The fourth watcher

did his CSI wallet flip and was led to the other side of the partition, where he shooed the teller off his stool and took control of the man’s computer. He attacked it like a finalist in the Geek Olympics, occasionally shaking his head in impatience. The teller hovers anxiously, literally wringing his hands, while Petchara and the other cop stand around on the lobby side of the glass in the loose-jointed stance of people with nothing to do.

The most attentive person in the bank is the teller Peachy identified as the one who passed her the bad bills. He sits bolt upright at his station, three windows down, his eyes darting everywhere, a man following the flight of an invisible hummingbird. His pallor is evident even under the bank’s fluorescent lights.

Elson stands, shoving the stool back, his finger jammed accusingly against the computer screen. He snaps a question. From behind him a man in a wrinkled suit, who seems to be the branch manager, ducks his head several times. If he had a cap, Rafferty thinks, he’d doff it and tug his forelock. Without turning away from the computer, Elson says something, and the manager scurries off.

“I don’t understand,” Peachy says.

“Sure you do.” Rafferty sips his coffee, made from some instant left over from World War II and three times the suggested amount of water. “They did everything they could to keep Elson away from the bank. We screwed that up, so now they’re keeping him away from the man who knows where the money came from.”

Peachy says, “Oh.”

Outside, a young woman wearing the blue skirt and white blouse of a Thai high-school girl, a stack of books clasped to her chest, dawdles indolently up to the window, exuding the flat rejection of the entire planet that characterizes teens everywhere. There’s nowhere in the world, her stance says, that she wants to go, and she isn’t even eager not to get there. She stops and leans wearily against the window with her back to Rafferty, giving him an excellent view of her shoulders and her long, straight black hair. If she were transparent, he could see Elson,

but as it is, he can’t.

“That’s funny,” Peachy says.

“Not very,” Rafferty says, craning to see around the girl.

“She shouldn’t be standing there. She’s very pale. Why would she stand in the sun like that?” Thais are keenly aware of skin color, with the pale end of the spectrum being the most desirable.

“Pale, is she?” Rafferty asks, being polite. He still can’t see Elson, but the bank manager comes into view from some office somewhere, carrying a cardboard box full of small pieces of papers-deposit slips, Rafferty would guess.

“Pale as a Chinese,” Peachy says, and makes a tsk-tsk sound. She puts her fingers to her cheek. “She’s going to ruin her skin. Prem always says-”

Rafferty says, “Chinese?” He leans forward and raps the glass twice, sharply, with his ring.

The girl turns and smiles. It is Ming Li. She gives him a snotty little schoolgirl wave, just the tips of her fingers, and heads for the door.

In the bank across the street, Elson is also waving, waving a piece of paper beneath the nose of the unfortunate teller. The teller takes it, and his face falls. He looks at Elson, and his shoulders rise and drop down again, the universal gesture for Huh? Then Elson does a Come here gesture to the cops and holds out his hand for the slip.

“Food any good?” Ming Li slips into the booth.

“Depends,” Rafferty says, watching the bank. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night. We had to be at the warehouses pretty early.”

“Not long enough,” Rafferty says. “Give it a week and come back.”

Ming Li studies Rafferty’s plate. “What have you got?”

He ignores her, intent on the scene across the street, but she bangs the edge of the plate with a fork as a prompt, and he says, “Gristle, fat, elderly tomatoes, and some sort of roots with dirt on them.”

“Yum,” Ming Li says. She picks up his chopsticks, dips them in his water glass, and wipes them on a napkin. He turns to watch her tweeze some shreds of meat and put them into her mouth. She chews experimentally and swallows. “Awful,” she says, taking more.

Peachy jams a finger into his arm and says, “Look.”

Elson has brought the teller out of the enclosure and into the lobby area. The two cops pat the man down, then take him by the elbows and steer him toward the doors to the sidewalk. Elson follows, being trailed by the bank manager, who’s obviously protesting. Something he says stops Elson, and the Secret Service man turns to him. The two of them have a somewhat heated exchange.

“Do you know about the other guy?” Ming Li asks with her mouth full.

“The other guy,” Rafferty says.

“I knew you hadn’t spotted him. I passed him a couple of times, just leaning against a building a couple of shops up and looking through that same window. Big, broad in the shoulders, maybe some kind of weight lifter. Looks like a steroids poster. Scarred face, broken nose. Maybe Chinese, maybe Korean.”

“You passed him twice? And he didn’t see you?”

“Actually,” Ming Li says, using her fingers to scrub dirt from the roots of whatever she’s eating, “I passed him three times. And no, he didn’t see me. Why would he? You didn’t.”

“You didn’t pass me three times.”

“If you say so.” She wipes her fingers on the napkin and looks at the smear of dirt. “Can I have some of your coffee?”

“It’s not actually coffee,” Rafferty says. “It’s a cup that might have held coffee in 1973, and hot water has been poured into it.”

Ming Li picks it up and drinks anyway. Then she looks down at the cup and says, “That’s nasty.” She reviews the word for a moment and says, “Nasty? Is that what they say?”

Looking out the window, Rafferty says, “Is that what who says?” Elson, his argument over, makes an impatient wave at Petchara and the other cop, and they hustle the teller through the doors.

Ming Li gives Rafferty a little whuffing sound to indicate how obvious it is. “Those hip-hop singers on MTV.”

As the doors close behind him, Elson calls for the others to wait, pulls out a cell phone, and punches a number.

Rafferty says, “I’m not really the go-to guy on hip-hop. If you want to know anything about OFR, though, I’m your man.”

“What’s OFR?”

“Old Fart Rock.”

“No, thanks. Except, how long do you think until the Rolling Stones are doing ads for Viagra? Maybe use that song-what’s it called? — ‘Start Me Up.’”

“The young are so cruel.”

Ming Li is watching Elson and his crew approach the corner, the teller arguing at every step. “So we’re not going to follow those guys?”

“They’re not going anyplace interesting. See the guy three seats away from the empty window?”

Ming Li counts chairs. “The one with the wet shirt?”

“Him,” Rafferty says. “I think he’s going someplace interesting. And my guess is that your steroids guy is going there, too.” He glances at his watch. “About forty-five minutes left. Can you get Leung here?”

Ming Li picks up some more of the greens between her chopsticks, touches the roots, and rubs her fingers together. “I know they grow vegetables in dirt, but this is silly.”

“Leung,” Rafferty repeats. “Can you get Leung here?”

“He’s here already,” she says. She chews, and he can hear the grit between her teeth. “If you can’t see Leung, it means he’s here.”

Forty minutes later, Rafferty says, “This is it.” He is watching the bank. “You straight with it?”

“Sure,” Ming Li says. “Leung’s half a block from here, on the other side of the big guy. I dawdle my way up