“Asia First,” Chet said. He opened the passenger door and I got in. Top Gun slid into the rear seat. Chet did not trust anyone’s driving except his own. Top Gun, ostensibly a driver, only drove when Chet was not in the car. When Chet had to be somewhere, Top Gun would park it and keep watch. Like many drivers of a certain group of Filipinos, Top Gun was actually a bodyguard. He had been in special ops in the Philippine Army and had worked for Chet for over ten years now. None of this was responsible for his nickname, which instead came from “Top Gone,” a merciless pun about his premature balding that had stuck and whose origins were now largely forgotten given his role in Chet’s life.

“Why are you dressed like a lola?” Chet asked.

“Why are you dressed like some asshole businessman neck-deep in corruption who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself?” I was flirting in my haughty way because this was the only way I knew how to speak to Chet.

He smiled. “But you’re not a lola.”

Chet took a right on E. Rodriguez and started working his way in the direction of Morato, where all the restaurants were. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t take you somewhere nice, just one of those shitholes you love so much.”

He pulled over in front of a narrow restaurant squeezed between a Korean barbecue and a Max’s Fried Chicken. Top Gun was already standing at the driver’s side. When Chet got out, he got in. Chet opened the door for me and gallantly extended his hand. “My provincial maiden.” He was still teasing me about the dress.

The restaurant was half full, populated mostly with uniformed college students and uniformed call center workers. Chet pulled a chair out for me at a small table by the window and I sat down. I felt this had to be one of his regular restaurants. Chet was about to take his seat when his phone went off. He stood by the door and said a few abrupt, affirmative things and then hung up. I was about to ask for a menu when he barked at the waitress.

“For her, fried bangus, some laing, and a kalamansi juice. I’ll have a Coke.” The waitress made an about-face. “Okay,” he said, sitting down. “How long are you here for?”

“Not sure,” I said.

“And are you writing one of your crazy stories? Because I’m telling you right now that you should stay away from Gumboc.”

“Why?”

He shrugged and looked out the window, then turned back to me, delivering a penetrating look. “Do whatever you want. You always do anyway.”

“I’m not writing about Gumboc this time,” I said. “I’m working on a book.”

“Good.”

“Don’t you want to know what it’s about?”