"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.
"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," Raf- ferty 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 Raf- ferty 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
The 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."