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"Spread yourself wider, Señora," he whispered firmly as his other arm snaked across her breasts.
She obeyed, splaying her legs, opening herself fully to his probing. His hand moved again, seeking the soft wet labial folds, running his hand over them repeatedly. She began to move, her hips pushing against his hand as he worked first one, and then two fingers, into her. Her hands grasped his arms as her knees began to shake, wordless moans of fulfillment escaping from her lips. Her cries fueled him as he began to probe more deeply into her, his fingers relentlessly pushing and circling her honeyed hole until at last her body convulsed as waves of pleasure coursed through her. Her knees buckled beneath her and as the spasms finally subsided, he turned her limp body around to face him.
"It's time for you to pay," he said.
She looked up at him and saw the desire on his face, his eyes had an almost feral look, a small smile of triumph lifting the corners of his thin lips. She raised her hand and touched his face, running her fingers and palm down his cheek. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin, she parted her lips and ran her tongue over his jaw. She felt him clench his teeth and heard his faint growl. She raised her arms around his neck and pushed her body against his, her full breasts squeezed almost flat between their nakedness. She moved her torso, rubbing herself against his hard chest, while her hands caressed the back of his neck.
"Is this payment enough?" she whispered against his neck.
He did not answer, allowing himself to enjoy the pleasure she was giving him. She brought her face down his chest, kissing, licking and nipping at the firm flesh. She moved her hands down his back and over his hard thighs, her fingers daintily moving over his skin until at last she reached his hardened manhood; but when she gently encircled the throbbing shaft with one hand, she was unprepared for his actions; with a quickness that caught her by surprise, he grabbed her hips, lifted her, and pushed his stiff member deep into her; she cried in pain and pleasure, her head falling back as she clung tightly to his arms
"I...told you...Señora," his voice was hoarse, his smile almost evil, "I...shall...double...your...reward."
The words punctuated each hard thrust of his hips, she wailed as another climax rocked her body; powerless as she shook uncontrollably; but he was without mercy, he took one step and another and another as he made his way across the room, his manhood embedded deep inside her. Her cries rose higher with each step as his hardened shaft rubbed against the walls of her womanhood.
At last, he reached the far wall of the room; her head fell forward as he pinned her against it with his weight. He nudged her bent head up with his chin, laughing at the tears that streamed down her face before claiming her mouth with a searing kiss, his tongue roughly penetrating between her lips to probe the velvet recesses within. She writhed against him, as her passion began to rise once more. He broke the kiss and lifted her naked body higher, she clamped her thighs tighter around his hips, her hands on his shoulders while his slid down to her buttocks, gripping and moving the fleshy mounds in time with his hips as he pumped into her, quick shallow thrusts at first that grew with force and speed as the carnal dance grew wilder.
With a guttural cry, he plunged one last time into her; she screamed his name, her hands falling limply down her sides as he emptied himself into her, filling her with his discharge, her body helpless in the waves of a violent climax.
"Wake up, Señora Fuentes!"
Elisa moaned as she lay, drenched in sweat, in a hospital bed at the Manicomio del Ciudad de Manila. She moved her head against the pillow before she finally opened her eyes.
"She's coming to."
She turned her head towards the voice and saw a man who looked vaguely familiar, behind him was Alberto, concern and worry etched on his face.
"I'm thirsty," she said weakly.
The man brought a glass of water to her lips.
"What... what happened?" she asked quietly after a few sips of the cool liquid.
"You were having a dream, Elisa," Alberto said gently, "I couldn't wake you, so I called Dr. Vito Cruz here."
"Dreams are part of the withdrawal, Señora, and they are a common occurrence," Dr. Vito Cruz said, "I'll give you a mild sedative so that you can sleep more peacefully tonight."
"I'm sorry I worried you, Alberto," Elisa whispered when Dr. Vito Cruz had left.
"Shh," her husband said, stroking the long dark hair that fanned across the pillow, "you should try and rest now."
She caught his hand and kissed it.
"I do not deserve you."
Alberto did not answer but continued to stroke her head gently. The regular rise and fall of her chest a few minutes later told him that she was asleep. He made his way to the small couch at the foot of the bed where he had spent most of each day.
