Boy Nunal was sinewy and tall. A hairy mole the size of a twenty-five centavo coin sat on his left chin. He had large, shockingly white teeth against brown skin. Eyes closed, he drummed dirty fingers on the table, as if he were a concert pianist playing the piano at the Cultural Center.
“What is it now, Inspector?” he asked with a cockiness that betrayed previous brushes with the law.
Tuason cast a sideway look at Rios, then turned to Boy Nunal. “Pretty cocky, are we?” She laid Henry’s ID photo on the table now marked with grease from Boy Nunal’s hands. “Tell us about this man.”
He shook his head.
“Try harder,” Tuason said, laying an enlarged print of the zumba lady’s selfie shot. It had become grainy because of enlargement. “That’s you, and that’s Henry. You two look cozy.”
Boy Nunal
