happened, he’ll feel rotten about being furious. Howard will tell Benny not to sweat it, but Benny will still sweat it. He’ll want to ask about Howard’s missing ear, but it’ll take years to work up the comfort and nerve. What happened when you were kidnapped? he’ll finally say, and the word kidnapped will be foreign and harmless to him. Like a sparrow in the living room. Howard will laugh, and then he’ll get serious, and somber, and put on a faraway look. Benny will admire him, and say he can’t imagine what he went through. And he’ll be right.

  Howard stops saying: “The police are coming.” He starts saying: “Where the fuck are the police?” Boy, have they ever dropped the fucking ball. Someone, somewhere, is going to be fired when Howard gets out of this. He’s going to bankroll a study and discover what office or branch failed to file what, or call whom, and then find those people, and fucking ruin every one of them. You incompetent assholes. You sons of bitch
es.

  It’s not till the blurry shape of Ignacio comes into the room that Howard realizes he was saying these last things aloud. Yelling them.

  “I’m sorry,” Howard says, moving his hands up over his face.

  Ignacio ignores him. His posture is somehow thoughtful. He calls Littleboy and tells him to go stand outside, below the sealed window. Then he tells Howard to repeat what he was just saying.

  “You incompetent assholes?”

  “Yeah, that. But say it how you said it. Yell it.”

  Howard yells: “You incompetent assholes!”

  A moment later Littleboy comes back inside and Ignacio asks him if he heard it.

  “I heard everything,” Littleboy says. “Even the talking.”

  “I’m sorry,” Howard says. “I won’t yell any more.”

  “The hell you won’t,” Ignacio says. He disappears and returns carrying a boxy black blur. He sets it on the floor in front of Howard, who guesses from its shape that it’s the television. Ignacio sits atop the set, panting, while Littleboy fiddles with the cords.

  “I don’t want you to turn this off,” he says. “And it’s my only set, so I don’t want you to break it.”

  “I’ll buy you a new TV,” Howard sobs. “I’ll buy you a plasma.”

  “Hush,” Ignacio says. “Now, I’m going to turn this on. I’m serious about you breaking it. Whatever you do to this TV, I do to you. The screen is your face. The cords are your cock. Leave them alone.”

  With that Ignacio flips on the set and leaves, closing the door behind him. It’s still tuned to the same international twenty-four-hour news network. The lady announcers are back, talking about a car bomb at an Iraqi market. Their voices are so loud that Howard could shout himself hoarse and still not be heard by anyone outside. The Nikkei and the Hang Seng are up. Moscow has a favorable jobs report. In Venezuela, protesters threw stones at the American Embassy. Somewhere in Africa, a woman is president. There are more cases of bird flu, in China. Let’s not forget to be prepared, the bird flu expert says. Here is what you’ll need to stock at home.

  Chapter 14

  OTHER HOMES

  Benicio, Charlie, and Bobby took a taxi to the bay. Traffic was terrible. Charlie went on and on about missing his own victory party and when the car slowed to a standstill he insisted that they get out and walk. That wasn’t much faster, though, because of Bobby’s limp, which was pronounced and awkward. It looked like something he was still getting used to.

  After a few hot blocks they made it to the smoky cold breeze of a restaurant doorway. A dwarf standing at a shortened host’s table greeted Charlie and Bobby by name, tucked some drink menus under one arm and led them through a packed chamber with a low ceiling. They passed a live band playing funk, every member a little person wrangling a full sized instrument, and as Benicio rubbernecked he nearly ran into a heavy tray of food that bobbed just above waist level. It was everyone, he realized. Everyone who worked there was a little person.

  People called out to Charlie from a long, family-style table, and he joined them with some moderate drunken fanfare. Benicio was about to follow when Bobby took his elbow and whispered: “That’s not for us.” Actually, it was more of a shout, but with the music it sounded like a whisper. He led Benicio to an alcove against the back wall, where four people in their mid-twenties were squeezed around a tiny table. They all stood up to clap when they saw Bobby. One of them unfurled a long piece of brown paper that looked like it came from a bathroom dispenser and held it above his head—an improvised Congratulations banner. Another started up a chant of “Dan-Cer, Dan-Cer, Dan-Cer,” that quickly devolved into “Pils-Ner, Pils-Ner, Pils-Ner,” as he waved to their waiter for more beer. It was a louder reception than Charlie had received, and from a smaller crowd.

  The host struggled to drag over two additional chairs, and Benicio and Bobby sat. Bobby’s boisterous friends, two men and two women, didn’t seem to notice that Benicio was there at first. They took turns clapping Bobby on the shoulder and pinching his unbandaged cheek with both hands. For a while only the words “congratulations,” “victory,” and “hot shit” were used. Then one of the women turned to Benicio with an electric suddenness and smiled, revealing a set of glow-in-the-dark teeth.

  “Who’s your friend?” she asked, her slur masked behind good posture.

  “This is Benicio,” Bobby said. “He’s Howie’s kid.”

