Part III
They Live by Night
Old Money
by Jessica Hagedorn
Forbes Park
Paco texted me, asking for a ride. No explanation, no hey man I miss u, no please. It had been — according to the dates crossed off on my calendar — exactly five weeks since he’d disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead. I texted Paco right back, like nothing was out of the ordinary: k cu soon: D
I couldn’t resist signing off with that smiley face. It was the kind of corny crap that got on Paco’s nerves.
Three more days of heavy rain went by. The sewers backed up in certain parts of Manila. No one seemed too concerned. On the fourth day, I got another text from Paco, this time naming a location. Then another one seconds later: dont b L8.
His terse, cryptic messages were oddly flattering. Was I — the balikbayan son of a dying nobody father — the only one left in Manila he could trust?
About Nicanor, my dying nobody father. Tita Moning had paid his hospital bill and taken him in after the doctors at Philippine General let her know that there was nothing more they could do for him. Pop had nowhere else to go. His young, pregnant Japayuki girlfriend was long gone.
Moning was Pop’s sister, a wiz at making money. Her savvy little start-ups had made her a rich woman: Moning’s Vulcanizing & Auto Repair, Moning’s Washeteria & Dry Clean, Moning’s Ang Sarap! Cupcake Café. Like everyone else in my family, I leaned on my aunt whenever I was in trouble. Like when I lost my job and went into rehab and was behind on rent and living on food stamps and getting pretty fucking desperate. My own mother was shacked up with this redneck in Reno and — just like my pop — couldn’t be counted on for anything. But Tita Moning came through like she always did. Wire transfer, sympathy, and not too many probing questions.
So when she Skyped to say that I should get my sorry ass out of Long Beach and back to Manila, how could I say no?
I’ll pay your airfare. You can stay with us, Junior. My new house has plenty bedrooms. And a swimming pool.
That’s nice, Tita Moning.
She let out one of those heavy Filipino sighs. Your father does not have long for this earth.
I know, Tita Moning. I know.
Cancer of the brain, lungs, liver, esophagus — Got it, Tita Moning. Jeez.
The sharpness of my tone took my aunt by surprise. She looked like she wanted to reach through the laptop screen and smack me good and hard.
After a few seconds of silence, Tita Moning dropped another bomb. She’d gotten me a job.
It’s waiting for you, Junior. My kumadre’s son manages a call center in Pasig.
But I don’t know anything about—
So what? You sound American and that’s what counts.
My cousin Louie met me at the airport the night I arrived. All smiles and hugs, scrutinizing me furtively from head to toe. My no-brand jeans and plain black T-shirt undoubtedly a huge disappointment. We used to be close as kids. But when my mom left my pop and whisked me off to the States without warning, Louie and I lost touch. I was keeping up with him on Facebook, though. Louie called himself a men’s fashion blogger and had quite a following, though his blog was nothing more than snapshots of stoned guys in clubs flaunting the latest hipster gear. Last time I checked, Louie had 5,151 Facebook “friends.” I was one of them.
The car was a brand-new Lexus, the driver a solemn man named Fausto. He addressed me as “sir” and Louie as “señorito.” Instead of having Fausto take us straight to my aunt’s house like he was supposed to, Señorito Louie ordered him to make a detour to the Fort.
Wait till you see how Fort Bonifacio’s changed, Louie gushed. Talagang galing! Then he asked, You still understand Tagalog, Nick?
My Tagalog sucks, but I get the gist.
Up ahead was a glitzy fortress that took up the entire block, pulsing with lights. Louie ordered Fausto to drop us off and find somewhere to park. And don’t forget to keep your phone on, Louie said in English.
Fausto nodded. Oo po, señorito.
It was already past midnight. Won’t your mom be pissed off at us? I remember asking Louie.
She’ll blame Fausto, Louie said. Maybe even fire him.
The line of trendsetters snaked around the block. We strolled up to the front of the line, ignoring the resentful stares of everyone around us. The gatekeeper stood by the entrance with a couple of security guys. Louie caught me eyeing the guy’s shoes. They were black and silver bowling shoes, really slick.
Prada. I have the same pair in gold, Louie said. Galing, ano?
Mr. Prada waved us in.
It felt good in there. The delirious mob thrashing around to a thumping soundtrack, desperate to have fun. We grabbed a couple of drinks at the downstairs bar and watched them dance. I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but there you go. Three months of sobriety right out the window. Louie kept making vicious comments about people’s haircuts, outfits, fat asses, no-asses, who was definitely hot and who wasn’t. It was funny at first, but got old really fast.
And then they walked in. It was really the guy who first caught my attention. Sweeping into the club like he owned it, with those green eyes and a killer smile. A swanlike girl in a tiny dress and high-heeled boots hung onto his arm, like she was afraid she might fall down or something.
Who’s that? I asked Louie.
He goes by Paco.
And the girl?
Gala.
She a model?
When you can get her to show up, Louie snickered.
I was introduced as Louie’s long-lost cousin from California. Paco and Gala were clearly coked up, Paco in an expansive, convivial mood. He invited us to join them upstairs in the cordoned-off VIP lounge. Where he said the service was one on one, the music different and not as loud. We slid into a spacious booth in a shadowy corner.
Welcome to my satellite office, Paco said. We all laughed.
Gala complained about the air-con being on too high. Paco gave her his jacket. A waiter scurried over and said drinks were on the house. Paco didn’t seem surprised. He told the waiter to bring a bottle of Rémy for the table, without asking us what we wanted. Then he lit a cigarette. I noticed the tattoo of thorns around his wrist.
Most of us can’t wait to get out of this country and live somewhere else. Why’d you move back here, Nick?
I heard the surfing’s awesome.
It is. You a surfer, Nick?
Are you?
I’m a businessman. Ready for a toot?
I followed him to the men’s room like a meek little lamb. We locked ourselves in one of the stalls. Two searing hits of Paco’s coke and I lost my inhibition. I leaned in and kissed his mouth. The kiss was gruff and quick. He pushed me away with a smile.
Not so fast, kid.
We went back to the table without saying a word. Louie and Gala were waiting for us.
Can we have some too? Gala cooed.