“Look, Ting, I have to go. I know your number and you know mine.” And then he rang off.

Eagle’s Nest sounded familiar, but it was probably nothing. Even the bit about Rocco’s emails could have been made up. José Martin was just digging, which is what journalists did, and was being opportunistic because I’d asked him a favor. I had heard Chet mention Eagle’s Nest on the phone, one of the calls that he took on the way out from whichever room I had happened to be standing in. But Chet didn’t tell me anything about his business dealings, which could have been all legal or all illegal but were likely some combination. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

A few days passed, but there was no news. Laird’s absence was becoming just another factor in our daily lives, another topic of conversation that we polished like a stone without effecting any change. I understood that Tita Remi was doing what she could, but the talk in my family centered on the absence of Laird’s family. Why were these people leaving the task of finding their son to his future in-laws? We concluded that Laird’s family probably didn’t have the money to buy plane tickets to the Philippines, which were close to two thousand dollars when purchased near time of travel. And maybe he had a pattern of disappearing. Maybe there was no reason to worry.

My phone rang then, and I hoped it was José Martin calling back, but it was Chet.

“I’m in the neighborhood,” he said.

“Are you outside the front door?”

“No,” said Chet. I heard the front door swing open. “You know what I want to eat?” he said.

I walked into the hallway, still carrying my phone, and rang off. Chet smiled. I was, for once, actually dressed in a decent pair of pants and a nice shirt. I was showered. “What?” I asked.

“I want steak.”

“Are you inviting me to lunch? Or are you just stating a fact?”

“Sure. Where should we go?”

“Do we have to go somewhere? Why don’t we just send Beng to the market to buy steaks? My aunt’s cook is good.”

Chet checked his watch. It was almost 11:00 a.m. “Too late for good steak at Kamuning. It will all be sold. I have an idea. We should go to Rockwell and convince my friend Tati to give me a tomahawk.”

Chet’s friend Tati owned one of the newly hip restaurants in Makati, and it was famed for its tomahawk steaks, which were pricey but also fed four people.

“So who’s going to cook it?”

“I am,” said Chet.

There was no one at the apartment. The maid and cook, who had been there the previous time I’d visited, had been called back to Chet’s house in Dasmariñas.