'What kind of violence?'
'Ganging up on pedos who like little boys, which I can live with, actually. Stealing. And biting.'
'Oh, good Lord, Poke,' Hank says, 'we're not talking about Superman, are we?'
'Um…' Rafferty says.
'Because if we are, forget him. He can't be helped. I know that sounds cold, but I learned early on that you have to conserve your strength. There are a lot of kids to take care of, and you can't burn yourself out on one. That boy is a black hole.'
'I don't have a lot of kids to take care of,' Rafferty says stubbornly.
'And you don't want him around your little girl either. He's a terrible influence on everybody he gets close to.'
'Does that mean you wouldn't take him? If he cleaned up his act, I mean?'
'I wouldn't have him here under any circumstances.'
Some of the lightness goes out of Rafferty's spirits. 'Do you know anywhere else?'
'No. The toughest place in town wouldn't take him. Listen, the would-be parents are due any minute. Is that everything?'
'When will the parents be gone?'
'Couple of days.'
'I'll call then. And thanks, Hank. More than you know.'
'Oh, well,' Hank Morrison says. 'I think I probably know.'
Rafferty puts the phone down, and the room is suddenly too small. He feels a need to be outdoors, but more than anything he needs someone to whom he can tell his news. He knows he should be concerned about Superman and Uncle Claus, but all he can think about is the possibility of adopting Miaow. Not worrying about the cops or the bureaucrats or even Mrs. Pongsiri. Knowing that Miaow is his, and he is hers, by law.
It's almost-but not quite-enough to send him to Hofstedler and the others at the Expat Bar. He wishes he weren't so solitary by nature, that he had a dozen friends he could call with the news.
But the person he most wants to tell is Rose.
Rose, who adopted him as he staggered his way through the go-go bars of Patpong. Rose, who taught him the first rules of Thai life he learned. Rose, whose little sister Lek he and Arthit had rescued from one of the seamier upstairs bars on Patpong and frightened all the way out of Bangkok. Rose, whom he has come to love.
And the thought strikes him, not for the first time since the tsunami stretched out its careless blue hands and slapped thousands of lives to tiny pieces: We can be a family.
He has to do something, and it might as well be something to earn the favor Arthit promised. He grabs his wallet, a few hundred baht, his cell phone, and a pair of sunglasses and checks the apartment for anything he has forgotten. He will go see Heng, an antiques dealer. The man is certain to be in his shop in an arcade at the Oriental Hotel, doing a brisk trade in Khmer treasures that have been chiseled off the walls of Angkor or other, less-well- known temple complexes in the dead of night. If Claus Ulrich was seriously in the market for black-market art, Heng will probably know.
As he opens the door to leave, the phone rings. Rafferty deliberates for another ring and then double-times across the room to pick it up.
'Your name,' says a voice on the other end. A demand, not a question.
'You called me,' Rafferty says. It is a woman's voice, deep, but definitely a woman.
'Your name,' she repeats impatiently. She speaks Thai, with some kind of accent.
'Why don't we start over?' Rafferty says. 'You made the call. You probably know who you want to talk to.'
'You're the investigator,' she says.
Under other circumstances he would correct the assumption, but he knows who it is.
'My name is Rafferty,' he says.
'You want to see me.'
'You changed your mind,' he says.
'That does not concern you. Come here now.'
'Where is 'here'?'
'My home. Give your name at the gate.'
The gate? 'I need your address.'
'If you need my address, I do not need to talk to you.' The woman hangs up.
Rafferty grabs the letter of reference with the address on it, folds it, and puts it into his pocket. Then he goes out into the promise of the bright new day.
16
The guard at the gate has a tommy gun slung over his shoulder and the flat, unreflective look of someone who would enjoy using it. The guard station is twice the size of a telephone booth and sits beside the only break in a twelve-foot concrete wall, brightly whitewashed, that stretches half a block. Beside the booth is a sliding gate of black wrought-iron rods, sharpened to wicked points at the top. Broken glass dazzles atop the wall.
The guard studies the photo on Rafferty's passport and then Rafferty's face, as though he is waiting for Rafferty's disguise to melt. He reluctantly picks up a canary-yellow telephone, grunts into it, and hangs up.
They stand there. The guard looks at Rafferty, and Rafferty looks at the guard. 'Get a lot of trick-or-treaters?' Rafferty asks.
'Don't talk to her like that,' the guard says. 'She'll have the skin off you.' His English is accented but serviceable. The gate begins to slide open.
Standing on the other side is a man, possibly Thai, who looks almost startlingly like the individual Rafferty envisioned during his first telephone call to the house. A slender sixty, with steel-gray hair plastered to a narrow skull, he is immaculately dressed in a suit and tie, even in this heat. He has the erect carriage of a soldier and the eyes of a man who could watch colon surgery for laughs.
'You will follow,' he says, turning away.
Rafferty does as he is told, trailing the man up a long curve of blacktop driveway toward one of the most beautiful houses he has ever seen. Huge, rambling, built in the old Thai style, it is shuttered against the heat and light of the day. Rafferty has studied Thai houses, and he guesses this one to be at least a century old. Banks of pale flowers foam up against its wooden sides, and an ancient tamarind tree shades the front. Half an acre of immaculate lawn creates a clean green sweep down to the swift, coffee-colored flow of the river. The house has a private pier with a speedboat tied to it, dragging against its rope on the downstream side. For some reason a hole has been dug in the lawn. As beautiful as the house is, it has a brooding air; as he approaches, Rafferty sees peeling paint and sagging steps. Looking at the roofline, he has no problem imagining bats flying out of it. The disrepair of the house surprises him, given the investment in the wall, the guard, and the gate.
The person who lives here needs serious security.
They walk-or, rather, Rafferty walks and the man marches-to the steps leading up to the front veranda. The man stops and turns to Rafferty.
'Madame Wing has fifteen minutes,' he says. 'You will address her as Madame. What questions will you ask her?'
Rafferty thinks of himself as someone who rarely dislikes anyone on sight, but in this case he's willing to make an exception. 'I thought I'd start with the Big Bang,' he says. 'Everything else did.'
'If you do not tell me the questions,' the man replies icily, 'she will not see you.'
'She called me, remember? I think she'll see me.'
Jeeves's mouth works several times, like a man trying to generate some spit. His eyes go past Rafferty and then dart up and to the left, looking up the steps they will have to climb. Rafferty thinks, He's frightened.
The man's eyes come back to him, flint black. 'Please,' he says between his teeth. 'Please tell me what you
