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
“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
“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
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,
