A big guy, about six feet three, 200 pounds.

     Entry at lower right maxilla, wound approximately one centimeter diameter … exit upper right parietal, approximately six centimeters … angle approximately fifty degrees …

     The slug went in his cheek and came out the top of his head. A little guy pointing a pistol in a big guy's face.

     Bembo put the paper down.

     “The communists are supposed to have killed him?” he said. Now definitely indignant.

     “Sparrows.”

     “Yes. In Bacolod there are many. But why would they do such a thing?”

     “Because he's an American.”

     “Trash,” he said. “Americans are killed occasionally, those connected with the embassy or the military bases. A casual visitor, never. Besides, the Sparrows' targets have to be approved by a committee. Adding a name to the list can take weeks. Collins was in Bacolod four days.”

     “Don't ask me,” I said.

     “Trash.”

     “You know a lot about this.”

     “Everyone knows these things, anyone who cares to know. It is our life.”

     Find out what happened, Gilsa had told me. He had been offended, Collins leaving on company business and coming back in a coffin. If it's Sanchez, he'd said, find Sanchez. If it's a thief, all right, it's a thief. But find out what happened. So at least I can tell his wife.

     “I have to go to Negros,” I said.

     “Are you certain?”

     “I need answers. I've got to know who killed him. I don't even know what he was doing there, two-thirty in