Perfect Gentleman

by Brett Battles

  That stopped me.

  Bali was the thing someone always brought up on those rare occasions when conversation turned to terrorism. And Bali scared the shit out of me. That had been in 2002. Two bombs at nightclubs in the tourist district. A couple hundred people died. All of us in Angeles knew at the time it could have just as easily happened in front of one of our places. And then, over weeks and months, we forgot about it, pushing it out of our minds and returning to the belief it could never happen here.

  “I’m not sure you should be telling me this,” I finally said.

  Perdue leaned in. “I’m telling you this for a very good reason. I need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “I got a name and picture from my source in Manila. He’s been involved in kidnappings and executions in the south, but it appears his commanders have ordered him to set up shop here in your part of the country. The funny thing is, when I saw the picture, I knew I’d seen him recently. Here.”

  “In Angeles? It’s a big city.”

  He shook his head. “On Fields Avenue.” Fields was the main street that ran through the bar district. “I want you to look at the picture. Tell me if you recognize him.”

  I could feel a bead of sweat growing on my brow, not unusual for hot and humid Angeles City, but definitely unusual in my bar where I kept the AC on all the time so it was always comfortable.

  Perdue reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to me.

  “Well?” he asked.

  I looked at the picture. It was fuzzy, like it was out of focus. To me, and I’m not expert at this, it looked like the picture had been taken from a distance using a zoom lens.

  The subject was a man. A Filipino. I guessed anywhere from twenty-five to thirty. He was sitting on a motorcycle facing the camera. His brown skin looked extra dark, probably from spending too many hours in the sun. Other than that, there was nothing to distinguish him from a couple hundred other guys who drove motorcycles in the city.

  “I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “Could be familiar, but it’s not a great photo.”

  “His name’s Ernesto de la Cruz. Does that help?”

  Acting is a big part of being a Papasan. You’ve got to always be happy, always on. You’ve got to act like your patrons’ jokes are really funny. You’ve got to pretend there’s never a bad day on Fields Avenue.

  So when I heard the name and looked at the picture again, I didn’t flinch.

  “Never heard of him,” I lied.

  Perdue looked at me, a stupid little smile on his face, his eyes on my eyes. It was like he knew I was lying, like he was waiting for me to take it back and tell him the truth.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know him.”

  He hesitated for half a second more, then broke off his stare. “You keep that picture. Maybe you can show it around. See if any of the girls know who he is. But don’t tell anyone I’m looking for him.”

  “And if someone does know who he is?”

  Perdue picked up his beer. “See if you can find out where he lives.”

  “I don’t know if I want to get in the middle of anything here.”

  “You’re a good American, right?”

  I didn’t respond right away. I didn’t like the direction this was going, but when he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, I said, “Sure.”

  “Then finding out where he lives isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

  “I didn’t say I could find out.”

  “I have faith in you.”

  After he left, I asked Kat for a match, then burned the photo. I wasn’t able to relax until the last of the image blackened then turned to ash.

  I knew who Ernesto de la Cruz was. He was a local. Helped me out sometimes at the bar—washing glasses, stocking beer, that kind of thing—when one of my regular guys needed a day off. He was a good kid. Smiled a lot. Always respectful. As far as I knew, he’d never been south of Manila.

  A terrorist? Not even remotely possible. Of course, the moment Perdue mentioned Ernesto’s name, I knew this wasn’t about terrorism.

  Ernesto de la Cruz was Ellie’s boyfriend. And I would bet everything I own that Perdue knew that, too.

  That evening, I asked Marguerite—one of my girls and Ellie’s best friend—to text Ellie and tell her I wanted to talk to her. I’d trained the girls to know if they received a text like that, they were to stop by the bar at their next opportunity and see me.

  I didn’t expect to see her until the next day, and I was right.

  It was just before noon. The bar wasn’t open yet but I was already there. Ellie knocked at the front door and I let her in.

  “You want me, Papa?” she asked once we were alone inside.

  “How is everything?” I said.

  She hesitated only long enough for me to notice. “Okay. Fine.”

  “Mr. Perdue’s treating you all right?”

  “Joe took me to Manila. He buy me lot of things.”

  “So he hasn’t hurt you?”

  There was that pause again. “No. Why?”

  “When was the last time you saw Ernesto?”

  “What?” My question obviously surprised her.

  “Have you seen him this week?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  It was a pat answer. If the girls were on an extended bar fine, the house rule was no contact with any boyfriends. The reason was to avoid exactly the problem that seemed to be developing here.

  “Ellie. Tell me the last time you saw him.”

  “Last weekend,” she said quickly. “Sunday, I think.”

  The girls were as good at lying as I was. But unlike their temporary boyfriends, I’d long ago developed the ability to discern whether they were telling me the truth.

  “When, Ellie?”

  The sparkle in her eyes disappeared as she realized she’d been caught. “Yesterday,” she said. “Joe went out for a while in the afternoon. I meet Ernesto at his place. But only for an hour. I don’t lie.”

