Rafferty has been writing for fifteen minutes, working on his magazine story with a certain amount of guilty enjoyment, when the first one hits. It strikes him in the temple, hard enough to brighten the day for a heartbeat. For one absurd, soul-shriveling tenth of a second, he thinks he is dead, and in that transparent slice of time he forms two complete thoughts. The first is a question-Will I hear the shot before I die?-and the second is a statement-I will never marry Rose. And then the world does not end, and he glances down to see the small black ball that is rolling back and forth at his feet, smooth and gleaming, about the size of a large marble.
A chill at his temple brings his fingers up, and they come away wet. Whatever the fluid is, it is clear. So at least he's not bleeding. He touches the tip of his tongue to his finger. Sweet.
The restaurant has filled now that the rain is gone, but no one seems to have noticed anything. Since the world has not ended, time continues to flow. Traffic creeps by on the boulevard uninterrupted.
Rafferty looks for the source of the missile. No eyes are turned his way, so he bends and picks up the little ball. He is holding the pit of a fresh lychee nut, from which someone has just gnawed the sugary pulp. Hard as a marble, although not exactly a lethal weapon. But what produces that kind of accuracy-some sort of blowgun?
Yeah, he is thinking, a fruit-hurling blowgun, when the second one catches him square between the eyes. He sees a burst of stars, something out of a cartoon, and then he's blinking away tears. He looks in the direction from which the seed was blown, shot, thrown, catapulted, projected. There are no likely suspects, so he gets up and surveys the outdoor portion of the restaurant, which is now crowded almost to capacity: round white plastic tables jammed together in a space about forty feet wide and eight feet deep, from the building's glass wall to the quaint white picket fence that borders the sidewalk. People glance over at him, but they're all occupied, eating, talking. The sidewalk is crowded, but every sidewalk in Bangkok is crowded when the rain stops.
He sits down again, and instantly a wasp stings his cheek. This time he sees her, finishing up a follow-through that would impress Randy Johnson. The girl from the tuk-tuk. He shoves his chair back, drops some money on the table, and begins to push his way between the tables.
14
It's Not Coming from the Direction You Expect
She is taking her time. She can afford to dawdle. She has a half-block head start.
Rafferty had to negotiate his way between the tables of the restaurant, had to explain to the woman at the front that he'd left the money on the table. He's walking fast but not running. She makes a turn into an elbow-shaped soi that Rafferty knows is a dead end. As she rounds the corner, she glances back at him. The smile is a little fuller this time. When he enters the soi, she has vanished. Nothing. An empty sidewalk, some parked vehicles. A few shops, closed early for Saturday. Rafferty picks up the pace, trying to avoid looking at any one thing, taking in as much of the picture as possible. Prettyman's Third Law: It's not coming from the direction you expect. Studying the street, he feels another pang of regret for his abandoned book. This is exactly the kind of episode he enjoys writing. Except, in the final draft, he wouldn't have lost her. And then, halfway down the short block, he sees it. A van, sitting at the curb. With the passenger door wide open. He steps off the curb and approaches it from the traffic side, only to find the girl gazing at him through the open window. "You're not very good at this," she says. She is sitting sideways on the backseat, looking over her shoulder, legs curled comfortably under her. On her lap is a purse large enough to satisfy Rose. "You speak English," Rafferty says. Her eyes widen. "I do?" She reaches up and scratches her head in mock amazement. "How about that?" "Listen," he says, "you can leave me alone now." "I'm just getting started," she says. "If you want to talk, come around to the other side. I'm getting a stiff neck." Her English is pure American. "No, I mean it's off," Rafferty says through the window. "Wait a minute." He goes around to the other side of the van. He can see her better this way, and he is struck once again by her beauty. "I meant to tell Arnold, but I forgot. I'm not going to write the book." She shakes her head. "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Just tell Arnold," Rafferty says. "And you've got quite an arm." "Years of practice. The old inner-tube-hanging-from-the-tree technique." "Very impressive. Anyway, good-bye. Go back to Little League or whatever it is." "Stop," she says, and her hand comes out of the big purse with a gun in it. "Don't take a step. And put your hands about chest-high. Nothing obvious, just away from your belt." If she's nervous about holding a gun on him, it doesn't show. Her hand is as steady as a photograph, and her eyes are calm. "This is silly," Rafferty says. "Arnold never-" "I don't know who Arnold is," the girl says. "And I don't want to use this." She produces an apologetic smile. "But I will." She slides further across the seat, away from him. "Slowly, now. Get in." Rafferty's cell phone rings. He reaches automatically toward his shirt pocket, but she says, "Uh-uh." Rafferty says, "So shoot me." He pulls out the phone and looks at it. Sees ROSE AND PEACHY, opens it, and puts it to his ear. "Hello?" "Poke," someone wails. "Poke, it's Peachy. I need- I need to talk to you. Now. Now, can you come?" The girl extends the hand with the gun in it and lifts her eyebrows. There is no way she can miss at this distance. "I'm a little tied up at the moment." The girl says, "You certainly are." "You have to," Peachy says, and then she starts to sob. "It's-it's the end of the world." "Hang on, hang on," Rafferty says. "Just get hold of yourself and tell me – " He sees the girl's eyes go past him, sees the shadow of the man behind him, actually feels the warmth of the man's body, and then his head explodes.
Somewhere in the fog, his mother and father are arguing. This is unusual. They rarely speak enough to argue. Poke has grown up with his father's silence. It fills the house they share, the small stone house Poke's father built with his own hands. No other house is visible, and the unpaved driveway washes out in the infrequent winter rains to make their isolation complete. The desert is silent, the house is silent. His mother communicates mostly by banging pots and pans. Most of the time, the only conversations are the ones in Poke's mind. But now his mother and father are arguing. "… fucking idiotic thing to do," his father is saying. "There was no other choice," his mother says. Then there is silence again. "… a thug's grab," his father says. "Leung should have known better." Leung, Poke knows, is a Chinese name. Knowing this, knowing that he knows it, brings him back to himself. His head hurts. Sandals slap a hard floor. He is cold. It seems to him it has been a long time since he was cold. His clothes are still damp from the rain, and he is lying on a cold floor, probably cement. Something is beating at the back of his head, even though the back of his head seems to be resting on the floor. He wants to touch his head, but he cannot move his hands. There had been a cement floor in the old Shanghai apartment house where he'd finally found the woman his father had run to. She was short and almost spherically fat. She held her arm at an oblique angle where it had been broken in some Chinese upheaval or other, and her cheeks were painted with spots of bright red, round and hard-edged as coins. Her lipstick shrank her mouth by half, turning it into the flower of some poisonous fruit. She had been distantly kind to him but had said nothing about his father, redirecting his questions into paths of her own. She had neither denied nor admitted that Frank was there, but Poke knew. The air in the apartment had been sweet with the aroma of his father's pipe.