Chet said, “C. G. has something going on with her batch mates and asked to borrow them for the afternoon.” He set a cast-iron pan on the stove and the gas flared to life beneath it. His head cocked to one side and then the other. The steak rested in its paper on the countertop, a hefty chunk of glistening meat anchored to a plank of bone. He poured some corn oil into the pan and then olive oil. He watched as the oil heated.

“Aren’t you going to put the steak in?”

“Not yet.” Chet seemed amused. “Ting, don’t you know how to cook?”

“No.”

“How is that possible when you’ve been living in the States all this time?”

“I live in New York. And my husband can cook.”

Chet salted the steak heavily, flipped it, and then salted the other side.

“Chet?” I asked.

“What?”

“Are you involved in anything crazy?”

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He gave me a questioning look.

“It’s just, a journalist friend of mine was asking about you, some business deal . . . with Gumboc?”

Chet sighed, shaking his head. “Ting, I’m involved in all kinds of stuff. And you don’t need to know about it. And you know who really doesn’t need to know about it? Your journalist friend. But just so you know, I don’t have a business deal with Gumboc. But I make a point of keeping my dealings private. I never discuss my business, not with anyone, not even C. G. And we’ll never talk about this sort of thing, not because I like to keep things from you, but I have a reputation for keeping my business to myself and you know why?”

I knew the answer. “Because it keeps the people close to you safe.”

“That’s right. You don’t know, and that makes you useless to people who want to know.”

There was some wisdom in this.

Chet’s phone began ringing. He picked up immediately. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on—” He leveled a look at me and meeting it, bored, resigned, I left the kitchen. I heard him say, “I can’t go to Baguio until Tuesday.” And: “I don’t care who’s asking. If I can’t go, I can’t go. There’s stuff going on.”

In the living room, Chet had replaced the Ventura painting with the Alarcon, his choice.

From the kitchen I could hear the steak sizzling in the pan. The smell of frying meat, almost dizzying as it reminded me of my hunger, would better accompany the Ventura.