"Elson's a Seekie," Prettyman says. "The guys in the Service are the president's men, remember? They tend to take the executive branch's perspective pretty seriously. Also, here's a chance for them to make headlines. I mean, how often does someone take a shot at the president? You can put on those suits and plug in that earpiece and scan the crowd for your whole career without ever feeling like anything except a civil servant whose feet hurt. But lookie here, a chance to put an end to an act of war." He fingers the goatee experimentally. "So I'm telling you, don't get in Elson's way. He's gonna run over you like a cement truck hitting a feather. And the Thais won't lift a finger."
"I think it'll be okay. The bills came from a bank. Elson will talk to Rose's partner, and she'll clear the whole thing up."
"You'd better hope so. Speaking of money." He rolls the tube of paper back and forth beneath his palms.
"Got it," Rafferty says. He pulls out a wad of money with a rubber band around it. "Two consultations, and what you told me you were paying your guys." He reaches into his pocket for more. "And the twelve-five."
"Speaking of my guys," Prettyman says, taking the money, "they pretty much had you for breakfast yesterday."
"You heard about that."
"I didn't need to hear about it. I can smell it." He flips through the bills. "No thousands, right?"
"You're kidding."
"Uh-uh." He peels off two thousand-baht bills and hands them back. "Give me five-hundreds. Last thing I need is the Seekies."
As Rafferty makes the change, Prettyman surveys the room again. It follows the basic scheme: a square bar in the center, surrounding a raised and mirrored stage on which several scantily clad young women sleepwalk each night, more or less rhythmically. The sole distinguishing feature is at the far end of the room: three curtained booths where customers can retire with the sleepwalker of their choice for the house specialty, which requires the sleepwalker to service the seated patron for however long it takes heaven to arrive. This is exactly the kind of bar from which Rose rescued Fon.
"Thinking about an upgrade," Prettyman says.
"Hard to imagine," Rafferty says. "The booths are an interesting touch. Curtains and everything. Very upscale."
"Thanks. But, you know, times change. I think maybe new lights and speakers, maybe a mirror on the stage floor. Old guys get stiff necks trying to look up all the time."
"Next thing you know, you'll be serving fruit shakes."
Prettyman regards the room for another moment, eyes half narrowed to make it look better, then seems to come to a decision. "Tell me what you think of this," he says, unfolding the paper and turning it so it faces Rafferty. It is a chalk drawing that depicts a neon sign, obviously in the design stage, with penciled measurements in meters scribbled here and there. Most of the space is taken up by a large crimson word in balloon type.
"'Gulp'?" Rafferty says, reading.
"Too subtle?" Prettyman asks. He is frowning down at the page.
"It's too a lot of things, Arnold, but subtle is not one of them. What's wrong with 'Charming'? That's been the name of this place for years."
"Fails the basic criteria of business communication," Prettyman says. It sounds like he's reciting something somebody said to him. "Doesn't tell you anything. Not memorable, not distinctive."
"But Gulp? As in, 'Whaddaya say, guys, let's go down to Gulp?' Or, 'No problem, honey, I stopped off at Gulp?' I don't know, Arnold."
Prettyman looks disconcerted. "I was thinking about calling it 'Lewinsky's,'" he says, "but somebody's already using it."
"It's dated," Rafferty says, just to mollify him. "Gulp is… um, timeless." He looks down at the paper again. "But what's with the bird?"
Prettyman studies the picture. A blue, somewhat lopsided bird with its wings outstretched hovers above the G in "Gulp." "Nobody gets it," he says with some bitterness.
"At least I've got company." Rafferty checks his watch once more.
"You in a hurry?" Prettyman rolls up the paper with uncharacteristic vehemence.
"Come on, Arnold. Tell me about the bird. For once in your life, hand out some free information."
"It's a swallow," Prettyman says shortly.
"I take it all back," Rafferty says, rising. "You are subtle."
11
The Other End of the Line
Two cops," the fourth watcher says into the cell phone. The phone is a floater, purchased, along with four others, from the people who stole them from their original owners. Each will be used for one day. By six tonight this one will be at the bottom of the river. Against his will, the fourth watcher yawns; he had a long night, but a yawn is an admission of weakness. "They were dragging some girl along. But here's the interesting part: There was a guy with them. Dark suit, even a tie." "Thai government?" says the man on the other end of the line. "I'm tired," the fourth watcher admits. "I should have told you the guy in the suit was an Anglo." There is a pause. The fourth watcher yawns again, silently this time, and looks at the traffic. Traffic where he comes from is bad, but nothing like this. Then the man on the other end of the line says, "Shit." He puts a lot into it. "And since our guy's American, I'm figuring the guy in the suit-"
"Yeah, yeah." The fourth watcher can almost see the other man rubbing his eyes. "Half of Thailand is following him, and now this. Cops and an American at four-thirty in the morning. What the hell is going on, Leung?"
"I just stand around and watch," the man called Leung says. "You're supposed to figure out what's going on."
"They went into the building. How do you know they went to his apartment?"
"Lights," says the fourth watcher. "A minute, a minute and a half after they all went in, the lights went on in what I figure is the living room. Opens onto a balcony. Fifteen, twenty minutes later-make it five o'clock-they came out, all of them. Both cops, the Anglo, and the woman. About thirty seconds after that, the lights in the apartment went off again."
"Where are you now?"
"Sex city. Nana Plaza. Our guy just went inside, into a bar."
"At this hour? With a woman like that at home, he's doing a morning quickie?"
"Bar's closed," says Leung. "Some Anglo guy showed up and unlocked it for him."
"Describe him."
"Only saw him for a second. Balding and combing it forward, little- bitty features in a big face. Oh, and a goatee. Got maybe twenty pounds he doesn't want, mostly around his belt."
"Doesn't ring a bell. Any followers on our man?"
"Not unless they're invisible."
"Okay," the man on the other end of the line says. "Wait a few minutes until Ming Li shows up, and then come on in and get some sleep. She'll take him for the rest of the day."
Leung stifles another yawn. "Three or four tails practically riding on his back all the time. Cops in the middle of the night. A guy who couldn't be any more government if he had an eagle on his jacket. What do you think it is?"
"I think it's the same thing you do," says the man on the other end of the phone. "Trouble."
12
A Yellow Heart
The go-go clubs of Nana Plaza, where Prettyman's bar is located, don't light up until 6:00 P.M., but the open-air bars flanking the end of the Plaza that spills into Soi Nana are already packed at 10:30 in the morning and exuding an air of desperate fun. The tables are jammed with drinkers, some of whom can barely sit upright and most of whom look as though they haven't been to bed in days: Bags sag beneath eyes, graying whiskers bristle, hair as lank as raw bacon hangs over foreheads. Trembling hands hoist glasses. Here and there, Rafferty sees a morning-shift girl, her arms draped around one of the drinkers, looking at him as though he's just emerged, naked, gleaming, and perfect, from the sea.