  That had probably been around the same time Perdue had stopped by the bar. “And before that, when?”

  “The day before Joe take me to Manila.”

  “Jesus, Ellie. You know the rules.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Perdue must have seen you. He was asking about him.”

  “Joe wants his money back, doesn’t he?” She looked horrified. “I’m sorry, Papa. I shouldn’t have seen him. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not the money.”

  “Then what?”

  I contemplated stopping right there. I should have, but I didn’t. “He wanted to know if I could find out where Ernesto lived.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think Perdue is a good man.”

  The true meaning of my words took a moment to sink in. When they finally did, she stepped away from me and turned for the door. “I have to tell Ernesto!”

  I grabbed her arm, stopping her. “You can’t go anywhere near Ernesto.”

  “But Joe will try to hurt him.”

  “Tell me how to find Ernesto. I’ll tell him to get lost for a few days. Maybe he can go down to Manila.”

  “You’ll do that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you know when Joe’s leaving town?”

  “Monday, I think.”

  She told me where Ernesto lived, then, almost as if she didn’t want to say it, added, “He pushed me.”

  “Who?”

  “Joe,” she said. “It was late, but I wanted to go out dancing. He said he was tired. I teased him, and he pushed me into the wall.”

  I held my tongue as a surge of anger grew inside me.

  “He said it was an accident. That he was just teasing back, but he wasn’t. He pushed me. He’ll hurt Ernesto.”

  “Go to your place,” I said. “Stay there until Perdue leaves town. I’ll tell him you got sick. I’ll give him back his money if he asks.”

  “What
about Ernesto?”

  “I’ll find him. It’ll be okay.”

  Only it wasn’t okay.

  Ernesto shared a room in a dingy building about a mile from Fields Avenue. When I got there, the normal chaos of a typical Angeles street had been replaced by something much more sinister.

  White vans blocked off each end of the street, but it didn’t stop the curious from walking around them to see what was going on. The real action was toward the middle of the block, in front of Ernesto’s building.

  Whatever had happened seemed to have just ended. A dozen soldiers stood near the entrance. They were wearing full battle gear and held machine guns at the ready. At first, I thought they were all Filipino, but the closer I got, I realized that though they were all wearing identical dark uniforms, most of the men appeared to be either Caucasian or African American.

  My immediate thought was Americans.

  I moved with the crowd, reaching a spot almost directly across the street from the building’s entrance. I knew enough not to put myself out front, so I held back, allowing others to stand in front of me.

  After about ten minutes, two men appeared in the doorway. They were carrying a stretcher, complete with a sheet-draped body on top. By the way everyone was acting, I knew the dead man wasn’t one of theirs. And when Joseph Perdue emerged from the building a few moments later to the backslaps of his colleagues, it was pretty evident who was on the stretcher.

  Homeland Security had gotten their man.

  It was nearly 10 p.m. when Perdue showed up again in my bar. For the first time in a long time I wasn’t sitting on my usual stool. Instead, I’d taken over the back booth and left instructions not to be bothered unless it was really important.

  Perdue spotted me right after he came in. He got a beer from Kat, then walked slowly back to my table, not even glancing at the girls on the stage. That was probably a good thing. While I hadn’t told any of them what had happened, most had found out through other means that Ernesto was dead and had a pretty good idea Perdue had something to do with it. The looks they gave him were nothing short of venomous.

  “How ya’ doing, Wade?” he asked.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Doing just great.”

  He slid into the other side of the booth without waiting to be asked.

  Figuring ignorance was the best route to take, I said, “Haven’t been able to get anything about the guy in your picture.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Problem’s taken care of.”

  I said nothing.

  “Look. I’m going to be leaving town a little early. Heading out in the morning. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Have a good trip.”

  “Actually, I came by to thank you. I had a great time. Lots of fun.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” I said, less than enthusiastically.

  He took a deep swig of his beer, then set the bottle on the table. “Goodbye, Wade.” He stood up. “You take it easy, all right?”

  I shook his hand. Didn’t want to, but there was no sense in causing a scene. He was leaving town so I wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.

  “Have a safe trip wherever you’re going,” I said.

  “I’m heading home,” he said. “Well, D.C., actually. I’m getting promoted.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  I’d been so wrapped up in wishing he’d just get out of the bar that it wasn’t until after he left that I realized he hadn’t said anything about Ellie. Not one word.

  Kat was the one who found her. We actually shut the bar down and I sent the girls out searching in every direction. But leave it to Kat to hunt her down.

  Ellie was only a few blocks from the dorm-like room she shared with over a dozen other girls. She was in an alley—Angeles is rife with them—on the ground, her knees pulled up to her chest, and her head lolled back with her mouth open. There was a long gash running from her left temple nearly all the way to her mouth. Blood ran from the wound so I knew she was still alive.

