not, we've all been through the same thing. We all have the same story. And we all know there are men like this one.'
'They'll believe us,' one of the others says to Arthit, 'faster than they'll believe you.'
Arthit nods and says, 'You haven't finished, Poke. Go through the rest of it. And I mean step by step. What keeps these women safe?'
'First thing they do when they walk into the bar is say hello to anyone they know. The pictures will be in folders we'll get at the copy shop so no one will see anything until it's time. Second thing they do is sit for a few minutes with the mama-san and make sure he's not there. If he is, she never takes out the pictures. She just leaves and calls us from outside. If he's not there, they do the third thing, which is to show the picture of Horner to the mama-san and ask if she's seen him. If the answer is yes, the next question is when. If the answer is this evening, or recently, they ask whether he's been taking one girl regularly and, if so, whether she's in the bar. If the answer to that is yes, then the woman with the picture gets the girl's name and calls us and leaves without showing the picture around, and we go in a few minutes later and get Horner's girl. If the answer is no, then we revert to normal procedures and we make sure all the girls see both pictures as they come off the stage. These women will never get near any action, if any takes place.'
Rose says, 'Who here doesn't want to do this?' There are no responses.
'You keep saying they'll call us if he shows or if he's just been there,' Arthit says. 'Where are we going to be?'
'Right there, on Patpong. There are six bars that no one here worked at, so we'll take care of those. Anand and Kosit, if you'll let them, will show the pictures to the vendors in the street market and the touts working the sidewalk. If we don't get him tonight, we'll go back tomorrow, and the next night. My phone number will be written on the back of every picture.'
Arthit says, 'My phone number.'
Rafferty nods, trying to conceal his elation.
'As if you didn't know I'd say that.'
'Oh, well,' Rafferty says, and then dumps the rest of what he was going to say because of the way Arthit's looking at him.
'If we find him, Poke'-Arthit's voice is soft-'what then?'
'You guys are three cops,' Rafferty says. 'I'm one me. I suppose it'll be whatever you want to happen.'
'You know,' Arthit says, 'I could do this without you. I could forbid you from getting anywhere near Patpong.'
'I guess you could.'
'Will it be necessary?'
Rafferty says, 'I'd be more comfortable about answering your question if I hadn't seen the picture of that girl.'
'But you have seen it. Am I going to have a problem with you?'
It's almost a minute, with all the women looking at him, before Rafferty replies. 'If you do,' he says, 'I'm sure you'll be able to handle it.'
Chapter 28
Above the bright lights of the night market, the sky flickers chalky white and darkens again, like a loose lightbulb. A moment later a breeze kicks up, carrying the sweat of the crowd to Rafferty's nostrils.
'Could rain,' he says.
'So what?' Arthit says, bulling his way through the slow-moving throng. 'You afraid you'll shrink?'
'Rudeness one, small talk zero,' Rafferty says.
Arthit grunts.
Rafferty says, 'Not so busy, is it?'
'If you need to chat, it's not busy because it's early,' Arthit says. 'Only seven-twenty. It'll pick up.'
Ahead of them Arthit watches Nit go into a bar called Bamboo, her folder held against her hip in a businesslike fashion.
Rafferty says, 'Don't worry about them. They know what to do.'
'You're the one I'm worried about.' Arthit stops, the shirt of his uniform already wet in back. 'Look at this junk,' he says. 'Patpong was always a sewer, but it used to be a good-natured sewer.'
Rafferty looks over his friend's shoulder at a miscellany of murder weapons, gaily displayed in the shimmer of the spotlights: Gurkha knives, switchblades, gravity knives, nunchucks, brass knuckles, ninja throwing stars. Behind the display, a cheerful-looking woman sheds some of her smile when she notices Arthit's uniform and facial expression.
'They're just for fun,' she says.
'You have an odd idea of fun.'
She brings both hands up as though the items on the table were red-hot. 'Me? I wouldn't have any of this in my house. They're for farang. The farang like to kill each other. Look at the movies.'
Arthit says, 'We shouldn't let you sell these.'
'You could close some of them,' the woman says eagerly. 'There are four on this street and two more on Silom. I could pay you a commission. You close them down, and I'll give you one-third of the increase in my profits.'
'No thanks.' Arthit turns to go.
'Half,' the woman says. 'I couldn't give more than half.'
Arthit says over his shoulder, 'I'll think about it.'
'Sixty percent!' the woman calls.
'The respect is so rewarding,' Arthit says.
'If it's any comfort,' Rafferty says, 'I respect the hell out of you.'
'You're nervous,' Arthit says. 'You don't usually natter.'
'It's not nerves, it's plain old hatred.'
'But you're going to do what I tell you to do.'
'Oh,' Rafferty says. 'Sure.'
Ahead of them Patpong runs from Silom to Surawong, the longest short block on earth, in Rafferty's opinion. Arthit's right: It's still early, and a lot of the people have come for the night market that stretches down the center of the street, rather than the bars. There are farang women everywhere, flushed pink with their own daring, holding blouses up to their shoulders, wrapping belts around their midsections, ransacking faux-Vuitton bags like manic customs agents, and bargaining amateurishly for the privilege of paying three times more than the whatever-it-is is worth. Looking around, Rafferty sees a lot of future buyer's remorse.
Two booths up, Anand is talking to a seller of counterfeit DVDs. He flashes both pictures, and the merchant grabs the iron-pipe frame of her stall for support.
Rafferty says, 'They'll all remember.'
'Here,' Arthit says, heading left, toward the sidewalk and a dingy-looking door beneath a small, stuttering neon sign that reads BOTTOMS UP CLUB. As they approach the door, a dark young man in a T-shirt and shorts materializes from nowhere, opens the door just enough to slip his hand in, and pushes something. They're listening to the buzzer upstairs as he fades back into the crowded street.
'Don't worry,' Arthit calls up the stairs in Thai. 'No problem.'
The stairs are vertiginously steep and so narrow that the walls almost brush Rafferty's shoulders. At the top he and Arthit find themselves in a long, dim, windowless room not much wider than a broad hallway with an unoccupied stage on one side, maybe two meters wide, adorned by a single pole that hasn't been wiped down in years. Palm prints fog its shine and dapple the broken mirror behind it, the lower right corner of which has fallen away and is propped against the wall. At the far end of the room, framed by incomplete strings of Christmas lights,
