“He was burned. Badly. His clothes were synthetics. They melted into his skin. He was in terrible pain. But when the guards came back, he killed them. Then he loaded them in the trunk of his car and dumped them in the river. At five A.M. he came to my house. He could barely stand up.”
“And you took care of him.”
“He almost died there. He tried to save those people. Never, not once, did he do anything that would have…exposed me. He was the kind of man you wanted to do something for.”
Arthit says, “But you’re exposing him now, aren’t you?”
Porthip looks past Rafferty and lets his eyes settle on Arthit. “He’s not the same man. Before, he had…he had honor.”
“What does that mean?” Rafferty asks.
“You’re doing so well,” Porthip says. “I’d hate…hate to deprive you of the satisfaction.”
“You backed him. You put him into businesses he never could have gotten into on his own.”
“At first,” Porthip says. “For a while.”
“And then you sold the factory to him.”
“No,” Porthip says. “You’re missing it.”
“Missing what?”
“Snakeskin. Snakeskin sold the factory to Pan.”
Rafferty says, “I just said that.”
Porthip shakes his head. “You said I sold it to him.”
From behind Rafferty, Arthit says, “It’s a corporation, Poke. It’s not an individual. It remains Snakeskin no matter who owns it.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Rafferty says. “You sold the company.”
Kosit closes his eyes and nods.
“To whom?”
Porthip’s lids open, and he looks at Rafferty out of the corners of his eyes. He lifts his hand toward the morphine-delivery unit and caresses the plunger with his fingertips, then lets the hand drop. “You don’t know?” he asks. “You haven’t figured it out?”
Rafferty tilts his head back and closes his eyes and lets the realization wash over him. When he opens them again, he finds Porthip looking at him with some of the old energy.
“Ton,” Rafferty says. “You sold it to Ton. And Ton gave the factory to Pan.”
“See?” Porthip says. “You’re not hopeless after all.”
46
It’s Hard to Put a Positive Spin on Mass Murder
They haven’t even gotten into the hospital’s parking lot when Rafferty’s phone rings.
“Wichat came out of his office,” says a child’s voice. “With three big guys.”
“Who is this?”
“Nit,” says the child. “I’m the girl who runs fast.”
“Good work, Nit. Stay away from him. Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Has he met anybody?”
“No, but he went to your apartment building, where we were this morning. He’s in there now.”
Rafferty’s heart sinks. He’d been pretty sure it would happen, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He puts out a hand to stop Arthit and Kosit. “Where are you?”
“In front of the building. Across the street.”
“You know the garage door, where you went in before?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Stay across the street but move left, so the garage door is to your right. Keep moving until you’re looking at the left edge of the building. You should be able to see the balconies that stick out on that side.”
“Hang on. Yeah, sure. I can see them.”
“Okay. Count up eight stories. Tell me whether you see any lights in the windows next to that balcony.”
“…six…seven…No. It’s dark.”
“Okay, now count down four floors. Wait. Is someone keeping an eye on the entrance, in case they come out?”
“Sure.” The tone is edged with impatience.
“There’s no balcony on the fourth floor, but there are windows in the same-”
“Got it. Yeah, there are lights on.”
“Son of a bitch,” Rafferty says in English. “Okay, thanks,” he says in Thai to the girl. “Get out of sight. The people Wichat wants aren’t there, and he’ll be out any minute. Wait around the corner on-”
“On Silom,” Nit says, and this time the impatience isn’t just at the edges.
“Right.” He snaps the phone closed and pops a sweat that’s pure anger.
“Well,” he says to Arthit, “we’ve got the answer to one question. Pan and Wichat still keep the chat line open.”
“On what evidence?”
“Pan just tried to sell Boo and Da to Wichat. I told Pan they were staying on the fourth floor of my apartment house. I didn’t tell anybody except Pan. And Wichat’s up there right now with some goons, probably punching holes in the walls.”
