“Why the fuck did he do that?”
“They were in a hurry. Her ring wouldn’t come off. So they severed the damn finger.”
“Shit.”
“Shit, yeah.”
“The mom went straight to the police district superintendent. She said she didn’t want to press charges. With tears in her eyes, she just gestured with a finger across her throat. There were media people in that meeting. The superintendent was in no position to refuse.”
“So what happened to the boy?”
“They killed him, but not without torturing him first. The girl’s mom pleaded to the station commander: Make sure the boy suffers. Water method.”
“You mean they put his head in a drum full of water?”
“No, something worse,” Cesar said. “They put the boy’s mouth under a faucet. Two cops pull his jaw wide open so it fills up with water. They wait till the boy’s belly swells up like a balloon. My dad said he never thought it was possible for a human to suddenly bloat like that in just seconds, like he was pregnant or something. Then they get the biggest, fattest cop to jump up and down on the boy’s stomach. I think you know him—Reyes, I think. Big, dark, hairy, and ugly; he drives that battered jeep that passes by here. Water and blood gush out of the boy’s ears and nose.”
“Ugh. Wait. What happened to the girl?”
“She lived. Although let’s just say that when she gets a manicure, she gets 10 percent off.”
Franco chuckled.
Cesar took another hit from the aluminum pipe. Thick smoke billowed from his nostrils. “Anyway, that’s Precinto Cinco hospitality for you. They’re quite a friendly bunch.”
“I dunno what’s up with that place.”
“They found the boy’s body by the river,” Cesar continued. “You know how the cops get rid of corpses? First they douse the mouth with Tanduay or some gin. That way, it looks like some poor drunk fell into the water and drowned. Brilliant.”
“What about gunshot wounds?”
“Oh, they rarely shoot them.”
“Bullets too expensive?”
“Well, that … but my father says bullets raise more questions. Anyway, when the barangays find the bodies, they rarely ask questions. They often know who did it. And it’s usually good riddance—it’s the same old troublemakers. Same old names and faces, same old tattoos. So you better be careful.”
“Just because I have a tattoo—”
“I’m just telling you. Pretty soon the cops are gonna be on your tail. Oh, and you know what the kid was on while he was robbing that jeepney?”
“Lemme guess …”
“Satan has already bought you.” Cesar took another whiff, the smoke exiting his nostrils.
Franco smiled and repeated the words.
“Human life is so cheap in this town. With all the high gates, the SUVs, you’d think there’d be some sense of order and peace. Middle-class crap. With all this, you’d think we’d be spared from this shit. But no—”
“What do you expect? Your neighbor’s the biggest meth dealer in all of Project 2,” Franco said.
“You know what Mang Eddie did last year? Meralco found out he was tapping electricity illegally. Of course, the power company first files charges against you. And even if you pay up, they won’t turn the lights back on right away. Maybe it’s a way of not letting you off so easy. But you know what Mang Eddie did? The man bought a goddamned generator!”
“That is a certified gangster move.”
“Certified gangster, my friend. And the generator he got was this cheap secondhand unit. It roared like a bitch across the street all night long, and the whole place stank of diesel. But nobody complained. The barangays wouldn’t touch him.”
“Not even the cops, I’m sure.”
“Well, Mang Eddie used to be a cop. Dismissed from the force.”
“Do you buy from him?”
“Nope. Never. The man talks. A lot. If there’s one thing I learned, never, ever do business with your neighbor. There’s gonna be too many questions. And there’s always a problem when a man in this business samples his wares—and, of course, he will. Which means, pretty soon he’s gonna get paranoid. Praning.”
“Well, that’s a risk. But imagine the convenience. He’s just, what, less than fifty feet from your house? No more waiting.”
“Which only happens when I score from you, Franco. You keep making me wait. Always.”
“Will you just—”
“I’m kidding. You’re a good boy.” Cesar patted his head. Like a dog’s.
