Perfect Gentleman (2 page)

I laughed. Take one of the girls shopping and she’d stay with you for free. It was their religion, but one
they
seldom indulged in unless it was on someone else’s dime. “So I’ll take that as a yes.”

The smile slipped again. “For the most part.”

We drank in relative silence as the perpetual soundtrack of Justin Timberlake and Robbie Williams and even vintage Spice Girls played on, only at slightly reduced, afternoon levels.

“Can I trust you?” Perdue asked.

I looked over at him, a knowing grin on my face. “Of course.”

It was my standard answer. Truth was, I already knew what he was going to tell me. It was going to be some variation of “Ellie’s not like the other girls,” or “I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time since I took her home,” or “Do you think you can meet someone special at a place like this?” They were all a prelude, a set-up to talking oneself into believing he’d fallen in love. Perhaps Ellie had actually found her ticket out of town.

But even as the thought came to me, I questioned whether it would really pan out. After you’ve worked here as many years as I have, you get a sense of the guys. And my sense of Perdue was that he wasn’t looking for a wife.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Can I trust you?”

I lifted up my beer. “You can tell me whatever you want. It’ll just be between us.”

For a few seconds, I thought he wasn’t going to say anything. He leaned toward me. “I’m Homeland Security,” he finally said, his voice barely audible above the music. In fact, it was so low, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.

“What?” I asked.

“Homeland Security. You know what that is, right?”

I’d been living in the Philippines since the late nineties and hadn’t actually set foot Stateside since before 9/11. But with CNN International and the large American ex-pat community—most of
whom
were former military—you couldn’t help knowing a little bit about what was happening back home.

“That’s,
like
, anti-terrorism, right?”

“That’s just part of it. But, yeah, that’s our main focus.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean
,
we get all types in the bar. Maybe he was trying to impress me. Homeland Security—it did sound important. Maybe I should have been impressed. But I wasn’t.

“I’m here looking into a few potential rumors. We want to neutralize any problems before they develop.”

“Neutralize?” I repeated. I think it might have been the first time I’d ever heard it used like that in conversation. “That’s why you’re in Angeles? Or why you’re at my bar?”

“The Philippines,” he said. “Mainly in the south. Two months now. I came up here for a little relaxation.”

Now we were back on familiar territory. “Glad we could help you with that.”

The corners of his mouth went up and down in what I could only describe as a quick smile. “When I was in Manila yesterday…” He let the words hang as he took a sip of his San Miguel.

“On your business,” I offered.

He nodded. “On my business. I heard something disturbing. It came to us through a very dependable source. But you know how these things are.”

No, actually, I didn’t. And I had no idea why he was even telling me any of this. But he was the customer, so I wasn’t about to stop him. Besides, it wasn’t just the girls who fell into a routine. Someday, I could tell this story to my other
Papasan
friends. They’d love it. “The secret agent confesses all to Papa Wade.”

“Seems there might be trouble here in Angeles,” Perdue finally said.

I almost laughed out loud. Terrorism? Here in Angeles? Gangs, yes.
But terrorists?
Something that would concern the government of the United States of America?
Not possible.

“I think maybe your source is screwing with you,” I said.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Perdue said. “But I did a little checking this morning, and now I’m not so sure.”

“We’ve never had any of that kind of trouble. And I’m sure we’re not about to, either.” I suddenly had no desire to continue talking about this. I didn’t want to know. I was happy with my beer and my girls and my life. Terrorists were problems for someone and somewhere else.

“Yeah, well, they didn’t have that kind of trouble in Bali before, but we all know what happened there.”

That stopped me.

Bali was the thing someone always brought up on those rare occasions when conversation turned to terrorism. And Bali scared the shit out of me. That had been in 2002.
Two bombs at nightclubs in the tourist district.
A couple hundred people died. All of us in Angeles knew at the time it could have just as easily happened in front of one of our places. And then, over weeks and months, we forgot about it, pushing it out of our minds and returning to the belief it could never happen here.

“I’m not sure you should be telling me this,” I finally said.

Perdue leaned in. “I’m telling you this for a very good reason. I need your help.”

“My help?”

“I got a name and picture from my source in Manila. He’s been involved in kidnappings and executions in the south, but it appears his
commanders
have ordered him to set up shop here in your part of the country. The funny thing is, when I saw the picture, I knew I’d seen him recently. Here.”

“In Angeles? It’s a big city.”

He shook his head. “On Fields Avenue.” Fields was the main street that ran through the bar district. “I want you to look at the picture. Tell me if you recognize him.”

I could feel a bead of sweat growing on my brow, not unusual for hot and humid Angeles City, but definitely unusual in my bar where I kept the AC on all the time so it was always comfortable.

Perdue reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to me.

“Well?” he asked.

I looked at the picture. It was fuzzy, like it was out of focus. To me, and I’m not expert at this, it looked like the picture had been taken from a distance using a zoom lens.

 
The subject was a man. A Filipino. I guessed anywhere from twenty-five to thirty. He was sitting on a motorcycle facing the camera. His brown skin looked extra dark, probably from spending too many hours in the sun. Other than that, there was nothing to distinguish him from a couple hundred other guys who drove motorcycles in the city.

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “Could be familiar, but it’s not a great photo.”

“His name’s Ernesto de la Cruz. Does that help?”