“What does that prove?” Arthit asks. “In the larger picture, I mean.”
“Well, I think we can assume that Pan is no longer the self-appointed guardian of the poor of Isaan. If he ever was. Da’s about as poor and as Isaan as it’s possible to be, and he tried to hand her to a Bangkok crook who probably wants her dead.” He kicks a tire on the nearest car, hard enough to set off a whooping alarm. “This is going to kill Rose. She thinks he’s a great man.”
Arthit says, “And then there’s Ton.” He grabs Rafferty’s arm and hauls him away from the squalling car.
“Yes,” Rafferty says. He can’t get a breath that’s deep enough to unlock his chest. “There’s Ton.”
“What do you think that’s about?” Kosit asks.
Rafferty says, “The word that comes to mind is ‘sellout.”
“Everybody else is staying put,” Rafferty says, putting the phone away. “The kids say nobody’s moving.” The three of them are sitting on plastic chairs at an outdoor noodle stall off Sukhumvit. Kosit is slurping rice noodles loudly enough to be heard over the traffic, while Arthit pushes his spoon through the broth as though he expects to discover something of value at the bottom of the bowl. Occasionally he stops shoving the utensil around and passes his hand over the bristle on his chin. All the while his eyes burn a hole in the center of the bowl.
Rafferty watches Arthit brood, thinks of three or four modestly helpful things to say, and rejects all of them. Instead he takes a mouthful of noodles and boils his tongue. He forces the scalding liquid down and grabs a glass of water, holding the coolness in his mouth on the theory that it will keep his tongue rare, as opposed to well done. He lets the silence stretch and then swallows the water and says, “It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
Without looking up, Arthit says, “What is?”
“A deal. A terrifically secret deal. Between Ton-Mr. Establishment-and Pan. Ton must have taken a look at him and seen a guy who had peasant roots and lots of charisma, was terrifically popular, and was an obvious candidate sooner or later. The worst-case scenario would have been that Pan runs and gets elected, and Ton’s guys have got to get him out somehow. The best-case scenario would have been that he runs and gets elected-”
“And they own him,” Arthit says. He drops the spoon into the bowl. “Ton’s group aren’t against Pan running for office. They’re for it. Because they made a deal with him. They think they’re going to control the first Isaan prime minister.”
“Why would he go for it?” Kosit asks with his mouth full. “He could get elected without them.”
“I’ll make a few guesses,” Arthit says. “They tell him he won’t get assassinated during the campaign, for one thing. They say he won’t have to worry about a coup if he gets elected and that they can make everything a lot easier for him once he’s in office. Cooperation from the legislature. No pesky investigation every time he slips a million baht into his pocket.”
Rafferty says, “And I was, to use a business term, due diligence. They set me up to see whether the man could really get elected.”
“Meaning what?” Kosit says.
Rafferty takes another mouthful of water. “Ton wanted to know whether I could discover the monstrosity in Pan’s
past, the thing that would make it impossible for him to get elected. I think they saw the same blank space Arthit talked about at the very beginning, the link missing in Pan’s story, the link between Pan the pimp and Pan the great industrialist. They wanted to see whether I could find out what it was. If Pan runs for national office, how likely is it that the fire at the factory will come out? If it did, it’d be fatal. People will put up with a lot from a candidate, as American politics prove over and over again, but it’s hard to put a positive spin on mass murder. Ton figures only a very small number of people know about it, and they’re all on his side. So he set me loose to see whether I’d find it. He gave me clues, put me in touch with some of the right people, because after Pan goes public as a candidate, he’ll be investigated by the best, and they won’t miss anything obvious. I was his way of knowing whether the campaign could survive the attention of the press.”
“And he doesn’t know you’ve figured it out,” Kosit says. “That’s why the announcement on Monday.”
“I don’t actually understand that,” Rafferty says.
Arthit pushes his chair back and says, “Neither do I.”
Kosit picks up his bowl in both hands and drains the broth without apparent injury. “Why not?”
