We were stalled at the world’s longest light. A ghostly beggarwoman and her baby appeared at my window. The woman’s face dripping with rain. She held an open tube of Rugby up to her baby’s nose. The baby wrapped in rags and not moving. It was either a doll or it was dead.
How much should I give her? I asked Paco, suddenly panicky.
Ignore her, Paco said.
I can’t.
Try, Paco said. He kept checking his phone.
The light finally changed. The woman snarled at me and ran back to the median. I stepped on the gas.
Funny, how Forbes Park is a gated community except for McKinley Road. Funny, considering who lives there. Paco’s grandmother, for one thing. And other old-money families, richer and even more venerable than his. Dynastic fortunes made from shipping, from sugar, abaca, timber, copra, steel. And owning vast tracts of land, soaked in bloody history.
The house was hidden from the road by a high fence topped by barbed wire and jagged pieces of glass. There used to be a guard at the gate named Dionisio, Paco said. But he got busted trying to sell my lola’s missing diamond necklace. Turned out he and one of the maids were robbing her blind.
He got out of the car and slipped his small hand — one of his least attractive traits — between the wrought-iron bars of the front gate and slid open the latch. I parked the car under an enormous acacia tree. The rain had stopped and the ground was muddy. We walked up to the entrance of the dark, sprawling house. I was nervous and starting to regret that I had come. Paco pressed the buzzer.
Back in the good old days, he said, you’d hear the intercom crackle before Miss Aguilar’s voice piped up: May I help you?
Miss Aguilar was Lola Conching’s secretary, and English was the language meant to put you in your place. It didn’t matter if you were a fucking taho vendor or a fucking congressman, or some high-society matron who played mah-jongg with my lola on Saturday afternoons. You had to announce yourself to Miss Aguilar and get ready to wait.
And so we waited.
Don’t you have a key? I asked him.
My lola had the locks changed when she kicked me out, Paco said. He pressed the buzzer again. When there was still no answer, he banged on the carved molave door with his fist. I thought I heard the faraway sound of a lost dog barking in a dream. My own fist throbbed with pain as I watched Paco bang on the heavy door.
It finally opened a crack. A man’s gravelly voice said in disgust, Oh, it’s you.
Paco pushed the door open and headed for the stairs, me attempting to follow. The man blocked our path.
You’re not supposed to be here, he said.
I recognized Rodel, the man I’d run into leaving Paco’s apartment. He and Paco were staring at each other with hatred. Rodel wore a robe over his fancy pajamas and looked very much at home.
Get out of my way, Paco said, trying to get past him. This is my house.
You mean your lola’s, Rodel shot back. He grabbed Paco by the arm to stop him from going any farther. You can’t go up there. She’s had enough of you.
And you? Paco asked, leaning in and never taking his eyes off Rodel’s face. Their lips close enough for a kiss. Have you had enough of me?
Your lola’s not well, Rodel said in a quiet voice. You and your friend should leave, before you get us all killed.
Paco wrenched his arm free. Then pulled a knife and stabbed Rodel in the neck.
I didn’t see where the knife came from, didn’t see Paco whip it out of his jean jacket, his boot, wherever he was hiding it. Blood was spurting out of Rodel and I remember screaming like a girl. He died without making a sound. Paco ran up the stairs and didn’t bother to look back at what he had done. I scrambled after him, not wanting to be left behind with Rodel’s corpse. Statues of angels and saints leered down at us from their recessed shrines along the stairway.
Lola Conching, an ancient crocodile of a woman, was propped up in her massive bed watching television. One bejeweled hand clutching the remote, the other a flute of chilled vodka. She didn’t seem surprised to see us. The air-con was humming, the lamps were lit, the news was on. More beheadings in Basilan by the Abu Sayyaf. Paco flopped down next to her and rested his head on her shoulder. I noticed the blood on Paco’s shirt and wondered if she did too.
You need a bath, hijo, Lola Conching said. Then she said: What happened to your hair?
You shouldn’t watch this depressing shit, Lola. You’ll have nightmares, Paco said.
The old woman sipped her vodka. You know I like to keep informed. Would you rather I watch a Koreanovela?
I miss you, Lola. I miss you so much, Paco said.
Lola Conching stroked his head. This went on for some time. Then she said: You need money? You’re always in trouble and you always need money. She took note of me standing there with a stunned expression. What’s wrong with your friend?
He needs a drink, Paco said. And so do I.
You know where everything is. Help yourselves. I’ve fired all the maids. Or maybe you boys haven’t noticed?
The bottle of Absolut was in a minifridge next to her dressing table. We each took swigs.
Do you remember when your Lolo Ramon was kidnapped on his way home from the airport? Lola Conching asked Paco, muting the volume but keeping her eyes fixed on the screen. It was midnight when he landed on the last plane from Hong Kong. Remember? They were waiting for him on the highway. Shot Peping. You remember Peping? A nice bodyguard, very polite. Anyway, they shot Peping five or six times, then the driver. Then cut their throats. Overkill, talaga. It was all over the news. You must’ve been nine or ten— Five, Paco said.
I was five.
The gang held your lolo hostage for over two weeks, the old woman continued. Terrible times, so much drama. I was convinced that everyone was in cahoots, including the cops. A lot of people hated your grandfather. And do you know why?
Because he was a son of a bitch and not afraid of anyone, Paco answered. Like you.
I paid the ransom, the old woman said. Like I was supposed to. After the cops brought your lolo home — the same cops who probably kidnapped him — I said to your mother, They’ll kidnap you and your son next. Or me. Mark my words.
Mom wasn’t there, Paco said.
Lola Conching tore her eyes away from the television. What?
Dead from an overdose the year I turned two. Just like my father.
Is that so? The old woman didn’t seem convinced.
Lolo bought you a gun, Paco said. I remember that.
That’s right. A 9mm. Glock.
Why’d you move him in?
Who?
Rodel.
The old woman shrugged. You have to understand, hijo. When your grandfather died, a sort of madness set in. I had the security system deactivated and fired everyone — Miss Aguilar, the driver, the gardener, the cook, the labandera, the—
Then you went dancing, Paco said.
I felt liberated! Ballroom, cha-cha, tango—
Then you moved him in.
That’s right. Rodel’s good company. Makes me laugh. He cooks for me. Sings to me. Sometimes he even does my hair.
People are after me, Lola. I need your help.
The woman’s gaze shifted from Paco to me. Where’s Rodel?
People are after me, Paco repeated. I need money. My money. All of it.
What money? It’s all been spent.
What do you mean, it’s all been spent?
Squandered, the old woman said. By you and everyone else in this cursed house.
They’re going to kill me, Paco said.
Me! Me! Me! You brought this upon yourself. Suffer the consequences.