The Fourth Watcher (11 page)

“I need a lot of looking after,” Frank says.

Poke is watching the way Ming Li looks at her father. “You didn't used to.”

“Well, it wasn't like your mother lived to take care of me.” He raises his hand before Poke can speak. “I'm not saying anything against her. Angela is a wonderful person.”

“She'd be thrilled to hear you say that.”

“Angela is well taken care of,” Frank says. “I left her a rich woman.”

“Yeah, but you left her.”

“For twenty years I was a good husband.” Frank finally allows his irritation to show, a sudden bunching of the muscles at the corners of his eyes. “I stayed home, I raised a family. I built a house for her.”

“She burned it down,” Poke says with some pleasure.

Frank's cup stops halfway back to the saucer. “She what?”

“The day you left. She read the letter you wrote her—real personal, by the way, a bunch of bank-account numbers and some safe-deposit keys—and then she toted all the stuff she cared about outside and set fire to the Christmas tree. Oh, I forgot, she called a cab first. Then she sat there, and we watched it burn until the cab came.”

“That was a nice house,” Frank says. “I put a lot of work into that house.”

“It made a lovely light.” He leans forward, driven by an impulse to cause pain. “Oh, and you'll like this. Seven years later she had you declared dead.”

“I'm dead?” Frank says. He seems more interested than surprised.

“She ran an obituary and everything.”

Frank and Leung exchange a glance Rafferty can't read. Frank says, “That could be useful.” Leung raises his eyebrows and draws down the corners of his mouth.

Frank blinks and leaves his eyes closed a little too long. When he opens them, he is looking at a spot above Poke's head. “I lived with Wang down south, out of sight in Yunnan, for a year, until I had to leave China. We lived like brother and sister. You have to remember, Poke, I was really only a kid myself then. We were happy. If things had gone on, eventually, we'd have found our way to bed. But come 1950 it was obvious that I was going to have to leave. I put it off for as long as I could—too long, actually. So we went out to a stone where we sat every day—have you ever been to Yunnan?”

“No.”

“It's exquisite, at least where the rice is grown. Whole mountains carved into terraces that are flooded with water that reflects the sky. We sat each evening on a stone that looked down on a giant stairway of rice paddies, and waited for the stars to come out. The night before I had to leave, after I'd spent days packing and trying to prepare her,
we went up to the stone and married each other. We took each other's hands when the sun went down and waited until the stars appeared in the paddies below us, and then we said we were married. She needed that. She needed to know I was coming back.”

“Why didn't she go with you?”

“She wouldn't. She was afraid to leave China. And you forget, she was one of the oppressed masses. Remember them? She was one of the ones who were supposed to benefit. People's paradise and all that shit. Who was more downtrodden than a peasant girl who'd been sold into prostitution? What she didn't know was that Mao was a puritan. Officially, I mean. He had his fifteen-year-old Girl Guides—whole squadrons of them, if his doctor's memoir is to be believed—but everybody else was supposed to sleep one to a bed. Prostitutes were contrary to the common good. It's been said that the thing about Communists is that they have nothing and they want to share it with you. The problem with prostitutes was that they still had what they'd been sharing. So they were all shipped off to be ‘reeducated.' They got Wang's attention by breaking her arm.”

“You know,” Poke says, “it's an interesting story, and it probably would have held my attention about twenty years ago, but now? It doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“Just shut up,” Ming Li says. “He's obviously got a point.”

Rafferty continues over her. “I've got a family now—I won't bother telling you who they are, since you've spent all that time paddling around in the usual channels—but they're going to get worried if I don't get back to them. So cut to it, okay? What's happening that's so important you had to kidnap me? You want to tell me about the past, write a letter.”

“We're
going
to get to it,” Frank says. “In a second.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone, then holds out his other hand to Leung, who reaches into his own pocket and brings out Rafferty's. Frank turns on Rafferty's phone, dials a number on his own, and waits until Rafferty's rings. Then he turns off Rafferty's phone again and hands it back to Leung. “In case you need my number,” he says.

Rafferty says, “I'll give you a call on Father's Day.”

