"Took it off the hinges," Rafferty says, happy to have a question he can answer.
The boy lowers his face and makes a sound that could be a snicker. "The hinges," he says.
"See? You can do things I can't. I can do things you can't. That means we can do things for each other, doesn't it?"
A dismissive shake of the head. "Yeah, yeah." The boy puts a hand down in preparation to get up.
"Hey. You started this. I'm not exactly an expert on life, but you asked me a question and I think you ought to sit here until I finish making a fool out of myself."
The boy doesn't respond, but he remains seated.
"Look, the world is softer for some people than others. That's the way it is. Some people don't have enough to eat, some weigh three hundred pounds. And you, you got a really shitty deal. Okay, that's too bad. We all agree, it's just terrible. It absolutely keeps me awake nights." His tone brings the boy's head up sharply. "So what can you do? You can't change the world, you know. It's too damn big. So what does that leave?"
The boy says nothing, just sits cross-legged with both palms pressed to the carpet, his fingers splayed like those of a runner about to start a sprint.
"I hate to give advice, so I'll tell you a story instead. It's a Tibetan Buddhist story. A young monk goes to the wisest man he knows, the abbot of his temple, and asks the same question you've just asked: Why is the world so hard and sharp? Why does it have to hurt my feet? And instead of answering, the abbot asks the kid whether it would be better if the world were covered with leather-have you heard this?"
The boy shakes his head.
"Okay, so the young monk says sure it would. It'd be a lot better. And the abbot asks the kid whether he knows how to cover the world with leather, and the kid says no, of course he doesn't, because he's a smart kid, a realistic kid. There's no way he can cover the world with leather. 'Fine,' says the abbot. 'Can you cover your feet with leather?'"
Superman's eyes lift slowly to study the wall above Rafferty's head. After a long moment, he nods once. "Then what?" he asks.
"Then we're going to get you into a school," Rafferty says. "And you're going to hate it sometimes, because you're just going to be a kid, not someone who runs things, but you're going to stay there because you belong there. Nobody's giving you anything. You'll earn it by being a good, smart kid and by showing up every day and by staying away from yaa baa and glue and whatever the hell else you were stuffing into your system. And if you screw up, you know what? There's not going to be a net. You're just going to fall. We can help you, but only if you want it. If you don't want it badly enough to pay for it, there's nothing anybody can do."
"You can do this? You can get me into a school?"
"No problem." Rafferty replays his conversation with Morrison in his mind. "I think."
"You'll try?"
This is not something to take lightly, and he pauses long enough to feel the boy's eyes on him. "I promise."
"Why?" He still has his hands braced on the floor, as though he is ready to bolt from the room.
"Because Miaow loves you. Because you helped her."
The boy looks away, out through the sliding glass door at the lights of Bangkok. His body is very still.
"And because I think you're a terrific kid," Rafferty adds awkwardly.
The boy says, without turning, "And you don't want anything?"
"I want you to work. I want you to do whatever you have to do to put leather on your feet so you can step on the sharp stuff without hurting yourself."
The boy gets up, all in one motion. Rafferty can remember being that limber, but not for quite a while. Superman puts both hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. Then he takes a slow step and then another, toward the hallway. At the last moment, he detours toward the couch. Without looking at Rafferty, he pulls one hand from his pocket and reaches out and touches him on the shoulder lightly, just brushes him with the backs of his fingers.
As he goes down the hall, Rafferty hears him say, "The hinges."
PART IV
38
In the bland light of a restaurant, Toadface and Skeletor look more like regular cops and less like something that escaped from one of Raskolnikov's nightmares. They even have nicknames: Toadface is Chut and Skeletor, for some reason, calls himself Nick.
"Khmer Rouge," Chut says without enthusiasm. Nick, in defiance of the no-smoking ban recently imposed in Bangkok restaurants, lights his second cigarette in five minutes. Rafferty doesn't like the smoke, but at least it keeps the man's hands above the table.
"Big-time Khmer Rouge," Rafferty says. "Should be worth a lot."
Nick snorts a stream of smoke, nicotine disdain, and Chut says, "Shows what you know."
Rafferty feels a surge of homicidal anger and waits it out. "Okay, well, you guys are the experts. But a lot of people would like to see her dead."
"That doesn't make them millionaires." Chut looks down at Nick's pack of cigarettes and pushes it halfway across the table and out of reach, and Nick speaks the second word Rafferty has heard him utter. He says, "Hey."
"So get a pool together. Everybody chips in. Show some fucking creativity."
Chut puts two hands on the tablecloth and, with some difficulty, laces his fat little fingers together. "And you think this lets you off the hook."
"What I think is that Clarissa brought about six thousand to Bangkok and you guys got more than half of that. She's been living here ever since-what? About ten days? Figure it out. She's got maybe fifteen hundred dollars left. I'm offering you this person on a silver platter. Should be worth ten times that."
"What's her name?"
Rafferty waits until the waitress puts two bowls of rice and some fish in front of Chut and Nick and a couple of scrambled eggs in front of him. He continues to wait until she has returned to pour coffee for him and Chut. Nick is drinking something that looks a lot like a tequila sunrise.
"You get the name, plus the address and a floor plan of the house, when we have a deal," Rafferty says. "You can find customers?"
Chut says something with his mouth full. Rafferty can't catch the words, but the gist seems to be "piece of cake." The man swallows, and says, "Just for the hell of it, what's the deal?"
Rafferty takes a deep breath. This is not a position he ever expected to be in. "One: She gets sold to someone who wants her dead. Two: Your problem with me is over. Three: I get one-fifth of whatever you sell her for." He has a use in mind for the money, especially since Madame Wing won't be making her second payment.
Nick laughs. It starts out like a snake's hiss and turns into a cough. Chut says, "You've got balls, I'll give you that."
"I got off on the wrong foot with you guys," Rafferty says. "Not my fault, not your fault. I'm just trying to make it right."
"And pocket a little money." Chut picks up his bowl in both hands and drains whatever liquid was at the bottom. "One-seventh," he says. Rafferty pushes back his chair and starts to rise. "Okay, okay. One-fifth."
"Done." He sits again, gives them Keck's address, and describes the layout of the house and grounds. Then he hands over a plan of the first floor, drawn from memory. The thin one, Nick, listens with his eyes closed, his upper lip grasped between his teeth. Chut takes notes in an elegantly leather-bound booklet. Rafferty finishes and waits for questions.
When one comes, it comes from Nick. "How do you know you can trust us for the money?"
"Oh, please," Rafferty says, getting up again. "You're Bangkok's finest."