a small bar blinks at them, decorated with plastic chrysanthemums, the perfect advertisement for alcoholic depression. The bottles behind the bar are the only clean surfaces in sight. Rafferty inhales the smell of a hamper full of dirty laundry that's been damp for weeks.
'Hello, hello,' says a woman of indeterminate years, crammed into a tight dress, the seam of which has popped open on her left hip. She thinks her anxious grimace is a smile. She might have been pretty once, but she's used herself badly for a long time, and what's left of her beauty has been broken into random fragments-a nice set of cheekbones, a mouth that was probably plump before it got fat. There are four other women in the room, all overweight and, by Patpong standards, overage. They're all sheathed in the kind of tight, floor-length dresses that Rafferty associates with high gloves and big-band singers from the forties. All of them look nervous, but nowhere near as nervous as the two men sitting on the bench that runs along the wall facing the stage. They've obviously made hurried adjustments: One of them has half his shirttail hanging out of his pants. On the floor in front of each of them, a pillow has been placed. The pillows are permanently dented by years' worth of knees.
'You two,' Arthit says to the men. 'You need to go to the bathroom.'
'You bet,' says the one with half his shirt tucked in, jumping to his feet. He and his companion trot the length of the room and disappear into a dark corridor to the left of the bar.
'Give me some light,' Arthit says.
The woman who met them at the top of the stairs nods to the shortest and youngest woman in the room, and the younger one goes to a wall fixture and snaps on an overhead fluorescent. The light reveals whole new frontiers of dirtiness, as well as masks of makeup as thick as toothpaste, and Rafferty thinks for a second of Rose, working to help women get out of the bar life before they end up someplace like this.
'Seen this man?' Arthit asks.
'Ooohh,' says the youngest one. 'Handsome.'
'Has he been here?'
'No,' says the oldest woman, who is obviously the mama-san. She looks at the other women and laughs. 'And we'd remember. We don't get many like him.'
'He's killed at least five bar girls,' Arthit says. He holds up the second photo. The faces of the four older ones harden, but the youngest brings her fingers to her lips. 'I want you to look at both these pictures. I want you to remember his face.'
'I'll remember,' the mama-san says.
Rafferty says, 'He might have some injuries to his face, might even have bandages.'
The mama-san says, 'That would be nice.'
'Get your cell phones,' Arthit says.
The women go behind the bar and come out carrying purses, all of them battered and worn. Working ten- hour days on their knees in this cesspool, they're making barely enough money to eat. In a moment each of them has a phone out.
'Key in this number.' Arthit recites his cell-phone number. 'Save it. Name it whatever you want, as long as you'll be able to remember it if he comes in here. If he does, one of you goes back into the short-time room and calls me, is that clear? Just treat him like any other customer. He's never hurt a girl while he's in a bar, as far as we know. But call me.'
The mama-san stores the number and takes another, longer, look at Horner's face. 'If he comes in here,' she says, 'we'll kill him ourselves.'
By nine-thirty they've burned through all six of the bars on their list and there's a light drizzle falling, creating flaring halos around the lights in the night market and softening the lurid hues of the neon. Big sheets of blue plastic have been stretched into place above the stalls and tied to the metal frames to keep the merchandise dry, and water is running in the gutters, but the damp hasn't interfered with business in the bars. The street is jammed solid on both sides.
Arthit's phone has rung eight times, with Rafferty practically jumping out of his skin each time. Six of the calls were sign-offs from the women who were showing the photos, finished with their task. No one had definitely recognized Horner. Some of the women had decided to meet for a late meal at the Thai Room, a restaurant on Patpong 2. The other two calls were news: Women had identified Horner as a customer in the Kit-Kat and Bar Sinister, both relatively nice downstairs bars that feature younger women, relatively new to the life. In both cases he'd been there within a few weeks but hadn't been taking girls out.
The ninth call, coming in now, is from Nit, who had the longest list of bars. Arthit listens and says to Rafferty, 'The Office?' He squints like someone trying to read small print. 'The girl he's been taking out works at the Office. Where the hell is that?'
'Patpong 2,' Rafferty says. 'But the Office isn't a go-go club. It's just a hostess bar.'
Nit hears his remark, and Arthit puts the phone to his ear and listens. 'That's why she went there last,' he says. 'She almost didn't bother.' Into the phone he asks, 'Is the girl there?' He looks over at Rafferty, who's shifting from foot to foot, and nods an affirmative. 'You what?… Good, that's good. Smart of you.' He puts a hand over the phone. 'She only showed them the picture of Horner. Thought they'd give themselves away if they saw the other one.'
'We need to get the girl.'
Arthit points to the phone, which Rafferty takes to mean, Nit's got her. To Nit he says, 'Most of your friends are over at the Thai Room, so you're close to them. Why don't you take her over there. We'll see you in a minute or two. Stay away from the windows.' He lowers the phone and says to Rafferty, 'Let's go. The Thai Room. If he goes into the Office, we'll be just up the street.'
'Sure. As you said, away from the windows.'
Arthit calls Kosit and, after that, Anand and tells each of them to head over to Patpong 2 once they've finished with the vendors.
'We should have sent people to all the hostess bars,' Rafferty says.
'And we will,' Arthit says. 'Let's allow them a few minutes to eat, though. But, you know, men who frequent the go-go clubs don't usually visit the hostess bars. It's pretty much one or the other.'
' 'Pretty much,' ' Rafferty says between his teeth. ' 'Usually.' I'm an idiot.'
Seen from above, the Patpong district is a big capital H, with the two uprights being Patpong 1 and 2, named after the Patpong family, which has added considerably to its worldly riches, if not its store of good karma, by owning them. The cross stroke connecting the verticals is a nameless little stub of a street that's housed a long string of failed bars and restaurants, including one upstairs clip joint that changes its name so often Rafferty long ago stopped trying to keep up.
Patpong 2 is considerably sleepier than its big sister, with three or four struggling go-go clubs, a few restaurants, and six or eight decorous hostess bars, ranging from intimate to relatively vast. There's no night market. Where it can take fifteen minutes to plow through the people who pack the street from Silom to Surawong on Patpong 1 when the evening is in full swing, on Patpong 2 it can usually be done in one-fifth that time. Patpong 2 is less crowded. And a lot darker.
As they fight free of the crowd on Patpong 1 and enter the stub street, Arthit says, 'I think we'll set up at the Thai Room. We can stay out of sight, and it'll take us less than a minute to get to the Office.'
'Fine.'
Arthit glances at Rafferty. 'Problem?'
'Why was she there?'
'What do you mean?
'Why was she working tonight? Rose said he was with her constantly when they were together.'
'He had things to do today,' Arthit says. 'Bust into your apartment. Kidnap Miaow, and maybe you. Find Rose. Kill everybody. Big day.'
' 'He does one thing at a time,' Rose said.'
Arthit stops walking. He looks like he's studying the air in front of him. 'Maybe he just decided to put things on hold while he got rid of the only person who could tie him to the killings.'
'Then why not earlier? Why not the night he painted our door red? Why not just come in and kill us all? Why wait until now?'
'Rose said he was having fun. When he painted the door.'
