The Fear Artist

the pictures I’m sending you and get someone to look at them and compare them with Google Earth pictures of Yala, down where the rubber plantations are, I’m sure you’ll find it. In the picture you’ll see a pink thing, the ear from a rubber mask. Where that ear is, a little bit north of a train station, there either is or isn’t going to be a cache of explosives, if it hasn’t been blown before your men get there. If it hasn’t, if you get there first, you’ll be a hero.”

Shen sighs. “The ear from a rubber mask.”

“It’s a long story.”

“When I get to the house, will the physical evidence support your version of events?”

Ming Li comes in with a glass in her hand that’s got a couple inches of whiskey in it.

Rafferty says, “I don’t know what’ll still be standing. But I think you’ll be able to see the broken window in the train room, and the gun should be on the windowsill, and the place will reek of gasoline. Oh, and there will be money in his car, so you might want to get someone out there before the fire crew goes through it. And also, I don’t know if there’ll be anything left of it, but there was a cabinet built against the back of the house, full of cans of gasoline, so I guess he had this possibility in mind for a while.”

“It’s a somewhat drastic measure, don’t you think?”

“He was a drastic guy. So yes, the evidence will be a good enough match, I think, especially compared to the alternative, which would be opening up the whole thing with Murphy through the newspapers and probably raking up what happened in Vietnam, complete with pictures, and the Vietnamese government getting involved, and the U.S. disclaiming a connection with him, and-”

“Yes, yes. The little girl,” Shen says. “You say she died in the fire?”

“She ran in before the house blew up. She didn’t come out.”

Shen says, “Probably for the best.”

It stops Rafferty for a second. What he hears in Shen’s voice might be genuine sympathy. He has to force himself back on track. “Maybe so,” he says. “My guess is that you’ll find a rifle in the place that matches the bullets in Billie Joe Sellers.”

“We might.”

Ming Li tilts the glass of whiskey and drinks. Rafferty makes a grab for it, but she snatches it out of his reach.

“So,” he continues, “I guess the headline tomorrow or the next day would be along the lines of ‘AMERICAN BUSINESSMAN DIES IN FIRE,’ something like that. Leaving me out of it, since including me would open up all these cans of worms. Maybe ‘ARSON SUSPECTED.’ ”

“I can practically see it now.”

“And then, a day later, a story about the heroic action of your unit, discovering the explosives in Yala, preventing a massive loss of life and-”

“I could write it myself,” Shen says.

“And finally a modest little squib somewhere about a correction in the ballistics in the death of Billie Joe Sellers and an exoneration of anyone previously considered a person of interest. No names, so as not to drag anyone through the dirt again. Maybe a courtesy call to the American embassy just to say you’ve cleared it up and I’m not on anyone’s list.”

Shen says, “And of course the rifle is in plain sight.”

“I don’t know,” Rafferty says, his energy suddenly abandoning him. “I can’t tell one rifle from another. But I’m sure you’ll be able to put your hands on it.” Ming Li plops down on other end of the couch and drinks again. “You know, it’s a pleasure to be able to rattle on like this without having resort to my terrible Thai. You were right-we really are just a couple of California boys.”

Shen says, “Go to sleep,” and hangs up.

Rafferty lowers the phone to his lap, shakes his head to uncramp his neck, and says to Ming Li, “Give me that.”

“You don’t run everything, older brother,” Ming Li says. Her voice is as thin as a scratch on glass. “I’m going to pour part of the bottle into another glass and leave it there for Hwa in case Neeni needs it, and I’m taking the bottle with me, into that room down the hall where I can lock the door and drink until I’m finished drinking.” She’s blinking fast, and there are tears in her eyes. “And I don’t want to hear from you about it, and if I’m hungover tomorrow, I want you to baby me without one word about how it’s my own fault.”

Rafferty says, “Can I get some and drink it with you? I won’t take too much.”

“Fine.” She swipes her arm over her face. “But we’re not talking, not about anything, not tonight and maybe not ever. We’re going to drink and keep our mouths shut.”

Rafferty gets up and brushes her shoulder with his hand, so lightly he’s not certain they actually touched. “That sounds great,” he says.

35

Koszi

By ten-thirty the next morning, Rafferty has seen Vladimir and given him an envelope with fifteen thousand of Murphy’s dollars in it, and Vladimir has told him about Janos’s death.

“He had wife,” Vladimir said.

“I’d like to give her something.”

“I will give her,” Vladimir said, extending a hand.

“Don’t take this wrong, Vladimir,” Rafferty said, “but I’d rather hand it to her personally. That way I can tell her how sorry I am.”

“Two hours,” Vladimir said, pocketing his envelope. “Philadelphia place. Good hamburger, yes?”

So around eleven, when Rafferty returns to the apartment, he finds Hwa and Neeni sitting in the living room wondering about food and the door to Miaow’s room still locked. He runs down to Silom and grabs noodles and pork from the best of the street vendors. Once they’re eating, he pulls his desk out of the pile of furniture and takes a clean envelope from the drawer, wondering briefly what had happened to the box Ming Li had bought. On the way out, he says to Hwa, “Go look at apartments,” and goes down to flag a taxi.

At twelve-thirty on the dot, Vladimir comes into the Philadelphia Hamburger Pub towing a plump little woman of indeterminate age and national origin, although Rafferty guesses it’s somewhere in the Balkans. She wears a sensible old-lady dress, navy with tiny white dots, in a style that hasn’t been sold in America in decades. She doesn’t seem particularly heartbroken, but perhaps, he thinks, her culture finds displays of emotion vulgar.

“Is Mrs. Janos,” Vladimir says, sliding into the booth. To her, he says, “Here is real Philadelphia hamburger.”

Mrs. Janos says something like “Ach.”

“Not too much English,” Vladimir said. “They-she and Janos-they spoke Hungarian.” He waves theatrically for the waitress.

“I’m very sorry about your husband,” Rafferty says to Mrs. Janos. “He was-” He stops, having launched himself on a verbal journey with no destination. What had Janos been? “He was good company,” he says. “And good at his job.”

Mrs. Janos looks at Vladimir, who nods. She says to Rafferty, “Koszi.”

Vladimir says, “Is thank you. In Hungarian.”

“I guessed that,” Rafferty says. The entire situation seems almost ostentatiously bogus. “How long,” he says, pronouncing the words slowly and carefully and feeling like someone on his first trip abroad, “were you two together?”

Mrs. Janos shakes her head sharply and says something that’s mostly consonants and resentment.

“She shakes head for yes,” Vladimir says. “Where she comes from, shake head is yes, nod is no.” Mrs. Janos shakes her head again, and Vladimir says, “You see? She agree wery much.”