Dela Cruz was the colonel's name. The captain was Agoncillo. Dela Cruz was spare and dark, and nearly six feet tall. Agoncillo was round-bellied, light-skinned, and short. But to me they were of a piece, the heedless way they sat and stood and spoke.

     “A terrible tragedy,” said Dela Cruz, and while he took my hand, he reached to pat me on the shoulder. It felt like a practiced move. We all sat. The captain raised a hand and snapped his fingers to bring a waitress.

     How was your flight? Dela Cruz asked, and Agoncillo wanted to know if I had been to the Philippines before, and what were my impressions?

     Everyone seems friendly, I said, and Dela Cruz said, Filipinos are world-famous for their hospitality.

     “You visit these small towns in the provinces, you don't have to worry about your next meal,” Dalzell said. “You'll have people come up asking you to dinner. They'll kill their last chicken so you have something decent to eat.”

     “That's true,” the colonel said.

     “Beautiful people, the people of the provinces,” said Agoncillo.

     A waitress took away the bottles and emptied the ashtray, brought a new round and clean glasses, a bowl of roasted peanuts and another of what looked like hot pork rinds.

     “Delicious,” Agoncillo said when he grabbed a handful of the rinds. “You should try it.”

     I felt tired, suddenly, ready to fade out any time. I watched Dela Cruz pick a speck of food from his front teeth, and in a corner of my mind tried to calculate the hours since I had slept.

     “Maybe you could tell me what you know about the murder,” I said.

     “By the way,” Agoncillo said. “My condolences.”