“Fine. Until then Ming Li's right. Shut up. There's a point here. We grabbed you the way we grabbed you because you were being followed
all the time, and we didn't know by whom. Did you know you were being followed?”

“Yes,” Poke says.

“Who is it?”

“Nothing to do with you.”

“I'd like to be the judge of that.”

“We'd all like something,” Rafferty says. “But what we get is each other.”

“Poke.” Frank leans back, and the light catches the puffiness beneath his eyes and a new heaviness under the chin. Suddenly, Rafferty sees that time and gravity have gotten to his father after all. “I can't apologize to you. I can only explain. Okay, so I'm not Father of the Year. But I owed something to Wang. I made her a promise. You can't just walk away from something like that. Still, I waited. I waited until you were almost grown and away from home, and I waited until there was enough money for Angela. Then I took what I needed, and no more than I needed, and I went back.”

“And when I came after you—”

Frank's head is still resting against the wall behind him, his chin raised, but his eyes drop to Poke's. “Did it ever occur to you,” he says, “that I was ashamed to face you? That I left it to Wang because I was a coward?” He reaches over and takes Ming Li's hand, and she turns to face him. “Also, I have to tell you, I saw no reason to bring my families together.”

“Until now,” Rafferty says.

Frank rubs the top of his head as though it aches, and he closes his eyes. “Well, yes,” he says. “Until now.”

“But you forgot something, didn't you?”

“What?” Frank asks, his eyes still closed.

“You forgot to ask us.” He pushes Leung aside and keeps pushing until the man is all the way out of the booth. Then he stands. “Go back,” he says. “Wherever you came from, go back.”

Frank's eyes open. “They're after me, Poke. The ones I stole Wang from. They're after me.”

“All these years later? Boy, some people really hold a grudge.”

“It's a triad. It's not about Wang anymore. I have something they want.”

“Then you'd better give it to them, hadn't you? Or keep running. I hear Malaysia's nice.”

“This is why we needed to talk, why I had to tell you that story.” He puts both hands on the table, one on top of the other. Takes a deep breath. “Trying to find me,” Frank says, “they could come for you.”

Rafferty steps forward so fast he hits the edge of the table. Ming Li's tea slops out of the cup. Leung steps toward him but stops at a glance from Frank.

“You listen to me, old man,” Rafferty says. “If anything happens to my family because of you, I will personally beat you to death.” He reaches down with both hands and lifts the edge of the table, sending Frank's coffee cup into his lap. “Are we clear on that?”

Despite the coffee spreading across his lap, Frank does not take his eyes off Poke. Rafferty can feel them on him all the way out of the restaurant.

R
afferty?” Prettyman says, knitting his brow in a way that would make most people look thoughtful. “The same last name as you?”

“He's my
father,
Arnold,” Rafferty says, trying not to grind his teeth. “As I told you a minute ago. Maybe you should speak English more often.”

Prettyman tears his eyes away from the front door of the bar. He's been watching it the same way Leung watched the door of the restaurant, and probably for the same reason. Eighteen years' worth of CIA training dies hard.

Ignored by both of them, three lightly clad girls dance listlessly on the stage. Except for their shoes, which are high-heeled, calf-hugging boots, they are saving a fortune on clothes. They shuffle their feet and hang on to the vertical chrome poles as they endure “Walk of Life” for the three-thousandth time. Their exposed skin, and there is quite a lot of it, is goose-bumped; the bar is aggressively air-conditioned. Rose
once told Rafferty the bar owners kept the places cold so the girls' nipples would stand out.

One of the girls wears a large triangular plastic watch, and the others glance at it from time to time. Two of the bar's other main attractions sit in the laps of overweight customers, and another has been sufficiently lucky, or unlucky, to be taken behind the curtain in one of the booths.

“So you're asking me to check up on your father?” Prettyman asks, having apparently reviewed the conversation in his mind. His eyes flick to Rafferty's for confirmation. “Not a very close family, is it?”