“Because I’m on the loose,” Rafferty says. “Because Arthit’s on the loose. Because there’s no way he can know what we’ve learned or what we’re up to, so why not just wait until we’re under control? What’s so special about Monday? They could announce any time in the next few weeks, but no, it’s Monday, and here we are rattling around all over Bangkok, and Ton has no idea what we do or don’t know. It’s not…characteristic. He’s careful, and here he is allowing Pan to go public while these wild cards are all over the table.”
Arthit says, “Maybe Ton’s not in charge.”
Rafferty is about to fill his mouth with water again, but he puts the glass back down. “Right. What’s happening right now? Porthip’s dying. Porthip might be the only person who actually knows firsthand what happened at the factory. Everybody else just has hearsay.” A thought strikes him. “Except maybe Wichat. Wichat was working for the same crook Pan was, back when it happened. Maybe that’s why Pan tried to hand him the kids, because he can’t piss Wichat off.”
“Could be,” Arthit says, nodding. “Keep going.”
“So with Porthip about to vanish from the scene, Pan wants to redefine the relationship. He tells Ton he’s going to announce-”
“And Ton says no,” Arthit says. “And Pan doesn’t like to be told no. So let’s say he decides to announce anyway. The announcement is a demonstration that he’s going to be more independent now, that it’s going to be a collaboration or nothing.”
Rafferty says, “Works for me.”
“One thing I can tell you,” Arthit says. “This is bigger than Ton. He’s rich and nice-looking and he married well, but he’s not in charge of anything this big. There’s someone else, someone up in the nosebleed echelons of society. Military or conservative for a dozen generations. And what that means…” He looks at Kosit, who’s been shifting eagerly on his chair, practically raising his hand to speak. “What does that mean?”
“That Ton’s on the spot,” Kosit says. “He’s sitting on a burner.”
For the first time, Arthit looks like himself. He leans over and swats Kosit lightly on the head. “That’s exactly right.”
Rafferty says, “Hold on,” and opens his phone. “What?”
“Pan and the little guy,” Boo says on the other end of the line. “Dr. something, the one with the big nose and the slacks with all those pleats?”
“Another player on the move,” Rafferty says to Arthit. To Boo he says, “What are they doing?”
“They pulled out of Pan’s right after I talked to you, about ten minutes ago. Big black car, not the gold one. They’re heading away from town, on some nowhere road.”
“What direction? Where are you?”
“North, sort of. Out toward Chatuchak. Bunch of factories.”
Rafferty says, “Factories.”
“The guy with the nose is driving,” Boo says. “Pan’s in the back.”
“How far behind are you?”
“A few blocks. We’re on three motos, no lights. You’re going to have to pay these guys extra for that.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Rafferty realizes he’s standing, and a sudden stab of pain tells him that he’s tried to reach into his trouser pocket with the bandaged hand, looking for small bills to pay for their meal. Kosit gets up and drops a few fifty-baht notes on the table.
“Just kids,” Boo says.
“Which kids?”
“Nobody you know.”
Something in his tone rings wrong, but Rafferty dismisses it, since there’s nothing he can do about it anyway. “Stay far back. I’m pretty sure we know where he’s going. We’re way the hell on the other side of town, but we’ll be there as soon as we can. And listen to me. When they stop, you call to tell us where it is. And that’s it. You do not go in until we get there. Not you, not any of your kids. You wait outside and out of sight until we arrive.”
“You worry too much,” Boo says. He disconnects.
“I worry too much,” Rafferty says to no one.
“We’ll be where?” Arthit asks. Kosit is already out on the street, hailing a cab.
“The famous factory. Dr. Ravi’s taking Pan out there as we speak.” A taxi flashes its headlights and cuts through traffic at an acute angle to reach them. “And I think the time has come to get their attention.” Rafferty climbs into the back, beside Arthit, as Kosit slips into the front seat and pushes his badge at the startled driver.
