Manila never slept, but it sure as hell pretended to.
The neon lights of Ermita were twinkling as they fought to penetrate the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hovering above the streets. Jukeboxes played softly while the cries of released soldiers mingled with screams emanating from dark alleys, which not many cared to venture into.
Det. Torres found himself sitting in a corner table at Aling Nena's Bar with a glass of Pale Pilsen that did not appeal to him one bit. The constant clicking of his lighter against each other had become a nervous tic since he left his job as a cop; because it was futile to believe anymore, when there were people who got kidnapped in broad daylight and murdered without so much as a scream.
And then she came in.
The woman was wearing a beige trench coat and had tied her hair back into a scarf, her eyes darting around the bar as if she was sure that she would never fit into this scene. But she spotted him and faltered in her steps. The look in her eyes-he remembered that look very well-a fear so deep-seated that it took away your breath.
"You're the detective?"
He nodded.
"Please address me as Ms. Holiday," she murmured. Barely audible over the jukebox music. "I need you to help me out."
He lit a cigarette. "Everyone needs help. Give me your case."
She glanced over her shoulder. "It's a family. They've vanished and the police will not search for them."
The detective released a breath of smoke slowly. "And why do they say no?"
Her hands shook slightly as she drew something from her purse-a Polaroid picture, taken from the SX - 70 model. It showed a family of three, having a good time during some Sunday picnic. A man, a woman and a little girl smiling awkwardly. Their looks were forced, eyes...
"They disappeared about three nights ago," she explained. "The head of the family was called Emilio Velasco. The man used to work in the government."
A thick silence settled around. The detective's fingers touched the photo. However, he did not take it. Anything related to the government was always troublesome.
"And who's taken them?" the detective asked, ashing on the floor.
Silence again. She pushed an envelope towards him. "Here's everything I know."
"I think they took him," she told him. "All of them."
Flicking his ashes into the ground, the detective responded, "And what does 'they' mean?"
She did not give him an answer. Rather, she passed him an envelope. "Everything you need to know is in there."
Taking it reluctantly, it seemed heavy. There were papers, notes, perhaps some names that should remain nameless.
"Be careful, detective."
And just like that, she had disappeared down the neon-lit street.
Standing in silence, he looked at the envelope for quite some time before putting it into his jacket pocket. Paying for a couple of pesos, he left the bar and nodded at the bartender, who obviously knew exactly what he was doing.
Walking down the Manila street into the warm evening air, he smelled gas fumes and the smell of sweat.
Then, he felt someone looking at him.
In the dark corner of the alleyway by the broken streetlight, someone lingered. Taking a step towards him, the person quickly disappeared back into the darkness.
He let out a sigh.
This would be one of those nights.
Taking one last drag from his cigarette, he flicked it to the ground and left the bar.
The streets of Ermita consumed its inhabitants whole. Moving swiftly, he navigated the cars and the occasional inebriated person staggering from one of the city's notorious bars and disappearing down the same alley where the mysterious shadowy figure had gone.
It took only a second for the detective to realize that he did have a choice here as he slowly neared the mysterious person. He could simply choose to ignore the envelope that weighed down his coat pocket and go back to the office without ever meeting the mysterious person who seemed to be already grieving about something. Yet, there was just something about those eyes of hers that held him in place.
As he turned the corner, he noticed the sudden drop in noise levels and the absence of neon lights from all the numerous bars and clubs of the city's nightlife. There were only a few dim spots created by a couple of street lamps illuminating the narrow passage ahead. His footsteps resounded in the alley.
And then
A faint rustle, movement in the dark.
There wasn't even any time to respond before something heavy collided with his body.
The pain surged through his body, and he gasped for air. He stumbled backward, holding onto the wall as another punch landed. This time it was a right hook to his face, which sent him tumbling into the wet earth below.
An outline hovered above him.
"You've dug into the wrong grave, detective."
His voice was calm, collected. The type of voice used to issue commands, the sort that was always followed.
The detective spat out some blood, then replied, "And who the hell do you think you are?"
He bent down just far enough that the flicker of the flashlight reflected off the strong line of his jaw. Military or military. The type of man who didn't have to draw his gun to be believed.
"It's not your war, detective," he stated. "Close the file and burn the letter. You'll regret what you find."
The detective managed a thin smile, despite the sharp pain emanating from his injury. "What happens if I don't?"
Without another sound, he melted away into the darkness.
He stayed there, taking a few minutes to catch his breath.
It could've been either way.
He got to his feet with a groan, trying to ignore the sharp protests from his injured ribs. Doing what made sense was always easier said than done, especially in this city.
Sighing, he shrugged on his coat, stuck the bullet casing in his pocket, and set off towards the streetlight flickering a little ways down the road.
This was only the beginning of the night.
The rising sun did little to banish the memories of the previous night. Manila didn't really sleep at all, merely switched from one form of madness to another.
When the detective emerged from his tiny flat, the streets were alive with the honks of jeeps, shouts from vendors, and the tinny radio voice announcing yet another speech by the President.
The envelope lay on his table, untouched through the night. In his mind, he promised to read the contents in the morning—if there would even be one.
Inside, there were only a few papers.
Formal documents, receipts, and a couple of hand-written pieces of paper. But what truly drew his attention was the photo that accompanied them.
A family portrait. The father, the mother, and a young girl.
Emilio Velasco. Civil servant. Bureaucrat at a certain transportation department. The detective could hardly see him as someone worth killing for, but experience taught him to think twice.