“I barely remember the man,” Rafferty says, wishing it were true. “He disappeared into China more than twenty years ago. Not a lot of cards and letters. But here's the thing, Arnold. He's got—how should I put this?—he's got
skills.
”

“Living in China for those particular years would take some skills,” Prettyman says listlessly. A Steely Dan riff punches its way through the speakers, and he turns to eye the girls onstage as though he is wondering about their Blue Book value. “Where in China?”

“Shanghai and Shenzhen. Yunnan, Fujian. Also, apparently, a little time in Pailin. In Cambodia.” Frank had mentioned Pailin in the
tuk-tuk
on the way to the restaurant.

Prettyman looks remotely interested for the first time. “Pailin is old Khmer Rouge and rubies. Fujian is people smuggling. Shanghai and Shenzhen are everything we can both think of, and lots we can't. You think it's any of that?”

“For all I know he makes Garfield the Cat in a plush-toy factory. That's what I'm asking you to find out, Arnold.” He decides, on the fly, that the word “triad” might dampen Prettyman's enthusiasm. Such as it is.

Prettyman's lifeless eyes go back to the door. Then he says, “Money, of course.”

“Of course. Twenty thousand now and twenty more when you come through.”

“Thirty. When I come through, thirty.”

“I'm a little squeezed at the moment, Arnold.” Nothing like understatement.

Prettyman nods. “Then you'll owe me.”

One of the girls onstage stumbles, grabs the arm of the one next to
her, and they both go down, laughing, in a tangle of elbows, thighs, and buttocks. Rafferty turns at the sound.

“You want one?” Prettyman is following Poke's gaze. “Add it to your tab.”

“Thanks anyway, Arnold. I'm sort of booked up.”

“Suit yourself.” Prettyman regards the girls another moment, looking like a man counting his change, then seems to come to a decision. “China,” Prettyman says. “I'm still connected in China. I don't know about that money, though. Seems pretty short.”

Rafferty touches Prettyman's arm, and Prettyman yanks it back, all the way off the table. “Arnold. I'm not in a mood to be fucked around with. It'll cost exactly what I said it would cost.”

Prettyman says, “Or?”

“Or,” Rafferty says. “This is a nice bar. Mirrors, sound system, lots of liquor, those fancy booths, everything. Lot of cash sunk into this room. Cops would line up to bend you over a barrel for a higher cut. I know a lot of cops, Arnold.” It's not exactly true, but it's enough to make Prettyman purse his lips. Then he shakes his head slowly, a man who has grown used to disappointment.

“No bargaining, no give-and-take,” Prettyman says, and sighs. “None of the old back-and-forth. It's not the same world, is it, Poke?”

“I doubt it ever was.”

“Maybe not.” Prettyman looks depressed.

“One more thing, Arnold.” Rafferty taps the table for emphasis. “What you find out, whatever it is. It belongs to me. It is not capital. It's not for sale, loan, or affectionate sharing. The man may be one of the world's premium assholes, he may be the leading sphincter on the planet, but he's still my father. This is bought and paid for by me, not merchandise for additional profit.”

Prettyman turns to him, gives him the full blue-eyed treatment. “Poke,” he says, “don't you trust me?”

Rafferty looks at him.

Prettyman shrugs and turns back to the door. “Just asking,” he says.

R
afferty's first indication that something
else
is wrong is the sight of a police uniform in his living room. His spirits rise briefly when he realizes that the person wearing the uniform is Arthit, then plummet again at the sight of his friend's face, which is several stops beyond grim. They plunge further when he spots the bundle of misery on his couch, which turns out to be Peachy, reclining in a position as close to fetal as a tight skirt with large buttons will allow. Rose is nowhere in sight.

“You have a problem,” Arthit says.

Rafferty pulls the door closed. “You're telling me.”

Something happens to Arthit's face. Rafferty couldn't describe it precisely, but if Arthit were a dog, his ears would have gone up.

“Are you saying you know about this already?”

A surge of irritation begins at Rafferty's toes and rises all the way to the roots of his hair. “I'm not saying anything.”

The knobs at the corners of Arthit's jaw pulse. “That's not wise.”

“For Christ's sake, Arthit, it's not a declaration of policy. It's a state
ment of fact. I wasn't saying anything, and I told you so. Let's review, okay? You told me I had a problem—”

“You do.”

