Eventually, he found himself on the street with the bar. He waited. He felt like sinking down on the pavement, but looked in disgust at the gobs of spit that formed a dense pattern by the gutters. When the woman finally came out, she seemed to look for him. Her eyes found him, and he sensed the invitation and longing. He came forward.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He spoke very softly, hoarse with fear and desire.
“Honey,” she said, smiling. “What’s yours?”
He shook his head and paused. Then he decided that she deserved to know at least this about him: “Epifanio,” he said.
She kept smiling. She leaned against him. He could feel her small breasts, pressed against his chest. He raised his right arm to circle her waist.
“You like me?” she whispered.
He nodded. From his pocket, he pulled out all the money he had. She grabbed the bills eagerly and started to count. Then she said, “You rich? Did you really mean to offer this much?”
He didn’t even know how much he had in his pocket. When did he get the money? This morning? He saw the eyes of the dead man. He stanched the memory.
“Yes, I meant to offer that much,” he asserted. He felt manly now. Strong.
Honey laughed. “You can have me the whole night for this,” she said.
Epifanio nodded. She drew him inside.
Darling, You Can Count On Me
by Eric Gamalinda
Santa Cruz
1. From the Manila Times
May 30, 1967. A garbage collector found a pair of legs, severed neatly into four parts at the knees and hip joints and wrapped in old newspapers, in a trash pile on Avenida Rizal, Santa Cruz, at 11:25 last night. Last week, a badly decomposed human hand was found in front of a barbershop on Recto Avenue. Is anybody missing a sister, daughter, or niece — about 18 or 20?
May 31, 1967. Police investigators last night established the identity of the woman whose headless body was found in a vacant lot on Epifanio de los Santos Avenue yesterday afternoon. The dead woman’s fingerprints matched police files of Lucila Lalu, 29. Detectives said a pair of legs found yesterday in a trash can on Avenida Rizal also belonged to Miss Lalu, owner of the Pagoda Cocktail Lounge and Lucy’s House of Beauty in Santa Cruz. A coroner said the woman had just given birth.
June 1, 1967. Police last night detained the alleged paramour of Lucila Lalu, whose headless body was found Tuesday evening. However, Florante Relos, 19, who admitted being the lover of Miss Lalu, was released after he gave what police thought was an “airtight” alibi — on the night of the murder, he had been drinking with three friends, who corroborated his story. Relos said that Miss Lalu had wanted to break up with him and that he had stopped seeing her two weeks ago.
June 6, 1967. Manila police have tagged Patrolman Aniano de Vera as a principal suspect in the murder of Lucila Lalu. Police believe Officer de Vera, Miss Lalu’s husband of seven years, had “the strongest motive” — jealousy. De Vera recently discovered that Miss Lalu had been having an affair with Florante Relos, a waiter at her cocktail lounge.
June 15, 1967. Unburdening himself of the weight of his guilt, Jose Luis Santiano, married and father of five, submitted a handwritten confession to police authorities. Santiano, a boarder on the mezzanine above Lucila Lalu’s beauty parlor in Santa Cruz, said Miss Lalu tried to seduce him in his bedroom at around 11:30 p.m. last May 28, and that he strangled Miss Lalu during a “mental blackout.”
June 18, 1967. Jose Luis Santiano last night retracted his previous confession that he killed Lucila Lalu and claimed, instead, that he was an unwilling witness to the murder by three men. These men allegedly instructed him to admit to the murder and claim Miss Lalu tried to seduce him. They also warned him not to tell anybody about the murder. Meanwhile, investigators say the latest piece of evidence against Santiano is a ball-peen hammer found on a ledge of his mezzanine apartment. Is Santiano lying? Was he paid to confess? Did he participate in the crime?
2. Florante’s version
First of all, she wouldn’t change the lock on him. That is so beneath her. He tries his key again. It gets stuck in the lock, and he tries to wiggle it free. No use. Aniano must have done it. The man is a pig and a snake. Baboy na, ahas pa. No wonder she hasn’t fucked him in years. The very idea makes him want to puke.
He looks up. The sky is a churning mass of gray. Bruise-colored is the way she likes to describe it, just before it rains. She said a poet taught her that. From the corner of his eye he can see flickering lights where the alley opens up to Avenida Rizal. The sun has just set. Its last faint light glimmers like tinsel peeling off the sides of jeepneys as they careen through the avenue. Glimmers: maybe if he started talking like a poet she would change her mind. Like tinseclass="underline" that must be a good sign. God has given him a sign. If God lets him get to her before she does it, if he can stop her somehow...
But she couldn’t have changed the lock on him. He tiptoes to look in through the shop window, the bottom half of which is boarded up. He’s not very tall. She once made a remark about that. He was hurt, and she never said it again. He can see part of the shop where he helped her install a red leatherette sofa just a month ago. It was going to be her new reception area, where the ladies of the Pagoda Cocktail Lounge could read the latest gossip magazines while they waited for their turn to get their hair teased or their nails done. Red for good luck, just like the Chinese siopao vendors along the avenue told her. I believe in the signs, he says to himself. Give me a sign, and I will believe.
He can see her lying on the sofa, her forearm resting over her eyes, her legs stretched across a pool of shiny red. He can see her so clearly: there’s a run in her stocking, revealing a pale slice of skin. He taps on the window. She’s barely breathing. He taps again, softly at first, then louder and more insistently. She must be fast asleep. Odd to do that at this hour, so early in the evening, when a stray hostess with an emergency — a broken nail, a wealthy date who wants her hair done a certain way — might just pop in, breathless and frantic and needing her help.
Maybe she already did it. But she wouldn’t get rid of her baby just because she’s seeing another boy. And she wouldn’t desert him for another boy. You are far too pure for that, he finds himself whispering as he taps on the window again. The light of the lamppost across the street hisses, sputters, then goes out. The alley is totally dark now. He looks at his watch. He has spent an entire hour trying to get in. The sky looks like it’s about to fall. It’s too early for rain. Rain doesn’t come till June. Not till next week.
He looks in again. She has put her arm down, but her eyes are still shut. He taps and taps but she does not move. And then, for some reason, something in him sinks. He feels the weight bearing down on him. He knows the sky is going to break and rain will fall, early and bizarre. Maybe she’s already done it. This cannot be undone. God has given him a sign. God is telling him he has come too late. God wants to get drunk with him. God is saying that forgetting is as easy as a case of beer. I’ll drink a case with You, God, so I’ll have the guts to tell You to go to hell.