A waitress mops the table, but Rafferty, eager to write, sits before she tends to his chair, which has half an inch of water gathered in the low point of the seat. He barely notices, seeing in his mind's eye the loose, confident way Prettyman moved in the bar, as though he were outdoors and in familiar terrain. Until then Prettyman had always struck Rafferty as someone who navigated the world too carefully, the kind of person who checks frequently to make sure the top is screwed tightly on the salt shaker.
Arnold had been in his element in the bar. As Rafferty was when he was writing the kind of material he enjoyed writing.
"Stop that," he says out loud. He starts to write again, thinking he might have to reevaluate Arnold. The man in the spies' bar was more formidable than the vaguely comic ex-spook he thought he knew. Suddenly he realizes he's been patronizing Arnold.
He stops writing, the point of his pen still touching the page.
"Doing a Raymond Chandler?" someone asks, and Rafferty looks up to see Arthit peering down at the notebook.
"What's that mean?"
"Chandler wrote on little pieces of paper," Arthit says, pulling out a chair. "About the size of a paperback book. The trick, he said, was to get a tiny bit of magic on every one of those little pages."
"Is that so?" Rafferty watches Arthit's expression as his bottom hits the miniature pond on the seat. After his friend's eyes have widened rewardingly, Rafferty says, "The seat's wet."
"I know," Arthit says through his teeth. "It's very cooling."
"And how does that piece of information about Raymond Chandler come to be in the possession of a Bangkok policeman?"
"Chandler went to Dulwich, my school in England," Arthit says. "He was the only famous graduate who interested me, so I read about him. He drank too much. Why do writers drink too much?"
"They're alone too much."
"Why don't you drink too much?"
"I more or less live in a permanent crowd. How's Noi?"
"She hurts," Arthit says. "It comes and goes. Lately it mostly comes." Arthit's wife, Noi, whom he loves without reservation, is taking a defiant stand against multiple sclerosis. She's two years into the battle now, and despite all the medicine, herbal remedies, prayer, and love, she's losing. Arthit slides back and forth on the seat and then lifts himself a couple of inches and glares down at the wet chair. "She'd love to see you and Rose."
"Is tomorrow night okay?"
"That's what I like about Americans," Arthit says in his best British- inflected English. "They take small talk literally." He resigns himself to being wet and settles in. He's wearing his uniform, natty brown police duds stretched tight over broad shoulders and a hard little bowling ball of a belly. Arthit gives the cop's eye to the other people in the outdoor cafe, and they either look away or return it with wary curiosity. Bangkok cops have worked hard to earn their reputation for unpredictability.
"So here's the bad news," Arthit continues as a waitress materializes to hover politely above them. Arthit waves her off. "If this Elson is who he says he is, you're not going to get much help from my shop. Counterfeiting is a problem we actually share. The Secret Service gets carte blanche."
"Wow," Rafferty says. "Bilingual."
"I don't want to leave you out of the conversation," Arthit says, "so let me put it another way. As far as my bosses are concerned, these guys shit silver."
"A minute ago, when you were still speaking English, you said that was the bad news. That usually implies that there's also good news."
Arthit starts to put an elbow on the table and thinks better of it. "The good news is that this is a big deal. The Secret Service didn't come to Bangkok to bust maids. They're looking for a source, and we both know that Rose and- What's her name?"
"Peachy."
Arthit's mouth tightens in distaste. "Self-named, no doubt."
"Seems like a safe bet."
"They're probably not passing out millions, are they? Your Mr. Elson will backtrack it to the bank, and that'll be it."
"That's pretty much what I told Rose."
Arthit leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his belly. "Then why are you bothering me?"
"Just an excuse to get together. And I figured, this being a day of rest for ordinary mortals, that you'd be rattling around, bored senseless, and looking for something to do. Instead here you are, all suited up and spit-shined."
"You may have heard that we've had a coup," Arthit says. "When people wake up and see tanks in the streets and then learn they've got a new government-one they didn't elect-the police find themselves putting in a lot of overtime. The official line is that our presence is reassuring, although you and I know that having a whole bunch of cops all over the place all of a sudden is a pretty effective implied threat."
"If they only knew how sweet you actually are."
"My sweetness is classified. And if it were to become public knowledge, it would no doubt be blamed on the former prime minister." Arthit does a quick local survey to make sure no one is listening. "As part of the never-ending effort to find something else to blame on the former prime minister."
"I'd have thought the airport would satisfy anyone." In the wake of the coup, the sparkling new Suvarnabhumi International Airport has been found to be quite literally falling apart. "Cracked runways, no bathrooms, leaking roofs. Sagging Jetways. Should be enough corruption there to keep everybody's pointing finger busy for a couple of years."
"As a loyal servant of the Thai government," Arthit says, "I prefer to think of the problem as one of misplaced optimism. We Thais have a sunny turn of mind. Who but optimists would build an airport on a piece of land called Cobra Swamp? Even if one ignores the cobras, the word 'swamp' should have given someone pause."
"They probably paused long enough to buy it," Rafferty says. "Somebody sold that land to the government. Of course, it'll probably turn out to have been the former prime minister."
Arthit glances at his watch. "As much as I'm enjoying sitting here in this nice, wet chair and chatting with you about the state of the nation, I've got things to do. But before I go, I want to make sure that you took my larger meaning, which I implied with all the Asian subtlety at my command. Do not do anything to anger Agent Elson."
"That's pretty much what Arnold Prettyman said."
"Arnold's good at survival," Arthit says.
"How's Fon? Is there anything I can do for her?"
"She's fine," Arthit says. "Nothing severe, just sitting in a cell with the two other girls who deposited Peachy's money, talking up a storm. How do women do that? They've known each other for years, and sometimes two of them are talking at once. Don't women ever run out of things to say?"
"My guess is that they're sort of furnishing the cell," Rafferty says. "They're in an uncongenial environment, probably feeling threatened, so they fill it up with words and feelings until it's more comfortable."
"Aren't you Mr. Sensitivity?" Arthit says. "Anyway, they'll probably get out on Monday, when the banks open."
"Not until then?"
"Probably not. Your Mr. Elson seems to be a bit of a hardnose."
"That's what worries me. Rose says he enjoys power too much."
"Rose is a good Buddhist." Arthit checks his watch again.
"Arthit," Rafferty says. He pauses, looking for a way to frame it, and then plunges straight in. "Rose said yes."
Arthit looks at him blankly. "In a vacuum? When she was by herself? Was there a question involved?"
"I asked her to marry me." Even now he can feel his pulse accelerate.
Arthit's smile seems to reach all the way to his hairline. "And she said yes?"
"Believe it or not."
Arthit reaches over and pats Rafferty's hand. "Noi will be so happy." He gets up and pushes his chair back. "See what I mean? We Thais are optimists."