there, looking demure and harmless. Just chillin’.”
“Jesus,” Rafferty says.
“So the big guy’s between us, in the tweezers,” Ming Li says. “That’s what Frank calls it, the tweezers. You and Peachy pick up the teller. Then we see what happens.”
“Okay, good,” Rafferty says. “Are you armed?”
Ming Li lifts the cover of the book on top of her stack to reveal a recessed square cut into the pages. Nestled into it is a small automatic, maybe a twenty-five-millimeter. It’s been blued, but the bluing has worn off around the grip and trigger guard to reveal the shine of steel. It’s seen some use. “School’s fierce. Got to watch out for the homeys.”
“And you can shoot that thing?”
“Better than I can pitch.”
The lights in the bank lobby flicker and dim, and the manager opens the door for the last couple of customers.
“Here we go,” Rafferty says, but Ming Li is already out the door. He throws some bills on the table. A moment later the bank door opens again, and two men and a woman exit. The last one out is the man they want. Peachy says, “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“I’m not sure you can either,” Rafferty says. “But I haven’t got anybody else.”
36
'The little wet man’s coming toward us,” Ming Li says on the phone. “Don’t turn the corner. He looks over his shoulder all the time.”
“What are you doing?”
“We’re standing here. I’m a rich schoolgirl on the phone, and Leung is my faithful servant. He just took the books so I could make a call, and now he’s standing a respectful distance away, appropriate to our class difference.
“What happened?” Rafferty and Peachy are stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, people parting left and right to get around them.
“Leung pinched me.”
“You had it coming. What I mean is, why are you with Leung? You’re supposed to be on either side of the big guy. What happened to the old tweezers?”
“He noticed me. Looked at me a couple of times. Probably got a thing for schoolgirls. So I had to pass him. Don’t worry, he’s written me off. He’s watching your little wet man, and the little wet man keeps
looking behind him.”
“I need to know everything they do.”
“Gosh,” Ming Li says. “Everything? I’m just a girl.”
“This is the big leagues.”
“Okay, here he comes. The big one. I think you can come around the corner now.”
Rafferty grabs Peachy’s sleeve and hauls her behind him, with Peachy apologizing to everyone they bump into. They round the corner, and Rafferty sees the big man take the arm of the teller and drag him to the curb. There is a quick verbal exchange, the big man bending down to get his face close to the teller’s, and the teller nods eight or nine times, very fast, and then attempts some sort of argument, which is broken off when the big man shakes him like a rag mop. The teller looks like he is going to burst into tears. Then the big man reaches into his suit coat, and the teller mirrors the movement. Each comes up with a manila envelope.
Ten or twelve yards beyond them, Ming Li chatters brightly into her phone, right foot lifted and hooked behind the white sock on the left ankle. With her free hand, she toys with her hair, rolling a wisp of it between her fingers as though nothing in the world were more urgent than split ends.
The men exchange envelopes.
“Ming Li. You and Leung stay with the big guy. I don’t care what it takes, don’t lose him.”
“Big brother,” Ming Li says. “I’ve been training for this all my life.”
“Good. Keep your phone on.”
The big man gives the teller a shove, just enough to make him stagger back a step, and heads off down the sidewalk. He passes Ming Li and Leung without a glance but then sneaks a look back at Ming Li. The teller exhales heavily, wipes his face, and pulls out a cell phone.
“Go, Peachy,” Rafferty says.
Reluctantly Peachy covers the distance to the teller, as slowly as someone navigating a forest of thorns. She has lifted a hand to touch him politely on the shoulder when he looks up and sees her. The cell phone drops from his hand and hits the pavement, and the battery pops out. He takes a quick step back, mouth open, as though Peachy has fangs, claws, and a snake’s forked tongue. A second backward step brings him up against Rafferty. Rafferty has already pulled his wallet out, and when the man whirls to face him, Rafferty lets it drop open and then flips it closed again before the man can register that the shiny object inside it is a large silver cuff link.
“Give me the envelope,” Rafferty says in Thai.
Half a dozen emotions chase each other across the teller’s face, but the one that stakes it out and claims it is despair. He slowly closes his eyes and reaches into his jacket. Eyes still shut, he holds it out. Rafferty takes it, opens it, looks inside, sees the bright new money, and says into the phone, “You still with the big guy?”
“He’s waiting outside another bank, half a block down,” Ming Li says. “I’m putting my hair up.”
“Gee, that’s interesting.”
“Well, who knew he liked schoolgirls? Probably hangs around playgrounds. Leung has a different jacket for me, too. And some glasses. I’ll look like an office lady.”
“Good,” Rafferty says. “If he meets someone, let Leung take the one he meets, and you stay with the big guy. When Leung’s got whoever he talks to, I want him to call me. You just follow the Chinese guy-”
“I think he’s Korean.”
“I don’t care if he’s a Tibetan Sherpa. You stay with him. I mean this, Ming Li, you can’t lose him. He could be your father’s emergency exit.”
“Poke?” Ming Li says.
He brings the phone back to his ear. “What?”
“He’s your father, too.” She hangs up.
Rafferty stares down at the phone and then dials Arthit’s number.
Headlights are blossoming on the oncoming cars. Arthit reaches down and flips on his own.
“There has to be more than one teller at each bank,” Arthit says. He is balancing two fat manila envelopes in his lap as he drives. “No single teller could pass a quarter of a million in one day.”
The two envelopes, one taken from the little wet teller and the other from the teller the Korean grabbed outside the second bank, contain a total of five hundred thousand baht in brand-new counterfeit bills, plus thirty- eight thousand dollars in bogus American hundreds.
“I was wondering about that,” Rafferty says. He has his cell phone against one ear, with Ming Li on the other end, but he is talking to Arthit. “Elson found something at the other teller’s station. Probably the distributor-the Korean weight lifter-contacts only one teller directly, and that teller gives it to the others. So Petchara handed Elson someone who has no idea where the junk money comes from. As much as that might interest Elson, I don’t give a shit. I personally don’t care about the mechanics. What I care about is what we’re going to do with the money.”
“Which is what?” Arthit asks.
“I’m thinking about that.”
“Americans are so collaborative.” Arthit makes a turn against an oncoming stream of traffic, and Rafferty closes his eyes. Leung, alone in the backseat, laughs. On Rafferty’s cell phone, Ming Li says, “I’m pretty sure he’s
