Dogeaters (26 page)

The world resonated around him, incomprehensible and steadily more terrifying as the day wore on. People brushed lightly against him as they hurried to their destinations, the trailing sound of their laughter and conversation startling his overloaded senses. The delicate phantoms on his shoulders stirred, pressing their weight down upon him. Like him, they were afraid. He had to get to Uncle. When it finally got dark, Joey jumped into another jeepney, this one going in a specific direction. The jeepney’s hood was ornamented with gleaming metal horses and multicolored streamers. The fancy hand painted sign across the windshield boasted SUPER BAD in gothic letters.

“Disappear,” Uncle said. The old man studied Joey with wary eyes. From time to time, he patted the dog curled on the floor beside him.

Joey buried his head in his hands, too wasted to respond. He hadn’t expected this reaction from the old man. “You shouldn’t have come here,” Uncle said, “I’m implicated, now. Guilt by association—you know what I mean? I never thought you’d be this stupid.”

“I didn’t ask to be there when it happened,” Joey said.

The old man was indignant. “Of course not! But there you were, boy—wrong place at the wrong time—just because you were greedy for some foreigner’s dope.”

“Dope
and
money,” Joey corrected him in a weary voice.

There was a flicker of interest in Uncle’s eyes. “Dollars, I hope. How much did you get?”

“Not much,” Joey mumbled, evasive.

“I hope it was worth the trouble, you stupid son of a whore!
Not much
? What do you mean by that? Do you remember who you’re talking to? Bullshit, Joey—
talagang
bullshit!” The old man waved a fist at him.

Joey said nothing. He ached with fatigue and hunger, his head pounding. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast with Rainer, and even that seemed like a dream.

“He fuck you good and treat you good,” Uncle hissed, “then you forget all about Uncle—Uncle who raised you, who fed you and buried your no-good mother. Uncle who teach you everything—how to fuck good and steal good, huh Joey?” The old man was seething with rage, a little drunk from the cane liquor he’d been drinking.

Joey remembered Rainer’s dope, stuffed in his pocket. A dull pain throbbed in his body, his brain hummed. “You want some of this?” Joey asked him, taking the packet carefully out. His smile was uncertain. “It’s first-class.”

Uncle made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I got my own dope.” He paused. “I ask you about the foreigner’s money.”

Joey sighed. “A hundred U.S., in cash. Some German bills and coins,” he lied. “A few traveler’s checks. You can have those—”

Uncle stared at him in disbelief. “Traveler’s checks? Very funny, Joey. VE-RY FUN-NY.” he chuckled. “It’s okay. I can wait until you come to your senses, heh-heh. You liked that foreigner, didn’t you? He fuck you good and treat you good, like the American?
Alam mo na
, Joey—us
Pinoys
,
basta puti
—” The old man’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Joey looked away. “Better than the American?” The old man was incredulous. “Oh boy, Joey—you musta hit the jackpot! Is he going to send for you anyway, now that he knows you’re a thief?”

Uncle lit an unfiltered, brown
Matamis,
inhaled deeply, then began coughing. “
Putang ina
, I’m going to die soon, Joey.” The wracking cough subsided. Uncle sat back in his chair, taking long drags off the sweet, harsh cigarette.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Joey asked, with real concern. The old man laughed, then started coughing again. He uncorked a bottle of local rum, taking a generous swig. He pointed the unlabeled bottle at Joey. “My medicine. Want some?”

Joey unfolded another foil of coke. Using the long nail on his little finger, he dipped into the powder, snorting up a couple of healthy doses. He leaned back against the wall in satisfaction, his eyes tearing. He knew the high wouldn’t last very long, but for now, it was fine. The dread had vanished, lurking in the shadows somewhere behind him, nameless and hazy. But he would have to watch out for the signs. The dread was insidious and cunning, like Uncle. It could come out of nowhere and sit on his shoulders, a menacing evil. Joey’s laugh was bitter. He took the bottle from the old man, wiping the rim before taking a swallow. Uncle was amused. “
Puwede ba
—I’m not contagious.”

“That’s what they all say,” Joey retorted sharply, feeling like himself again. He handed Uncle back the half-empty bottle. He was strangely glad to be in the old man’s company. What better place to be on edge than the edge? Joey settled back into the darkness, his fear and hunger temporarily appeased.
Bahala na,
Uncle.
Bahala na.

