The Hot Countries (10 page)

He's up in a shot and through the door as the women in the shop laugh behind him, one more
farang
who's spotted the woman of his dreams. On the sidewalk he's hit by the wet heat and the smell of exhaust, and at that precise moment it starts to rain. Hunching his shoulders and squinting against the dazzle of moisture, he dives into the traffic, weaving between headlights across the shining pavement.

But the traffic demands attention, and by the time he's at the entrance to Patpong, she has disappeared. On the verge of diving into the crowd, he becomes aware of his posture, spine bent, neck craned forward, a parody of the searching man, and he straightens and relaxes and moves forward, just fast enough to thread between people who are moving more slowly than he is, but trying not to project the concentrated attention that will draw notice.

He thinks again,
Delsarte
. How could he have forgotten this for all these years?

He wipes rain from his face. What had she been wearing? Something blue, he thinks; he'd been distracted from her clothes by the distinctive, long, Lillian Gish spirals of curls, something out of a silent movie, although the style seems to be coming back lately. In fact, he immediately spots a similar hairstyle ahead of him, but the curls are shorter and darker, and when he draws up beside her, it's a different woman. She answers his look with a bright, professional smile, and he gives her a tamped-down version in return as he moves past her, hearing the immemorial bar-girl question, “Where you go?”

“He go
here
,” someone says, and slaps him loudly on the shoulder. He's face-to-face with Betty. Up close she looks even more like a man, like a weight lifter who's accidentally wandered into a comedy and finds himself in drag. She says, “You come my bar?”

Rafferty gives up. By now he has no chance of catching up to the woman with the birthmark. If she's making better time than he is—and it would be difficult not to—she could be most of the way to Silom by now, except that she's probably vanished into a bar. And he's not going into a bar to look for her, because she'll see him first, with the radar that allows bar girls to keep one eye on the door at all times.

“I was trying to follow that girl,” he says in Thai.

Betty points a finger at a spot above and to the left of her mouth, and Rafferty nods. “She just go by,” Betty says in English. She bats her lashes at him. “Go in bar.”

“Which bar?”

With a sidelong glance that looks like it's gotten a lot of use, Betty says, “Lutanh like you.” She lifts her head as though to confirm it's raining and grabs his shirt and hauls him out of the wet, beneath the blue plastic roof of a booth that's selling, of all things, baby clothes.

Dutifully, Rafferty says, “I like her, too. I like both of you. But I'm married.”

“Many men who like ladyboys are married,” she says, speaking Thai now. “If there were no married men, we'd all be selling makeup.”

“I'm not that kind of married. What bar?”

“Cowgirl,” Betty says. She attempts a pout, but it looks so silly that Rafferty laughs, and she joins him. “I'll tell Lutanh to forget about you,” she says. “You have no spirit of adventure.”

“Cowgirl is a big bar.” He hasn't been in it for years.

She wiggles her head side to side, a gesture he associates with India. “Thirty, forty ladies.”

“Not so bad,” Rafferty says. “I'll see if I can pick her up when they close.”

Betty brushes some rain off Poke's
shoulders. It feels maternal. “What will you do when you find her?”

“I don't know,” he says. “Follow her home. Eventually I want her to lead me to the man, if she can.”

“This is not actually a great plan,” Betty says.

“No, it isn't,” Rafferty says. “If you think of anything better, call me.”

10

He Was Supposed to Kill Me

The five of
them sit at the table, moving food around on their plates, in a silence so thick and so lengthy it makes Rafferty's ears pop. The only one who's eating is Chalee, and she looks up at everyone else and stops chewing, her fork halfway back down to the plate, which is piled with
pad see-ew—
rice noodles, gravy, and chicken.

“Isn't it good?” Anna asks anxiously.

Chalee nods, finishes chewing, swallows, and glances at Treasure for a cue. Treasure says, “Yes,” and looks down at her plate again. Chalee nods in agreement.

The clock in the living room ticks a couple of times, and Rafferty thinks,
I'll never get those seconds back.

Arthit clears his throat. Everyone regards him expectantly. He clears his throat again.

Rafferty says brightly, “I like the fish baskets.”

Anna says, “I bought them at Chatuchak.” Chatuchak is Bangkok's biggest open-air market.

Chalee says, “You bought them? But they're
old
. We had new ones in my village.”

Rafferty says, “They turn a beautiful color when they get old,” and is rewarded by a twist of Chalee's mouth that makes him feel like an idiot.

Chalee says, “How much?”

Anna says, “I'm sorry?”

Chalee tilts an imperious chin at the fish baskets. “How much did you pay?”

Anna says, “I don't remember.”

