Men’s startled voices, Peachy expressing surprise. Rafferty counts to ten and gives the door a shove.
Peachy is up against the wall to the left of the door. One of the cops has the top filing drawer open, and the other is going through the papers on Peachy’s desk. Elson stands beside the cop at the desk, one hand extended to Peachy, palm out, meaning Stay there. The door hinge squeals as Rafferty pushes in, and all of them look up.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rafferty says, bringing the paper bag protectively in front of him. And then he watches their eyes.
Elson glances down at the bag and opens his suit coat. Rafferty can practically see the word “weapon” form in his mind. One of the two cops—the one at the filing cabinet—looks at Rafferty and goes back to work. The cop sitting behind Peachy’s desk sees the bag, and his jaw drops. His hand starts to go for the middle drawer and stops.
His nameplate, pinned on the left side of his chest, says petchara.
“We’re conducting a legal search, under authority of the Bangkok police,” Elson says. “Stand over there, next to your friend, and stay there. Where’s Miss, um . . . ?”
“She’s up north,” Rafferty says, going to stand next to Peachy. “The buffalo is in the hospital.”
“Excuse me?”
“The family buffalo,” Rafferty explains. “Fallen arches, very painful. It’s something of a crisis for a farming family. She’s gone up to offer moral support.”
“Moral?” Elson asks.
“That’s twice,” Rafferty says. “One more remark like that and I’ll break your glasses in half and show you how to use them as a suppository.”
“It’s too bad for the rest of us,” Elson says, “that someone once told you that you were amusing.” His voice is level, but there are pinched little white lines on either side of his nose. “Get back to it,” he says to the cops, and they return to work, although Officer Petchara has to tear his eyes from the paper bag first.
“Why are you here, Mr. Rafferty?” Elson asks. “I didn’t think you were in the domestics business.”
“Sloppy research,” Rafferty says. “I own twenty percent of the company.”
Elson smiles. His front teeth are uneven and pushed in slightly, a characteristic Rafferty has always associated with thumb suckers. “Your name’s not on the license.”
“Gee,” Rafferty says, “am I in trouble?”
“You’re willing to admit you’re part owner?”
“I just did.”
“In writing,” Elson says.
“Sure,” Rafferty says. “Though I doubt anyone will ever read it.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“My supplies.” Rafferty starts to open it. Elson puts his hand inside his coat, and Petchara looks like he will slide off Peachy’s chair.
“Very slowly,” Elson says. His hand comes out with an automatic in it. “Open it very slowly, and don’t put your hand inside. Tilt it and show it to me.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to feel a little silly,” Rafferty says. “Of course, you’re probably used to that.” He holds the bag wide open and tips it toward Elson. It contains what looks like the back half of a rooster.
“What in the world is that?” Elson says.
Rafferty tilts the bag back and looks down into it. “My feather duster,” he says. “Monday is cleaning day.” He takes one of the feathers between two fingers and pulls, and the duster comes out. “You want to be careful,” he says. “Might get dust on that nice budget suit.”
“Let the bag drop,” Elson says. Rafferty does, and it drifts to the floor and lands with a hollow little popping sound. “So. You clean, too. Maybe the agency should find you a job.”
“Golly, Dick. Was that a joke? Is that Secret Service humor?”
“You’re just making my job easier,” Elson says.
“Glad to hear it. If it were any harder, they’d have to give it to someone else. And then I’d have to start creating rapport all over again.”
“Just stand there and shut up. Keep your hands in sight. Come on,” he says to the cops. “This isn’t worth the whole day.”
“Take your time,” Rafferty says. “It isn’t often I get to watch my tax dollars at work.”
The cop at the filing cabinet pulls out folder after folder and flips through them. Papers float free and drop to the floor. The cop at the desk—Petchara—picks up one piece of paper after another, glances at it, and throws it aside. Within two minutes there are papers all over the floor, and Peachy has begun to tremble.
“You guys going to clean this up?” Rafferty asks.
