The Fear Artist (25 page)

“And caught him, too,” Ming Li says.

“Would either of you like a—”

“But your eyes,” Vladimir says, sliding the envelope back and forth with his fingertips. “Yes, pretty, wery pretty, but interesting.”

“I’m just your basic hybrid.”

“Glad you guys are getting along,” Poke says.

Vladimir says to Poke, “She is baby spy, yes?”

“I’m his bankroll,” Ming Li says.

“Yes? And you are knowing him how?”

“I’ve heard about him my entire life.” She laces her fingers together and clasps her hands over her heart. “This is a dream come true.”

Vladimir’s lower lip comes out half an inch, apparently propelled by doubt. “You are young,” he says. “You will have better dream later.”

“Hey,” Rafferty says. “My life is in danger.”

“You guys talk for a minute.” Ming Li gets up. “What do you want?”

Rafferty asks for a Singha. Vladimir says, “Wodka. The bottle, please,” and watches her cross the room.

“A million dollar, she would be worth to me,” Vladimir says. “Two million. Already I have a hundred ideas.”

“Not for sale.”

“With fifty like her, look like her, smart like her, I could have won war in Wietnam.”

“You did.”

“No. Wietnam won. We lose ewerything. We lose whole world. We were killed by American telewision.” He puckers as though to spit but instead says,
“Dallas
.”

“Back in the present tense.” Rafferty takes out the third envelope and hits it against the heel of his hand. It makes a nice, thick
thwack
that gets Vladimir’s attention. Rafferty puts the envelope down and says, “Three thousand.”

“For what?”

“Murphy’s address.”

Vladimir picks up the envelope and slides it into his shirt pocket. He fumbles in the pocket with two long fingers for a moment and then extracts them. There’s a folded slip of paper between them. He holds it out to Rafferty. “Is here. But wery difficult to get in.”

“That’s
my
problem.” He opens the paper and sees an address in a part of Bangkok he never visits. “How did you do this?”

“Janos. You already pay him for it. I have him waiting outside Shen’s, two day, three day. People look at him, forget him, look at him again. Follow Murphy two time. Both time go this house. Wery big, with gates.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“You go there, he will kill you.”

“He’ll kill me anyway.”

Vladimir shrugs acceptance. “For two thousand dollar—what you pay me already—I tell you more things.” He opens the flap on the envelope in front of him and peeks in. “U.S. Not so good these days.”

“It’s what I’ve got. Give it back and I’ll write you an IOU in yuan.”

“Coming up,” Ming Li says, sitting next to Poke. Vladimir looks at her like she’s a veal chop.

“You can’t have her,” Poke says to Vladimir. “Tell me what else I’ve bought.”

“In the house, Murphy’s house. Is two women, maybe both Mrs. Murphy. And one girl.”

“Two Mrs. Murphys? What do you mean, a girl?”

“One Mrs. Murphy come from Wietnam, other one maybe Laos. Girl is twelve or thirteen. Daughter of Murphy. Wery strange, my friend say.”

“Strange how?”

“Wery dirty. Wears always same thing. Hair like snake in a ball. Maid is afraid of her.”

Ming Li looks impressed. “You’ve been talking to the maid?”

“Not me. Poke owe me five hundred more. Have friend, wery handsome Thai boy, talk to maid in supermarket, make some kind friend with her.” He glances at Ming Li and leans toward Rafferty and lowers his voice. “You understand, ‘some kind friend’?”

“I think I get it.”

“So they”—he makes a rolling gesture with his hand—“
talking
. Thai boy and maid. House have two maid, two women, one girl, and Murphy.”

Ming Li asks the question that’s on Rafferty’s mind. “Dog?”

“No. Maid says girl—” Vladimir breaks off as a waitress arrives with a big tray. She puts Rafferty’s beer in front of Vladimir, Vladimir’s glass and bottle in front of Ming Li, and Ming Li’s Coke—Rafferty guesses—in front of Poke. She gives them all a blinding smile and retreats.

“Says girl kill two cat,” Vladimir says.

Nodding acknowledgment, Ming Li rearranges the drinks in an expert fashion. She unscrews the cap on a small bottle of vodka and pours for Vladimir, her free hand supporting the hand with the bottle in it, laying on the formal Asian etiquette. Vladimir watches her so intently that Rafferty half expects a long tongue to dart out and snatch her across the table.

To distract him Rafferty pulls out a short stack of money and counts off five hundred. He starts to hold it out and then pulls back. “What do you know about Yala?”