The assassin Joey described to Uncle was wiry and tall, with the pale, blemished skin of a mestizo. “I couldn’t see his eyes,” Joey said, dipping into the coke once again. “Those goddam regulation sunglasses! You can’t see eyes—you don’t know anything.”

The old man nodded, sober now. “That’s why the bastards wear them. Would you recognize him again? Come on Joey—think! This might save you in the end—”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. There were five or six others with him. Shit—I wasn’t really counting.”

“What about the gunman? Would you recognize him from a photograph?”

“Who knows—it all happened so fast. I could be wrong—”

“I don’t think so,” Uncle said, a grim look on his face. The dog jumped in his sleep, dreaming dog dreams. Uncle bent over to scratch his neck.

“Uncle—I was scared shitless. There I was—lying on the ground, pretending to be invisible. There might’ve been a hundred more of them, for all I know! Everything happened so fast, faster than you could imagine. I waited for them to shoot me next—just make it fast and sweet, I prayed. A million guns seemed to go off at once—” Joey started to laugh, then stopped himself. “I guess they wanted to make sure he was really dead, huh? They didn’t even see me. There was too much going on. I realized I was alive and crawling away—” Joey paused to reflect for a moment. “This skinny guy I told you about. He seemed to be in charge. I dunno why I think so, but it hit me the minute I saw him.”

“Why? What was it about him? Think!”

“I dunno why, Uncle. Look—I’m telling you the truth.” Joey suddenly thought of food. Something in a brown, tangy sauce poured over hot, steaming rice. Some kind of spicy meat, maybe chicken or goat. He thought of how the rice would fill his burning stomach, easing the pangs of hunger he was beginning to feel again.

“I know you’re telling me the truth,” the old man said amiably. He was thrilled by Joey’s disclosures but tried not to show it, his ravaged face a mask of calm. After a moment’s silence, he began questioning Joey again. “Trust your instincts, and they will lead you to the truth—what made you single out this man? What was it about him?”

The old man’s persistence wore Joey down. He snorted more coke before attempting to answer the question. “This man was the leader because he shone,” he finally said. “The others all looked the same to me, except for him—”

“What about his voice? Did he say or shout anything?”

Joey shook his head. “Did he carry a weapon you recognize?” Uncle raised his voice in excitement.

“I don’t know anything about guns,” Joey said, irritably. He took a deep breath. “Okay—he carried something like a small machine gun. And his face—it was a long face with bad skin. That’s all I remember, okay? Is that enough?”

The old man nodded, satisfied. He rose from his chair and went to a corner of the room where boxes were stacked on the floor. The dog woke at the sound of his master’s movements and leaped up to follow Uncle, wagging his tail and expecting food. The old man shooed him away. Joey watched Uncle rummage through the boxes; when Uncle found what he was looking for, he handed Joey a flat envelope. “Here—you need to sleep. It’s almost morning, and you’re going to have a long day ahead of you. Merry Christmas, Joey.”

Joey looked at the envelope in his hand. “I can’t, Uncle. I—feel sick,” Joey stammered, hunching his shoulders as if to ward off a chill. He was starting to panic. “I don’t think I need to sleep. I think I need to eat.” Joey shut his eyes and gritted his teeth.

“Well, there’s nothing here to eat except the dog,” Uncle said, “and you know I’d kill you first, heh-heh…” He gazed at the sick young man crouched on the floor, listlessly holding the envelope of precious heroin in one hand. When the old man spoke, his gruff tone softened into a soothing one. “Joey, listen to your Uncle. There’s nothing to be afraid of—you’re home now, remember? You just did a little too much of that foreigner’s coke. Plus you haven’t eaten—I haven’t eaten myself, since yesterday! Dog eats better than me—I make sure of that.
Ay
, Joey my boy. What you want for Christmas? What you want that’s going to make it all better for you? Uncle will do his best to help you,” the old man said, carefully removing the package from Joey’s limp, sweaty grasp. “Don’t worry—Uncle will do all the work. You’ll feel better—I’ll fix some for both of us. Then you can sleep. Sleep till tomorrow, with this. All day, if you want. You’re safe here,
di ba
? Uncle will take care of everything, lay out the mat for you…When you wake up, we’ll go out and eat—that little place you like. You’ll be refreshed! One-hundred percent better!” The old man bustled about the one-room shack, getting the works ready like a chef about to cook a gourmet meal. “You need sleep bad—anyone can see that,” the old man rattled on. “I go out later, do some business, pick up some food for Taruk. No one will bother you—I promise.”

Joey felt too weak to resist. “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded.