Elson is watching the cop at the filing cabinet. “I told you to shut up.”
“I forgot.”
“Would you like to be handcuffed?”
“It might be more effective to gag me.”
“Mr. Rafferty. One more word out of you and you’ll be gagged, cuffed, and sitting on the floor.”
Rafferty nods and mimes zipping his mouth shut.
Officer Petchara opens the middle drawer.
“What’s this?” he says to Rafferty, pulling out the paper bag. His hands are shaking slightly as he opens it.
“I don’t know. What’s that, Peachy?” Rafferty asks.
“I can explain,” Peachy says.
“Of course you can,” Elson says, elbowing Petchara aside and sitting behind the desk. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a pile of crisp new bills. Since both his hands are full, he clears a space on the desk with his elbows and drops the money there.
“A big withdrawal,” he says to Peachy. “I’m sure the people at the bank will remember it clearly.”
“I didn’t—” Peachy begins, and then she grabs a new breath and says, “I didn’t get it at the bank.”
Rafferty says, “Peachy. What the hell?”
“Still so eager to sign a statement that you own part of this business?” Elson is messing the bills around on the desk with both hands. He looks almost happy.
“As you said, Dick, it’s not on the license. I must have remembered incorrectly.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Elson says. He dips back into the bag and comes up with more money. “My colleagues heard your admission.”
“I guess you’ve got me, then,” Rafferty says, watching Officer Petchara, whose head has snapped forward on his neck at an angle that looks painful. He is staring at the money as though it has spontaneously burst into flame.
Elson feels the attention and glances at Petchara, then looks down at the money in his hand. Some of it is old and soft, crumpled from use. He drops it onto the desk and reaches into the bag again, bringing up more well-worn money. He looks from the money to Petchara and down at the money again. Then his eyes swing up to Rafferty’s.
“I didn’t know about any of this,” Rafferty says.
Elson says, “Goddamn it, shut the fuck up,” and picks up some of the bills. He examines them, one at a time, and then drops them and picks up some more. And then he is scrabbling through the older bills to get to the new ones, smoothing them out, turning them over, holding them to the light. After what seems like ten minutes, his hands drop to the desk.
“You lucky son of a bitch,” he says to Rafferty.
“I’ve always been lucky. Some are, some—”
“The horses,” Peachy interrupts faintly. “I play the horses.”
“You.” Elson is blinking fast. “You play the horses.” He sounds like someone who has learned a language by rote.
“I thought she had it under control,” Rafferty says. “But, golly, I guess . . .”
Elson doesn’t even glance at him. He paws listlessly through the money, nodding to himself, picking up bills at random and holding them up, then letting them drop again. “I don’t suppose,” he says to Peachy, “that you paid the girls out of this money.”
“No,” Peachy says. “I told you that I went to the bank.”
“Rose told you that, too,” Rafferty contributes.
“T
he bank,” Elson repeats. He looks up at Officer Petchara in a way that makes Rafferty happy the man isn’t even standing near him. “The bank,” Elson says again. “Where we could be right now.”
Petchara has dark half-moons of sweat beneath his arms. His eyes flick to Rafferty’s and away again. “Right. The bank.”
Elson begins mechanically to shovel the money back into the bag. To Peachy he says, “You have backup for this?”
Peachy winces. “Backup?”
“You know—winning tickets, disbursement slips, anything to show you really won it.”
“No,” Peachy says as though she barely understands the question.
“Peachy doesn’t go to the track,” Rafferty says. “This is street betting. As an industry it’s really meticulous about not keeping written records.”
“Of course,” Elson says lifelessly. To Petchara he says, “Can you arrest her for this?”
Even Petchara looks surprised. “For betting?”
“They’d have to arrest half of Bangkok,” Rafferty says.
“Maybe that would be a good idea.” Elson lets the rest of the money drop to the desk and stands up. He looks at Rafferty for several seconds, his mouth pulled in at the corners, and then says, “We’re not going to find anything here, are we?”