“You know I don’t control these things.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I go to my source’s house, and he’ll say someone else is doing the buying. You know that, Cesar. It’s a chain of errands. It’s endless and, yes, dumb. But what else can I do about it? It’s not as if I can buy from the 7-Eleven.”
“There’s even a rumor that Mang Eddie runs a lab inside his house.”
“Big time!”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t be surprised, you know. It’s the perfect spot. A large house that looks like shit. Big, angry dogs by the rusty gate. And the smell, Jesus. I don’t know whether it’s dog shit or some nasty chemical. Some of the other neighbors have complained. But it’s not as if the barangay could do anything.”
“Man, you’ve read the news about those meth labs they run in Alabang and Rockwell?”
“Genius, if you ask me. Who would’ve thought of holing up in those fancy villages? Cause that’s the last place the cops would ever think of raiding.”
“Those Chinese …”
“But it was really the smell that gave them away. Have you ever smelled meth being cooked? It’s worse than sulfur, it’s worse than shit. The lesson here: so you don’t raise a stink, don’t let your stuff stink. But this thing, this stuff, Franco,” Cesar said after drawing in another whiff, “is really good.”
“Told you.”
“But I still don’t think it’s worth one-five.”
“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”
Satan has already bought you. How the fuck did he even think of that? Only a genius meth-head like Cesar could come up with that shit, Franco thought.
“Can I have some more?” Franco gestured to the foil.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Cause you already smoked half. More than half, I think.”
“Fuck you. I’d never do that to you, Cesar. Come on.”
“I’ve heard stories.”
“What stories?”
“And it’s not just me you’re fucking with.”
“Come on!”
“You have a reputation.” Smoke curled from Cesar’s mouth. He took another hit and kept the vapor in his lungs as long as possible. Two streams of smoke flowed from his nose.
“Damn.”
“Human life—so cheap. Especially in these parts,” Cesar said. “People today will stab and kill for a bag of peanuts.”
“They’d kill for a plate of corned beef,” Franco agreed. “Did you see the news?”
“About what?”
“That guy in Tondo. Shot his wife, kids, and in-laws cause the missus wouldn’t serve him corned beef while he was drinking. They called it the Pulutan Massacre.”
“Oh yeah. See? You don’t even need shabu for that shit. All you need is rum. Booze is deadlier than meth, because you can buy it anywhere.”
“The things they do in Tondo.”
“You don’t have to go far. Just last week, on Pajo Street, a kid, nine or ten I think, planted a fork in his sister’s eye.”
“What is it about this place and eyes getting stabbed?”
“But booze, I tell you. Government keeps blaming drugs for all of society’s problems. They should really be looking at the liquor section of these corner stores.”
“That’s the real nasty stuff. That’s how Satan really buys you. Not shabu.”
“Nah. Shabu’s still something else.”
“
Yes, it is something else. Booze only fries your brain for a couple of hours, and maybe your liver too. But meth incinerates your brain forever. There’s no going back.”
“So, Cesar, does this mean our brains are cooked for good?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Have you seen a mirror lately? You look like shit.”
“You look like shit yourself.”
“So we both look like shit. But at least I have a job.”
“What is it that you do, really? You never tell me.”
“Satan has already bought you,” Cesar said.
“No, really.”
“What is it I do for a living? I work for Precinto Cinco.”
“Hahaha. Good one.”
“Your tattoos look stupid.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“The last guy they fished from the river had a tattoo on his butt.”
“What?”
“It said Elena, and there was a broken heart.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“They found a broken bottle stuck in his eye, and barbed wire around his neck and hands.”
“What?”
“They said it was a drug deal gone wrong.”
“What if we go straight to karaoke after we’re done?”
“Satan has already bought you.”
“Hey …”
“That deejay who broke up with his wife on air. Now that’s gangster.”
“Hey, listen. Let’s just relax and get a few drinks. And karaoke,” Franco pleaded.
“Where? Pampanguena’s? People get stabbed there.”
