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At the funeral, Mr. Genie was survived by no family except Alex and then a whole spectrum of bigwigs from the government, private sector and military. Even Enderun’s Dean Lazaro was there, leading a small delegation of senior Howlers and not the particular batch who was allegedly responsible for Angela’s disappearance: Batch ’19. It was a veritable who’s who of the underworld. Not so much the illicit world of mobsters but the unseen web of shady people that actually run the country. Tensions ran so high the city government had to send half the police force in uniform, along with a dozen intelligence agents in plain-clothes. Mr. Genie was a high-powered accountant; the crooked kind. Alex guessed this was the reason why he gravitated towards orphanages and orphans and, in particular, Angela. Mr. Genie probably felt a constant need to atone for his sins. When it came to fast-talking, financing terrorists and making cartloads of money invisible to the tax man, there was no one better. M
“What other hobbies do you have apart from chess?” Marc asks. “Well, you know, just the usual. Riding my motorcycle, photography, MMA, cooking and street dance.” “A Jack of all trades, are we?” “Master of none.” “As a writer, I completely understand the need to be a generalist,” Marc says. “What do you ride?” “Kawasaki Ninja H2.” “Whoa! Your camera?” Marc’s questions are coming faster now, like in a one-sided 21 Questions Game. “Olympus PEN. I hate heavy cameras.” “What’s your fave theme to shoot?” “Nature. Trees and flowers. Sunsets. Fields, before they get excavated and steamrolled into subdivisions.” “The reason I ask is because I’m a photography geek myself.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I’ve got a DSLR.” “What do you take?” “Pictures of people. It helps me with my writing.” “For real?” Marc nods. “I bought a drone last month and I’m still getting the hang of flying it. I’m telling you, it’s addictive. Of course it’s so I can take amazing aerial shots.” “Don’t you need to get a
“Does it work online?” Marc asks excitedly. “Over text or Fasebook Messenger?” “You betcha.” They fall quiet for a while and dine on all the meat in front of them, though Marc is more intent on putting away pints of beer. “With your target girl, your ex,” Alex continues, “there are several factors that come into play. First things first. What’s your goal?” “My goal?” “Yeah, your goal. Do you want to hang out with her, get back together…” “Well, first, hang out with her with the long-term view of getting back together.” “Why?” “What do you mean why?” “I mean, is this a one-shot thing? In and out. Bang her, get it out of your system? Or do you want her to be the mother of your future children?” “I’m going to be honest with you, I actually saw Steph and I getting married in the future. But her cheating on me threw all that away.” “Steph. Stephanie. Is that her name?” Marc nods. “Well, the first thing I need to know is if you’ve sent her any other messages, text or otherwise,
It’s hard to describe Hunter and Foxy's relationship. It’s that complicated. In the beginning, they’re drug dealers who use more than they slang. They’re also pimp and prostitute who are into voyeurism, exhibitionism, erotic asphyxiation, erotic humiliation and the cuckolding fetish. Then Hunter develops a taste for violence: kicking the door open on an unwitting client and robbing them, beating up other guys if they so much as look at Foxy the wrong way. They even turn to robbing stores and gas stations for a while. That’s when they become a sort of Bonnie and Clyde tandem, catching the media’s attention and throwing money in the slums to lose the pursuing authorities. Then one day, the short-tempered Hunter makes the grave mistake of beating up a teen who’s actually the son of somebody in the underworld. This is how they end up on the radar of Mr. Solomon, a drug kingpin. Mr. Solomon is attracted to Foxy and becomes her regular customer. Worse, it becomes apparent that Foxy also lov
“I-I don’t understand,” Marc stutters. “What are you doing here? Where’s Steph?” “Sit your ass down,” Alex says coldly. Alex’s server for the night, Julie, walks over and cheerily asks him what his friend would like to order. Alex tells her: “Oh, he’s not my friend. And he won’t be staying long.” “I see…” Julie says uncertainly. It’s the first time tonight that Alex is making her feel even mildly uncomfortable. “How’s the sisig?” “Like the original one in Angeles,” Alex says with a smile, and that swiftly restores the rapport between them. “No mayo or egg. No shortcuts. Like I said, those would’ve offended my soul.” After Julie left giggling, Alex’s genial demeanor turns ice-cold. “I’ve been onto you since day one,” Alex explains to the red-faced and dumbstruck Marc sitting across from him. “I followed you to the gym on Steph’s request, because you weren’t taking the breakup well. I know all about the death threats and the stalking.” Alex picks up the manila envelope next to h
“I know who you are,” Marc says teasingly. “White Wolf. Benjamin Generoso. Adopted son of the late and talented Leon Generoso. Step brother to missing Angela Generoso. I know all about the Boys Are Wolves app too.” Benjamin – Ben – is stunned. Nevertheless, he does his best to rein in his emotions and appear unfazed. “All of us in New Pack know. Dean Lazaro gave us a heads-up.” Ben can’t help but clench his jaws at the mention of Dean Lazaro’s name. “That’s right,” Marc continues. “I’m a student of Enderun U. Between the two of us, I’m the REAL frat boy. Despite your fake-ass, gaudy tattoos, which by the way none of us Howlers have, you can never be New Pack. You’re just not Enderun material… Stray. You wouldn’t fit in, just like Angela never did.” Marc leans back on his seat, utterly and unnervingly composed. He picks up one of the bottles of Cerveza Negra. With only his right hand and without anything acting as a fulcrum, he presses the instantly long fingernail of his thumb und
Ben roams the empty streets; a hunched, brooding figure in black Adidas tracksuit jacket with the trademark triple stripes. He puts both his hands in the jacket pockets, looking a bit shackled from the way the lower front of the jacket is bulging. He hangs his head. He takes in the dim lights and the muted sounds of the city that acts like a baby – little by little quieting down but still refusing to fall asleep. The stores are shuttered and his footsteps ring hollow on the sidewalk. The only people still awake are in it for the long haul: security guards and contact center agents on night shift. The cars in these parts are mostly taxis, and getting fewer and farther in between. The sound of their tires gripping the asphalt crescendoes and then decrescendoes perfunctorily, their passengers eager to get home to a warm meal or a soft bed. There’s a distinct halo around the first-quarter moon above and, through the humid air, Ben gets a whiff of urine and uncollected garbage, all of w
“I could ask the same thing to you,” Rafa says. “Why d’ya keep coming back here? Don’t tell me, after all those years, you still expect your mom to just miraculously appear. There’s a reason we’re orphans, a’ight? Our parents abandoned us.” Rafa doesn’t mince his words, showing what it has always been like between them. Ben shakes his head. “It’s not that. Believe it or not, I’m actually hoping I’d see the stray dog that protected me. I suddenly felt like asking it why it saved my sorry ass.” “Ha! Fat chance of that happening. You do know large dog breeds live only up to 12 years max, right? You’d have slightly better luck if the dog was a Chihuahua. Those tough tiny gangster mofos live up to 18 years.” Ben laughs imagining if his guardian spirit had been a Chihuahua. “Seriously tho,” Rafa says, “the guy you brought to the park three weeks ago… does he know where Angela is?” Ben grimly nods. “He and two others.” A pause, then Rafa asks: “Is she dead?” Averting his eyes, Ben nod