“Not unless Peachy had a really terrific week.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Elson says. He kicks idly at the nearest leg of the desk. Then he buttons his jacket, lifts the bag a couple of inches, and lets it drop again. “You know,” he says, shaking his head, “you shouldn’t keep this much money in a paper bag.” He slides his palm down his tie, straightening it.
“Why?” Rafferty asks. “Will it spoil?”
“A safe,” Elson says absently. “A strongbox.”
Rafferty says, “Haven’t got one.”
“A briefcase, then. At the very least. With a lock.”
“People leave paper bags alone,” Rafferty says. “I mean, not people like you, of course. Real people. But they open briefcases. There’s something about a briefcase that just begs to be opened.”
“Whatever you say.” Elson steps around the desk.
“They’re like suitcases,” Rafferty says, and Elson stops dead, so abruptly he looks like someone caught by a strobe. “It’s amazing,” Rafferty continues. “The things people put in suitcases.”
Elson slowly swings his head toward Rafferty, and Rafferty gives him the Groucho Marx eyebrows, up and down twice, very fast. Elson’s eyes narrow so tightly they almost disappear, and a dark flush of red climbs his cheeks.
Rafferty steps up to him. “Anybody ever do this to you in high school?” he asks, and then he puts his index and middle finger into his mouth, pulls them out again, and draws a line of spit down the center of the lenses of Elson’s glasses. Elson inhales in a slow hiss. Then Rafferty leans in and whispers, “If I were you, I’d keep an eye on Officer Petchara.”
PART III
!
TO CHOKE A HORSE
!33
That Makes Me the Fool
he sky over Bangkok is as gray as Arthit’s disguise. The weather front has decided to acquire an address and stay. “It cost seven thousand, and it was worth it,” Rafferty says.
“Seven thousand? You mean U.S.?” Arthit is dressed in shapeless, style-free clothing that’s supposed to make him look like a maintenance man, and it might, from across the street. Up close, Arthit is cop all the way through; he has the look of a man who sleeps in his uniform. He picks up his coffee, gives it a sniff, and puts it down again.
“That’s what it cost to trade the Korean money for the real thing,” Rafferty says. “Thirty-one thousand in counterfeit for twenty-three thousand in genuine baht and bucks. I got a special rate, but I had to put in my rainy-day money to get the total up.” Rafferty is on the hassock, giving Arthit the place of honor on the couch. “Something wrong with the coffee?”
“The coffee’s not the problem. Did you have to do that thing with his glasses?”
“Yes,” Rafferty says. “I did.”
“You’ve made an enemy.”
“We weren’t on the same tag team to begin with. And he’s such a hypocrite. He’s carrying enough lube to service a Buick, eating at a no-hands restaurant, and making bar-girl cracks about Rose. And he hasn’t got any lips.”
Arthit smooths the unfamiliar shirt, which sports a patch over the pocket that says paul. “It’s bad policy to make people lose face unnecessarily.”
“It was the best moment of my week.”
“You may need him later.”
Rafferty waves it off, more brusquely than he intends. He’s been having second thoughts, too. “If I need him, I’ll get him. Petchara is the one I’m worried about.”
The light in the apartment thins, and the buildings on the other side of the sliding glass door begin to fade as a falling mist dims the day. “Petchara is spotless,” Arthit says. “No blots at all. Eighteen years on the force and not a complaint from anyone. They’re not going to give the Secret Service some hack.”
“Well, they did. And a crooked hack, at that.”
“I don’t doubt you.” Arthit picks up the coffee and blows on it, although it can’t be much above room temperature by now. He’s been toying with this one cup while Rafferty drank three. “I’m just telling you he’s not an easy target.” He puts the cup down again and glances at his watch, a shiny hunk of shrapnel on a band so loose that the watch continually slips around to the inside of his wrist. That’s where it is at the moment, so Arthit gives it a practiced flip to bring it into position. “Our guys should be on the scene by now.”
“And Ming Li,” Rafferty says, the doubt finding its way into his tone.
