Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“What am I going to deliver?”

“Drugs,” he said simply.

I had lost all appetite; the hamburger became tasteless mush in my mouth and rocks started forming in my throat.

“Speed?”

For the first time, a smile crossed his corpulent face. He shook his head. “That’s for children. No, the real thing. Heroin.”

My anxiety must have been etched all over my face.

“Afraid?”

I nodded.

“I am not surprised,” he said, touching my hand briefly. “They are all afraid in the beginning. But it is not really all that dangerous. You don’t have to worry about the police. I take care of them. It is the customers you have to worry about. But you will learn quickly. And besides, just think, it’s big money, you will get ten percent of all the deliveries. Easily two hundred pesos in a week. And you will make only a few deliveries in a day. And not every day. It all depends, of course, if you can bring in new clients — but not from your school. They don’t have money in Recto. That is why I said you should go to Ateneo or La Salle. That’s where the money is. All those spoiled brats. And if they don’t have it, they will give you their mothers’ jewels, or their fathers’ watches, anything they can lay their hands on. They live in Pobres Park, in those fancy places.”

Two hundred pesos a week, about a thousand a month. Who cares for the Brotherhood?

“Kuya,” I asked, breathing easier, “why did you pick this day? Why all of a sudden?”

Again, the fleeting smile. “You are the best candidate. You live close to my wife.” I had to get used to his calling his mistress his wife, and I wondered how many women he had. “Communication would be no problem. The truth is”—he lowered his voice—“the one you are replacing got too ambitious. I think he was trying to blackmail one of his customers. He was killed yesterday. His body was taken probably in a car and abandoned in a field in Marikina. And all his stuff was stolen.”

Could that happen to me? The unspoken question was answered immediately.

“Even though they are addicted, one must not deal too harshly with them. Sometimes, when they don’t have the ready cash, it may be necessary to give it to them, but be sure to collect it at the following meeting. They always come through because they know that if they don’t they will not be given another chance.”

He could see the indecision in my face. I was going to be a pusher — that was farthest from my aspirations. I may have stolen and lied, and I may have been plastic to my mother, but now I would be putting my neck on the block.

“Try it for one week — just one week. And if you don’t like it, then stop. And no hard feelings. But no talking — that is very clear, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

Time was important and I had no watch. We stood up, got into the car, and drove to Makati. At the first jewelry shop he bought me my first Seiko.

I did not go to school that morning, but spent time studying the code, the hazy description of each customer I was to meet. Kuya Nick had seen them from a distance, he knew where they lived, how they could be contacted, and he had a long list. He must have had in his employ at least ten pushers.

At exactly one that afternoon I walked hesitantly to a red Volkswagen 1500 parked beside the Rizal Theater. The young man inside, about eighteen, thin, with glassy eyes, was startled when I approached him. He was about to start the engine and leave when I said that Joe — that was the old pusher — would not be servicing him anymore. I gave him the numbered envelope, which he immediately recognized. He opened it, took the small packet out, and sniffed its contents; a benign smile spread over his face. He gave me an envelope in return. I opened it in his presence, expecting two hundred pesos as Kuya Nick said. I was wrong. Joe had been upping the price — it was three hundred — and I had a hundred pesos more for myself.

In a moment he was gone. I had two hours to waste before the next delivery at the supermarket. I had become hungry so I went to the Japanese restaurant across the shimmering expanse of parked cars. I had never been to a place like this, but now I had a hundred pesos and could afford it. It was almost two, but there were still people eating. I had read about Japanese cooking, the subtle taste of raw fish, seaweeds, and all that. It was fashionable for young people to be in jeans, in faded T-shirts as I was, and though I felt uncomfortable in these strange and elegant surroundings, it was the experience I wanted. “Raw fish,” I told the kimono-clad waitress. “Then sukiyaki.”

“And what would you like to drink, sir?”

“Sake,” I said.

She brought the sake first and it was a bit warm like I read it would be, then the raw fish. It was then that she knew it was my first time in a Japanese restaurant, for I did not know the chopsticks were joined and she parted them for me while I watched with fascination.

If she had any doubt about my capacity to pay, it disappeared when I brought out the wad of bills from the boy in the Volks. Fifty-six pesos for a small dish of raw fish, squid, and sea urchin insides, sukiyaki cooked before me, and a tiny bottle of sake, but it was worth the adventure. This bastard from Cabugawan living it up at his first opportunity in this precinct of the rich. I would tell the Brotherhood not to tear down the walls of Pobres Park; we should take over the Park instead.

At three on the dot I was in the supermarket’s book section, browsing over the cookbooks and paperbacks, then this girl came in not a minute late, the yellow scarf on her neck the recognition sign. She went to the magazines; there was no one close by, so I walked over and said softly, “Tessa, the two envelopes are here.” She turned to me, and again the look of surprise, of fright, and she turned aside as if she had not heard. Again, I had to tell her. “Joe is not coming; I have taken over.”

It was then that she turned to me, her face sunny as a flower, and she shoved the two envelopes immediately into her bag and handed me an envelope. She did not tarry; when she went out I followed her at a distance. Below the marquee, she waited briefly. Soon, a Mercedes with a uniformed driver drew up. As she went in, I could see that her legs were shapely.

My last delivery was at six at the Intercon; she sat in one of the sofas near the bar — a forlorn, emaciated creature in her late teens. She wore a series of colored bangles, the recognition sign, and I passed her once on my way to the men’s room, then I hurried back, afraid that she might have gone after the appointed time. I sat opposite her. She glanced at me and watched with interest as I brought out the envelope from the folder. No one was looking, so I bent forward, “Joe is not coming, Mary. I am taking his place.”

No emotion rippled on her face, no recognition lighted her eyes; she opened her notebook, threw the envelope at me, then took what I gave. I had expected her to leave, but she just sat there, looking straight ahead as if I did not exist. I felt so uncomfortable, I left after a while.

Five deliveries in one day, all within the Makati area. Inside the toilet, I counted what I had legitimately made: a hundred twenty pesos. And Joe’s take which was now mine was six hundred pesos! Some poor clerk slaved for two months to earn that much and here I was raking it in in one afternoon. I could cry at the irony of it all.

Outside, I flagged a taxi. It was already dark when I got to Antipolo. The door of the apartment of Kuya Nick’s mistress was open and she was there, waiting. She had been instructed, and though we had never talked before, now it was as if we were old friends. After all, she had seen me, and perhaps appreciated me more than Lucy did.