“And I said, as I recall, ‘You're telling me.'” Arthit's hard gaze doesn't waver. “Maybe someone should be recording this conversation. That way we'll only have to have it once.”

“In an hour or two, somebody probably
will
be recording it.”

Rafferty grabs a breath and lifts both hands. “Okay, okay. Let's admit I came in here with a bad attitude. So let's pretend I didn't, and that I've just this second come through that door with a big smile on my face and offered you a beer. ‘Hi, Arthit,' I said. ‘What a nice surprise to see you again so soon.' Something like that. Would that make anything better?”

“No,” Arthit says.

Rose comes in from the bedroom and stops at the sight of him. “Poke,” she says. “We have a problem.”

Rafferty is struck by a bolt of pure panic. “Miaow? Is it Miaow?”

“No,” Arthit says, his face softening slightly. “It's not Miaow.”

“Okay,” Rafferty says. His spine loosens a bit. “Rose is here, Miaow is all right. How bad could it be?”

“Bad,” Arthit says. Peachy contributes a stifled sob. Arthit looks at her as though he's just realized she's in the room and says, “I shouldn't be here.”

“He came because I called him,” Rose says. She is speaking Thai. “I didn't know who else I could—”

“He's a great guy,” Rafferty says. “We don't even need to vote on it. What the hell is wrong?”

“I really should leave,” Arthit says. “This is completely inappropriate.”

“Poke taught me that word last night,” Rose says. “It means you slept with a poodle, isn't that right, Poke?”

“Yes, although I wasn't applying it to Arthit. What do you mean, you should leave? And why the hell isn't there anywhere for me to sit? I have no intention of taking bad news standing up.” He moves toward the couch, and Peachy shrivels in a manner so abject that Rafferty is instantly ashamed of himself. “Did we sell the hassock?” he asks Rose.

“It's in the bedroom. I was standing on it. To hide something.”

“I
really
shouldn't be here,” Arthit says, making no move to leave.

“I'll get it,” Rose says, leaving the room.

“While you're at it,” Rafferty calls after her, “bring whatever you were hiding.”

“For the record,” Arthit says, “I did not suggest that she hide it.” He sounds like he's on television.

“Well, gee, I hope that gets you off the hook, whatever the hook is.
Do
you want a beer?”

“I guess,” Arthit says. “This is as good a time to be drunk as any.”

When Rafferty comes out of the kitchen, a bottle of Singha in each hand, Rose is standing by the white leather hassock, clutching a wrinkled brown paper supermarket bag. Peachy is staring at the bag as though it has a red digital countdown on its side, signaling the number of seconds before the world ends.

Rafferty hands Arthit one of the beers and takes a long pull off the other one. Then, as insurance, he takes another long pull and sits down on the hassock. Rose gives him the bag, and he opens it.

He sees rectangles, green and white and brown and white, a loose, disordered pile of them. Closes his eyes, squeezes them tight, opens them wide, and looks again. Nothing has changed.

“Thirty-two thousand dollars,” Arthit says. “Six hundred thousand baht, all in thousand-baht notes, and one hundred fifty American hundred-dollar bills. All brand new. And, since it's almost certainly counterfeit, it's exactly what Agent Elson is looking for.”

 

“IN THE DESK,”
Peachy is saying. She claws her fingers through her hair again, snags them on the same clot of hairspray, and lets her hand drop. “The middle drawer. Rose knows. It's the drawer I keep the account books in.”

“That's right,” Rose says. “We advance money to the girls when they're short, and that's where Peachy puts the book we track it in.”

“Is the desk kept locked?” Rafferty asks. He is on the floor now, leaning against the wall. Rose shares the couch with Peachy, who is finally sitting upright.

“No.” Peachy starts toward the hair again and stops herself. “There's no reason to lock it. Nobody would go into it.”

“Someone obviously did.”

“Why were you in the office?” Arthit asks. He has replaced Rafferty on the hassock, which he sees as a position of greater authority, and is working on his second beer. His face is beginning to turn red. Two more and he'll look like a stop sign.