But now, as he sat on the chair on which he had alternately prayed, watched, waited and hoped as Elisa went through her convalescence, he could only wonder:
Why had his wife screamed Estanislao's name?
It was clear to Andrés Gonzales the minute he stepped inside Francisco Chua's store, that the Chino sold more than just haberdashery and embroidery items; wisps of thin white smoke wafted through the place and a distinct odor permeated the whole building - it was almost sweet when one first inhaled it, but it did not take long before the fragrance turned heavy and pungent, like burnt tar. Audible moans and a chorus of soft coughs drifted down from the floor above them.
"Open all the doors and windows," he ordered the three men, "then go upstairs and get all those people down here."
An hour later, a dozen people, eight men and four women, were assembled at the ground floor of the store. All of them were bleary eyed and quite oblivious of what was happening; a few swayed on their feet, the after-effect of the powdered poppy they had been smoking; one woman, elderly but quite well-dressed, had to be held upright by Illuminado or she would have fallen to the floor.
"Questioning these people will be useless, Jefe," dela Paz said. "I don't think they're even aware of our presence."
Andrés nodded. He knew about the growing opium addiction in the country and the involvement of many wealthy businessmen in its growth, but he never thought it would reach San Isidro.
"Have you searched all the rooms upstairs?" he asked dela Paz.
"Yes, Jefe, there is no one left up there."
"Very well, then. Julio, Illuminado, bring your calesas to the front door; let's get all these people back to the precinto. I believe a night's rest in our celdas will help enlighten them."
The two cucheros quickly left the store.
"Wait up, compadre," Illuminado called out as he and Julio were crossing the backyard. "I need to wash my face; the smell of that awful smoke inside seems to still be in my nose and my eyes are burning!"
"There's probably water over there," Julio pointed to the old well. "Hurry and wash up."
Illuminado ran to the disused well; the water was probably very dirty, but it would certainly be cold enough to ease the discomfort he was feeling.
A flat wooden plank covered the hole. That was good, he thought, the well-water might be clean after all. He lifted the heavy plank, lowered it to the soft ground, turned back to the well and fell on his back, gasping.
Francisco Chua's body was floating in the fetid water.
-----
It was well past nine the next morning when Porcia arrived at the shop. Once again, she felt the waves of sadness engulf her as she opened the front door. News of Ninong Francisco's death reached her the night before and she had cried herself to sleep; she remembered the many childhood visits she and her parents had made to his home and how he would sit her on his knee, showing her how his latest gadget worked.
Now he was gone and she would never be able to thank him for the last gift he'd sent her.
She made her way to the small office at the back of the shop, not realizing that Abel had kept his promise; he had arrived at the store before her and was at his work table. The young man quickly noticed Porcia's tear-stained face. He followed his friend and found her seated at her father's workbench.
"What is it, Porcia? Have you more news about Francisco?"
She shook her head silently then blew her nose into the handkerchief she had been holding since leaving the house.
"I'm sorry, Porcia. Is there anything I can do for you, anything you need?"
She sighed and looked up at her friend's worried face.
"There really isn't anything anyone can do right now, Abel," she said softly, "but thank you for offering."
"Perhaps you should go back home. I can take care of the shop today."
"No, I spent the whole of last night crying. I need to keep busy, Abel, that's the only way I can stop myself from thinking about Ninong Francisco."
She stood up and straightened her tapis, the knee-length embroidered apron that was worn over the longer saya. She turned to him and smiled weakly.
"Have you basted the jefe's uniform? He's coming to fit it today."
Abel nodded towards his work table.
"It's done, except for two buttons on the coat. I wanted to run out and purchase some, but I couldn't leave the shop alone. I'm sorry, Porcia"
"Don't be, Abel, that was my fault - I was late. Let's hope the señor capitán isn't fussy."
"I can get them now," the young man said.
Porcia looked at the clock on the store counter.
"All right, but hurry back."
Abel grabbed his cap and hurried out the door.
