Paco dealt out of an apartment in one of those creaky, prewar buildings in Malate that his family owned. He could get you anything, Louie said. Even the latest and most expensive high, which was crack. You’re fucking kidding me, I said. Crack?
Louie shrugged. He always insisted I come along with him to score, for some mysterious reason. Misery loves company, I guess. Paco’s clientele was small and definitely A-list, with money to burn. Louie — a thirty-year-old brat who depended on his mother’s generous monthly allowance and had never worked a day in his life — was one of the lucky few. I knew I was out of my league, and made every effort to stay away. Plus, I couldn’t stand Paco acting like I didn’t exist. He’d been cold toward me since that night at the club, and had eyes only for Gala. Once I started working at the call center, it got a little easier to stay away. The job sucked, but I actually got off saying shit like: American Express Customer Service, Ralph speaking. How may I help you?
Ralph. Steve. Randy. Whatever. I finally made it to an AA meeting held in this sweet little community center close to my aunt’s house in Quezon City. But there were too many bornagain freaks in the room and I never went back. As the weeks of stifling heat and torrential rains dragged on, I resolved:
1. To stop thinking about Paco.
2. To stop hanging out with Louie.
3. To not get fired.
4. To buy a car.
5. To move out of Tita Moning’s and rent my own apartment.
6. To help my father die a dignified death.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I did manage to buy a car. A 2005 Corolla from the call center agent who worked in the cubicle next to me. The kind of car that Louie wouldn’t be caught dead driving or riding in, which was fine by me.
One night the craving was so strong, I slipped out of the house and drove to Paco’s apartment. The maids were asleep. My aunt and uncle were in Cebu, overseeing the opening of another Ang Sarap! franchise. Louie was at some mall, covering a men’s fashion show for his fucking blog. No one was around to ask where I was going. My father lay in the downstairs guest room dreaming his morphine dreams, watched over by the private nurse Tita Moning had hired. I peered into the room on my way out the door. His mouth was slack and open. He didn’t look like my father.
There was a man leaving Paco’s apartment when I got there. An elegant older man who reeked of cologne and had skin darker than mine. Paco didn’t bother introducing us and the man averted his face and left without saying goodbye. Paco locked the door behind him. Then turned to me, all business.
Where’s Louie? Isn’t Louie with you?
No.
It’s kind of late. What’s your pleasure, Nick? Coke? Crack?
You seem pissed off.
I’m not.
I’ll leave if you want.
You can stay or you can go. It’s a free country, Nick.
Did I interrupt something? That guy— What guy?
Who was just here.
Rodel? He’s my lola’s DI. You know what “DI” stands for in this town? Dance instructor. That’s code for gigolo, if you haven’t guessed.
Your lola sounds interesting.
Paco burst out laughing. Oh she is. Believe me, she is.
He lit a cigarette for me, then for himself. Then he sauntered over to a cabinet and brought out a bottle of Patrón. He turned off his cell phone and put on some painful, sexy song by Nina Simone. We sat across from each other in the dimly lit mess of a living room and smoked and drank, playing staring games and prolonging the inevitable. Then Paco brought out the coke, cutting fat lines on a mirror. I thought about saying no. Getting up and making my grand exit. I had to show up for work in a few hours. When I didn’t move, Paco bent over the table and did a couple of lines. Then handed me the rolled-up thousand-peso bill and said, It’s a free country, Nick.
Ours was a dark, dirty, thrilling secret. Not even Louie knew. Though he wasn’t a total fool and probably smelled that something was up. Now here’s the thing: Paco didn’t want to be seen with me in public; he’d made it perfectly clear. There was the issue of swanlike Gala, who he referred to — unironically — as “my fiancée.” There was the issue of his snotty associates. And underneath it all, I knew, there was the issue of me being who I was. But what the fuck, I kept telling myself. The coke was free and the sex was good. Did I hate him? You bet. Did I love him? You bet.
Then one day Paco disappeared, just like that. He didn’t call or text me back. Or Louie, or anyone else. I drove to his apartment in Malate one night after work. Sat outside like an idiot in my sad-ass car for hours, hoping he’d show up. My cell was on vibrate. Louie texted, then Tita Moning. I ignored them. By the time I got back to my aunt’s house, my father was dead.
According to Louie, Paco owed some psycho Muslims in Caloocan and had to leave town. Or maybe it was some psycho cop in Precinct Five, or maybe some psycho military guy from Camp Aguinaldo. The gist of it was Paco had burned his suppliers and made them very angry. The chismis got wilder. His Range Rover had been found abandoned in Pagsanjan. A burned-out shell, picked clean by thieves. There were Paco sightings in Baguio, Palawan, Bangkok, Sydney, and Amsterdam. Gala’s father, who was high up in government and therefore privy to really inside shit, told her that Paco’s mutilated corpse had just been found floating in the Pasig. And that, furthermore, Paco’s pretty green eyes had been scooped out with a spoon.
We were at the Starbucks in Rockwell, where Louie and Gala liked to hang out, order mocha Frappuccinos, and be seen. Gala seemed pretty spooked. She kept looking from me to Louie. It can’t be true, right? Just my father and his chismis. Paco’s alive. Hiding out until it’s safe to come back. Nothing will ever happen, no matter who’s been double-crossed. Not with that family of his. They’ll always protect him. Right?
She was weeping softly now. People at the other tables were turning to gawk at us. I handed her a bunch of paper napkins. Louie looked uneasy and patted her hand. He asked if she wanted another Frappuccino. He sure did. And maybe a croissant. Then he turned to me. What about you, Nick? Another espresso? I shook my head. Gala stopped crying long enough to say she was badly in need of some coke. Did Louie have any? Louie shook his head. Gala didn’t bother asking me. She depended on Paco, she said. For her coke, for her fun, for her everything. And who was she supposed to depend on now?
It was raining and I almost didn’t recognize him. He was huddled in the doorway of this skeevy noodle joint in Binondo, the kind of skeevy joint in a skeevy alley where you wouldn’t expect to see a guy like Paco. Or maybe you would. I pulled up and he got in the Corolla. The air-con wasn’t working, but I had made sure to clean the car before picking him up.
We’re going to my house in Forbes Park. McKinley Road, right by the Polo Club. You know how to get there, or shall I drive? His tone was curt. It reminded me of the way Louie talked to his driver.
Paco’s hair was cut short and dyed black. His clothes smelled funky, like he’d been living in them a long time.
I miss you, I said, which was a big mistake.
He kept jiggling his right knee and staring straight ahead.
I’m glad you’re not dead, I said. Another big mistake.
Just get me to Forbes Park in one piece, Nick. That’s all I ask.
Traffic was insane. Everybody either coming from or going to church, or heading out to have some big Sunday-night family dinner.
Coño, Paco kept muttering. Coño, coño, coño.