seems to be nothing that is not the object of a fetish for someone.
He recognizes the first picture in the third album as the cover of one of the videos in Uncle Claus's secret drawer. Paging rapidly through the blur of four-color torment, spotting several more, Rafferty becomes keenly aware of all the people behind him. This is not how he wishes to be remembered. He hunches more closely over the album, realizes that it probably just makes him look even more furtive, and straightens up once more.
He closes the last album and pushes the stack back toward the woman, who gives him a disappointed look. 'Have something more special,' she says, and starts to reach beneath the table again. Rafferty brings up both hands, palms out. Whatever it might be that is 'more special,' he will fight not to see it. He pulls the photo of Uncle Claus from his pocket and shows it to her, and she gives him a big smile.
'Khun Claus,' she says happily. 'Number one customer. Every week four, five video.'
Good Lord, a footprint. Rafferty switches to Thai. 'How long has it been since you saw him?'
She gazes up at the phone wires, packed as always with a species of small birds that are distinguished by their extremely active lower digestive tracts. 'Three months?' she asks thoughtfully. 'Four?'
'Does that happen often? That you don't see him for so long?'
'Khun Claus travels,' she says a bit grandly. 'He lives in the world.' She makes a gesture that is intended to sweep aside the borders of Thailand. 'He comes, he goes.'
'Well, thanks.' Rafferty stands up, eager to get away from the table and everything on it.
'Three months,' the woman says. Her eyes widen. 'Do you think he was down there?'
'I doubt it.' He starts to turn away, then thinks of one more question. 'Did he ever buy other kinds of videos from you?'
She nods, eager to help. 'Same kind.' Then she motions him closer, and Rafferty leans in reluctantly, putting a hand out for balance. With this woman's standards, he does not want to hear anything she thinks needs to be whispered. She extends her hands to suggest handcuffs and says, 'Sometimes boys.'
That night Rafferty sits shirtless at his desk, icing his shoulder and drawing with a soft pencil on a drafting pad. The green-shaded student lamp on the desk is the only light in the room. The boy is asleep on the couch, his mouth open. He has, Rafferty notices, very good teeth.
A long time ago, he started to think of the books he wrote in terms of floor plans, working with pencil and eraser to explore the shape and balance of the manuscript without the distraction of words. Now he draws a floor plan of the mess he has gotten into, trying to create a geography of the situation.
The front door of his floor plan is opened by Arthit, who directs him to Clarissa. A line joins both of them to the two rogue cops. Clarissa points him down a hallway to the rooms that represent Uncle Claus, rooms that were furnished with secrets and violent pornography but are abandoned now. A short corridor leads him to Doughnut's room, scoured clean and locked tight, linked by two lines, the first leading downstairs to Noot, working for Mr. Choy, and the other pointing toward a box for Bangkok Domestics. Bangkok Domestics is connected to the dark, gothic complex inhabited by Madame Wing, from which two lines run, one leading to the dead safecracker Tam and the other toward a mutilated Cambodian named Chouk Ran.
If this were cosmology, the area surrounding all the neat little boxes would be the realm of quasars, dark matter, and the Great Attractor. Applying Arthit's suggestion of Occam's razor-the principle that says always to look for the simplest explanation-there would be a Great Attractor out there somewhere, pulling Doughnut, Uncle Claus, Madame Wing, Chouk Ran, and the others, known and unknown, toward a single point.
If that were true, the course of action would be relatively simple: Find the Attractor and ambush them on their way to it. Except that Rafferty doesn't believe in the Great Attractor in this case. He thinks he's looking at two separate orbits that just happen to share some space.
He rubs his stiff neck. Rose is asleep. Miaow is in her room.
His shoulder throbs. The pain pills have given up for the night.
He tears the page from the pad as quietly as he can and folds it into quarters without even knowing he is doing it. Then he drops the page into the wastebasket and gets up, pushing the chair back slowly. The boy doesn't stir as he passes, although Rafferty senses a coil of tension in the still form.
The security lock is in place on the inside of the door, which means it would take two kicks to knock it in instead of one. Rafferty goes into the kitchen and pulls five or six cans of tomatoes from the shelves. Rose buys almost as many cans of tomatoes as she does jars of Nescafe. He carries them to the door and kneels, pulling the gun from his waistband and laying it on the carpet, because it pinches when he leans forward. He stacks the cans on top of each other, leaning slightly away from the door at an angle somewhat less acute than the one that distinguishes the Leaning Tower of Pisa. If the door opens even an inch, the cans will fall to the floor, making enough noise to wake everyone in the apartment.
He checks the arrangement one last time and turns to see the boy up on one elbow, watching him.
'Burglar alarm,' Rafferty says, feeling silly. 'Kind of low-tech, but it's what we have.'
'Good,' the boy says with a nod. 'Do you think they will come?' His voice is slightly hoarse, as though it does not get a lot of use.
'No. But it's better to be ready.'
The boy's eyes go to the gun on the floor. 'Can you shoot?'
'Enough,' Rafferty says. 'Listen, I want you to sleep in Miaow's room.'
'Why?' the boy says immediately. He pulls back physically, shifting his weight to the other elbow.
'I want the couch. If anybody comes in, I want to be the one who's out here.'
'You will need help.' The boy has not moved.
'And you can come in as soon as you hear anything wrong. That way you'll surprise them, like you did in the alley.'
'Okay.' The boy gets up and wraps the sheet around him.
'Great. And tomorrow you can repair my fax.'
'What's wrong with it?' The question comes quickly.
'I'll tell you tomorrow. Thanks for your help tonight.'
The child thinks about it and then nods. 'No problem.' He trundles off down the hall, the sheet dragging behind him, and Rafferty goes into his bedroom to grab a blanket and a pillow.
He settles in and knows in ten seconds it's not going to work. The couch is too short for him. It's still warm from the boy. It has lumps in it. There's nowhere to put his knees. The room is too bright. His arm and shoulder throb. He knows he will never get to sleep.
When he wakes up, in broad daylight, the boy is sitting wrapped in his sheet, on the floor halfway across the room, looking at him.
25
He writes, carefully, 'TEN MILLION BAHT.'
He had wanted to demand 25 million, but a quick calculation told him that it would be too bulky. Not manageable.
Anyway, the money doesn't matter.
The restaurant is as empty as before, but the waitress is awake. She greeted him as though he were a personal inconvenience, brought him his sweetened iced coffee silently, and retreated to her chair and a Thai movie magazine. The time is ten past four in the morning.
Chouk Ran-the man who called himself Chon-has placed a bright blue zippered bag on the table beside his notepad and pencil. He bought it on the street only two days ago, and the zipper is already broken.
He moves the bag aside with his elbow to give himself writing room.
'You will need to buy two large suitcases,' he writes. 'They will need wheels, because they will be heavy.' He pauses and reviews the letter in his mind, where he has written and rewritten it many times. He reproaches himself for his failure of nerve, for the time he has wasted: There are only six days remaining to him before one of them
