“Arthit. It’s the weather we’ve got.”
“I don’t even know who I’d call.” Arthit’s hands are jammed into his pockets. From the bulges they make, they’re curled into fists.
Rafferty joins him at the door, and the two of them gaze into the gray. “There are times when I hate this city,” Arthit says. “I don’t know why we stay here. Noi would be happier in some three-buffalo village where I could be the big whistle, chief of police. Get to know everybody’s face, break up the occasional fight, nab the occasional motorcycle rustler, get fat and sloppy, and enjoy the time we have left.”
“I guess that sounds good.”
“I’d be bored senseless, of course. But Noi and I would have more time together.”
“One thing at a time,” Rafferty says. “That seems to be the theme. First, let’s get them back.”
The mist is heavier now, the air is the soft gray of goose down. “Make the call,” Arthit says.
Rafferty spots them through the glass doors of the lobby the moment he gets off the elevator. Two of the three probable cops who showed up at his apartment the night he, Rose, and Miaow ran: the fat one who had the knife and one of the two gunmen, not the leader. They are huddled in a doorway across the street and a few doors down. He turns up his collar, pushes the door open, and goes in the opposite direction without a backward glance.
Colonel Chu should call back in ten or twelve minutes.
Rafferty walks fast, trying to look like a man who knows where he’s going. The mist has intensified to a drizzle. He crosses Silom, dodging cars until he is beneath the elevated track of the Sky Train, hearing brakes behind him as drivers slow for his followers. Prettyman’s laws swarm in his mind, and one floats to the top: Stay out of blind alleys unless you want one.
He wants one.
A left takes him up Patpong, its neon dark, the sidewalks deserted now except for the occasional wet, resentful tout waiting to lure some hapless newcomer into a second-story rip-off bar where he’ll be charged ten dollars for a Coke and a nonexistent floor show. Rafferty waves them off and picks up the pace.
Minus the obstacle course of the night market and the distracted throng of bar customers, Patpong is a surprisingly short street. He reaches Suriwong in about a minute and turns right. Maybe nine minutes now. He reflexively checks his watch, and on the way back down, his hand brushes the Glock jammed into the front of his pants. When he put it there, he made sure the safety was on. Now he’s having some doubts. He can feel the tension gathering beneath his heart, coiling like a living thing in a space too small for it.
The drizzle is shouldered aside by a light rain.
It’s not even noon. Normally the sidewalks would be jammed, but now they gleam almost empty except for the food vendors, busily putting up the plastic tarps that will keep their charcoal burning despite the damp. Smoke and steam mingle into a single, needle-sharp smell.
The tarps are bad for visibility, so Rafferty slows slightly, fighting the urge to make it as difficult for them as possible. The few pedestrians are not taking the rain cheerfully: They glance at the sky, shield their eyes with an open hand, and mutter to themselves. One fat and extremely drunk farang, his shirt half tucked in, his eyes as unfocused as poached eggs, bumps heavily into Rafferty and mumbles an apology that seems to be all consonants. A moment later Rafferty hears it again as the fat man lurches into the pursuers.
Just to get them wetter, Rafferty stops at an ATM. Sheltered by the overhang, he fumbles slowly with his wallet, takes out the wrong card, puts it into the wrong slot, pulls it out, puts it into the right slot backward, tries to force it, then withdraws it, a man defeated by technology. He turns around, watching out of the corner of his eye as the fat cop scrambles back between two parked cars. Wallet in hand, Rafferty stands there, looking irresolute. Then he spends a minute arranging his credit cards in alphabetical order before deciding it’s more harmonious to organize them by color. Then he does it in ascending order of the balance due. The chore done, he slips the wallet back into his pocket and loiters comfortably beneath the overhang, safely out of the rain. He checks the sky and then his watch, then the sky again. With a little surge of malicious pleasure, he sees the rain intensify. He slips his hands into his pockets and leans back against the ATM to wait it out, and his cell phone rings.
The display says chu. Rafferty takes two fast, deep breaths, flips the phone open, and says, “I still don’t know where he is.”
“You brought me out in this weather to tell me that?”
“This is nothing,” Rafferty says. “By Bangkok standards this is sunny.”
“According to my watch, you have a little less than nine hours left.”
“It might as well be nine days. I’ll never find him.”
“This is your problem, not mine.”
“Really? I thought you wanted him.”
“You’re his son,” Chu says. “He came to Bangkok because you’re here. He’ll get in touch with you again.”
“I doubt it. I pretty much told him to go fuck himself.”
“You said that to your father? I’m glad you’re not my son.”
“That’s two of us.”
Chu clucks in disapproval. “No one should speak to his father like that.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know him like I do.”
“I think I know him much better than you do. Until recently, I actually liked him.”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry you have problems with your father,” Chu says slowly. “That’s a terrible thing. But believe me, he’ll try to overcome it. Put yourself in his shoes. You’re a father now-”
“Don’t,” Rafferty says. “You, of all people. Don’t say another word.”
“Time is passing, Mr. Rafferty.”
“He didn’t come here to see me,” Rafferty says.
“Of course he did.” Chu actually sounds surprised. “Why else would-”
“I was an afterthought. As usual. He came here to sell something.”
There is a silence on the line. Rafferty scans the street and sees the fat cop still huddled behind the parked car. Then Chu says, “He told you that?”
“That was one of his topics.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“I didn’t care enough to ask.”
“It will be extremely unfortunate for you if he succeeds.”
“If it’s any comfort to you, I didn’t get the impression he was in a hurry.”
“Oh, he’s in a hurry,” Chu says. “And you should be, too. Don’t call me again unless you have something to tell me.”
“Got it.”
“And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll make sure you know where to find them. What’s left of them.” Chu hangs up.
Rafferty’s heart is pounding in his ears like a battering ram, and his lips feel thinner than Elson’s. He jams his finger at the button to return the call, and the phone rings for a long time before Chu picks it up and says, “What?”
“You don’t get the last line,” Rafferty says. “Listen to me. If you kill the cop’s wife, you’re dead. This is a guy who knows everybody. He’s assigned to help the United States government on terrorist issues, the Muslim unrest in the south, and all that. He’s connected like a fucking octopus. And I personally guarantee you that if anything happens to my wife and daughter, I will devote my life to finding you and killing you. And don’t think I can’t find you. You were the other thing my father talked about.”
“I’m terrified. Are you finished? I’m getting wet.”
“No, I’m not finished. You hurt them and you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”
“I already spend my life looking over my shoulder. But thanks for the tip about the cop. And don’t call back until you’re ready to tell me where Frank is.” Lightning freezes the day for a second, and there is a burst of static on the line. When Chu comes back, he is saying, “Tick, tick, tick.” Then he hangs up again.