“Five kilometers east from the center of town, the Granada Road, there are several squatters' areas in that vicinity.”

     “That's what the colonel said, a squatters' area. Can a man go there to get laid?”

     His look was level.

     “Yes of course,” he said. “Squatters are very poor.”

     “Would an American go there to get laid in the middle of the night?”

     “Never.”

     “So why was he there? I mean, it's a hell of a good question, but I'll never find out in Manila.” I think I was trying to convince myself. “I have to go there, I have to ask some questions. Will you help me?”

     He nodded without a word.

     “You know Bacolod well?”

     “Negros is my place. My family has been in Bacolod for four generations.”

     “How do we get there?”

     “Philippine Airlines has several nights a day. They are often heavily booked. When do you want to go?”

     “As soon as we can get seats.”

     He gave a dry little snicker.

     “With sufficient capital one can get a seat at any time.”

     “Let's say tomorrow afternoon.”

     “Very well.” He went to the telephone beside the bed. “I know a travel agent. A nephew, to be frank. He can purchase our tickets and add our names to the reservation list. Then, tomorrow, we should arrive early. A small consideration for the individual at the check-in counter …”

     “The company can handle it.”

     “Excellent.”

     He dialed the number with deliberate, precise movements. That was how he moved, how he talked, careful