Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller pr-3

by Timothy Hallinan

  “She has a different life now,” Rose says to Boo.

  Boo says, “Obviously,” but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

  Rose’s phone rings.

  She looks at the number on the display but doesn’t recognize it. She thinks, Poke’s new phone, and answers, putting her free hand on the back of Miaow’s neck, which feels damp and hot. When she says, “Hello,” there is no reply. The line is open, but the person at the other end doesn’t speak. “Hello?” She waits a minute, listening to the hiss of distance, and then closes the phone and puts both arms on Miaow’s shoulders. Boo looks out over the river, as though he wishes he were somewhere else.

  Da rubs her arms as though she’s cold and says, “Someone is watching us.”

  Captain Teeth says, “She answered. She’s there.”

  Ren doesn’t even look at him. “Where?”

  “Wherever the phone is.”

  “That’s helpful,” Ren says. He is back behind the big desk, even though he knows that Ton could walk in at any moment.

  “It’s something,” Captain Teeth says. “She probably thinks the phone is safe unless she uses it. She doesn’t know it’s searching for a tower all the time. I wanted to make sure she hadn’t just left it somewhere to lead us in the wrong direction.”

  “Goody,” Ren says acidly. “You may get your chance with her yet.”

  “Fine,” Captain Teeth snaps. “You worry about what’s going to happen to us if the man gets everything he wants. I’ll worry about what happens to us if he doesn’t. Maybe we can’t find Rafferty, but we know how to find the woman, once the man calls whoever it is at the cell-phone company. Which probably means we know where to find the kid, too.”

  Ren says, “We know too much.”

  Captain Teeth says, “So figure out how to live through it.”

  The room smells of carpet that was at some point wet for a very long time. The carpet is wall-to-wall and well worn, obviously installed during an optimistic interlude in the past when someone thought the hotel would be a success. Shag of a long-unfashionable length, dyed a color that has no counterpart in nature, it curls slightly at the corners as though something were trying to claw its way out.

  If this is the last act of my life, Rafferty thinks, I’d rather it didn’t begin on a carpet like this one.

  Kosit sits, legs dangling, on top of the cheap, chipped, four-drawer bureau in front of the mirror, and Arthit is up on one elbow on the bed nearer the door. The bag of money is at the foot of Arthit’s bed, tipped on one side to spill bundles of currency across the bedspread. Rafferty is standing inside the bathroom door, just to get off the carpet. The toilet is running behind him. It has been running since they got there.

  Kosit’s patrolman accomplice, the man who stuck the gun in the back of Rafferty’s neck, has gone back to the station to dig out some pictures.

  “I’m not a cop now,” Arthit says.

  Arthit’s face is puffy and bloated, especially beneath the eyes. For the first time since Rafferty met him, his friend is unshaven, despite the new and unwrapped razor on the bureau where Kosit sits, and the stubble on his jaw is dusted with white. The hair on one side of his head sweeps forward, probably from having been slept on.

  “Of course you are,” Kosit says. “We can straighten this out.”

  Arthit waves the thought away. “If I want to.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Kosit says. “Let Thanom win. Give him what he wants. That’ll show him.”

  “Of course you want to be a cop,” Rafferty says.

  Arthit puts out a hand, palm down, and slowly pats the air. The meaning is clear: Back off. “Poke,” he says, “I know you’re trying to keep me focused on stuff.” He reaches out a white-stockinged foot and kicks the bag of money a few inches toward the end of the bed. “Make lists, do things, get even, clear everything up. Keep me busy, keep me from thinking too much. And I appreciate it. But you know what? Everybody, and especially you, is just going to have to leave me alone. I don’t need a tow boat. I’m going to work through this the way I have to, and I don’t need anyone dragging me along. For the first time in years, I’m not a cop. I can do it my way, not their way. I don’t have to-” He stops and looks down at the bed for a moment, then lifts his chin as though his neck were stiff. “I don’t have to worry about Noi now. And I’ll tell you something. I am going to be at Noi’s cremation in two days.” He holds up his first and second fingers, V style. “Two days. Monday afternoon. That means I need to get this straightened out by then, because if I don’t, I’m going to get arrested before I’m even inside the temple. And while I don’t particularly care whether I get arrested, I won’t allow it to happen at Noi’s cremation. Noi’s cremation is going to be the kind of ceremony she deserves.” He waits, holding Rafferty’s gaze.

