The Fear Artist

It’s cold in here, but he’s sweating and he can smell himself. On the other hand, at least some of his drunkenness is abandoning him, probably looking for a more lighthearted environment.

The only furniture in the room is the battered table with two chairs across it. Smiley had put him into the chair facing the door. After five or ten uncomfortable minutes spent in cheerless speculation about the stains on the floor, Rafferty realized that the two front legs on his chair had been sawed down by half an inch, so that he was continually sliding forward. With a cheery wave at the mirror, he got up and swapped chairs. Then he sat there for another twelve minutes, breathing as evenly as possible, at which point he got up and tried the door, which was locked.

“Okay,” he said to the microphone high in the corner. “It’s nine forty-one. At nine-fifty I’m throwing the chair through the mirror.” He went to the mirror and held his wrist to the glass. “Synchronize watches.”

At 9:49 the door opens and the slender, handsome Thai with the pouches beneath his eyes-the one who’d moved him away from the fallen farang-comes in. He’s no longer in street clothes. Instead he wears a tightly creased uniform like the ones worn by the men who brought Rafferty here. He closes the door behind him, giving it a little tug to make sure the latch is engaged, and extends a long-fingered hand to drop a manila envelope onto the table.

Rafferty takes a closer look. The man’s hair is slicked back to reveal a sharp widow’s peak, the point of which is echoed by the tip of his long chin. In a gene pool that mostly dictates rounded features, he’s all acute angles, almost fox-faced. His shoulders are broad and his hips narrow, and his uniform fits in a way that says expensive tailor with a mild French accent.

He smiles, and his teeth are breathtaking. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says in that same pure, American English. “It’s a bad time in Bangkok, and not just because of the rain. Although after what you went through today, I’m sure that’s no news to you.”

He pushes back the chair on his side, the one with the sawed-off legs, and his smile broadens. He slips out of his shoes, puts one chair leg inside each of them to even it, and sits. “Old trick, the sloping chair,” he says. “Not meant for you, of course. They should have brought you a different one.”

Rafferty says nothing, just watches the man squeeze out the charm.

The slender man nods appreciation of Rafferty’s lack of response. He picks up the envelope and tilts it. Five color photos slide onto the table. He fans them out, one-handed: Rafferty up on his elbow on the sidewalk, the bleeding white man clinging to him. Talking to him.

“Who is he?” the slender man says.

“Who are you?” Rafferty says.

“Oh, good heavens,” he says with a good-natured chuckle. He resists, Rafferty thinks, slapping his forehead. “I’m Major Shen. And you’re Philip Rafferty, American travel writer, born in California in the United States, now a Bangkok resident, married to a Thai national and the adoptive father of a Thai child.”

“Ah, the power of intelligence,” Rafferty says. “Or maybe just information. Major in what?”

“I’m sorry?” The man looks down at himself and tugs his sharply creased sleeve. “Oh, the uniform. Well, yes, we haven’t put much effort into public relations. But the question on the table, so to speak, is who is he?”

“Quid pro quo,” Rafferty says, half expecting two guys to burst into the room toting rubber hoses.

“Really?” Major Shen purses his lips. “If you must. In America you’d probably say we’re affiliated with Homeland Security.”

Rafferty says, with a sinking feeling, “Mmmmm.”

“But don’t let that bother you. We’ll talk for a few minutes and then you’ll be on your way and you can forget all about me.” The smile gets switched on and off. “Who is he?”

“I have no idea. He’s someone who got shot and bumped into me and then got shot again.”

Major Shen looks down at the table. “I see. You’re shortchanging me.”

Rafferty’s vision dims and flickers with sudden rage. “Well, what do you think happened? You think he got mixed up in a running crowd and steered it through the streets of Bangkok until he found the one person he was looking for? Maybe he knew someone was going to shoot at him and he wanted to die in my arms? So he could give me the password that opens the cave or something?” He sits back, reminding himself he’s been drinking and his judgment may not be at its sharpest.

Major Shen shrugs. It’s a completely remote shrug, and suddenly it’s easy for Rafferty to see him, immaculate, standing far enough away not to get anything on his clothes as he directs the activities of two men using pliers on a third. Making stains on the floor. “Perhaps he knew you would be there. Perhaps you had made an appointment to meet him.”

Rafferty turns the pictures around and breathes twice to calm himself. “Have you looked at these? See all the spilled paint? See the open cans? See the store I was coming out of? It’s a paint store.”

Major Shen taps a slender, unimpeachably manicured finger against the surface of one of the photos. “He’s talking to you.” He has cloves on his breath and, beneath that, the reek of cigarettes.

“A couple of words.”

“The film says otherwise. The film says he spoke to you for ten seconds or so.”

“The film?”

“The TV crew. You gave them their best footage of the day.”

“Did I make the seven-o’clock? Am I famous?”

“I’m afraid not.” He shifts his weight, and the chair wobbles. “It’s remarkable how uncomfortable this chair is, even with my shoes under it. We should really treat our guests better.”

“Why wasn’t it on television?”

The smile peeks out and goes away again. “As I said, it shows he spoke to you for ten seconds or thereabouts.”

“Mostly not. Mostly he was working up to talking. He had blood in his throat, and he made a bunch of noises before he could actually say anything.” Major Shen’s eyes have drifted with apparent disinterest until he’s looking over Rafferty’s shoulder. “You say you saw the film. You must have seen all the blood he coughed up.”

Major Shen’s eyes come back. “But then he spoke.”

“Yes.” The alcohol chimes in again, bringing anger with it. “And even though I resent the hell out of being dragged down here like this and I really resent your bringing my wife and daughter into the conversation, I’ll tell you what he said. He said a name-a woman’s name, I think-and then the name the name of a city.”

“A city?” Shen smooths an eyebrow with the tip of his index finger. “What city?”

What city had it been? Rafferty draws a blank, and then the name appears before him, and he grabs at it. “Helena.”

Major Shen closes his eyes and furrows his brow for a moment, as though he thinks he might have seen Helena at some point and is trying to picture it. When he opens them, he’s looking over Rafferty’s shoulder again. “In Montana?”

“If that’s where Helena is. Montana, Wyoming-sure, Montana. I guess.”

The pouchy eyes, which Rafferty’s altered perspective suddenly recognizes as the aftermath of alcohol, return to Rafferty’s face. “You remember ‘the name of a town in Montana’ but not the name.”

“I’ve been to Montana. I went there once, when I was a kid. The woman’s name was just a name, and I was a little rattled.”

“Rattled.”

“Yeah, you know. American slang? Rattled? Having a guy die on me and all that. People running. Shots being fired. Shots you denied, by the way. Not the ideal spot for concentration.”

“You’re not used to having people die on you.”

“Not especially.”

Major Shen sits back and crosses his legs, a man with all the time in the world. “And yet people die around you with some regularity.”

The room suddenly feels not so much cool as frigid. Rafferty tries to keep his face blank as he ransacks his mind for anything that could connect him directly to any of the people who actually have died around him since he came to Bangkok. “You must know something about my life I don’t.”

Shen lowers his head and looks at Rafferty from under his eyebrows. “A Chinese gangster. An American