“The horses,” Peachy interrupts faintly. “I play the horses.”
“You.” Elson is blinking fast. “You play the horses.” He sounds like someone who has learned a language by rote.
“I thought she had it under control,” Rafferty says. “But, golly, I guess. .”
Elson doesn’t even glance at him. He paws listlessly through the money, nodding to himself, picking up bills at random and holding them up, then letting them drop again. “I don’t suppose,” he says to Peachy, “that you paid the girls out of this money.”
“No,” Peachy says. “I told you that I went to the bank.”
“Rose told you that, too,” Rafferty contributes.
“The bank,” Elson repeats. He looks up at Officer Petchara in a way that makes Rafferty happy the man isn’t even standing near him. “The bank,” Elson says again. “Where we could be right now.”
Petchara has dark half-moons of sweat beneath his arms. His eyes flick to Rafferty’s and away again. “Right. The bank.”
Elson begins mechanically to shovel the money back into the bag. To Peachy he says, “You have backup for this?”
Peachy winces. “Backup?”
“You know-winning tickets, disbursement slips, anything to show you really won it.”
“No,” Peachy says as though she barely understands the question.
“Peachy doesn’t go to the track,” Rafferty says. “This is street betting. As an industry it’s really meticulous about not keeping written records.”
“Of course,” Elson says lifelessly. To Petchara he says, “Can you arrest her for this?”
Even Petchara looks surprised. “For betting?”
“They’d have to arrest half of Bangkok,” 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,” Rafferty 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 Rafferty leans in and whispers, “If I were you, I’d keep an eye on Officer Petchara.”
PART III
33
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.”
“And Ming Li,” Rafferty says, the doubt finding its way into his tone.
“She’ll be fine. The question is where Chu’s local help is at the moment.”
“You want a guess?”
“No,” Arthit says tightly. “But I wouldn’t mind some informed speculation.”
“At least two of them are keeping an eye on this building.”
Arthit gives him a That’s obvious shrug. “I’d hate to think I’m wearing this outfit if nobody’s watching.”
“Chu’s got to have someone on me. He can’t really believe I don’t know where Frank is.”
“That would be the easy way, wouldn’t it? Follow you to Frank and kill everybody, including you, right on the spot and then disappear.”
“Yeah.” Rafferty thinks about it for a second. “Shame I don’t have somebody else behind me.”
“One of ours?”
“Sure. Maybe we could take them.”
Arthit sticks his index finger into the coffee, licks it, and makes a vinegar face. “And the point would be. .? Other than getting Chu pissed off?”
“Corroboration. Suppose Chu’s not staying in the warehouse where they’re keeping Noi and Rose and Miaow. Maybe he’s too smart for that. Maybe he’s in the warehouse next door, or the one two over. I draw him out, he gets spotted, and a few hours later we hit the wrong warehouse. We might as well send in a truck with a loudspeaker: ‘Look, we’re coming!’ I doubt Chu has stayed alive this long by being stupid.”
Arthit picks up the cup, glares at it, and puts it down with a clatter. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Sorry.”
“Damn it. I’m not thinking clearly.” Arthit gets up and goes to the glass door. He opens it, shoving it hard enough to bang it against the frame. “Great following weather,” he says nastily. “Can’t see across the street.”