“Right now,” Kosit says, “it is impossible for you to drive too fast.”
47
Kinder That Way
Boo waves the motorcycle taxis past the gate that Dr. Ravi’s car pulled through. The gate is high and rusted, twisted as though someone drove straight through it, and it sags disconsolately to the right, like it’s hoping for something to lean on. There are no lights visible on the other side, just tall, spiky weeds and the looming hulk of a building.
Not until the bikes are almost a quarter of a mile down the road, with the gate behind them, does Boo wave the convoy to a stop. The road is just heavily oiled dirt, spotted with patches of asphalt to fill in holes. On either side, vertical screens of foliage climb chain-link fences to mask the squat industrial buildings they surround. Razor wire spirals its silver teeth along the tops of some of the fences. Except for a weak wash of moonlight diffused through ragged, gauzy clouds and a single spotlight shining uselessly on an empty parking lot across the street, the area is dark. Two feral-looking older boys climb off the bike behind Boo’s, but when the person on the third bike begins to dismount, Boo waves her to stay put.
“You’re going back to the shack,” he says.
“No, I’m not,” Da says. “I’m going where you go.” She has made a sling of Rose’s cashmere shawl, and Peep peers over the edge of it, curious now that the movement of the motorbike has stopped.
“This isn’t the same as watching a house,” Boo says. “We don’t even know what’s in there.”
“You should have said that before we all got on the bikes,” Da says. “And there are four of us, and Khun Poke is bringing all his police, right?”
“You’re not coming.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” She looks at him as though he’s slow and she’s grown impatient with waiting for the idea to drop. “I’m going where you’re going.” She steps toward him, and he backs up. “What’s your problem? I’m a girl?”
Boo licks his lips, looks away, and then his eyes come back to her and he says, “The baby.” The boys are watching, and to Boo’s irritation they look amused.
“Peep?” Da says, her eyes wide and innocent. She puts a hand, open-fingered, against her heart. “Peep, in danger? Peep’s been in danger ever since he got stolen. He’s used to it. If he wasn’t in danger,
he’d probably start to cry. His karma has kept him safe until now, and either it’ll keep him safe tonight or it won’t. Just like yours. He’ll be fine or not. Just like you.”
One of the boys laughs, and Boo rounds on him, fists clenched.
“See?” Da says. “Even your friends aren’t afraid of you. I’m not letting you go in there without me.”
The night’s silence breaks open as something mechanical sputters, coughs, and gradually works its way up to an irregular chug. A motor of some kind. The half-moon emerges from behind a scrap of cloud to reveal an area that looks post-human. The world is a narrow oiled road, fences, weeds, and empty black buildings like giant boxes dropped to earth at random.
“Generator,” says one of the boys. “Must be back there.”
Boo has wheeled around to face the sound. While his back is turned, Da hops off the bike and taps the driver on the shoulder. He glances at her, takes the money in her hand, and pops the clutch. By the time Boo’s head snaps around, the bike is ten meters away, accelerating into the night.
Boo glares at Da. Da reaches into the shawl, brings up Peep’s hand, and waves it from side to side at Boo. The other boys start to laugh, then cover their mouths to muffle the sound. Da is grinning, too, but Boo’s lips are a tight line. He stands perfectly still, waiting for silence.
“We’re doing this my way, and anybody who thinks I don’t mean that can find a new bunch of friends and a new way to buy food tomorrow.” His voice is a sharp-edged whisper. “Everybody understand that?” He looks at Da. “Everybody?”
Nods all around. The boys study their feet. Da busies herself with Peep, but she makes a syllable of assent.
“I’m going through the gate first. You all”-he focuses on Da again-“all of you, you wait until I wave you in. Once we’re all in, you do what I say unless I’m dead, and then it’s up to you. Anything there you don’t understand?”
“Yes,” Da says, for all of them. “You’re not supposed to go in. Rafferty said we were just supposed to watch.”
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