“Well, let’s not sing ‘My Way.’”
“How can you do karaoke without singing ‘My Way’?”
“There are better songs.”
“You and your stupid ideas.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“You fucking cheat.”
“I wanna sing ‘Love Hurts.’ I wanna sing Air Supply.”
“‘Love Hurts’ is by Nazareth, stupid.”
“Nazareth, Air Supply … they’re all the same.”
“And this definitely ain’t one-five. It’s you—you fucking cheat. Satan has already bought you.” Cesar stood up, went back to his drawer, and pulled out a knife.
“Hey, man, I thought we’ve been through this—”
Cesar buried the knife in Franco’s eye. It was a single blow, swift and sure. Franco staggered, his arms flailing like a man drowning in air that was soaked in smoke, the upper part of his shirt turning a deep crimson.
BROKEN GLASS
BY
SABINA MURRAY
New Manila
Sunday talk and it was all gossip. I sat watching my Tita Baby pick at the chicharon, while my mother lit cigarette after cigarette, her smoke rising in an elegant column until the fan—rotating and mounted high on the wall above the dining table—blasted through it. Manong Eddie, our driver, had been sent away the week before and my mother was explaining why.
“You won’t believe this,” she said. “I was taking my siesta. Eddie wanted an advance on his pay to go the movies, so he parked himself outside my window and started calling, ‘Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!’ So I called back, ‘Who’s that yoo-hooing there?’ I think he expected me to go downstairs.”
“And that’s why you fired him?” asked Tita Baby.
“Not just that. Last Sunday, I caught him urinating against the front wall. We were all in the car waiting to go to Mass and I was wondering what was taking so long, so I looked back, and there he was.” My mother glanced out to the hallway where my Tita Elena—the eldest of the three sisters—was involved in a lengthy phone call, one that had been going on since my mother and I arrived at her house a half hour earlier. “What’s that all about?” asked my mother.
“I’m not sure,” said Tita Baby. “But you know Elena’s crowd. Those old ladies and their very young, very handsome—”
“—most likely gay yoga instructors,” my mother interrupted. “Of course, that’s all revealed later, after the money’s spent.”
“And the champagne has gone flat.” Tita Baby pursed her lips, faking sympathy.
From the hallway I heard Tita Elena’s voice become animated. She was making her goodbyes now. Tita Baby, my mother, and I all watched as she hung up the phone. Tita Elena had a smile that meant she had a good story to tell. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. “Unavoidable.”
I wondered what the tsismis was.
Tita Elena poured herself a Coke and sat down heavily in a chair. She raised her eyebrows in a meaningful way.
“Elena, both your sisters are here, so who could you possibly be talking to?” asked Tita Baby.
“Ching called.”
“Ching?” said my mother. “What did she want?”
“There was a home invasion last night. Or at least an invader.” Tita Elena rattled her ice cubes. “Someone tried to break into the neighbor’s house.”
“Which neighbors?” asked my mother. “Not the Buenaventuras?”
“No, the other side. The de Castros.”
“Ay, Dios mío,” said Tita Baby. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Was anything taken?”
“Actually, no one was hurt, and nothing was stolen,” said Tita Elena. “That’s what’s so strange. Whoever it was disappeared.”
“Oh,” replied Tita Baby and my mother in chorus.
“It happened like this,” started Tita Elena. “Babylon fell asleep on duty, which is no surprise.” Babylon was my aunt’s security guard. “He’s a drunk, you know.” I knew well. “He awoke to find himself face-to-face with the invader, a knife pointed straight at his throat.” She paused here and looked at me. “Are you sure little Angela should be listening to this? It might give her bad dreams.”
“If she can listen to stories of Cherry and her twenty-year-old yoga instructor, she can listen to this,” said my mother.
“Well, anyway,” Tita Elena continued, “this invader has his knife straight at Babylon’s throat and is demanding his gun. Luckily, although Babylon is a tomador, he’s no idiot. He tells the invader his gun has no bullets. Babylon says that I won’t allow him to have a loaded gun because he drinks so much. Remember that night he shot all the chickens?”
