10
'Young or old?” Arnold Prettyman asks. “Youngish,” Rafferty says. “He’s like what someone said about Richard Nixon: He’s an old man’s idea of a young man.”
“Nixon got a bum rap,” Prettyman says, toying with an eighteen-inch-long tube of rolled paper on the table between them. He has eyes the color of faded denim, as remote as the eyes of a stuffed animal. Rafferty always half expects to see dust on them. His features have bunched for company in the center of his square face, below wavy, rapidly receding, light-colored hair he brushes unpersuasively forward. Lately he has cultivated a pointed little goatee apparently inspired by Ming the Merciless. Before he sprouted the chin spinach, people occasionally told him he resembled the singer Phil Collins, but to Rafferty he’s always looked like what he is, or was: a spy. He spends way too much time staring people directly in the eyes when he’s talking, a trait Rafferty associates with Scientologists and liars, such as spies. He’s fairly sure Prettyman isn’t a Scientologist.
“As hard as it may be to believe, Arnold,” Rafferty says, “I didn’t come halfway across Bangkok to reopen the file on Nixon.”
“Just taking a stand,” Prettyman says. “Anyway, the young ones are the worst. They all think they’re Eliot Ness. Probably carries a pearl-handled gun and is dying to put a notch in it.”
“But you don’t know him.”
“Richard Elson,” Prettyman says, without much interest. He pulls the tube of paper toward him and raps out a quick three-finger rhythm on one of the rolled edges. “Nope. Never heard the name. Not that I really hung with the Seekies. The Service keeps to itself.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Rafferty says, “why would a theoretically secret organization call itself the
“If you’re looking for logic in Washington, I envy your optimism.” Prettyman lifts one end of the roll of paper and lets it drop again. “Don’t forget, these guys want to be important. They’re like twelve-year-olds. If they had their way, they’d probably call it Heroes Anonymous.”
“Okay, so forget Elson personally. What’s the Secret Service doing in Bangkok?”
“Under this administration, anything they want. Mostly, though, they come here about counterfeiting. It’s a little weird, since you’d expect Treasury to be in charge of counterfeiting, but it’s the Seekies’ job. That’s what I mean about logic in Washington.”
“Well, counterfeiting is what he kicked my door in about.”
Prettyman’s eyes have not left Rafferty’s since he looked up from the roll of paper, but now they dart away for a tenth of a second and come right back, and there is real interest in them. He leans forward an eighth of an inch, which for Prettyman is an expansive gesture.
“American currency?”
“No, that’s what I can’t figure out. Thai.”
“Thousand-baht notes,” Prettyman says.
Rafferty squares his chair so the sunlight reflecting off the mirrored wall won’t hit him in the eyes. “Very impressive, Arnold.”
“You don’t want to fuck around with this
“Why so ominous, Arnold? And what do you know about counterfeit thousand-baht notes?”
“North Korea,” Prettyman says. His lifeless eyes wander the room. He and Rafferty are sitting in a small bar on the second floor of Nana Plaza, a three-story supermarket of sex off Sukhumvit Road. There’s not much affection in Prettyman’s gaze; few places are more forlorn than a go-go bar in the light of morning. He recently either bought the bar or didn’t, depending on which day he’s asked. Rafferty waits; Prettyman is a miser with information. He parts with it as though wondering if he’s spending it in the right place. Eventually he says, “The American government, and especially the Seekies, is obsessed with North Korea.”
Rafferty gives it a beat to see whether anything else is coming. When it’s apparent that Prettyman is finished, he says, “I think it’s pretty interesting myself, but what’s the connection with bad thousand-baht notes?”
Prettyman grimaces as though the prospect of answering the question causes him physical pain. “That’s where they come from. The NKs turn them out by the tens of thousands. And they’re not
“About North Korea? Or counterfeiting?”
“Both.”
“Not enough,” Rafferty says. “So clue me in.”
“Fine.” Prettyman gives his head a quarter turn, right and left, to check the tonsorial repair job and then sits forward, crossing his hands. “Are you paying me?”
“Oh, Arnold,” Rafferty says. “After all these years.”
Prettyman dismisses the appeal without a moment’s thought. “You know what Moliere said about being a professional writer?”
“No,” Rafferty says. “But I’ll bet it’s fascinating.”
“He said, ‘First we do it for love. Then we do it for a few friends. Then we do it for money.’ ”
“Sounds like prostitution.”
“I left that out,” Prettyman says. “That’s what he was comparing writing to.”
“I can see why you might have skipped it.”
“The operative word was ‘professional.’ I’m a professional. Twenty thousand baht.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve-five, and that’s it. You’re not the only spy I know.”
“I’m not a spy,” Prettyman says automatically. “Okay, North Korea. The Norkies have almost no foreign trade. First, they don’t make much of anything, and second, most countries won’t do business with them. And why not, you ask?”
“I do,” Rafferty says. Prettyman reflectively chews his lip as though wondering whether to renegotiate. Rafferty asks, “Was that enough of a response, or would you like me to actually formulate the question?”
Prettyman does a minimalist head shake, little more than a twitch. “Because they’re nuts, that’s why. Just completely, totally, off-the-wall nuts. If North Korea were a person, it would be wrapped in an old blanket, muttering to itself on the sidewalk. Relief organizations send them boats full of rice, since half the fucking country is starving to death, and the Norkie navy sinks the boats. They buy stuff from other countries and don’t accept the shipment, or they accept it and don’t pay for it. This is not a policy that’s going to produce large streams of foreign revenue.”
“Sort of like opening a store and keeping the doors locked.”
“And shooting the guy who delivers your merchandise.” Prettyman picks up the tube of paper and holds it to one eye, like a telescope, then lowers it. “But they need money. The Socialist Paradise-that’s what the Norkie government calls it-spends every nickel it can generate on the military, which, as you might guess, leaves a hole in the budget when it comes to luxuries like food. So they raise money by counterfeiting stuff.”
“You’re telling me that a government is producing funny money.”
“It’s not a government, it’s the Sopranos. You want a statistic?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, here comes one.” He holds up the roll of paper and says, “Remind me to ask you about this. So. . the statistic: North Korea makes more foreign revenue from counterfeiting than it does from
