“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ton says on the other end of the phone.
“Pan’s dead. So are three of the people you sent after him. You might want to be on the lookout for the other two. This place is wall-to-wall cops. There’s nothing to tie any of it to you-”
“I should think not.”
“Except a videotape of Pan talking about his arrangement with you. The quality’s not real high, but there was plenty of light, and what he said will have quite a bit of news value.”
A pause. When Ton speaks, Rafferty can hear the strain in his voice. “No one will use it.”
“Maybe not. Maybe not for a couple of years, maybe not until things have changed. But things will change, and when they do, these tapes will just be waiting. And do you think there’s a chance the new guys will want to nail you by the wrists and ankles to the pavement on the expressway and back a truck over you?”
“Hypotheticals.”
“Here’s something that’s not hypotheticaclass="underline" My wife and my daughter and I are going home, and we’re going to live there safely and happily, without worrying about looking over our shoulders. And as long as we stay that way, happy and safe, the copies of these tapes will be at the bottom of the ocean. So to speak. But the minute something happens to any of us, they’ll bob up again. These are people you’ll never in a million years be able to identify, people I don’t even know, two or three removes from me, who will know exactly what to do with the tapes, who to give them to. And they will do it, if anything happens to my family and me. Is that clear?”
“As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
After a moment Ton says, “I don’t deal well with irritation. The tapes sound irritating.”
“Well, they won’t be, as long as you-”
“And what about you? You have the potential to be irritating.”
“I won’t be. I’ve got people to protect.”
“Yes, you do,” Ton says. “Go home.” He hangs up.
Rafferty folds his phone, closes his eyes, and listens to the ambulance siren die away in the distance.
50
The living room of Arthit’s house is crowded and noisy. The seat of honor-the reclining chair Arthit bought to watch the American cop shows he and Noi used to laugh at-is occupied by Noi’s mother, a tiny woman with a prodigiously concentrated energy field that keeps her daughters and grandchildren spinning in tight orbits around her. Her wispy silver hair, thinning and uncontrollable, creates a formless nimbus of light around her head that Rafferty thinks is an appropriate effect for a gathering that follows a cremation.
Arthit sits in full uniform on the couch, behind the coffee table. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he’s laughing almost unwillingly at something that’s just been said by the husband of one of Noi’s sisters, an appointed official in a minor province, someone who would have been on Ton’s side if it had come to that.
“He’s going to be all right,” Rose says, following Rafferty’s gaze. “He’s a good man, and he had years and years with a good woman. Everything but the end was a blessing. And who knows about the end? Karma is complicated. Maybe that was a fire they both had to go through.”
“At least he can be a cop again,” Rafferty says. “The kids’ video makes him a hero. He’s the one who took down the thug who killed Pan.”
“That’s such a man reaction,” Rose says.
“Well, he’s a man. What do you want me to do, enroll him in the Chrysanthemum-of-the-Month Club until he feels better? He told me he’d find his way back at his own speed, and having something to do will help. Men have spirits, too, Rose. We’re not floor lamps. Men’s spirits just heal better behind a screen of activity. As of the Sunday-night TV news, he’s the most famous cop in Thailand, and there’s nothing Thanom can do except try to crowd into the newspaper pictures alongside him. The people in the northeast would probably vote for him for prime minister. Not that he’s crazy enough to do anything about it.”
In the dining room, Boo carries Peep in one crooked arm. He’s resplendent in the new clothes Rafferty bought him for the ceremony. Da shines in a pale yellow dress that Rose helped her pick out, with Miaow’s sullen help. The once-spotless sling that supports the cast on Da’s left arm has already been decorated by Boo’s crew with a broad range of enthusiastic drawings that range from flowers and hearts and bright yellow suns to daggers and teeth dripping blood. The other kids, here at Arthit’s insistence, cluster defensively in the breakfast room, wearing clothes so new they creak, and never getting farther than four or five feet from the food.
Boo and Miaow have avoided each other. Not a word has passed between them.
And Rafferty has lost his Carpenters album and gained a cast on his own left hand, courtesy of the doctor who took care of Da. When he’d gone to the hospital to pay for her care, the doctor had taken one horrified look at the bandages and said, “Who did this? A plumber?”
“A dentist,” Rafferty said, and the doctor grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back into an examination room.
Rafferty’s cell phone rings. It’s his old phone, the one that’s been off for most of the past two days.
“Sorry,” he says to Rose. “I’ve got to go outside to hear this.” He opens the phone and says, “Hang on a minute,” then crosses the living room and steps through the front door into a warm, violet evening. “Hello.”
“Hello.” It’s a man’s voice. The English is unaccented. “I’d tell you who I am, but you don’t know me. I’ve been asked to call you to make sure you’ve noticed that everyone you love is alive and well. I assume you’re aware of that.”
Rafferty says, “Resoundingly.”
“Good. I’ve also been asked to point out that their present good health is in the nature of a favor. That, essentially, you’ve been done a good turn.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Another way is to say we had an agreement.”
“Don’t overvalue the strength of your deterrent. It was a favor. You’re undoubtedly aware that favors are usually returned. It’s called ‘quid pro quo’ in Latin, I believe.”
“Very impressive.”
“Thank you. A time may come when you’ll be asked to return the favor. The gentleman who asked me to call says to tell you he expects a thoughtful response. And in the meantime look at it this way: Someone in Bangkok will be keeping an eye out for you. Not much point in being owed a favor by someone who’s dead, is there?”
“Not unless you’re very patient.”
“And he wants you to redeposit his money. He’ll work out a wire transfer to a safe account.”
“Can’t do it,” Rafferty says. “It’s gone.”
“What? All of it?”
“Pretty much. Got a few hundred left.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Paid some hospital bills. Gave a bunch of it to some street kids and to the children of a reporter who got killed. Oh, and I bought a baby.”
“The man who asked me to call you is not easily amused.”
“What can I tell you? It’s all true.”
“Well,” the man on the other end says, “looks like you owe us a bigger favor than we thought.”
“Looks like,” Rafferty says. “So that’ll give him an extra reason to worry about my safety.” He thinks for a moment and then says, “Interesting how quickly another Isaan businessman stepped up to the plate, isn’t it? Politically, I mean.”
“Times are changing,” the man says. “We all have to change with them. Just remember, you owe us a favor.”
The man hangs up.
Rafferty puts the phone into his pocket and stands there, looking in through the window at the bright room, at the people assembled to remember someone whose life was faithful and compassionate and good. Like, he thinks, 99 percent of the Thai people. Like Boo’s kids will be, if they get a chance.