-----
Andrés Gonzales closed the folder he had been studying; the innocuous riddle of the mannequin had now turned from hoax to illicit drugs - and murder. He had questioned the new guests sleeping in the celdas as soon as they woke up that morning; very few of them were eager to talk and it soon became apparent that even if they were frequent patrons of the den, they knew very little of its operation and even less of Señor Chua. In truth, the only time they would see the late señor was when they paid him. Even the news of his death did not seem to be of any particular interest to them
"Are these the objects we found on Chua's body?" he asked the sargento as he tipped the contents of a small box on to his desk.
Dela Paz nodded.
Andrés scanned the objects in front of him: a few coins, Chua's damp cedula, proclaiming him a resident of the Islas and a loyal citizen of Spain, and a red kerchief, the kind that most laborers used to wipe their brows with; his eyes lingered on the wet cloth...now, why would a man of means like Francisco Chua own a cheap scarf such as this?
He picked up the kerchief, wrung the dampness out of it and spread it on the table. It looked like any ordinary kerchief, except for an emblem embroidered in yellow thread on one corner: three letter "K's."
"Did we find out anything from our guests, Jefe?" dela Paz asked.
"Bits and pieces, Sargento. There is no doubt the opium was shipped from Macao in those wooden crates; the cakes were most likely wrapped inside the fabric bolts and those bolts reek of their smell. And it seems Chua's operation was bigger than what we'd initially thought; some of our guests have said that there were days when there were more than thirty people in that building, all of them regular patrons of the Chinaman, can you imagine how much he made in a week? I'm sure his business rivals were envious. "
"Envious enough to commit murder? Or, perhaps he and his own associates had a falling out and they killed him," the sargento ventured.
"Maybe, the question is - was the mannequin a ruse or a warning?"
Dela Paz nodded.
"Well, whoever did kill him has done San Isidro a favor."
Andrés Gonzales sighed heavily.
"Whether Chua deserved what he got is not for us or anyone else to decide, Sargento, justice must be served, and served properly," a booming voice said from the open door.
Andrés and dela Paz looked up as Señor Tomás Reyes, San Isidro's esteemed alkalde-mayor, entered the precinto followed by his secretary. Both the jefe and the sargento stood up.
"Buenos días, Alkalde," Andrés said, as he offered a hand.
"Buenas, Capitán Gonzales," the mayor said. He shook the outstretched hand and then sat on the opposite seat. "I will come straight to the point of my visit, Jefe. This latest...murder...in our little town is not only upsetting, but disruptive, to the economy of San Isidro. You are fairly new here, Gonzales, but when I was appointed mayor of our good town, I swore that I would raise its economy and revenues to rival that of the bigger cities. Luckily, the incident with the Monteclaros was not as big a setback as I and the town council feared. We do expect you and your men to solve Francisco Chua's murder soon."
"Solving a murder, Alkalde, does not occur overnight and any violent death is always - upsetting - especially to the victim's family and loved ones. Have you reached out to Señor Chua's family?" the jefe asked.
"What? Erm, I was told Señor Chua was a soltero," the alkalde muttered
"I believe he has a brother, Rodrigo Chua, living inside the Distrito de Chino."
"In that case, my secretary will send my and the council's sympathies today," he nodded to his secretary, who nodded in answer. "Francisco Chua may have been a Chinaman, but he was still a resident here and deserves justice, even if he was moving to Manila. The council and I hope to attract more of his kind to invest in San Isidro, they are truly exceptional when it comes to making money. I hope, Jefe, you will do everything possible to reach a satisfactory end to all this."
Andrés swallowed his irritation; he could see right through Alkalde Reyes' concern for the murdered Chua, it was the income his business generated that interested the good mayor.
"I shall, Alkalde, now if you will excuse the sargento and me, we have a murder to solve," once again, Andrés held out his hand to the alkalde-mayor.
"Shall I let our guests go home now?" dela Paz said when Tomás Reyes had left.
The capitán nodded.
"I have all their names here and where to reach them, although several of the ladies have begged me to be discreet."
"I'm surprised they could still remember anything at all this morning," dela Paz said.