He flipped through the files once more. Some financial papers, a couple of withdrawals just days prior to their vanishing act.
Then there was a receipt, this time for a private security firm. Lastly, a memo penned by some unknown government agency, unsigned to boot.
Scrawled into one corner of a torn-up sheet of paper, the detective noted this hastily-written notation:
Tondo, Manila
It could only be pure happenstance. Regardless of what was taking place in Tondo, Emilio Velasco was certainly not connected to any governmental business. Stashing all of the materials in an envelope, the detective retrieved his coat and stepped out into the heat. There were some inquiries that needed to be made.
Naked feet scampered along the cracked asphalt streets, weaving around the tricycles and baskets brimming with produce. The salty odor of the bay mingled with perspiration, tobacco smoke, and an acrid metallic scent. The detective quickly found the address.
An ancient boarding house that had been falling apart for decades, yet still managed to stand. The detective knocked on the rusty gate at the entrance of Apartment 3C. No response.
A second rap of the knuckles followed. Again, nothing.
He was about to leave when the door cracked open just an inch, and a single bloodshot eye peeked through.
"Who are you?" a voice croaked.
"Depends who's asking," the detective said, holding up the photograph. "You know this man?"
Silence. Then, the door opened a little wider. The old man—thin, hunched, and wearing a sweat-stained undershirt—gestured for him to come in.
Inside, the room was dim, the air thick with gin and stale cigarettes. A single electric fan hummed in the corner, barely cutting through the Manila heat.
The old man sank onto a wooden stool, rubbing his hands together. "You're late."
The detective raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know I had an appointment."
The old man let out something between a laugh and a cough. "No one comes asking about Velasco unless they're already in trouble."
The detective didn't argue. "Tell me what you know."
The old man exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against his knee. Then, quietly, "They came at night. No knocks. No words. Just boots on the ground and a truck waiting outside."
"Government?"
The old man scoffed. "If they were, at least I'd know where to light the candles." His gaze flickered toward the window, voice dropping lower. "Men like that don't leave bodies, only empty rooms."
The detective felt his stomach tighten. He'd heard about these kinds of disappearances before. Whispers in the alleys. Reports that never made it past the editor's desk.
He took a step closer. "You worked with Velasco. What was he into?"
The old man hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached under his stool and pulled out a tattered deck of playing cards. He shuffled them absently, then slid a single card across the table.
The detective picked it up. It was the Queen of Hearts.
He frowned. "What is this, a game?"
"Flip it."
He did.
On the back, written in shaky ink:
North Harbor. Dock 2.
The detective's grip tightened around the card. When he looked up, the old man was already staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, fingers still moving like he was shuffling ghosts.
The conversation was over.
He slipped the card into his pocket, nodded once, and stepped back out into the Manila morning.
North Harbor. Dock 2.
Whatever happened to Emilio Velasco, the answers weren't in Tondo.
TONDO, DOCKS
The old jukebox sat in the corner of a dingy portside karinderya, its wooden frame battered from years of cigarette smoke and bad luck. It was the kind of place where dock workers drowned their exhaustion in cheap gin, where deals were made with a whisper and a handshake, and where men like Emilio Velasco might have left behind a trail.
Detective Torres leaned against the counter, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee he didn't plan to finish. Outside, Dock 2 was a restless beast.
Cargo crates shifting, workers moving in sluggish rhythm, and the occasional black Packard Clipper rolling through like a shark circling the shallows.
Then, the jukebox crackled.
A warped, almost haunting guitar riff drifted through the humid air.
"There is a house in New Orleans..."
Torres turned slightly, watching as a tall, wiry man in a stained undershirt stood beside the jukebox, his fingers drumming against the machine like he was keeping time with the song. His eyes yellowed from too much drink flickered towards the detective.
"You like this song, detective?" the man rasped, voice thick with gin.
Torres didn't answer. He just slid the Polaroid of Emilio Velasco across the counter, letting it land near the man's drink.
The man exhaled sharply, tapping the edge of his glass.
"They call the Rising Sun..."
He picked up the photo with trembling fingers, staring at it for a long moment before setting it down. His foot tapped absently to the beat.
"He used to sit right there," the man said, motioning toward a scarred wooden booth near the back. "Always alone. Always looking over his shoulder."
Torres followed his gaze. The booth was empty now, save for a few stray cigarette burns on the table.
"What was he into?"
The man took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant. The song swelled, the singer's voice thick with regret.
"And it's been the ruin of many poor boy..."
"He asked questions. The kind that don't get answered in a place like this." The man rubbed his thumb over the photo. "Said he needed a way out."
"Out of what?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, wrapping it in a napkin before sliding it across the counter.
Torres picked it up carefully, unwrapping the napkin. A key. Rusted, with a number barely visible under the grime.
"And God, I know I'm one..."
"Storage locker, 047" the man muttered. "Pier 17."
Torres studied him. "And you're just giving this to me?"
The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "I was supposed to give it to Velasco. But he never came back."
The detective felt the weight of the key in his palm. A piece of a puzzle he was just beginning to understand.
Behind him, the jukebox let out a final, sorrowful note before the record spun to silence.
The man lifted his glass in a mock toast.
"Good luck, detective."
Torres slipped the key into his pocket and stepped out into the Manila heat.
Pier 17.
Whatever Velasco had been running from, it was waiting for him there.
TO BE CONTINUED