41
Hang on to the gun,” Rafferty says. “Just in case. I’ll get it later.”
The three of them are walking the curving path to the front gate, since no swans were volunteered. Da carries Peep in both arms, staring openmouthed at the garden gleaming in the sun to her right. Boo has the gun wedged into the pocket of his too-large jeans, covered by the tail of his shirt.
“Why do I want a gun?” Boo says. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m leaving first, and you’re waiting about five minutes. There’s someone watching me, and I don’t want him seeing you. I don’t want anyone to see you.”
“Why not?”
“Tell you later.”
Instead of answering, Boo reaches over and slides a fingertip down the side of Da’s neck. She shrugs as though there’s a spider crawling on her, but the smile gives her away. “But the gun?” Boo asks.
“In case they try to keep you here.”
Da turns away from the ruby light of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and looks across Boo at Rafferty. “Do you think they will?”
“No,” Rafferty says. “But right now I can’t come up with a single thing that would surprise me.”
Captain Teeth says, “He’s at Pan’s.”
“That’s not a problem, not now.” Ton’s Saturday-morning outfit is a splendid pair of beige slacks with an almost invisible herringbone weave and a navy silk blazer that sports gold buttons. From his seat at the console, Ren figures they’re probably real gold. Ton checks his cuffs and tugs the left one another tenth of a millimeter out of the jacket sleeve. “Where are the females?”
“At home,” Ren says, holding up the earphones. “Being boring.”
“I’ll be at the club,” Ton says. “I’ve got the cell, but don’t call unless it’s important. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
A cell phone rings, and Captain Teeth fishes his from his pocket and listens for a moment. “He’s coming out of Pan’s. Flagging a cab.”
“Who’s following him?” Ton asks.
“Nobody you know.”
“Good,” Ton says. He pushes the door open. “I’m off.”
When it has swung completely closed, Ren says, “Off to
“It’s Saturday,” Captain Teeth says. “Tell me you wouldn’t rather be at brunch.”
“Me?” Ren drops the headset onto the console, leans forward, and rests his head on his crossed arms. “Would I rather be at brunch? I’d rather be anywhere. I’d rather be in a Burmese prison.”
“Floyd,” Raffert says, the phone squeezed between ear and shoulder. “Got another question for you.”
“You got some money that belongs to me, too,” Floyd Preece says. “Shoulda paid me by now.”
“Coming right up. Listen, this is a very important question, and you don’t give me the answer until I hand you the money, okay?”
Preece pauses, probably looking for the catch. “Let’s hear it,” he says at last.
“What’s being done with the factory right now?”
“That’s it? I mean, that’s the big question?”
“You want something harder?”
“No, no. Happy to get paid for nothing. I could answer you right now. I won’t, not till I’m a little richer, but I could.”
“Yeah, well, save it until I give you the money.”
“And when will that be?”
Rafferty looks up and down the street to make sure he’s still unaccompanied. “Well, next stop is the bank.”
“All of it,” he says.
The teller takes the withdrawal slip. The amount to be withdrawn is blank, since Rafferty has no idea how big the “advance” was. The teller says, “You’re closing the account?”
“If emptying will close it, I guess so.” It’s nearly 1:00 P.M., closing time on Saturday, and he’s one of the last customers in the bank. He’d like the place to be much more thickly populated, absolutely jammed with potential witnesses. This is the stop that worries him most.
Punching keys with bright orange nails, the teller says, “Has our service been unsatisfactory in some way?”
“Excuse me?” Rafferty had been looking back, through the picture window that shows him a long, hot-looking rectangle of Silom. The sun is in full beam now, showing off to a world that was already hot enough. Lots of people, a normal crowd for the weekend, sweat their way past the window, going in both directions. “No, no. You’ve all been great. Seriously. I’d live here, if I could.”
“Live here?” The teller has the beginning of a smile on her lips.
“Right in the lobby,” Rafferty says, checking the sidewalk again. “Nice and quiet, good class of people. Put an easy chair over there, get a key to the restroom, have meals sent in.”
“All by yourself?” the teller asks, glancing sideways at him. She’s in her early thirties, tailored, with every hair in place, but something in the way she looks at him makes it easy for Rafferty to imagine her barefoot in some green field, a little perspiration gleaming on her face.
“Oh, no,” Rafferty says, banishing the image. “With my money.”
The teller leans forward and peers at the screen.
“Problem?” Rafferty says.
She comes up at him with a bright bad-news smile. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I have to talk to my supervisor.”
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, no. Just…um, big withdrawal. It has to be authorized.” She gets up.
“Fine.” Rafferty feels the lightness where the Glock used to be and wishes he owned a spare. He turns back to the window, puts his hand into his pants pocket, and finds the 3 on the touch pad of his phone, which he’s assigned to Kosit. He presses it down and counts to five to activate the speed-dial function. After ten seconds or so, long enough for one ring, he hopes, on Kosit’s phone, he disconnects and goes back to scanning the sidewalk. He doesn’t recognize anyone on the street.
Yet.
The teller is in a rear office, visible through a window, talking to a fat man at a desk. The fat man scrabbles at the keyboard of his computer, studies the screen, and then picks up a telephone. The teller stands there for a moment, waiting for another instruction, then turns and comes back through the door.
“It won’t be much longer,” she says. She sits down, takes a strand of hair, wraps it around her finger, and checks the ends. “Sorry to make you wait.”
Rafferty is now the only customer in the bank. The other tellers are counting out, snapping rubber bands around stacks of currency, and slipping dust covers over their terminals. He’d known that the withdrawal would attract attention eventually, but he hadn’t figured it would happen in real time.
“I’m going to be late,” he says. “Either let’s wrap this up in a minute or two or let’s forget it and I’ll come back on Monday.”
“I’m so sorry. Let me go talk to him.” And she’s up again, on her way back to the fat man’s office.
The guys at the apartment, Rafferty thinks. They’re three minutes away. They’ve got phones. But Rose and Miaow are talking in the apartment, and he doesn’t think Ton’s controllers would move the watchers while they’re hearing-
It feels as if his stomach plummets two feet.