  This elicited a round of incredulous laughter. Someone said, “Fuck you, he’s not.” Another asked, sarcastically, “Which one?” Bobby said something in Tagalog that shut them up, and then went around the table making introductions. The woman with the glowing teeth and pretty smile was Katrina. The man with the beard and loosened tie—the one who’d asked: Which one? and who came off as a schmuck—was Ping. And the other two, well, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. But their names sounded like Bong and Baby Cookie.

  Katrina put a hand on his wrist. “And what do you do, Ben?” she asked.

  “He’s a talent scout,” Bobby said. “They’re filming another Vietnam War movie here come December. Benicio’s out early to get a jump on casting rice farmers, basket weavers, people to run from napalm, and—”

  “I’m in computers,” Benicio cut in.

  “Coding?” Ping asked, fingering the tip of his immaculate beard. His shirt was black and his tie was black. Benicio felt his lousy first impression confirmed.

  “No. Systems. I run a network for a school.”

  “You should have stuck with my story,” Bobby shouted across the table. “Katrina does outreach for the party, but she’s like, really awful at it. She’s actually an aspiring actress, and take it from me, the girl has no morals.”

  Katrina laughed a little too loud and cuffed Bobby hard on the shoulder. Then she put the tips of her fingers to her mouth and gasped. “I’m so sorry! I forgot.”

  “My shoulder’s just fine,” Bobby said.

  The waiter returned and power-lifted a pair of ice buckets filled with brown bottles onto the table. Katrina pulled a dripping beer from the ice and gave it to Benicio. Still a little buzzed, he protested that he wasn’t usually a drinker.

  “Tonight isn’t usual,” Bobby said. “You should try one. It’s better than the lambanog, I promise.”

  “Wait, you mean you’ve never tried San Mig?” Katrina’s mouth hung open and she tapped herself rapidly between her collarbones, as though to calm sudden palpitations. “My God, you’re not even here yet! You haven’t arrived. You’re still in the airport waiting for your bags to spin out of that spinner.” She pushed the beer closer and watched until he took his first sip and gave her an it’s-good smile. He didn’t even have to fake it.

  For a while Benicio just listened as Bobby’s tipsy friends laughed, drank and chain-smoked. They all spoke at the same time, talking over and under one another, weaving a conversation below the strum and boom of the band. Benicio guessed they were discussing the election, and though all the particulars and many acronyms—Ping, it seemed, spoke exclusively in letter combinations—might as well have been in another language, their excitement was difficult to not get caught up in. Occasionally Bobby leaned in to offer some explanation.

  “OJS—that’s not an agency or anything. That’s the Ocampo Justice Series.”

  “I remember, you said Charlie used to be an actor?”

  “Still is. He’s got a movie coming out this Christmas, and he’s cast in another that starts filming in August. Katrina’s been hounding me to get her a part ever since I started working for him.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Few months. Charlie’s been entertaining the public for twenty years, but this is his first time serving them. The party assigned me to his race once he signed up on our ticket.”

  “Ah.” Benicio took a long swig of beer and joined Bobby’s friends in ordering more when the waiter trotted past. “So he wasn’t your choice?”

  “He would have been,” Bobby said. “I’m good at my job, so I
can usually have my pick. If I didn’t want to work for Charlie I could have had someone else. There were a few others,” he paused, “who wanted me. But I wanted Charlie.”

  Benicio glanced over at the big table, where Charlie was standing up, drinking from a yard of beer. A woman on his arm took time with a stopwatch. “So … he’s never done anything like this before?” He saw the bandage on the side of Bobby’s face rise just a little bit, as though somewhere under all that gauze he was cocking an eyebrow. “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t mean—”

  “No,” Bobby said, “you do. But it’s fair. To tell you the truth,” he leaned in very close so that only Benicio could hear him, “I’m used to getting that expression. The intellectuals in this city have nothing but skepticism for Charlie Fuentes. And I’ll be honest—he’s got no real experience. None. I’ve got more. You’ve probably got more. I can’t even stretch and say he has relevant experience. And I don’t know if he’ll be a great senator, or even a good one. Good may be too much to hope for. But I know one thing for sure. He’ll be better, which is better than worse. I don’t kid myself—I know why he won. Big-town actor who plays a small-town cop, sticking up for the unstuckup for. People voted for a character they saw in the movies. But Charlie Fuentes is a mostly honest person with a good heart. That makes him an improvement on those same intellectuals who’ve been fucking us sideways for years now.”

  As Bobby spoke Benicio felt a swell of admiration. He began to have thoughts that only came when he’d been drinking—that Bobby was really real and that he, in contrast, was not very real at all. And with that feeling came the too-familiar urge to overcorrect. “That’s pretty good,” he said. “You’ve practiced it a few times?”

  “Fuck you very much.” Bobby leaned back in his chair with a potbelly smile. “When did it start to show? Was it the good heart line?” He took a drink, beating the beer about his cheeks before swallowing. “I’ve been working on that damn line. It’s just too fucking true to be good.”