“Yala? Ewerything is in Yala.” Vladimir wrenches his eyes off Ming Li and drinks. Then he puts the glass down and gives Rafferty his full attention. “If Murphy is working with Shen, he is thinking about Yala. If he is thinking about Yala, he is thinking Phoenix, yes?”

“What’s Yala?” Ming Li says. “What’s Phoenix?”

“Tell you later,” Rafferty says. His beer is heart-shrinkingly cold. “But Phoenix, that was against an invisible enemy. The people who carried it out didn’t know who was Vietcong and who wasn’t. Everybody knows who’s Muslim down there.”

“I am disappoint in you. You are thinking like American. Most Muslim wery peaceful. Have Buddhist friend, maybe even Buddhist husband or wife. Is the center of the problem, yes? If all Muslim is dangerous, solution is easy. So same problem like Wietnam. Which is which? What is command infrastructure? Who is giwing order? Are crazies from outside running ewerything? Don’t be so straightforward.”

Rafferty had mentioned Yala mostly to see Vladimir’s reaction, whether he’d been withholding information about Murphy’s trips down there. He still doesn’t know the answer, but what he’s getting is interesting anyway. “Straightforward how?”

“You are liwing here long time,” Vladimir says with an undertone of reproof. “You can see what happens. Many people die, Thai gowernment sits around. Send soldiers, soldiers sit around like gowernment, except they get shot at. Newspaper don’t talk about it so much. Maybe, if Murphy is working for Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam would like to see more action. Think Wietnam. Maybe time for Gulf of Tonkin.”

Ming Li says, “I am
so
lost.”

“American operation, long time ago, when I am young,” Vladimir says with a glance at his glass. “America want to support gowernment in South Wietnam with troop, so they make phony incident. They say North Wietnam ship make bang-bang at American ship. Not true, but now America can send in many troop. Self-defense, yes?”

“Provocation,” Rafferty says.

Vladimir fills his glass, holds up the bottle, and checks the level. “Why not? Many people, Thai people, want big show in south. Now five thousand, six thousand Buddhists dead and nobody do nothing. America, too, America probably want something big. You ewer see kid make sand painting?”

“Yes,” Ming Li says.

Rafferty shrugs.

“Kid take paper,” Vladimir says. He holds up a finger, knocks the glass back, and then uses the finger to blot his mustache. He puts down his glass, and with his long hands he frames a rectangle on the table. “Paper. Put line of glue on paper—maybe doggie, maybe house with tree. Draw with glue, yes?

“I actually am following this,” Rafferty says.

“Then pour sand all ower paper.” He mimes a big shaker. “All, all now under sand. Cannot see paper, cannot see lines. Then take paper and shake it back and forth and turn ower so sand falls off. And now sand is only where lines of glue were. Doggie was always there, yes? But only wisible now.”

“Because it got shaken up,” Ming Li says approvingly.

“Same in Wietnam, later,” Vladimir says. “Phoenix use many Wietnamese, prisoners from Saigon jails, bad guys, will do anything to stay out of pokey. They dress like Wietcong, blow up willage. America and South Wietnam troops go in to protect peasant. Maybe move them to ‘strategic hamlet,’ just houses in mud, like prison camp. Then watch to see who needs to get out most, because they probably Wietcong, have to talk to boss.” He touches his fingertip to the bottom of his glass and licks it. “Shake paper,” he says.

“So,” Rafferty says, “it would make sense to you if Murphy were going down to Yala from time to time.”

Vladimir’s eyes float to a spot in the air, which he studies with the concentration of a man trying to count money in a strange currency. Ming Li slurps her Coke. After a moment he says, without looking up, “You are saying he goes there?”

“I was asking.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” He picks up the glass and puts it to his lips, but it’s empty.

“If you’re thinking about selling this,” Rafferty says, “it would be a very good idea to reconsider.”

“I tell you, I am honest mercenary.”

“Let’s say you are. Let’s say I didn’t ask you about Yala. Let’s say I asked you about Kuala Lumpur.”

“He is flying around? Maybe this is why you not dead yet. Give me.” Vladimir waggles his fingers at the five hundred, and when Rafferty gives it to him, he drinks. Then he brings the glass down on the table with a bang. “
This
is how good Vladimir is,” he says. “You pay attention, Baby Spy, maybe you get better role model. In Kuala Lumpur is one wery famous American, Eddie Bland.”

Rafferty says, “And Eddie Bland is—”

Vladimir holds up three fingers, a benediction. “After I tell you this, you trust me forewer.”