“
Why?
It's my office.” Peachy sounds bewildered by the question.

“On Saturday,” Rafferty says. “He means, why were you in the office on Saturday?”

Peachy starts to answer, then shakes her head as though this is leading somewhere she doesn't want to go. “I'm always in the office. I go in every day.”

“Why?” Arthit says.

“Because…because…” She blinks heavily, and then her face seems to crumple, and Rafferty knows she is moments away from tears. “Where else would I go? What else would I do?”

“Family?” Arthit asks.

“Oh,” Peachy says. “That.” Her lower lip does a watery little ripple. “We, I mean, I—Well, not really, you know, I mean…” She undoes a button with shaky fingers and does it up again. “I spend a lot of time in the office.”

“Okay,” Arthit says uncomfortably. “Sorry. So when you left on Friday—”

“Last night,” Peachy says, and Rafferty suddenly sits up. All this started only last night? The proposal to Rose, Agent Elson, his father, the money? All since
last night
?

“When you left the office last night,” Arthit says. “Was everything normal? I mean, was the place the way you usually leave it?”

“Sure,” Peachy says.

“And did you lock the door?”

“I always lock the door.” The questions seem to be calming her.

“This morning, when you went in—Wait, what time did you arrive?”

“About eleven.” The hand goes up again, but this time it pats the hair instead of ravaging it.

“At eleven, then. Was the door still locked?”

“Yes. I had to use both keys to get in.”

“And you double-locked it when you left.”

Rafferty sits there, admiring Arthit at work.

Peachy's eyes go unfocused, as though she is doing addition in her head. “I think so. I usually do. But sometimes I forget.”

Arthit has been sneaking a hit of beer while Peachy thinks, and now he lowers the bottle. “Who else has a key?”

“Um…” Peachy says. A blush mounts her cheeks. Her eyes rove the room like someone looking for an exit. She passes her index finger over her front teeth and inspects it, scanning for lipstick. Then she says, “Who
else
has…”

“I do,” Rose says.

“Yes,” Peachy says, looking relieved. “Rose. Rose does.”

“Nobody else.”

“The landlord,” Rose says.

“Who's the landlord?” Arthit asks.

“Somkid Paramet,” Peachy says, naming one of the richest men in Bangkok. “He owns the whole block.”

“Scratch the landlord,” Rafferty says.

Arthit tugs at the crease in his trousers and stares longingly at the bottle of beer in his hand. “When does the cleaning crew come in?”

“Never,” Rose says. “Peachy and I clean the place on Mondays. We go in early.”

“Rose does most of the cleaning,” Peachy says apologetically. “When I was growing up, I never learned how to clean properly. And my husband, my
former
husband's family, they…”

Arthit's eyes flick to Rafferty, who finds something interesting to study on the carpet. Rose admires the ceiling. Peachy's genteel upbringing has been a frequent topic of conversation among them. “And when you went in this morning, everything was still in place?”

“Except for
that.
” Peachy indicates the paper bag without looking at it.

“Right, right. Except for that.” Arthit sits back and stares out through the sliding glass door at the lights of Bangkok. The bottle of beer dangles from his hand, forgotten for the moment. “Well,” he says to Rafferty, without turning, “isn't this interesting?”

“It's fucking riveting.” Even in her distraught state, Peachy stiffens at the word. “Here's the thing, Arthit,” Rafferty says. “It's Saturday.”

“Thank you,” Arthit says, inclining his head. “I always like to be reminded what day it is.”

“They didn't know she'd go in.”

“Ah,” Arthit says. He shifts himself around and stares at the wall above Rafferty's head. “That's right, isn't it?”

“What's right?” Rose asks.

“Whoever put that money there,” Arthit says, “doesn't know it's been found.”

“Monday,” Rafferty says. “They think it'll be found on Monday.”

“It's not much, is it?” Arthit says.

“
What's
not much?” Rose asks with an edge in her voice.

“One day,” Rafferty says. “Before whatever is supposed to happen actually happens. We have one day to try to screw it up.”

“It's a little better than that,” Arthit says. He hoists the beer and swallows. “We also have tonight.”