'Can you suggest another assumption that gives us somewhere to start?
'You know,' Arthit says, leaning back and lifting a bare foot. There's nowhere on the table to put it, so he uses the foot to sweep some of the junk onto the floor. Then he rests the foot on the table, the sole angled politely away from Rafferty. 'I have to observe that this is suicidal behavior for a serial killer.'
'What is? And why is this place so dark?'
'Because I like it dark. Coming back to the bar like that. He takes this girl-what's her name?'
'Oom.'
'He takes Oom and does what he does to her, and a few months later he's back looking at Rose.'
Rafferty says, 'And?'
'And that can't be his pattern. No matter how lazy the cops are, someone, even if it's only the mama-san, is going to notice that every time this guy shows up, some girl vanishes.'
'Lot of bars in a lot of places,' Rafferty says. 'Hundreds in Bangkok, God knows how many in Pattaya and Chiang Mai and Phuket, and who knows where else. He could snatch one per bar for years and years without ever repeating, without even getting within miles of a place he's hit before.'
'That's what I'm saying, Poke.' Arthit looks at the foot on the table and flexes his toes. 'After Oom, why would he go back to the Candy Cane?'
'I don't know, Arthit,' Rafferty says, feeling his face heat up. 'Maybe Rose was special.'
Arthit winces as though he's been hit, then lets his head fall forward so he can rub the back of his neck. 'Of course. It's Rose, isn't it? Of course he came back.'
Rafferty breathes deeply a couple of times to slow himself down. 'Rose says the other one, Oom, was a real beauty.'
'Cherry-picking,' Arthit says. His face brightens a shade. 'That should make the bar end of it a little easier. We don't need them to remember everybody who disappeared, only the most beautiful ones.'
'I guess that helps.'
'But like I just said, the girls move around. You'd figure he'd bump into some who remembered him.'
Rafferty says, 'I just spent six or seven hours inside a bar girl's life, and you have to remember that they see hundreds of thousands of men a year. Say they work three hundred fifty days and eight hundred men come into the bar each night. I can't do the math, but that's more than a quarter of a million. Unless Horner took one, she's going to forget about him in a week or two. They focus on the ones who give them money. The others are just scenery.'
'The place for us to start,' Arthit says, 'is Phuket on one end and the Bangkok bars on the other.'
'Not we,' Rafferty says. 'Me. And whoever else I can strong-arm. You lean on immigration, and I do the rest. You're working ten days a week as it is.'
'I can do what I want,' Arthit says. 'I'm a public hero, remember?'
Arthit's been milking this ever since national television showed video of him killing someone who had just murdered a much-loved Thai millionaire.
Rafferty says, 'Yes, but I mean-'
Arthit lifts a hand. 'So I'll make the time.'
Rafferty says, by way of preface, 'Listen. And don't get mad at me.'
Arthit shoots a glance toward the front door as though he's thinking about escaping through it. 'I'm going to hate this, aren't I?'
'Look around.'
'I don't have to. I see it every day.'
'I mean, if you can make all this time, why don't you clean the damn house? It's not good for you, living like this.'
Arthit says, 'I don't want to move anything.'
'Fine, fine. Don't move anything Noi touched. But this other junk, this crap… my mother, who has some good qualities, always says that even an angel can't live in a pigpen without turning into a pig.'
'Does she,' Arthit says. His eyes click on Rafferty's for a moment and then dart away.
'Well, no,' Rafferty says. 'I made that up. But you know what I mean.'
Arthit nods slowly. 'A moment ago we were talking about something important.'
'This is important,' Rafferty says.
They're both silent for a minute or two. Finally Rafferty reaches behind him and pulls the curtain open a couple of inches. The sunlight is merciless, and he lets it drop. 'Jesus,' he says. 'At least ask Rose to get you a maid or something.'
'I don't want a maid.'
'Get a live-in. Her agency has a lot of women who need the work. You shouldn't be alone like this.'
'This is exactly what I mean about farang. No Thai would be so presumptuous.'
'That's what you get for making friends with me. Rose would be horrified to see this.'
'But she'd have the sensitivity to leave me alone.'
'Maybe, but this house didn't belong just to you.'
A blink, almost heavy enough to be audible. 'Your point?'
'It was Noi's house, too. It should be honored. What kind of way is this to honor her?'
'Poke.' Arthit's tone is a warning.
'This isn't just sad, although Christ knows it's sad. This is the same as turning your back on her.'
'That's enough.'
'Who's going to say this if I don't?'
'Nobody.' Arthit gets up. 'And that'll be fine with me.' He heads for the hallway. 'I'll get all the dates from immigration. I'll get the picture, if they've got one, although all those pictures look like everyone. And I'll talk to the guys on the force in Phuket. I imagine you want this fast.'
'Sure.' Rafferty is still sitting. 'He's here somewhere. He knows where we live. Rose and Miaow are home packing, scared half out of their minds.'
Arthit stops walking, but he doesn't turn. 'Where are you going to put them?'
'I don't know. Like I told Rose, the first thing is to get them ready to go. Some hotel in some obscure neighborhood.'
Arthit says, 'I'll be back.'
Rafferty listens to his friend's footsteps, slow and heavy, the shuffle of a much older man, going down the hallway toward the kitchen. Then they stop. Without allowing himself to think about anything, Rafferty looks around. The dining room, always polished and immaculate when Noi was here, is a dim chiaroscuro, the table piled with dirty clothes, unopened newspapers, folded towels from the laundry, take-out cartons from restaurants, a few books, and several empty bottles labeled Johnnie Walker Black. Even the floor has junk on it, little islands of homeless uselessness, the kind of litter that's barely worth the effort of picking up and throwing away, the kind of stuff drunk people trip over. He can actually smell the dust in the air. It's impossible not to remember the bright, soft luster the place had eight or nine months ago-flowers, buffed surfaces, a gleam on the pale hardwood floors.
He comes to the present, realizing it's been a couple of minutes and he hasn't heard anything at all from the kitchen. No cupboards opening, no rattle of china, no running water. The house is so quiet he might as well be alone. A little foam of anxiety curdles in his stomach.
He gets up. 'Arthit?'
After a moment Arthit says, 'Just stay where you are.'
Rafferty stays where he is, although he's got misgivings. To occupy his mind, he lifts the corner of the living- room drapes once more and lets the sun in. Depressed by what he sees, he drops it again. He decides he'll count to twenty and then go to the kitchen.
When he's reached eight, Arthit calls, 'What are you doing for the next two hours?'
'Free as a bird,' Rafferty says. 'Get Rose and Miaow out of the apartment, find them a hotel, set them up, feed them. Plan the rest of my life. Other than that, nothing at all.'
'Good,' Arthit says. 'Then you can give me a hand.'
'Fine. I'll come back.'
'No. Now.' Rafferty hears the water run and then the sound of the teakettle being set on the gas stove, then