“We’ll see.”

“When they blow up willage? When Murphy’s guys blow up willage?”

“I remember.”

“Eddie Bland was sergeant in Wietnam. Sergeant for Murphy. Is the guy who makes things go boom. Almost he kill me once.” He points at the glass and says to Ming Li, “Hurry, hurry.”

“Don’t get used to this,” Ming Li says, but she pours.

“So,” Rafferty says, “Murphy, Yala, Kuala Lumpur, Eddie Bland, provocation. Adds up to what, from your perspective?”

Vladimir raises his glass to Ming Li and drains it in one toss. “Same as for you. Maybe soon something go boom in Yala.”

D
AENG HAS BEEN
dragged into these rooms twice since the night he almost went off the roof at the hotel near Khao San. The same questions, over and over: How had Rafferty gotten away without a bullet in him? Was he armed? If Rafferty took the fire escape, why hadn’t Daeng chased him? Why hadn’t he radioed the men in the street to tell them Rafferty was coming?

Had Rafferty bribed him? How much? Where was the money? Was someone else there, someone who helped Rafferty? If Rafferty got away from Daeng, how come he, Daeng, was uninjured? How could he just have been standing on the roof with his gun in his hand when the other officers arrived?

Was he working with Rafferty? Where is Rafferty now? What wasn’t he telling them?

What wasn’t he telling them?

But tonight was different.

They’d been watching him somehow, actually looking into his house. At the precise moment he sat down to dinner with his wife and their two children, the men had banged on the door with boots and fists as though they’d been waiting for the signal. There were six of them. They hammered hard enough to splinter it around the top hinge. He’d told the family to stay put and gone to open the door. His feet had been swept out from under him, and then he’d been manhandled onto his stomach as plastic restraints were cinched over his wrists and his children stood screaming in terror.

When they pulled him up, they’d wrenched his shoulder sockets and he’d cried out. His wife had run at the men, trying to help Daeng, and one of them had shoved her hard enough to put her on the carpet. He’d been dragged downstairs, thrown headfirst into the back of a wagon, and hauled down here, his questions unanswered, then slammed into a chair. Two of the men had stood behind him. Waiting for something.

That had been four hours ago. Since then no one has spoken. Two hours or so after his arrival, the two men behind him left the room in unison and were replaced by two others.

Daeng’s hands are completely numb. He’s certain they’re swollen to double their usual size. He can feel the pulses slamming in his wrists, trying to pump blood in and out, the veins crimped by the tight plastic cuffs. And his nose has been itching for hours. He’s never realized what agony it can be not to be able to scratch his nose.

He has to pee so badly he’s got a cramp. He crossed his legs against it, and one of the guards reached down and pushed the upper leg to the floor.

He’s damp with fear.

The door opens, and a short
farang
in a bright, terrible old shirt comes in. Someone outside opened the door for him, because he has a paper cup in each hand, and Daeng smells coffee.

In no hurry at all, he plants one haunch on the edge of the table. He looks down at Daeng.

Daeng says, “Hello.”

The red-haired man says, in Thai, “Coffee or tea?”

Daeng says, “Tea, please.”

“Fine,” the red-haired man says. “Catch.” And he throws the contents of one of the cups in Daeng’s face.

It’s scalding. Daeng’s legs straighten convulsively, the chair almost going over behind him, and the red-haired man says, “Take the coffee, too,” and hurls that at him, cup and all. One of the guards yelps in pain. While Daeng is still gasping, his eyes squeezed shut, the red-haired man says, “Get him up.”

Daeng is yanked to his feet. The red-haired man says, “Spread him out.” Holding him under the arms, the guards kick his feet far
apart. He hears a grunt of effort from the red-haired man, and his testicles explode.

“Drop him.” The guards let go and step aside as Daeng crumples to the concrete floor and vomits and urinates at the same time. A kick to his cheekbone knocks his head aside. He lies there, choking and—to his shame—weeping.

The red-haired man says, “Hello.”

“W
HERE ARE WE
going?” Ming Li calls from behind him. “Shouldn’t we be getting a hotel?”

“I have a hotel. We’re probably not going anywhere. I just need to check up on someone. This has nothing to do with anything.”

“Well, as long as it’s important.”

The women on the sidewalk have taken refuge in the doorways, and they smile at Poke. Ming Li catches up and grabs his arm. The women’s eyes glaze over, and they look back upstream, scanning the oncoming faces for a possible short-time.