  Rafferty says, “All right.”

  Arthit reaches into the pocket of his trousers and withdraws an envelope, crumpled from his movements. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Noi’s letter?” Rafferty asks.

  “Has it been opened?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “And it won’t be,” Arthit says, “until her spirit has been sent on its way with the peace and dignity it deserves. I won’t know what my wife’s last words to me were, Poke, until we get through this. So forget about motivating me, or helping me work through issues, or finding closure, or whatever it is you think you can do for me. I’ll do what I have to do. I’ll do anything that’s necessary to let me read this letter.”

  “Okay,” Rafferty says.

  “And that means we’re partners,” Arthit says. “Your jam is my jam.” He folds the envelope once and puts it back into his pocket. “I’m not a cop for now, and I want revenge. I can bring you my skills, and Kosit’s, and you can bring us everything you’ve figured out. Between us we’re going to get you out from under, and we’re going to put Thanom away, since he’s involved in your situation. I’ve had to leave Noi’s family to handle the ceremonies. You think I’ll forgive that? I’m going to boil his balls, dip them in hot sauce, and feed them to him.”

  “How?” Kosit asks.

  “It’s obvious. We learn what’s up and we fix it. Just come all the way in here, Poke. Stop lurking in the fucking bathroom, sit on this awful bed, and tell us what you know.”

  Rafferty comes out of the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him so he doesn’t have to listen to the toilet running. He glances at the bedspread, which is shiny with dirt, before he takes a seat, inches from Arthit’s feet.

  “At the beginning it was simple,” Rafferty says. “We started with two sides. One of them is Ton, and I don’t know for sure who the other one is yet, although I’ve got a theory.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Arthit reaches over to the other bed and grabs the pillow. He puts it on top of the pillow he already has, and then he sits up with them behind his back.

  “No. I’m not sure, and I don’t want to plant anything in your minds, yours and Kosit’s, yet. I could be wrong. Let’s see how things shape up as we start to screw with them.” He rubs his face with his good hand, realizing how tired he is. But at the same time, there’s a kernel of excitement deep in his chest: He’s part of a team now. “So we had two sides, both threatening my family, one side if I wrote a book and the other side if I didn’t. And then it gets more complicated. Ton’s side is connected to Thanom. And Pan is connected-was connected, might still be connected-with this crook Wichat, who’s selling the babies.”

  “Was connected or is?” Arthit asks.

  “I think we’ll know in a few hours. I put some bait in a box. If Wichat goes for it, we’ll know they’re still an item.”

  “Okay,” Arthit says. “Tell me about that ridiculous bandage on your hand.”

  “This is courtesy of what I think of as the other side, meaning not Ton’s guys. I thought it was Ton’s side at first, but it wasn’t. Is this complicated enough?”

  “I have extensive training,” Arthit says. “Cos
mic string theory is complicated. Imaginary numbers are complicated. This is just two bunches of thugs tussling over a blanket, and you’re unlucky enough to be the blanket. Does the hand hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t let it slow you down.”

  “That’s what I needed. Sympathy.”

  “Tell me about the money,” Arthit says, touching the bag with his foot.

  “It’s Ton’s. I thought I’d enjoy spending it to stick his finger in a socket. And I’m hoping we’re at a point where we might be able to do that.”

  “Hoping,’” Kosit says. He reaches down and pulls out one of the drawers in the dresser and puts one foot up on it. “Might be’ at a point. This is all very reassuring.”

  “Why?” Arthit says. “Why are they any more vulnerable now than they were before?”

  “Because they know that things aren’t working. They thought they had me under control, but now they know they don’t. They thought Thanom could put you on ice, but he couldn’t. Wichat, who’s probably involved in this, is worried about some kid wandering around who could bust his baby racket open. Nobody knows where we are or what direction we might come from. This is the kind of situation that makes people improvise, makes them do stupid things to get the world under control again.”

