Porthip’s body goes rigid, and his mouth tightens into a line as straight as a slice. Then his lips part and he lets out a long sound that’s just his breath traveling over his vocal cords, wind through a pipe organ.
“Pan put the locks on,” Porthip says when he can talk. His voice is frayed and ragged, and he’s taking more frequent breaths. “He put the bars on the windows. We had a…a problem with the ghost shift. Day jobs, some of them had day jobs. They were tired. People kept going outside, going into the sheds where the stuffing was stored. Big…soft piles of stuffing. For the bunnies, for the kittens. The ghost shift…they took naps there.” He struggles under the covers until he has an arm free, and then he lifts a twig-thin hand to the plunger and pushes it home. “Nothing.” He is panting with the effort. “But I can pretend I feel better.”
“They took naps,” Rafferty prompts.
“I hired Pan from Chai, who was the top crook then. I needed four or five heavyweights to keep the workers on the ball. Except for Chai, Pan was the only one who knew who I was, the only one-” His body arches again, his eyes slam shut, and a stream of air hisses between his lips. “He was the only one who knew anything. The others were just…muscle.”
“What happened?”
“There was…a rule,” Porthip says. “There had to be two guards outside. One of them had to have the key. One of them always…always had to have the key.” His eyes close again, and the lids flutter as though the eyeballs behind them are rolling up. Rafferty puts a hand on the arm Porthip extricated from the covers. The man’s eyes open. “Key,” he repeats.
He turns his head to the right, as though it eases the pain. “So Pan stops by the place in the middle of the night. He used to do that, just to…to keep everybody awake. And there’s smoke coming out of the windows, and people inside are screaming. He runs around the building, looking for the men who were supposed to…to be there…but they’ve gone…to…to eat. They’ve got the key. Pan went crazy. He tried to knock down the doors. They were iron, hot iron, and he was trying to push them open. He tried to pull the bars off the windows, even though flames were already coming out of them. He reached between the bars, into the fire. He tried to pull people through. He actually pulled one set of bars out and yanked three people through the window, but they were dead. They were on fire, but he pulled them over the windowsill and fell backward. They landed on top of him, burning. He rolled out from under them and tried to go in through the window, but he couldn’t. It was an inferno.” Porthip licks his lips. “Can I have some water?”
Rafferty picks up the glass with the straw in it and positions it under Porthip’s mouth, then waits as the man drinks.
“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
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.”