“Yes, yes,” said Tita Baby impatiently.
“The invader believes him. I mean, if you had any intelligence, you wouldn’t be robbing houses, you know.”
“You would have a job,” said my mother, who has never had a job.
“The second thing Babylon tells him is that the neighbors are far wealthier than we are, which is ridiculous, and that the invader should climb the wall and rob their house instead.”
“How on earth can anyone climb that wall?” asked Tita Baby.
“Babylon had to help him.”
“That’s crazy,” said my mother.
“Yes, beyond a doubt, it is,” Tita Elena shrugged. “So the invader—at one point standing on Babylon’s shoulders—scales the wall and makes it to the top.” My tita took a leisurely gulp from her drink. “Once he was at the top, Babylon shot him in the back.”
The fan moved slowly from side to side, rustling papers, lifting the bangs off my face. I slapped my leg beneath the table, killing a mosquito. The fan stopped.
“Needs to be fixed,” said Tita Elena. “Bebeng,” she yelled to the maid, “’yung bentilador!”
Bebeng, the head maid, ran out of the kitchen, broom in hand. She hit the fan a few times and it came back to life, grinding a breeze out across the room. The conversation resumed.
“Well, I guess Babylon is worth more than we thought he was,” said my mother. “Did you give him the day off?”
My aunt nodded. “I keep thinking that I should call the police, but what’s the point? One crook’s wearing a uniform, the other crook’s dead—”
“But what happened to the burglar?” I asked. “Where is he?”
“You see, that’s the mystery,” said Tita Elena. “It was so dark that Babylon couldn’t ma
ke out where the body fell. He was drunk, I’m sure, but he swears he shot him.”
“Did you ask the de Castros?” asked my mother.
“Yes, eliminating some of the details of the story. They heard the gunshot, but have no idea what happened to the invader. None whatsoever.”
“Very strange,” said my mother. “Manila’s going to hell. Murders, home invasions, carjackings, all those glue-huffing beggars, and the sosyal kids with their—what is it, shabu? Yeah, even in our crowd things are getting ugly. Did I tell you why Rocky and her husband are getting separated?” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Angela, go out and play. You’re inside all the time. It isn’t healthy.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Now.”
I stood up dutifully and kissed my mother and my titas and crossed the dark wood floorboards, out of the gloom and smoke of the dining room and into the vestibule. The sun outside was shining fiercely, splashing red from the stained-glass doors onto the floor. The invader was bleeding somewhere, or was dead. I heard Tita Baby’s voice filtering out of the dining room.
“Rocky’s husband couldn’t have expected that. It’s just not Catholic.”
I pushed open the door and stepped onto the front porch. The sun hit my face and every part of my body instantly warmed. Tita Elena’s house had an enormous garden. There was a huge wall around it, like a castle. Someone from Spain had come to put it together right after the war, and once, a long time ago, there had been pet deer wandering around because my Uncle Chuck had liked the look of them. But the deer were gone, along with my uncle, who had died of cancer ten years earlier. Tita Elena was a widow and good at it—still in black and ready for death. The wall was taller than anyone could see over and when we were waiting in the car for Babylon to open the gate, the dirty children would gather around to sneak a look at the lawns and fountains and statues until Babylon shooed them away.
I walked down the tiled steps to the garden. How organized and symmetrical everything looked. Fountain in center, statue in the fountain, a pine tree on the right to match the one on the left, and perfect rows of red and white roses reaching with graceful arms around the lawn. Ligaya was sitting on the bottom step washing clothes. Her muscled arms dipped in and out of the basin, shiny and brown. She was wearing a red bandanna, and her kinky black hair sprung out about her ears. I stepped around to face her. At first, she didn’t notice me, she was so intent on her washing, but then she looked up, her lower arms covered in suds.
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