  “But what was the point in the first place?” Kosit asks. “I mean, what were they all after?”

  “Arthit called it,” Rafferty says. “It’s politics. Ton’s side, which is the elite who would hate to see Pan elected, aimed me at people who don’t like him. The kind of people who might spill the dirt if there were dirt to be spilled. We know-lots of people know-that there’s dirt back there, but I think there’s one thing, one horrific thing, people don’t know about, except as a rumor of some kind, and they wanted to see whether I could find it, so they could use it against him if he decides to run for office. The other side, call it the pro-Pan side, tried to scare me off because they were afraid I’d find the dirt, and they don’t want anything to surface that could keep him from getting elected. Whatever it is, Pan has managed to keep it a secret till now, and that’s why none of those biographies got written: He bought people off, or threatened them, or burned down a printing press.”

  Arthit says, “Any idea what it is?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what we talked about the very first night, after the card game. It’s the missing step from ambitious thug to budding billionaire. At some point Pan acquired a guardian angel, and he did it by doing something unforgivable, something indelible. Something that could destroy Pan, and probably the guardian angel, too, if it came out. And I think it had to do with a fire. He was burned a few months before he made the leap. I located half a dozen fires in that time frame, but I think the one we want is a toy factory.”

  “I remember that,” Kosit says. “It was awful.”

  Arthit says, “Have you not listened to the radio today?”

  “Actually, Arthit,” Poke says, “that was high up on my to-do list, but I haven’t gotten around-”

  “Then you don’t know,” Arthit says. “This is no longer a hypothetical discussion.” He sits up and leans forward, grunting as he stretches his lower back. “I sat here, in this awful room, with nothing to do, and in self-defense I turned on the radio. Big story. Pan’s office announced today that he’s going to hold a press conference on Monday. The spokesman wouldn’t say what it was about, but all the radio commentators seem to think he’s going to announce that he’s running for office.”

  “Monday,” Rafferty says.

  “Day after tomorrow.” Arthit draws a deep, slow breath and blows it out. “The day of Noi’s cremation.”

  “Well, then,” Rafferty says. “We’d better get going.”

  “Finally,” Arthit says. “Where?”

  “First,” Rafferty says, “we’re going to a camera store to spend some of Ton’s money. Then we’ll go down to the Indian district and spend some more of it to buy stolen goods. Third, we’ll go see some street kids, and after that we’ll pay a compassionate visit to someone in the hospital.”

  “Compassion,” Arthit says. “One of my favorite words.”

  44

  The Old Skyrocket

  They haven’t been out of the taxi more than a minute when Rafferty sees the first one, but only because he’s looking. The kid is about nine years old, dirty enough to have spent most of his life underground, and he’s lurking on the other side of a line of parked cars, watching them through the windows.

  Rafferty says, “See him?”

  Kosit, who is toting a big shopping bag, says, “See who?”

  “Exactly,” Rafferty says. “Nobody sees them.” He turns to the kid and waves him over, but the boy squints at Kosit’s uniform and takes off at a run, and then two others appear, both girls, visible but just out of reach, dangle themselves in sight for a second, and sprint in different directions. It’s the same maneuver they did when they stole the wallet from the man who’d been following Rafferty.

  “The old skyrocket,” Arthit says approvingly. “Everybody goes in different directions, and the fastest kid runs last.” One of the girls, thin as a piece of paper, with an explosion of fine hair framing a nervous, high-boned face, has slowed and is watching them over her shoulder. “That one,” Arthit says. “Nobody’s going to catch her.” He takes a couple of steps in her direction, and she accelerates like a startled hare, threading her way between the cars on the road and disappearing around a corner. “Olympic caliber,” Arthit says, coming back.

  “It’s down there somewhere,” Rafferty says, thumbing over his shoulder at the Chao Phraya. All three kids had put the river behind them when they ran.

  “Sure it is,” Arthit says. “If they run east, home is west.”

  “Boo says it’s a shack, nothing but weeds and mud on either side of it. Just old wood with a tin roof. Right along here somewhere.”