Acting is a big part of being a
Papasan
. You’ve got to always be happy, always on. You’ve got to act like your patrons’ jokes are really funny. You’ve got to pretend there’s never a bad day on Fields Avenue.

So when I heard the name and looked at the picture again, I didn’t flinch.

“Never heard of him,” I lied.

Perdue looked at me, a stupid little smile on his face,
his
eyes on my eyes. It was like he knew I was lying, like he was waiting for me to take it back and tell him the truth.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know him.”

He hesitated for half a second more, then broke off his stare. “You keep that picture. Maybe you can show it around. See if any of the girls know who he is. But don’t tell anyone I’m looking for him.”

“And if someone does know who he is?”

Perdue picked up his beer. “See if you can find out where he lives.”

“I don’t know if I want to get in the middle of anything here.”

“You’re a good American, right?”

I didn’t respond right away. I didn’t like the direction this was going, but when he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, I said, “Sure.”

“Then finding out where he lives isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

“I didn’t say I could find out.”

“I have faith in you.”

After he left, I asked Kat for a match,
then
burned the photo. I wasn’t able to relax until the last of the image blackened then turned to ash.

I knew who Ernesto de la Cruz was. He was a local. Helped me out sometimes at the bar—washing glasses, stocking beer, that kind of thing—when one of my regular guys needed a day off. He was a good kid. Smiled a lot.
Always respectful.
As far as I knew, he’d never been south of Manila.

A terrorist? Not even remotely possible. Of course, the moment Perdue mentioned Ernesto’s name, I knew this wasn’t about terrorism.

Ernesto de la Cruz was Ellie’s boyfriend. And I would bet everything I own that Perdue knew that, too.

That evening, I asked Marguerite—one of my girls and Ellie’s best friend—to text Ellie and tell her I wanted to talk to her. I’d trained the girls to know if they received a text like that, they were to stop by the bar at their next opportunity and see me.

I didn’t expect to see her until the next day, and I was right.

It was just before noon. The bar wasn’t open yet but I was already there. Ellie knocked at the front door and I let her in.

“You want me, Papa?” she asked once we were alone inside.

“How is everything?” I said.

She hesitated only long enough for me to notice. “Okay. Fine.”

“Mr. Perdue’s treating you all right?”

“Joe took me to Manila. He
buy
me lot of things.”

“So he hasn’t hurt you?”

There was that pause again. “No. Why?”

“When was the last time you saw Ernesto?”

“What?” My question obviously surprised her.

“Have you seen him this week?”

“No. Of course not.”

It was a pat answer. If the girls were on an extended bar fine, the house rule was no contact with any boyfriends. The reason was to avoid exactly the problem that seemed to be developing here.

“Ellie. Tell me the last time you saw him.”

“Last weekend,” she said quickly. “Sunday, I think.”

The girls were as good at lying as I was. But unlike their temporary boyfriends, I’d long ago developed the ability to discern whether they were telling me the truth.

“When, Ellie?”

The sparkle in her eyes disappeared as she realized she’d been caught. “Yesterday,” she said. “Joe went out for a while in the afternoon. I meet Ernesto at his place.
But only for an hour.
I don’t lie.”

That had probably been around the same time Perdue had stopped by the bar. “And before that, when?”

“The day before Joe take me to Manila.”

“Jesus, Ellie. You know the rules.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Perdue must have seen you. He was asking about him.”

“Joe wants his money back, doesn’t he?” She looked horrified. “I’m sorry, Papa. I shouldn’t have seen him. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

I shook my head. “It’s not the money.”

“Then what?”

I contemplated stopping right there. I should have, but I didn’t. “He wanted to know if I could find out where Ernesto lived.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think Perdue is a good man.”

The true meaning of my words took a moment to sink in. When they finally did, she stepped away from me and turned for the door. “I have to tell Ernesto!”

I grabbed her arm, stopping her. “You can’t go anywhere near Ernesto.”

“But Joe will try to hurt him.”

“Tell me how to find Ernesto. I’ll tell him to get lost for a few days. Maybe he can go down to Manila.”

“You’ll do that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you know when Joe’s leaving town?”

“Monday, I think.”

She told me where Ernesto lived, then, almost as if she didn’t want to say it, added, “He pushed me.”

“Who?”

“Joe,” she said. “It was late, but I wanted to go out dancing. He said he was tired. I teased him, and he pushed me into the wall.”

I held my tongue as a surge of anger grew inside me.

“He said it was an accident. That he was just teasing back, but he wasn’t. He pushed me. He’ll hurt Ernesto.”

“Go to your place,” I said. “Stay there until Perdue leaves town. I’ll tell him you got sick. I’ll give him back his money if he asks.”

“What about Ernesto?”

“I’ll find him. It’ll be okay.”

Only it wasn’t okay.

Ernesto shared a room in a dingy building about a mile from Fields Avenue. When I got there, the normal chaos of a typical Angeles street had been replaced by something much more sinister.

White vans blocked off each end of the street, but it didn’t stop the curious from walking around them to see what was going on. The real action was toward the middle of the block, in front of Ernesto’s building.

Whatever had happened seemed to have just ended. A dozen soldiers stood near the entrance. They were wearing full battle gear and held machine guns at the ready. At first, I thought they were all Filipino, but the closer I got, I realized that though they were all wearing identical dark uniforms, most of the men appeared to be either Caucasian or African American.