It's probably because he does feel so at home there that he fails at first to notice the two men in the corridor when he gets off the elevator. He's pulled out his keys before he registers their presence, and the day suddenly goes very sour indeed.
Two policemen, poised to knock two doors up from his, have turned to look at him. Rafferty tucks his keys into his fist so the points protrude, an impromptu pass at brass knuckles. He gets a better hold on the duffel bag, its weight suddenly reassuring rather than bothersome. There's no way around the fact that these are the cops whose faces and information Arthit faxed him.
'You,' one of them says loudly. He's short and fat, with a toad-like face that reminds Rafferty of an Olmec head. Rafferty has no idea what the other one looks like, because he can't get his eyes any higher than the automatic the man has drawn.
'I told you it was 8-A,' says the man with the automatic.
As the two of them approach, Rafferty spreads his feet slightly and bends his knees just enough to give him some spring, then wraps his hand more tightly around the duffel's handle. The one with the gun in his hand is thinner than his partner and dirtier, with a face so gaunt it makes Rafferty think of the cartoon character Skeletor. His uniform is smudged with dirt and spots of something that could be blood, hot sauce, or both.
'We're coming in,' says the toad-faced one.
'Actually,' Rafferty says, 'you're not.'
'We're the police,' says the toad-faced one. 'We'll go wherever we like.'
Rafferty keeps his eyes on the gun. 'At the moment you're just a couple of shitheads who are off the clock,' he says. His voice is surprisingly steady. 'And if anything happens to me, your own department will be up your assholes before you've had time to loosen your belts.'
'Be nice.' The fat one with the toad face is doing all the talking. 'Just give us the money she gave you and we'll go away.'
'She didn't give me any money.'
Skeletor's gun comes up to focus its single eye on Rafferty's forehead, but the toad-faced man pushes it down. 'Think about it,' he says. He gestures at the door to Rafferty's apartment. 'And remember that we know where you live. We know where your cop friend lives, too. Remember, his wife can't move very fast.'
Rafferty feels the heat rise to the back of his neck. He lowers the duffel slowly to the floor, reaches into his shirt pocket, and pulls out his notebook, too angry to be frightened. He flips through it until he finds the page he wants and then turns it toward them. 'Your home addresses,' he says. 'So if you invite me over, I won't need a map.'
Toadface studies it, although Rafferty doubts he can read the English in which he wrote the information. The numbers should be clear, though. 'Is this supposed to frighten us?'
'Of course not,' Rafferty says. 'But you should know that if anything happens to Noi, or if you try something with me that doesn't actually kill me, I'll be coming after you one at a time.'
'This is a mistake,' Toadface says. 'A very big mistake.'
'I'm good at mistakes.' Rafferty closes the notebook. 'I've made lots of them.' He crosses the hall and pushes the button for the elevator. The doors open instantly. Rafferty says, 'Get out of here.'
Toadface takes a step toward him but stops dead when Rafferty's neighbor, Mrs. Pongsiri, bustles out of the elevator, a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm. Seeing the three of them, she halts, an expectant half smile on her face. Then she takes the papers out from under her arm and fans herself with them. 'You have friends among the police, Mr. Rafferty?'
'Yes and no,' Rafferty says. 'These gentlemen are in the wrong apartment house.'
'Bangkok can be so confusing,' Mrs. Pongsiri says, her eyes bright with interest. The three men stand there as she watches them, still as figures in a display window. 'Well,' she says, 'I wish you luck finding the right place.' And she edges past Skeletor and down to the door of her apartment.
When they hear the lock thrown behind her, Toadface says, 'You're the one who needs luck.'
'All the time you had,' Rafferty says, 'and that's the best you could come up with? Bet you think of something better tonight.' He presses the elevator button once more.
They stare at him so long that the doors open and close again, and Rafferty feels sweat prickling his scalp. Then the toad-faced one takes the other by the elbow and leads him to the elevator. The doors open, and the two of them step inside. As the doors slide closed, the one with the gun lifts it again and points it at Rafferty.
'Bang,' he says. The doors close.
Rafferty lets the wall support him, not trusting his knees. His breath is shallow. It feels as if a steel band has been tightened around his chest. Not until it has eased, not until he knows he can walk a straight line, does he relax his grip on the keys, pick up the duffel, and go to the door.
He undoes the locks quietly and slowly pushes the door open, not wanting to awake the boy if he is still asleep.
The door bumps against something that should not be there, and Rafferty looks up to find himself being regarded by a dozen pairs of eyes. A hand comes around the door and pulls it the rest of the way open. A young woman had been sitting with her back to it.
From the couch Rose says, 'Come in, we're almost finished.'
'In many ways,' says one of the others.
'Passing through,' Rafferty says. Suddenly his voice is shaky. 'I'll be out of the way in a minute.' The women are regarding him with undisguised curiosity. So this is the farang Rose snagged, the brass ring so many of them hoped for when they worked the bars. One of them catches his eye, and, despite the fear, he feels himself blush. 'Hello, Jit,' he says.
'I forgot,' Rose says, enjoying his embarrassment. 'You know Jit already.'
'Pretty well, too,' Jit says in Thai. The women laugh.
'You forget me?' It is the woman who had been sitting against the door. Her face is scrubbed, unadorned by the garish makeup of the stage, and her age shows; she is ten years older than most of the other women in the room. It takes a moment for Rafferty to place her. 'Fon,' he says, wishing he were anywhere else in the world. 'How are you?'
'Poor,' Fon says, earning another laugh.
'Come the rest of the way in,' Rose says. 'For all I know, you'll recognize every one of them.'
He closes the door behind him and forces a smile in the general direction of the group, scanning for, and failing to find, another familiar face. They sit easily on the floor in jeans and T-shirts. The air is thick with cigarette smoke. Looking more closely at them, he sees strain in some of their faces even though they laughed so easily. He knows that laughter does not necessarily mean that Thai women are happy. He has often seen them literally laugh while they're crying.
'We needed to talk,' Rose says. Then she smiles and says, 'And I thought it would give you a chance to see some of your girlfriends.'
'Always a pleasure,' he says, feeling like a minor character in a bad English play. 'Where's the boy?'
'He said he was going out. Just out. But he drank a cup of coffee with me before he left.'
'He's too young for coffee.' The response is automatic, something his mother would have said.
'Coffee's pretty mild compared to some of the things he's already done. But the point was that he sat with me for half an hour. He even talked a little.'
'About what?' Rafferty makes an erasing gesture, palms out. 'Sorry. Later. Go ahead with your meeting.'
'Come back soon, Poke,' Fon says breathily in bar-girl English. 'Miss you too much.' Another wave of laughter.
In the bedroom Rafferty exhales heavily several times. Then he pulls the tools out of the bag, stops, asks himself what he is doing, and puts them in again. Normally they're stored in the kitchen, and it would take a fire to drive him back into the living room. He hoists the bag again and totes it to the closet, moving some clothes aside so he can put it behind them. Where Ulrich's suitcase was, he thinks. He rearranges the clothes to mask the bag and goes to the bed.
Built into the headboard, behind a sliding panel, is a small safe. He pulls a chain from around his neck, noticing that it is slick with his sweat. Dangling beside the Buddhist amulet Rose gave him for protection is a key. The safe's hinges squeal, so he opens the door slowly. Inside he sees the thick envelope containing most of Madame Wing's advance, converted into smaller bills, and an oil-stained cloth wrapped around something heavy. He
