Moondogs by Alexander Yates Page A

warned against the airport taxis and promised to pick him up. Benicio wandered beyond the barrier and into the crowd, a little overwhelmed by the voices, the faces, the smells, the heat. He searched out his father in the crowd and didn’t find him. He waited. He set his suitcase against one of the concrete columns, sat on it, and waited more. Doug emerged from the airport, so sleepy he looked strung out, and was set upon by a pretty, middle-aged woman and her family. There were hugs and handshakes all around. They’d taken the bus there, she explained, but if he was tired they could squeeze into a taxi. No, Doug said, the bus sounded great.
    After a little over an hour of waiting, Benicio returned to the airport. He exchanged money at an unreasonable rate, called his father’s room and got no answer. He called the front desk, and forty hot minutes later a hotel car arrived to pick him up. The driver was young and wore black slacks, a white button-down shirt and a red bowtie. He held a sign high above his head that read:
Mr. Bridgewater
. Benicio brusquely handed over his suitcase and didn’t help as the young driver struggled to get it into the trunk. He boarded the white sedan and slammed the door behind him, regretting the petulant display almost immediately.
    The car was cool, almost cold on the inside and smelled stronglyof citrus. The driver got in and glanced at him in the rearview before releasing the hand brake and crawling down the airport ramp onto a four-lane road that ran alongside a wide storm drain. Benicio saw buildings in the smoggy distance, a few massive clusters to the north and west. The road ahead was packed with the red brake lights of trucks, air-conditioned taxicabs and loudly painted jeepneys that overmatched the descriptions from the book his father had sent. Motorcycles sputtered past, weaving through the traffic. Everything that moved spat out velvety black smoke.
    The driver was quiet up front. Benicio unbuckled his seatbelt and scooched up, casually. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was rude to you back there. I didn’t mean to be.”
    “You were not rude,” the driver said. They knew it was a lie, but it relaxed them both. Benicio leaned back in his seat and the driver grinned. “Is this your first time in the Philippines, sir?” he asked.
    “Yes,” he said. “But my father lives here.”
    “That’s good,” the driver said. “Where does he stay?”
    Benicio hesitated for a moment, watching as they passed the golden arches of a McDonald’s. “At the Shangri-La.”
    “Ah-ha.” The driver sounded pleased with himself. “Is your father’s name Howard, sir?”
    Benicio looked up at him in the rearview. “Yes, it is.”
    “I recognized your name,” he said, “but I’m not sure … maybe Bridgewater very common in the States? Also, you don’t look very much …” he trailed off. “I mean, your father is very …” he stopped completely.
    “Pale.”
    “Yes,” the driver said with audible relief. “And you’re darker. You look almost like a Pinoy. You know that word? Pinoy, that means Filipino. That’s good, because we Filipinos are very good-looking.” The driver chuckled. They arrived at an intersection clogged with trucks and jeepneys and he kept talking as he drove up with two wheels on the sidewalk, pulled around the stopped vehicles and cut in front of three lanes of traffic to make a left turn. Benicio gripped the leather handholdabove his window. “I know your father for almost two years, ever since I’m working at the Shangri-La. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m his driver. He’s a very nice man.” The driver turned completely around and extended his hand. “My name’s Edilberto, but please you can call me Berto.”
    Benicio gave his hand a quick shake. “When was the last time you saw my father?” he asked.
    Edilberto looked up at the roof of the car, as though he was thinking this over very hard. “I don’t know. I drove for him maybe one week