  The story I got later was that when she heard Ernesto was dead, she went crazy. All she could think about was killing Perdue. She got a knife and went to Perdue’s hotel. The rest is pretty easy to imagine. She was no match for him. The only reason he didn’t kill her—and I’m guessing here—is because he thought damaging her would be a worse fate.

  As it was, what he did to her in less than fifteen minutes took three operations and several months to repair. Even then it wasn’t perfect. The scar that ran down the side of Ellie’s face would always be with her. A reminder not only of Perdue, but of Ernesto.

  • • •

  “Can I ask you a few questions?” the man said.

  It was a Monday evening, and in less than an hour the place would be packed for the weekly body-painting contest. But at that moment, we were only half full.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Something to drink?” Ellie asked the man. Since returning to work a couple weeks earlier, she had asked if she could work behind the bar with Kat. Who was I to say no?

  “Just some water, please,” the man said.

  He was the nervous type who probably felt a lot more comfortable in a suit than in the casual wear he had on at that moment.

  Ellie set a cold plastic bottle of water in front of him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I’m Wade Norris,” I said.

  “Curtis Knowles.” He held out his hand and we shook.

  “What can I do for you, Curtis?” I said.

  “I’m with the FBI,” he said.

  “A little out of your territory, aren’t you?”

  He smiled. “I’m just part of an investigation, that’s all.”

  “And your investigation brought you here?”

  Knowles looked around. “It is one of the more unusual settings I’ve been in, I’ll tell you that much.” He unscrewed the top of his water but didn’t take a drink. “I’m looking into the disappearance of a federal agent.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Joseph Perdue, right?”

  “I realize someone’s already talked to you about this.”

  “You’re the third person in two months. One of the others told me Perdue’d been kidnapped.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure.”

  “He said it was in retaliation for that kid he killed, if I remember right.”

  “Terrorist.”

  “What?”

  “The terrorist he killed. Perdue had uncovered information that linked the man to potential attacks that would have happened right here on your street, Mr. Norris.”

  “Really?” I said. “Hadn’t heard that part.”

  “It was in the paper.”

  “I stopped reading the paper years ago. Too depressing.”

  Knowles removed a small notebook from his breast pocket and opened it to one of the pages. “According to my notes, you said you remember Perdue coming into the bar twice, is that correct?’

  “I haven’t thought about this since the last time one of you guys came by. But that sounds about right.”

  “People have reported seeing him with…a woman.”

  I smiled. “So he was getting in a little fun while he was here.”

  “The woman was not someone he was seeing,” Knowles said. “Perdue was a good family man.”

  “Was?”

  Knowles paused, caught by his own words. “At this point, we believe he is most likely dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “We also believe he was in contact with this woman as a potential information source. One of the people we talked to thought she might work here.”

  “Get you another beer, Papa?” Ellie said.

  “Yes, thanks.” I looked at Knowles. “She wasn’t one of ours. I remember everyone who takes one of the girls out.”

  “Everyone?”

  “It’s my job.”

  Ellie replaced my
old bottle with a new one.

  “Maybe he connected with her after hours.”

  “I would have found out,” I said, then took a drink of my beer. “Mr. Knowles, there are a couple thousand girls who work in the bars here. Who knows where she came from?”

  Knowles nodded. “You’re right.”

  “Why do you think she’s so important?”

  “We don’t know for sure, but we think maybe she set him up.”

  “Sounds like you’re reaching,” I said, trying to appear sympathetic.

  Another nod from Knowles. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” As he pushed himself off the stool, he said, “If we have any more questions, we’ll get back to you.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said, then saluted him with my bottle.

  Knowles smiled, then walked around our new stage and out the front door.

  I knew Perdue was trouble when he stared at me after I told him I didn’t recognize the picture of Ernesto. There was no bluff in his gaze, no false toughness. What I had seen was the look of a man who didn’t like to be crossed. It was something I’d seen before, back in my service days in the Corps. Marines who were more like machines than real men. In their minds, they felt like all they had to do was look at the enemy and their adversary would crumple to the ground.

  They were hard. They were single-minded. They were dangerous as all hell.

  And I’d been one of them.

  After Kat found Ellie and we’d gotten her to the hospital, I’d gone alone in search of Perdue. I found him easily enough. He was in his room at the Paradise Hotel. I knocked on his door, told him I was looking for Ellie, and wondered if he knew where she was. Of course he let me in.

  I eased the door closed behind me, then I took the pointed metal rod I’d been holding against my leg and buried it under his rib cage and into one of his lungs. I watched his face for a moment as he realized too late the danger I represented. I was just a lazy old Papasan, after all. Drunk half the time and mellowed by the women who surrounded me.

  He tried to grab me but he was already too weak.

  I should have probably said something damning, something to sum up his failures as a human being. Instead, I pulled the rod out and shoved it up again. This time into this heart.

  See, I was Homeland Security, too. It was just that my homeland extended only a couple miles beyond the door of my bar.