"The sad reality, Sargento," Andrés continued, "is they have no idea the damage this drug has done to them. All they know is that they are in this haze of pleasure when they are smoking it, a cocoon of happiness where nothing unpleasant can touch them. It is said that some users experience incredible and fantastic dreams that are so real, they must relive them again and again, and so the craving becomes incessant."
"Sounds more like a nightmare to me, Jefe."
"Reality is the nightmare to these poor souls," Andrés said.
He stood up and consulted his pocket watch, it was almost eleven.
"I shall be back after lunch. There is an appointment I must keep."
"Does it fit in with the case, Jefe?"
Capitán Gonzales smiled and shook his head.
"It has something to do with my fitting...in those suits I ordered from Señorita Fuentes at the Trajes de Hombre."
The jefe made his way to the Trajes de Hombre, determined not to set a foot wrong in front of Porcia Fuentes this time, but he found himself hesitating when he reached the little shop's glass-windowed front; he had never really been fitted for a "proper uniform" before and was not sure what it would entail; the three sets he owned were military issues, and probably not even new at that.
A man of singularly simple tastes, he had never developed a liking for what most folks would call the "finer things in life." His father was a soldier, as were his grandfather and great-grandfather, so from an early age, Andrés knew that he was destined for a life in the military. But Andrés' mother, a gentle mestiza of mixed Spanish and Indio blood insisted that her son be taught more than just the art of warfare, thus the little boy learned his letters and numbers.
He soon showed quite a talent for learning, which pleased his father so much that he ordered the tutor in his employ to add art, logic, and science to the curriculum. However, just a week after Andrés turned sixteen, a riding accident seriously injured his father. The teñente died two days later, but only after exacting a promise from his son to continue the tradition of the Gonzales family. Andrés gave his word and a month after his father's burial, he kissed his mother good-bye and left to join the Guardia Civíl.
He arrived at the small tailoring shop well ahead of the appointed time; the little bell that hung at the front door tinkled merrily as he entered, but as he made his way to the counter, he was slightly disappointed that Porcia was not seated behind it as she had been the first day they met - she was probably at the workroom at the back of the store.
He was uncertain as to what to do: he thought of calling out Porcia's name but decided that, though she had permitted him to do so, it might sound too familiar. "Señorita Fuentes," on the other hand, was too stilted and formal, she might think he was a snob, and rapping on the countertop was certainly out of the question; she could very well show him the door if he did that.
Andrés had settled on softly clearing his throat and hoping she would hear him when he heard a muffled sobbing. He took a few steps closer and listened again. He was sure the sobbing was Porcia's. He made his way around the counter and drew the curtain that separated the workroom from the rest of the shop. She was seated at a table, stitching the hem of a white dress shirt, her face tear-stained. She gave a small sob again but did not stop sewing.
"May I be of assistance, Señorita Porcia?" he called out gently.
She turned her face away from him, stood up, and wiped her tears with the edge of her sleeve.
"I'm so sorry, Jefe, I forgot the time," she said.
"I hope I have not inconvenienced you; I was not sure if you wanted me to come after what happened to your godfather; I was expecting a message from you but..." he replied.
"You were right to keep our appointment, Jefe," she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes and nose were still a little red, but she managed a weak smile.
"The suits are not ready, but the uniforms are almost done, one of them is just lacking two buttons. Abel ran out to purchase some; he should be back soon, though."
She went to the large wardrobe beside the worktable and drew out the coats and trousers she and Abel had painstakingly copied from the uniform Andrés was wearing. Even at first glance, it was clear that they were far superior to what he had on; the sewing was so finely done that the stitches were virtually invisible and there were no unseemly creases on the seams. Porcia held up a coat.
"If you could remove your jacket, Jefe, and try this one on?" she said.
Andrés unbuttoned his old coat and was eternally glad he had decided to wear one of the new undershirts his mother had sent him.
He caught the faint trace of her perfume as she stood behind him and slipped the new jacket over his shoulders; she smoothed the sleeves down and pulled at the cuffs and the edge of the coat. With a critical eye, she walked around him slowly, looking for a misplaced stitch or an unwanted crease as her father had taught her to do.
