“That’s such a man reaction,” Rose says.
“Well, he’s a man. What do you want me to do, enroll him in the Chrysanthemum-of-the-Month Club until he feels better? He told me he’d find his way back at his own speed, and having something to do will help. Men have spirits, too, Rose. We’re not floor lamps. Men’s spirits just heal better behind a screen of activity. As of the Sunday-night TV news, he’s the most famous cop in Thailand, and there’s nothing Thanom can do except try to crowd into the newspaper pictures alongside him. The people in the northeast would probably vote for him for prime minister. Not that he’s crazy enough to do anything about it.”
In the dining room, Boo carries Peep in one crooked arm. He’s resplendent in the new clothes Rafferty bought him for the ceremony. Da shines in a pale yellow dress that Rose helped her pick out, with Miaow’s sullen help. The once-spotless sling that supports the cast on Da’s left arm has already been decorated by Boo’s crew with a broad range of enthusiastic drawings that range from flowers and hearts and bright yellow suns to daggers and teeth dripping blood. The other kids, here at Arthit’s insistence, cluster defensively in the breakfast room, wearing clothes so new they creak, and never getting farther than four or five feet from the food.
Boo and Miaow have avoided each other. Not a word has passed between them.
And Rafferty has lost his Carpenters album and gained a cast on his own left hand, courtesy of the doctor who took care of Da. When he’d gone to the hospital to pay for her care, the doctor had taken one horrified look at the bandages and said, “Who did this? A plumber?”
“A dentist,” Rafferty said, and the doctor grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back into an examination room.
Rafferty’s cell phone rings. It’s his old phone, the one that’s been off for most of the past two days.
“Sorry,” he says to Rose. “I’ve got to go outside to hear this.” He opens the phone and says, “Hang on a minute,” then crosses the living room and steps through the front door into a warm, violet evening. “Hello.”
“Hello.” It’s a man’s voice. The English is unaccented. “I’d tell you who I am, but you don’t know me. I’ve been asked to call you to make sure you’ve noticed that everyone you love is alive and well. I assume you’re aware of that.”
Rafferty says, “Resoundingly.”
“Good. I’ve also been asked to point out that their present good health is in the nature of a favor. That, essentially, you’ve been done a good turn.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Another way is to say we had an agreement.”
“Don’t overvalue the strength of your deterrent. It was a favor. You’re undoubtedly aware that favors are usually returned. It’s called ‘quid pro quo’ in Latin, I believe.”
“Very impressive.”
“Thank you. A time may come when you’ll be asked to return the favor. The gentleman who asked me to call says to tell you he expects a thoughtful response. And in the meantime look at it this way: Someone in Bangkok will be keeping an eye out for you. Not much point in being owed a favor by someone who’s dead, is there?”
“Not unless you’re very patient.”
“And he wants you to redeposit his money. He’ll work out a wire transfer to a safe account.”
“Can’t do it,” Rafferty says. “It’s gone.”
“What? All of it?”
“Pretty much. Got a few hundred left.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Paid some hospital bills. Gave a bunch of it to some street kids and to the children of a reporter who got killed. Oh, and I bought a baby.”
“The man who asked me to call you is not easily amused.”
“What can I tell you? It’s all true.”
“Well,” the man on the other end says, “looks like you owe us a bigger favor than we thought.”
“Looks like,” Rafferty says. “So that’ll give him an extra reason to worry about my safety.” He thinks for a moment and then says, “Interesting how quickly another Isaan businessman stepped up to the plate, isn’t it? Politically, I mean.”
“Times are changing,” the man says. “We all have to change with them. Just remember, you owe us a favor.”
The man hangs up.
Rafferty puts the phone into his pocket and stands there, looking in through the window at the bright room, at the people assembled to remember someone whose life was faithful and compassionate and good. Like, he thinks, 99 percent of the Thai people. Like Boo’s kids will be, if they get a chance.
Standing near the window, on her own at the edge of the crowd, her hands folded in front of her, is Miaow. Without discussing the situation with either Rose or Rafferty, she has apparently made a decision. She wears the “schoolsiest” dress she owns, and yesterday she bought a hair rinse that would emphasize her new highlights. Her hair is even redder than it was before. She does not look toward Boo or Da.
She’s tough, Rafferty thinks. But that doesn’t mean she can’t break your heart.
The front door opens, and a group of people emerge, calling out words of parting. There is a general movement inside, people getting ready to go back to their lives. Soon enough, Rafferty knows, Arthit will be left alone to spend the first night in this house without Noi by his side. To begin something new.
It’s on the coffee table, centered in front of him, still sealed. The side of the envelope that told him not to come into the bedroom is facedown, revealing the sealed flap. Kosit stands to one side of the sofa and Rafferty to the right. It seems wrong somehow for them to come too close to him right now.
Arthit looks up. He says, “Well.”
“Well,” Rafferty says. The look on his friend’s face makes him want to burst into tears.
Arthit breathes deeply, leans forward, and uses both hands to pick up the envelope. As he does, Da comes into the room, stops suddenly, and then goes to Rose and whispers something to her.
“What?” Arthit says.
“Oh,” Da says, blushing scarlet, “it’s…um-”
Rose tells him, “She says there’s someone sitting next to you.”
Arthit’s eyes go to Da. He blinks as though to clear his vision, and then he says, “Thank you.”
He opens the envelope.
51
News from the Sun
BANGKOK MAN ARRESTED IN BABY-SELLING SCHEME
Exclusive to the Sun by Floyd Preece
A Bangkok businessman with alleged ties to the underworld was arrested yesterday by Bangkok police on charges of running a complex and highly profitable operation that purchased, and in some cases stole, infants in order to sell them to wealthy foreigners.
Wichat Kangsomthong, 57, was taken into custody at his offices on Sathorn Road in Bangkok’s Yannawa district. Police officials acknowledged that the arrests were in part a reaction to two earlier stories in the Sun detailing the sale of babies at costs in excess of 1.2 million baht to foreigners, mostly European. The infants, both Thai and Cambodian, were taken from their birth parents and given temporarily to beggars who were “protected” by Mr. Wichat’s syndicate.
In addition to facing charges of kidnapping and enslavement, Mr. Wichat is being investigated for violations of international human-trafficking laws because some of the children were allegedly transported across borders. Some of these charges carry the potential of life imprisonment.
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Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller pr-3 Page 35
