'He can tell you nothing. We talked to him for several hours. He did not see the man.'
'I still want to talk to him.'
She seems to be considering alternatives, but then she nods. 'Pak will give you the address when you leave.'
'How long ago did this happen?'
'Two nights.'
'Were you here?'
'If I had been here,' she says venomously, leaning toward him, 'he would be dead.'
Well, okay. 'Two nights ago. Cambodian. How do you know he'll stay in Bangkok?'
She folds the gnarled hands, calm again, and looks at the carved stone. 'He has to stay here,' she says. 'The robbery is only the beginning. He means to destroy me.'
PART II
17
Rafferty shouts directly into Arthit's ear, 'Any Cambodians?' The drunk American sitting beside the music system has found the volume control again, and walls are vibrating with the rhythm section of Bachman-Turner Overdrive, so rarely heard and so little missed in the West.
The bar is jammed with male tourists drawn by the nearby sexual supermarket called Nana Plaza. The tourists wear either T-shirts and tropical shorts or the kind of la-la safari clothes Rafferty found in Claus Ulrich's apartment. The Thais are dressed like human beings. Arthit's brown policeman's uniform-stretched tight over the hard, round belly he has recently stopped trying to fight-is conspicuous. In one hand Arthit has a glass of Mekhong whiskey and in the other a cigarette, a sure sign that something is wrong. As always lately, Rafferty is afraid to ask what it is, afraid to blunder into the private space Arthit and Noi have created around her illness, the disease that has set slow fire to her nervous system.
'Cambodian safecrackers?' Arthit takes a handful of peanuts and throws them in the general direction of his mouth. Most of them bounce off his shoulders and hit the floor. A miniature lunarscape of peanuts surrounds his feet. 'Not that spring to mind. Cambos stick to the less-skilled trades. Smash-and-grab, mugging, chain snatching, picking pockets, hits. Especially hits. We've got truckloads of Cambodian hit men. There's a whole generation who got handed a gun at the age of ten or eleven and never really put it down.'
'The killer kids.' The executioners of the Khmer Rouge, back in the days of terror.
'Meanest little bastards in the world,' Arthit says, chewing the one or two peanuts that somehow got into his mouth. 'Conscience trained right out of them, kill without giving it a thought. Not children by now, of course.'
'In their late thirties or thereabouts, right?'
'Say they were ten, and the Khmer Rouge got hold of them in, oh, 1975. That'd put them in their late thirties, early forties. But, you know, when they were thirteen or fourteen, they were beating people to death with hoes. And, of course, it was all over by 1979.' In 1979 the Vietnamese, to their everlasting credit, invaded Pol Pot's Cambodia.
'Hold it.' Rafferty pushes himself off the stool and crosses the room to the music system, which he turns down. The drunk American gives him a disbelieving glare and starts to get up from his chair, but Rafferty puts a hand on his shoulder and shoves him back into it. He points at Arthit, sitting mildly at the bar, and says, 'Noise police.' The American takes a long, sullen look at Arthit's uniform and buries his nose in his beer.
'So they're mostly thug-level,' Rafferty continues in a normal tone of voice as he settles onto his stool.
'Not much opportunity for anything else,' Arthit says. 'Khmer Rouge closed every school in the country. For five years people raised rice and died. Most higher-level crooks are educated crooks.'
'So who are the best safecrackers in Bangkok?'
'Oh, for heaven's sake.' Arthit stubs out his cigarette as though he carries a grudge against it. 'I'm a cop, not a database.'
'But you can find out, can't you?'
Arthit lights up again and breathes directly through the cigarette. 'This have to do with Claus Ulrich?'
'Maybe. I don't know yet.'
'Spoken like a real policeman.' Smoke plumes from his broad nostrils, making him look like a cartoon bull. 'I know I asked you to do this, Poke, but don't get yourself into trouble, especially not with the Cambos. We'd hate to see anything happen to you.'
'We' are he and Noi. He drains his Mekhong, puts the glass down on the bar sharply enough to draw a startled glance from the barmaid, and holds up two fingers for a double. She takes his glass and hurriedly begins to fill it. Arthit looks through her, at something private and internal.
'You got the pictures of my colleagues? The ones I faxed?' he asks.
The mention of the two resentful cops causes Rafferty more discomfort than he cares to show to Arthit. 'Got them. Nice-looking guys, too. Do you know a Madame Wing?'
Arthit turns to him slowly, eyebrows high. 'Rich lady, a general's widow, I think. One of the best old houses in the city. Guards, antiques, broken glass on the walls. Doesn't get out much. Nobody else gets in much.'
'What kind of name is Wing?'
'I don't know. Sounds Chinese.'
'If she's Chinese,' Rafferty says, 'she sure doesn't look it.'
'So?' Arthit says. 'Maybe Wing is her husband's name. Maybe she's an Eskimo. She keeps to herself.' He drinks again and pitches some more peanuts at his face.
'Why don't you just drop them directly on the floor?' Rafferty asks. 'Think of all the energy you'd save, not opening and closing your mouth like that.'
'Don't be silly.' Arthit pretends to chew, even though he missed. 'Eating them this way demonstrates the kind of savoir faire that keeps me from being dreary. If you're finished with safecrackers and rich widows, what about Mr. Ulrich?'
'Nothing,' Rafferty says. 'That's the trouble. He's lived in Bangkok for twenty years or thereabouts, and he hasn't left a footprint anywhere. He's a cutout. The blank space is the only reason you know it was ever there.'
Arthit puts a hand flat on the bar, fingers spread, as though he is confirming its solidity. 'You're not looking in the right place. Nobody lives anywhere for twenty years without leaving a footprint. Friends, enemies, business associates, lovers, acquaintances, victims.' A different finger taps the bar with each item on the list. 'People do things to, or for, other people. That's the way it works.'
'Well, I hope there's space in the new edition of Believe It or Not.' Rafferty waves for a beer.
'You're drinking too much,' Arthit says, hoisting his glass.
'Arthit,' Rafferty says, putting a hand on his friend's arm and interrupting the drink's arc. 'Thank you for calling Hank. I think he can help.'
'Money,' Arthit says, rubbing his fingers together. 'Once Hank knows everything's okay, it's just a matter of money. Apply the grease to the wheel and the wheel will turn.' He drinks.
'That's pretty much what Hank said.'
Arthit starts to say something, thinks better of it, and then looks down at the bar. 'Do you need a loan?'
'I'm fine, Arthit. And bless you for asking.'
'If I'm offering you a loan,' Arthit says, sitting back and resting his hands on his knees, 'it probably is time to go home.'
'How's Noi?'