“She’ll be fine. The question is where Chu’s local help is at the moment.”
“You want a guess?”
“No,” Arthit says tightly. “But I wouldn’t mind some informed speculation.”
“At least two of them are keeping an eye on this building.”
Arthit gives him a That’s obvious shrug. “I’d hate to think I’m wearing this outfit if nobody’s watching.”
“Chu’s got to have someone on me. He can’t really believe I don’t know where Frank is.”
“That would be the easy way, wouldn’t it? Follow you to Frank and kill everybody, including you, right on the spot and then disappear.”
“Yeah.” Rafferty thinks about it for a second. “Shame I don’t have somebody else behind me.”
“One of ours?”
“Sure. Maybe we could take them.”
Arthit sticks his index finger into the coffee, licks it, and makes a vinegar face. “And the point would be . . . ? Other than getting Chu pissed off?”
“Corroboration. Suppose Chu’s not staying in the warehouse where they’re keeping Noi and Rose and Miaow. Maybe he’s too smart for that. Maybe he’s in the warehouse next door, or the one two over. I draw him out, he gets spotted, and a few hours later we hit the wrong warehouse. We might as well send in a truck with a loudspeaker: ‘Look, we’re coming!’ I doubt Chu has stayed alive this long by being stupid.”
Arthit picks up the cup, glares at it, and puts it down with a clatter. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Sorry.”
“Damn it. I’m not thinking clearly.” Arthit gets up and goes to the glass door. He opens it, shoving it hard enough to bang it against the frame. “Great following weather,” he says nastily. “Can’t see across the street.”
“Arthit. It’s the weather we’ve got.”
“I don’t even know who I’d call.” Arthit’s hands are jammed into his pockets. From the bulges they make, they’re curled into fists.
Rafferty joins him at the door, and the two of them gaze into the gray. “There are times when I hate this city,” Arthit says. “I don’t know why we stay here. Noi would be happier in some three-buffalo village where I could be the big whistle, chief of police. Get to know everybody’s face,
break up the occasional fight, nab the occasional motorcycle rustler, get fat and sloppy, and enjoy the time we have left.”
“I guess that sounds good.”
“I’d be bored senseless, of course. But Noi and I would have more time together.”
“One thing at a time,” Rafferty says. “That seems to be the theme. First, let’s get them back.”
The mist is heavier now, the air is the soft gray of goose down. “Make the call,” Arthit says.
RAFFERTY SPOTS THEM through the glass doors of the lobby the moment he gets off the elevator. Two of the three probable cops who showed up at his apartment the night he, Rose, and Miaow ran: the fat one who had the knife and one of the two gunmen, not the leader. They are huddled in a doorway across the street and a few doors down. He turns up his collar, pushes the door open, and goes in the opposite direction without a backward glance.
Colonel Chu should call back in ten or twelve minutes.
Rafferty walks fast, trying to look like a man who knows where he’s going. The mist has intensified to a drizzle. He crosses Silom, dodging cars until he is beneath the elevated track of the Sky Train, hearing brakes behind him as drivers slow for his followers. Prettyman’s laws swarm in his mind, and one floats to the top: Stay out of blind alleys unless you want one.
He wants one.
A left takes him up Patpong, its neon dark, the sidewalks deserted now except for the occasional wet, resentful tout waiting to lure some hapless newcomer into a second-story rip-off bar where he’ll be charged ten dollars for a Coke and a nonexistent floor show. Rafferty waves them off and picks up the pace.
Minus the obstacle course of the night market and the distracted throng of bar customers, Patpong is a surprisingly short street. He reaches Suriwong in about a minute and turns right. Maybe nine minutes now. He reflexively checks his watch, and on the way back down, his hand brushes the Glock jammed into the front of his pants. When he put it there, he made sure the safety was on. Now he’s having some doubts. He can feel the tension gathering beneath his heart, coiling like a living thing in a space too small for it.
The drizzle is shouldered aside by a light rain.
PR02 - The Fourth Watcher Page 21