“You don't know how many baht?” Chalee says with some incredulity. She's speaking Thai.

“It was a long time ago,” Anna says, and Rafferty can practically see her wishing she had her blue cards back.

“Huh,” Chalee says. “New, maybe sixty baht.”

“Old ones are—” Treasure says. It's the first sentence she's begun since they sat down. Her glance at Anna is so quick that Rafferty isn't sure he saw it. “Old ones cost more.”

Treasure's Thai isn't quite as assured as her English and Vietnamese, but it's better than Rafferty's. While Treasure was still at the age when children absorb language through their pores, her father's retinue had moved all over Southeast Asia and many of the maids who had raised her had been Thai.

Chalee says, “Why?” She pokes a finger through a tear in one of the baskets. “A fish would swim right through this.”

Anna waits to see whether Treasure will reply, and then she says, “Some city people like old things.”

Chalee shakes her head. “When I have money, I'll never have anything old.”

“Here is
 . . .
different,” Treasure says. She licks her lips, and her gaze drops to the table's surface for a moment as she organizes her thoughts. “You know those store windows where everything is old?”

“Oh,” Chalee says, her face brightening. “
That
kind of old.”

Treasure says,
“Antiques.”
Then she goes silent, her head cocked slightly, one ear turned toward the direction of the living room.

For the forty or so minutes he's been here, commanded to come to dinner by a desperate-sounding Arthit, Rafferty has seen that Treasure is always listening for something. It's in the straightness of her spine, the angle of her head. She goes motionless whenever there's a sound from the street, and her eyes keep straying to the living-room windows. At the moment her head is lifted and her mouth is very slightly open. All he can think of is an animal that's scented something.

When the knock at the door breaks the silence, she drops her spoon onto her plate with a clatter that makes Chalee jump.

“Don't worry, Treasure,” Rafferty says. “This one's mine.” To Arthit he says, “May I answer the door?”

Arthit is already standing. “With me behind you.”

The two of them go through the living room, and when they reach the front door, Arthit steps in front of Rafferty and moves aside to pull the door open so that he's standing partway behind it, and Rafferty is surprised to see the automatic in his hand.

The man filling the doorway is almost cumbersomely big, tall for a Thai, with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a belly that's obviously had its way for some time. His face is a mismatch of features that might have been intended for several other people: small eyes, too close together, and wide nostrils, the nose short above a long upper lip, jaws so broad that his head narrows at the temples. Despite the unusual features, if Rafferty hadn't known that the man was coming, he doesn't think he would have recognized him; his once-black hair is frosted with gray, and he's added at least ten or twelve kilos of solid-looking bulk since they first collided with each other, five or so years ago.

“This is Sriyat,” Rafferty says, stepping aside to let Arthit emerge from behind the door. Sriyat takes a step back at the sight of the gun, and Arthit tucks it out of sight. Rafferty says to him, “May I invite Sriyat in?”

Arthit says, without a lot of conviction, “Please.”

Rafferty introduces them, stressing Arthit's rank, and Sriyat follows the two of them through the living room, moving as if he expects to break something at any minute, to the wide opening into the dining room. Treasure has already risen, looking like she's got one foot in the air, but Anna and Chalee are still in their chairs. Anna gets up hurriedly, swallows self-consciously against the embarrassment of speaking aloud to someone new, and says, “Have you eaten?”

The big man makes a
wai
and says, “Yes, thank you,” in an unexpectedly soft voice.

“I've known Sriyat for a long time,” Rafferty says. “Well, that's not really true. We
met
each other a long time ago, but this is the first time we've seen each other since then.”

“Really,” Anna says, every inch the hostess. “How did you meet?”

“I think he was supposed to kill me,” Rafferty says, and Chalee's jaw drops. Treasure is as still as a carving. Arthit looks at Sriyat appraisingly.

Sriyat ducks his head and says, “Only beat you up.”

Anna says, “My, my.” She sits down again, the social levels having been firmly established.

“I'm assuming there's a reason for Sriyat being here,” Arthit says.

“He's going to be outside all night, heavily armed,” Rafferty says, “and tomorrow night, too, and on Monday morning he'll follow you to the shelter when it's time for school. And in the daytime he'll be replaced by a friend of his.”

“My friend's name is Pradya,” Sriyat says in his tissue-paper voice. Then he says “Pradya” again, as though he doubts anyone got it the first time.

Arthit says, “Both of you are good shots?”

“We're all right,” Sriyat says modestly.

“Our late acquaintance, Colonel Chu,” Rafferty says, and Sriyat tenses slightly at the sound of the name. “Chu could afford the best, and Sriyat and Pradya are the ones he chose. You actually talked to Sriyat once, on the phone when my father was in Bangkok with half of China chasing him. Sriyat and Pradya were supposed to take me out of the equation.”

