The fourth watcher

Arnold.” It’s not exactly true, but it’s enough to make Prettyman purse his lips. Then he shakes his head slowly, a man who has grown used to disappointment.

“No bargaining, no give-and-take,” Prettyman says, and sighs. “None of the old back-and-forth. It’s not the same world, is it, Poke?”

“I doubt it ever was.”

“Maybe not.” Prettyman looks depressed.

“One more thing, Arnold.” Rafferty taps the table for emphasis. “What you find out, whatever it is. It belongs to me. It is not capital. It’s not for sale, loan, or affectionate sharing. The man may be one of the world’s premium assholes, he may be the leading sphincter on the planet, but he’s still my father. This is bought and paid for by me, not merchandise for additional profit.”

Prettyman turns to him, gives him the full blue-eyed treatment. “Poke,” he says, “don’t you trust me?”

Rafferty looks at him.

Prettyman shrugs and turns back to the door. “Just asking,” he says.

18

Green and White and Brown and White

Rafferty’s first indication that something else is wrong is the sight of a police uniform in his living room. His spirits rise briefly when he realizes that the person wearing the

uniform is Arthit, then plummet again at the sight of his friend’s face, which is several stops beyond grim. They plunge further when he spots the bundle of misery on his couch, which turns out to be Peachy, reclining in a position as close to fetal as a tight skirt with large buttons will allow. Rose is nowhere in sight.

“You have a problem,” Arthit says.

Rafferty pulls the door closed. “You’re telling me.”

Something happens to Arthit’s face. Rafferty couldn’t describe it precisely, but if Arthit were a dog, his ears would have gone up.

“Are you saying you know about this already?”

A surge of irritation begins at Rafferty’s toes and rises all the way to the roots of his hair. “I’m not saying anything.”

The knobs at the corners of Arthit’s jaw pulse. “That’s not wise.”

“For Christ’s sake, Arthit, it’s not a declaration of policy. It’s a statement of fact. I wasn’t saying anything, and I told you so. Let’s review,

okay? You told me I had a problem-”

“You do.”

“And I said, as I recall, ‘You’re telling me.’” Arthit’s hard gaze doesn’t waver. “Maybe someone should be recording this conversation. That way we’ll only have to have it once.”

“In an hour or two, somebody probably will be recording it.”

Rafferty grabs a breath and lifts both hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s admit I came in here with a bad attitude. So let’s pretend I didn’t, and that I’ve just this second come through that door with a big smile on my face and offered you a beer. ‘Hi, Arthit,’ I said. ‘What a nice surprise to see you again so soon.’ Something like that. Would that make anything better?”

“No,” Arthit says.

Rose comes in from the bedroom and stops at the sight of him. “Poke,” she says. “We have a problem.”

Rafferty is struck by a bolt of pure panic. “Miaow? Is it Miaow?”

“No,” Arthit says, his face softening slightly. “It’s not Miaow.”

“Okay,” Rafferty says. His spine loosens a bit. “Rose is here, Miaow is all right. How bad could it be?”

“Bad,” Arthit says. Peachy contributes a stifled sob. Arthit looks at her as though he’s just realized she’s in the room and says, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“He came because I called him,” Rose says. She is speaking Thai. “I didn’t know who else I could-”

“He’s a great guy,” Rafferty says. “We don’t even need to vote on it. What the hell is wrong?”

“I really should leave,” Arthit says. “This is completely inappropriate.”

“Poke taught me that word last night,” Rose says. “It means you slept with a poodle, isn’t that right, Poke?”

“Yes, although I wasn’t applying it to Arthit. What do you mean, you should leave? And why the hell isn’t there anywhere for me to sit? I have no intention of taking bad news standing up.” He moves toward the couch, and Peachy shrivels in a manner so abject that Rafferty is instantly ashamed of himself. “Did we sell the hassock?” he asks Rose.

“It’s in the bedroom. I was standing on it. To hide something.”

“I really shouldn’t be here,” Arthit says, making no move to leave.

“I’ll get it,” Rose says, leaving the room.

“While you’re at it,” Rafferty calls after her, “bring whatever you were hiding.”

“For the record,” Arthit says, “I did not suggest that she hide it.” He sounds like he’s on television.

“Well, gee, I hope that gets you off the hook, whatever the hook is. Do you want a beer?”

“I guess,” Arthit says. “This is as good a time to be drunk as any.”

When Rafferty comes out of the kitchen, a bottle of Singha in each hand, Rose is standing by the white leather hassock, clutching a wrinkled brown paper supermarket bag. Peachy is staring at the bag as though it has a red digital countdown on its side, signaling the number of seconds before the world ends.

Rafferty hands Arthit one of the beers and takes a long pull off the other one. Then, as insurance, he takes another long pull and sits down on the hassock. Rose gives him the bag, and he opens it.

He sees rectangles, green and white and brown and white, a loose, disordered pile of them. Closes his eyes, squeezes them tight, opens them wide, and looks again. Nothing has changed.

“Thirty-two thousand dollars,” Arthit says. “Six hundred thousand baht, all in thousand-baht notes, and one hundred fifty American hundred-dollar bills. All brand new. And, since it’s almost certainly counterfeit, it’s exactly what Agent Elson is looking for.”

“In the desk,” Peachy is saying. She claws her fingers through her hair again, snags them on the same clot of hairspray, and lets her hand drop. “The middle drawer. Rose knows. It’s the drawer I keep the account books in.”

“That’s right,” Rose says. “We advance money to the girls when they’re short, and that’s where Peachy puts the book we track it in.”

“Is the desk kept locked?” Rafferty asks. He is on the floor now, leaning against the wall. Rose shares the couch with Peachy, who is finally sitting upright.

“No.” Peachy starts toward the hair again and stops herself. “There’s no reason to lock it. Nobody would go into it.”

“Someone obviously did.”

“Why were you in the office?” Arthit asks. He has replaced Rafferty on the hassock, which he sees as a position of greater authority, and is working on his second beer. His face is beginning to turn red. Two more and he’ll look like a stop sign.

“Why? It’s my office.” Peachy sounds bewildered by the question.

“On Saturday,” Rafferty says. “He means, why were you in the office on Saturday?”

Peachy starts to answer, then shakes her head as though this is leading somewhere she doesn’t want to go. “I’m always in the office. I go in every day.”

“Why?” Arthit says.

“Because. . because. .” She blinks heavily, and then her face seems to crumple, and Rafferty knows she is moments away from tears. “Where else would I go? What else would I do?”