Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller

want to be the kid who yelled…who yelled, uhhh…”

“Wolf?”

“Yeah. Wolf.” She still hasn’t looked up. “What’s a wolf?”

“It’s like a tiger, but not. Go ahead with the story.”

“Well, Mrs. Paris, that’s my teacher?” Her head comes up halfway, and her eyes go back and forth between Rafferty and Rose.

“We know Mrs. Paris,” Rose says.

Miaow finds a thread loose on the elastic waistband of her pajamas and picks at it, giving it all her attention. With her head down, she says, “Well, I’ve…um, I’ve been having some trouble in class.”

“Really.” Rose’s voice is cool. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just, you know.” Miaow wraps the thread around her index finger and tugs at it. “Uh, talking, writing notes to other kids, drawing a lot, making jokes when I shouldn’t. Going…um, going to sleep.”

Rafferty says, “Going to sleep?”

“Only twice.” Miaow lets go of the thread and holds up two fingers.

“But your grades,” Rose says. “Your grades are better than ever. They’re practically perfect.”

“That’s what Mrs. Paris says. She says-” Miaow grabs a breath. “She says I’m not paying attention in class because I’m ahead of the level. Because it’s too easy for me. Even though it’s fourth grade and I’ve only been in school three years.” She is wearing her bunny pajamas, looking all of five to Rafferty, although apparently this is not the time to point that out. “Anyway, about a week ago, she-Mrs. Paris-said she thought maybe I should skip up to fifth grade.”

Without thinking, Rafferty says, “You’re shitting me.” Rose’s glance hits the side of his face like a slap, and he amends it to, “I mean, that’s amazing.”

“But she wanted to talk about it first with the Dragon-sorry, Mrs. Satharap, the principal. And she did, and the Dragon said it was okay and that she was going to talk to you about it. That was yesterday? So she’ll probably call tomorrow. And, I mean, I’m really happy about it, but…but…”

“But what?” Rafferty says. “You should be happy about it. I never got asked to skip a grade.”

“But I’m so short,” Miaow says. “I’m a baby. And everybody’s practically eleven, and I barely look nine. I’m a pygmy. And I can’t get any taller, and I’m going to be in the class with all those really big kids. So I thought…”

“Oh, my gosh,” Rafferty says, having rejected half a dozen less acceptable expressions of delight. “I’m so proud of you. Fifth grade. My God, you’ll be in junior high before I have to shave again.”

Rose says, “Do the girls in fifth grade wear makeup?”

“Rose,” Rafferty says.

Miaow looks at Rose as though she’s just turned into a Christmas tree. Her eyes are shining. “A little.”

Rafferty says, “How little?”

“Like, you know”-Miaow passes the tip of her index finger over her upper lips-“a little lipstick, kind of pale, and maybe some-what do you call it? — some stuff on their eyelashes.”

“It better be very pale,” Rafferty says.

“Poke,” Rose says, “it’s not going to surprise anybody that Miaow has lips.”

“That’s not the point.”

Rose says, “What is the point?”

“The point,” Rafferty says, knowing he has no chance whatsoever of prevailing in this discussion, “is that I’m proud of Miaow, but I’m not having her going to school looking like the Queen of Patpong.”

Rose bursts out laughing. “The Queen of-” And she’s laughing again, and then Miaow starts to laugh.

“Okay, okay,” Rafferty says. “Not the Queen of Patpong. But, you know, too much makeup on a young girl looks…um, tarty.” And at the word “tarty,” Miaow laughs even harder, her arms crossed low over her stomach.

“Trust me, Poke,” Rose says. “Mia will be beautiful.” The name “Mia” ends Miaow’s laughter as though a door has been shut on it. “Your own mother would like the way she’s going to look.”

“That’s not actually much of a recommendation,” Rafferty says. Then he says, “Mia?”

“You mean,” Miaow says to Rose, with a quick detour glance at Rafferty, “you mean I can buy some makeup?”

“Tomorrow,” Rose says. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.” She slides her eyes to Rafferty, daring him to say anything. “Does that sound okay, Mia?”

An hour and a half later, Rafferty turns off the tape recorder, and they take the elevator upstairs and go to bed for the second time, more happily than they had the first time.

“Someone’s up,” Captain Teeth-Kai-says. He’s had the phones on so long that he’s stopped feeling them against his ears. “I hear moving around.”

“So someone’s going to the bathroom.” Ren is stretched out on the couch, facing the cushions on the back, with a throw blanket over him. The air-conditioning in the big house is more than he can take. “Give up for the night. You trying to earn points or what?”

“Fuck you,” Kai says, without much heat behind it.

“Anybody flushed yet?” Ren speaks carefully, but his tongue feels as if a nail’s been driven through it, and to Kai it sounds like he’s got rocks in his mouth.

“No mikes in the bathroom, remember?” Kai says. “She can be a little bitchy, huh?”

“Who? What do you mean?”

“This afternoon. When she told him to go in the other room and leave her alone. Kind of bitchy.”

“It’ll add spice.” Ren plumps up the throw pillow beneath his head. “When she’s tied to the bed. Beauty’s fine, but spice is better. You want it a little hot.”

Kai shakes his head. “Never happen.”

“Stop listening to that crap. Nothing’s going on. Just let it record. I’ll fast-forward through it tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

Kai takes off the phones. “You going to stay here?”

“I think so. They get up early. The little girl’s up before seven. And that way, when Four-Step comes down from upstairs, he sees me sitting here being vigilant.”

“Up to you,” Kai says, rising. He stretches.

Ren pulls the blanket higher so it covers his shoulders. Unfortunately, that exposes his feet. He says, “Do you really think we’re going to have to kill them?”

“After what happened to the reporter?” Kai says. “Sure.”

29

So He Likes Sad Music

She has no idea what time it is when Kep comes for her. The room has no windows, and she has nothing to help her gauge the passage of time. It could be midnight, it could be three in the morning when she hears the singing.

The first sound to get her attention is an engine. It can’t be the van; it’s too loud. Probably a motorbike. She hears it approaching, out on the street, and she thinks of the moto driver who brought her here, only two nights ago, kindly waiting to make sure she was in the right place. But the bike doesn’t go past and fade in the distance. It gets louder, and then it drops to an idle, and over it she can hear him singing. He is obviously drunk.

An Isaan song. It surprises her. She would have figured him for Bangkok pop, some stupid jangly song about love and pretty girls. Instead it’s an Isaan song about losing a child to the city, a daughter who has gone away.

So he likes sad music. So…tough.

She’s spent her time in the room getting to know it by touch, and she is familiar with every square inch of it.