“I’ll be right back—you know Uncle always does his business quick. You’ll be asleep, won’t even know I’ve come and gone,” Uncle chuckled again.

“They’ll come here,” Joey insisted. “They’re looking for me. They know where you live—” He was delirious, rocking from side to side, crouched on the floor. He hadn’t moved from where he sat in hours. The dog looked up, growling.

“No one will come here,” Uncle grinned, shaking his head. “You’re well protected. No one will bother you, ever. This is Uncle’s house,” he reminded him, in the same soothing, maternal tone of voice. Uncle leaned closer to Joey, breathing heavily. The old man stroked Joey’s arm, and tapped the young man’s veins with a certain tenderness.

It was early morning, before the first rush of traffic and noise from the highway. Uncle tied the mongrel up with a long chain attached to his front door. Joey had finally drifted off to sleep, sucking his fist, curled tensely on the mat Uncle had laid out on the floor. The dog howled as the old man hurried down the alleyways and disappeared.

Sergeant Isidro Planas wasn’t surprised to see him enter the café. Like the Metrocom cop, the old man was one of the Ideal Café’s regulars. “
Ano ba
,
pare
? Good morning—come join me for coffee!” Sergeant Planas called out in a booming voice.

Every morning, bright and early, Isidro Planas was the Ideal’s first and most enthusiastic customer. The proprietor was a surly, rotund widow named Mrs. Amor, referred to as “Missus” by most people.

The old man sat down at the Sergeant’s table. Wearing a shapeless housedress and threadbare, beaded velvet slippers on her swollen feet, Mrs. Amor took her time wandering over with an extra cup and saucer. “Are you eating, Uncle?” Sergeant Planas asked.

“Uncle never eats,” Mrs. Amor said matter-of-factly. She ignored Uncle’s mumbled greeting. She set down before him an economy-size jar of Nescafé, a thermos jug of hot water, and a bowl of sugar. Waving flies away with her other hand, she then brought over an extra spoon as well as a small can of evaporated milk which she put down in the center of the plastic-covered table, making as much noise as possible. After she left, Sergeant Planas shook his head. “Strange bitch—but what a great cook! They say she poisoned her poor husband. Did you know he was a cop?”

“
Siempre.
Everyone knows that. So—she sent him to an early grave, huh?” The old man stirred Nescafé into his cup of boiling water.

“You bet. I put up with her, though—we all do. She can put a hex on you,” Sergeant Planas whispered. He resumed a normal tone of voice. “You should eat, Uncle. You’re getting too skinny in your old age.”

“Graveyard food. No thanks.”

“C’mon—the food’s great here! I just ordered breakfast—” Sergeant Planas did not like to eat alone.

The old man sipped his coffee. “I’m in a hurry. I need to contact someone—maybe you can help.”

A thickset man with a bushy mustache and a perpetual smile, Sergeant Planas told himself something was up with the wily old man but he’d better play dumb. He pulled out his pack of Winstons with a flourish and offered it to Uncle. “Go on,” he urged, “help yourself—U.S. brand! That’s all I smoke…” He licked his teeth. “You know how it is—local brands give me a sore throat.”

Uncle put two cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “For later,” he said.

“You know Bobby in customs? Gets me all I need. Charges me almost nothing,” Sergeant Planas boasted. The old man nodded, bored.

“You know Bobby?” Sergeant Planas asked again, after a moment of uneasy silence. The old man shook his head.

“My wife’s first cousin. Big shot at the airport. A good man to know. Just tell him you’re my friend—”

Uncle shrugged. “I don’t hang around airports,” he said, drily.

Mrs. Amor appeared with a tray of food. She set the plate of runny eggs, rice, and greasy sausages in front of the policeman and started to walk away. Sergeant Planas took one look at his food and called out to her frantically. “Missus! Missus! What’s this?” Mrs. Amor turned around slowly, a profoundly indifferent look permanently fixed on her moon face. She said nothing: “Missus, I ordered
tapa
,” Sergeant Planas said, his face flushed. “And sardines—
tapa,
sardines, and garlic-fried rice. NO eggs. NO sausages.”

“
Tapa.
Sardines.” Mrs. Amor raised one grotesque, thinly penciled eyebrow. “I don’t have
tapa,
Sergeant Planas. I’m out of sardines. If you want garlic, I’ll bring you a bowl of it. Fresh garlic! Chopped, cooked, or raw—how would you like it? I’ll make it special, just for you—” The widow’s body shook as she laughed.