Miaow keeps her face calm. At least she can deny them the satisfaction of her fear.
The tall man with the mole says something to the fat man behind him, and the fat man bends down and picks her up as though she were a bagful of happybirthday presents, slinging her over his shoulder with her arms trailing down his back.
The man with the mole is walking ahead of them, so he can’t see. Miaow holds her breath and drops the square of paper.
29
"Sounds to me like you’ve got a partner,” Arthit is saying. He is a terrible driver even when he’s paying attention. When he drives and talks at the same time, Rafferty would gener
ally prefer to be running alongside the car.
The wheels stray blithely over the centerline in the road.
“Forget it,” Rafferty says, looking for the inevitable oncoming truck. “You’ve got to trust a partner.”
“You’re rigid,” Arthit says. “I think it’s an American trait.”
“Would you like it if I suddenly started to list Thai traits?”
“But listen to yourself.” Arthit launches into a left turn from the right-hand lane, and Rafferty hears a peeved little “Hallelujah Chorus” of brakes and horns behind them. “You haven’t seen the man in more than twenty years. He could be completely different by now, all the way to his core. And you’re behaving like he’s been gone fifteen minutes, like he just got back from a trip to the store. Like he hasn’t even changed his shirt.”
“What he’s told me about how he spent that twenty years isn’t very reassuring.”
“That’s exactly why he can help you,” Arthit says. He accelerates out of sheer enthusiasm. “He’s right. The triads and the North Koreans do business. When they’re not trying to kill each other. Who knows? Maybe this is a chance for you to put your relationship back together.”
“I can’t tell you how tired I am of all this family counseling. I’ve gotten along without him for more than half of my life. I’m used to it. It’s not like there’s a gaping hole with ‘Pop’ written on it. Anyway, he’s a crook.”
“A crook,” Arthit says, “is just what you need. Maybe it’s fate.”
“I’m not passive enough to have a fate. And I think we’ve got the counterfeiting thing under control.”
“The best-laid plans,” Arthit says.
Rafferty settles back in his seat and closes his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’ll be more fun when you’ve slept.” Arthit makes a second left, onto his street this time, scraping the curb as he always does.
“Did I used to be fun?” Rafferty asks.
“Within reason,” Arthit says. “Considering that you’re not Thai. But I guess the Filipinos know how to enjoy-” He breaks off and slows the car.
“What?” Rafferty asks, and then follows his friend’s eyes.
The front door to Arthit’s house is standing wide open.
Rafferty’s first pass through the house is taken at a dead run, slamming into furniture and bursting into and out of rooms in the hope that somebody will be in them, a panicked circuit that brings him back to the living room and onto the couch, although he has no memory of having sat down. He draws four or five deep breaths to center himself, focuses on his heartbeat until it drops into double digits per minute, and decides to begin again. No one he loves, no one Arthit loves, is here, but there must be something.
He hears Arthit somewhere, banging doors open and closed.
The living room reflects Noi’s knack for graceful order. Nothing is out of place other than the canvas director’s chair he knocked over when he ran through the first time. If there was a struggle, resistance of any kind, it didn’t take place here.
Pushing himself to his feet, he moves down the hallway, his sneakers squeaking on the gleaming hardwood, and into the kitchen. Arthit stands in the doorway, looking at the table. Rafferty can’t meet his eyes. A cup of coffee, Nescafe from the thick dregs of pitch in the bottom of one of them, sits on one edge of the table, off center in its saucer. A spill of sugar surrounding the cup marks the spot as Rose’s. She has a leaden hand with the sugar, adding it in heaps and scattering it like confetti. Another cup, as yet unfilled with water, is on the stove. Coffee measured, water not poured. And then he sees the teapot on the floor, surrounded by water. An unwelcome interruption of some sort.
He can’t make himself focus on what that could have been.
The kitchen door-open, as the front had been-leads to the back garden, Noi’s pride before the disease began to make movement painful. Rafferty stands in the doorframe, his shadow stretching in front of him all the way to the stone-defined border, where dead begonias and zinnias silently signal neglect. Few things are sadder to Rafferty than a dying garden, and this one prompts a surge of the purest grief. He can still see it as a wash of bloom. Noi harvested flowers by the armload whenever he and Rose had dinner with them; he vividly remembers craning at the three of them over the explosion of color in the middle of the table.
Arthit comes up behind him and, after a moment, puts a hand on his shoulder.
Rafferty reaches up and pats the hand and then steps back inside, and Arthit closes the door and locks it automatically. Then he stops moving, looking down at what he has just done. When his face comes up to Rafferty’s, the expression on it is almost unbearable.
“The rest of the house,” Rafferty says. It is the first time either of them has spoken. “Let’s do it together.”
“Right,” Arthit says. “Together.”
The kitchen and breakfast area run the width of the house. The door on the right leads to the dining room, and the corridor on the left will take them back down the hallway to the bedrooms before it ends in the living room. They check the dining room from the doorway, Arthit snapping on the light. Rafferty can smell the lemon polish Noi uses on the table even now, when she and Arthit eat most of their meals in the kitchen to save her steps.
The chairs are pulled neatly up to the table as though awaiting tardy guests. An overly formal bouquet of silk flowers, a melancholy replacement for the loose arrangements of bloom and scent of a year ago, sits dead center on the table’s mirror-smooth surface. A spill of mail is the only spontaneous thing in the room. Everything else seems to be in place, as it was in the living room, and Rafferty feels his spirits lift slightly. He can’t imagine Rose allowing anyone to take her-and especially Miaow-out of the house without a mammoth struggle. There should be damage everywhere. He has an adrenaline-imprinted memory of the evening in the King’s Castle Bar when she poleaxed a six-foot Aussie. Beer-blitzed, the Aussie had yanked the buttons off the blouse of an excruciatingly shy new barmaid, a tiny, wide-eyed girl just arrived from the northeast. The Aussie had taken a table and two stools down with him on his way to the floor and landed flat on his back with his eyes rolling back like fruit salad in a slot machine.
“They would have put up more of a fight,” Rafferty says.
“If they could,” Arthit says.
The two of them stand there, listening to what they’ve just said. Rafferty says, “Arthit. I’m so sorry.”
Arthit doesn’t even glance at him. “We haven’t got time for that. Let’s go.” They take another look at the living room, Rafferty pausing to put the director’s chair upright, and then the master bedroom. Noi and Arthit’s bed is rumpled on one side: Noi’s afternoon nap, Rafferty guesses. The covers have been folded back neatly. The sheets have the sharp, topographical creases that come with sweat, although the room is cool. To Rafferty the sheets are a map of pain. He sees it in the sheets, he has seen it in the halting rhythm of Noi’s walk, he has seen it in Arthit’s face. He has never seen it in Noi’s.