José Martin questioned the relatives and Chok-Chok, but no one knew who had killed Bibo. She had been shot in the chest at short range, her head then wrapped in tape, maybe to delay identification or maybe as a dehumanizing gesture. The actual shooting had not been witnessed. All that was known was that Bibo had gone to her nephew’s birthday party at her sister’s house, then headed to the corner to flag a tricycle to go home. Chok-Chok had called the sister when Bibo was not at the sari sari store for lunch, as was her habit, and in the hour following, Bibo’s body had been found. There was speculation about who might have done it but no way of knowing. Someone had supplied Bibo’s name, knowing her long-ago history with drugs, and someone had killed her for the seven thousand pesos. It was a narrative that persisted like a disease, a set of circumstances with a constant supply of new players.

A group of women had gathered and I saw the beads come out. I had remembered to bring my own and, picking up my chair and going to them, asked if I could join. Just as we were about to start in on the first Joyful Mystery, the women raised their heads, distracted, and I turned to the door to see Chet standing there, his arms weighted with lilies. Behind him was Top Gun carrying boxes from Aristocrat Bakeshop. He saw me in my black with my beads.

“You look like someone I know,” he said in English.

“Don’t start, Chet,” I responded.

He gave the bouquet to a woman, who began arranging them in a plastic bucket. Bibo’s mother watched as the woman then placed the arrangement on a chair by the head of the coffin. The lilies released a powerful perfume into the air, a gorgeous death scent, a reminder that we were easing Bibo into a painless afterlife.

Chet went to Bibo’s mother. He took her hand and brought it to his forehead, then, crouching on the ground before her, began speaking earnestly. He produced an envelope—cash—and placed it in her hands. She looked at the envelope with an immense sorrow, knowing that she should produce gratitude but unsure of how to muster it. Chet looked over at Zackito, who was holding a hand of cards. “Game’s over, paré.”

“Really?” said Zackito. “I had a full house. Queens.”

“Of course you did,” said Chet.