“Only beat up,” Sriyat says.

Arthit says, “And you got his
phone
number?”

“I got everything,” Rafferty said. “Every piece of ID, his numbers, address, everything. It was insurance. He thought I was going to turn them over to you.”

“You were a cop,” Arthit says. “I remember now.”

Sriyat ducks his head in apparent embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”

Arthit says, “Mmmmm.” It's noncommittal and disapproving at the same time. “Do you need a thermos of coffee?”

“I have one.”

“Something to—” He remembers that Anna and the girls are in the room. “To do
 . . .
you know, into? A jar or something?”

“Got one of those, too.”

“Good, good. Well
 . . .
”

“Yes, sir.” To everyone else, he says, “I'll be out there.”

“What color is the car?” Arthit says.

“Dark purple. Looks black at night.”

“I'll come out with you so I recognize it later.” Arthit gives Rafferty a parting glance that says,
We'll talk about this
, and leads the larger man back out.

There's a short silence, and then the front door closes.

Treasure says, “Paul could kill that man with his teeth.”

“It's what I could think of,” Rafferty says.

Arthit says, “How do we know which side that man will be on a month from now? And now a crook—a fired ex-cop—knows where I live.” He's on the couch, sitting forward with his palms on his thighs. Rafferty can't help seeing the impatience and frustration behind the pose. “You should have asked me.”

“I know,” Rafferty says. “Did I already say I'm sorry?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I'm sorry.”

“Oh, well,” Arthit grumbles. “I wasn't actually looking for an apology.”

“Too bad,” Rafferty says irritably. “I needed someone fast, and he's who came to mind.”

Arthit waves it off. “Why do you think you can trust him?”

“Because what he really wants,” Rafferty says, “is to be back on the police force.”

“Well, good luck to him.” Arthit sighs and sits back. Anna, Treasure, and Chalee are in the kitchen, banging dishes around and cleaning up, although there's not much talking. Rafferty is, as always, taken aback by the fact that Arthit never offers to help. He, Rafferty, is up to his elbows in soap after every meal.

Arthit says, “Have you got any more surprises for me?”

“This isn't
about
you.” Rafferty hears the frustration in his own voice. “It's about
Treasure
, okay? It's about trying to make Treasure a little less frightened. I didn't actually need to spend time doing this, Arthit. I have a pregnant wife and a daughter of my own to think about, and they're probably in danger from Varney, too.”

Arthit says, “And what are you doing about that?”

“
Worrying
about it. What else can I do, hire a platoon of hit men? I only got Sriyat here tonight because Treasure was so frightened.”

Arthit regards him for a moment, and then he sighs, and Rafferty can practically see the tension flow out with the breath. Arthit says, “And of course it never occurred to you that easing her mind might make this whole evening, this whole
situation
, a little easier for Anna and me.”

Rafferty says, “No. Never gave it a moment's thought.”

“I knew it was going to be difficult,” Arthit says, lowering his voice, “but not like this. What am I supposed to
say
to her? To either of them? I know how much Anna wants this to work, but ever since we got here, I've been stiff as a board. And she can barely look at me. She's
afraid
of me.”

“She's afraid of every adult man in the world. You know what she went through with her father.” He reaches out and touches his friend's arm. “Just let Anna take the lead for a while, and you stay in the background until the kid can relax.” He feels a little hypocritical, offering his friend platitudes. “Look,” he says. “It's not going to be easy. But if it works out, it'll be the best thing that could happen to Treasure.”

“And Anna,” Arthit says.

“And the thing about talking to them? Just do it the same way you'd talk to an adult. Ask them what they
think
about things. I can guarantee you no one ever asked either Treasure or Chalee for an opinion and then listened to it.”

“Is that what you do with Miaow?”

Rafferty almost laughs. “Among many, many other things. You'll see.”

Arthit says, “I hope so.” Then he shakes his head and says, “Miaow. Maybe you
should
be home.”

“Maybe she and Rose should be somewhere else. Listen, you'll be okay with all this. You'll work it out.”

The noise level in the kitchen drops, and Arthit lowers his voice. “If Chalee wasn't here, I don't think Treasure would stay in this house for a minute.”

“Having Chalee here is a good idea,” Rafferty says. “Except—”

“I know, I know.” Arthit leans forward within whispering distance. “You think I haven't been worrying about that? How is Chalee going to feel when we adopt Treasure but not her? I mean,
if
we—”

“She's had a hard time,” Rafferty says over him, but now they're both whispering. “Her sister's suicide, her family dissolving. She survived all that.”