  They walk the cracked, weedy sidewalk that runs along the top of the riverbank. Across the river the city’s lights are beginning to flicker on, casting long yellow threads over the surface of the water. The sky is deep blue-black above them, reddening to an eggplant purple at the horizon. The river exudes a dark, sweet brackish smell.

  Two more kids approach them from the front, and Rafferty turns to see the other three coming up from behind. They all look wary. “Put your hands on your wallets,” he says. “They’re artists with wallets.” To the speedy girl, who has come closest, he calls, “Where’s Boo?”

  “Don’t know Boo,” the girl says, slowing. Her eyes are on Kosit, and she’s ready to run again.

  “Oh, sure you do. Look at me. I was the guy in the garage this morning when you helped my wife and kid get away. On Soi-”

  “Soi Pipat,” she says, and she gives him a big grin. “We were good, huh?”

  “Amazing.”

  Arthit says, “You can really run.”

  The girl says, “Sometimes I need to.” She looks back at Rafferty, then over at Kosit, with a passing glance at Arthit. “You didn’t have cops with you this morning.”

  “They’re okay,” Rafferty says. “Boo knows this one.” He angles a thumb at Arthit.

  The girl grabs her lower lip between her teeth. Then she swipes her nose with an index finger and says, “They’re down there. Near the water. You want to see them?”

  “Sure. But I need to talk to Boo, too.”

  “Then we have to hurry,” the girl says. She gives Kosit another critical glance. “You’re sure about the cops?”

  “Look at the bag, the one in uniform’s carrying,” Rafferty says. “He’s Santa Claus. Why do we have to hurry?”

  She turns toward the path and says over her shoulder, “Because we’re going to work soon.”

  “Actually,” Rafferty says, “you’re not.”

  It’s twenty thousand baht,” Rafferty says, passing the fold of currency to Boo. “It’s to keep the kids from going to work, pay for food and stuff, and buy a little of their time
.”

  “For twenty thousand you can have them for a week,” Boo says, fanning the bills. The only light in the room is a yellowish glow from four kerosene lanterns, one placed in each corner, a cautious distance from the wooden walls. The flames throw golden highlights on sweaty foreheads and noses. “What do you want them to do?”

  “Hang around on the street. Be invisible. Stay out of reach.” Rafferty has one arm around Miaow, who is not only sitting closer to him than usual but actually leaning against him. Her knees are raised, and she has both arms wrapped around them, folding herself into the smallest space possible. She hasn’t said a word. Rose sits several feet away, watching them both. Da is clear across the room, as far from them as possible, with Peep out cold in her lap.

  “Out of whose reach?” Boo asks.

  “Everybody’s. Send them in threes, so they can do the…the…”

  “Skyrocket,” Arthit says.

  “I remember you from before,” Boo says to Arthit. “You were at Poke’s. Aren’t you a cop anymore?”

  “I’m on leave.”

  “Cops are always cops.”

  “Speaking of cops,” Rafferty says, “this is Kosit. Kosit has some toys.”

  “I’m Officer Santa Claus,” Kosit says. “Is there something I can put on the ground? I don’t want this stuff to get dirt in it.”

  “Here,” Rose says. “Real cashmere.” She takes the shawl, folded in half, off her lap and spreads it on the dirt floor. Rafferty starts to protest, but it doesn’t seem worth it.

  “Get two of those lanterns,” Boo says to the room at large, and immediately two of the smaller kids jump up and thread their way through the seated children, lanterns in hand. Boo takes them and sets them on either side of the cashmere shawl.

  “Here goes,” Kosit says, clearly enjoying himself. He reaches into the bag and brings out several black objects, then dips back in and gets more. When he’s finished, there are eight of them, sleek and compact, made of gleaming plastic and shaped like cylinders, small enough to fit easily into a child’s hand. “Look,” Kosit says. He picks one up, unfolds a small screen on one side, holds the cylinder up, and moves the barrel slowly across the room. Then he turns it around and pushes a button, and suddenly kids are scrambling over one another to get closer, to see their own lantern-lighted faces on the tiny video screen. “You’re all in the movies,” Kosit says.