I wondered what Top Gun could be looking for, but then I saw his eyes rest on a motorcycle two lanes over. There was a man driving and a woman on the back, but they seemed to be merely commuters heading home after a day spent elsewhere. I wondered if Chet really had reason to believe that he was a target for assassination. His family had been rich for generations, a line of Spanish mestizos who, through clever business and government appointments, had managed to weather the ups and downs of Philippine history. Chet’s father, before his retirement, had been a Sandiganbayan presiding judge, in the position of weeding out graft and corruption, which often put him in opposition to powerful and dangerous individuals. While Chet was in high school, there had been a six-month period when his father had feared someone might be kidnapped—one of the children, his wife, or he himself. In the Philippines, kidnappings were no joke. Recently, there was the unfortunate Korean businessman, Jee Ick-Joo, and his golf clubs. And the slaying of two kidnapped Canadians in the south by the ISIS-affiliated Abu Sayyaf. Gumboc had pledged to stamp out Abu Sayyaf, but they were still active, still a news story, still a threat, although not in the city.

It was easy to forget that danger was real, not just news stories, not just calamitous events that happened as if a force of nature, and to other people. One could not be relentlessly vigilant, and that’s why Chet paid people like Top Gun to be relentlessly vigilant for him. I raised my eyes to study Top Gun in the rearview mirror. He was both focused and restless, his head moving back and forth like a snake. His eyes flicked up to the mirror and he caught me watching him. I looked away at the traffic in the next lane, which was moving past us, although slowly. This was how people were assassinated: a motorcycle with a gunman sitting on the back moving alongside a stalled car. I should have been nervous but was more curious, watching the traffic move by, wondering if something might happen.

There was a chiming sound as Top Gun got a text. He exhaled in a controlled way and leaned forward to whisper in Chet’s ear.

“Sige,” said Chet. “We’re passing by Rockwell,” he added, for my benefit. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Rockwell was a neighborhood of Makati known for its upmarket businesses and at this time, close to eleven, was swarmed by Manila’s well-heeled set. Chet pulled up in front of a restaurant with long glass windows, its plush seats and light-spattering chandeliers visible from the street. People were still eating, and drinks were still being served. Through the car’s tinted window, I watched as Chet chatted quickly with the valet staff. He mouthed “five minutes” at me with his hand raised and fingers splayed, but I knew it would be longer.