So say it had been been noon today when he found the bobby pin in his bed, and he’d wasted an hour waiting, thinking they might bring him something to eat, but they hadn’t bothered, and then it had taken him another hour to get the fucking bend right, and then he’d screwed it up so badly, trying to slide it in the wrong direction that he’d had to bend the other end of the hairpin, start all over again, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose as he tried to cajole the lock, convince the lock, finesse the lock, because if he breaks the pin off inside, he’s dead.
Dead. He knows he will leave this place dead unless he somehow leaves it on his own. How he can do that, he has no idea in the world, except that whatever the steps will prove to be, they’ll have to begin with these goddamn handcuffs. Thank God he was relatively clear when he found the bobby pin, that his metabolism had processed most of whatever they’d given him the previous evening, and at least he could focus. But the focus didn’t last long—in fact, he was drifting a little as he worked, and he had to pull himself up sharp a couple of times and remember to listen. Listen for the click of the lock on the cuffs, listen for someone coming outside.
And then the lock popped open. He had both hands free. He’d pushed the cuffs side by side on the bed frame so he could get back into them quickly if need be, and then he’d sat up, feeling the muscles in his back, lazy after so long, pull as though they might seize up, so he put both feet on the floor and slowly bent forward, stretching those muscles before they could tighten into a spasm. Then, carefully as an old man, he stood up, wrapped his hand around the wheeled stand from which his IV hung, and slowly, slowly, dragging the heavy cast so it wouldn’t make a noise when he put down the foot it covered, tugged the stand across the floor to the chair that his jeans and shirt had been on for however long he’s been here. He picked up his jeans and walked, still sliding his feet on the floor so he wouldn’t be heard downstairs, back to the bed. He got in, put the IV stand precisely where it had been before he moved it, folded his blankets over his knees so he could snatch them up quickly if he heard someone coming, and tested his theory. The theory that he’d been turning over for days, the theory he was sure would work if he could just get to his jeans, except that they’d been eight feet away and for all the good it did him, it might as well have been eight miles.
Carole, her name had been Carole; the cheerleader’s name had been Carole. With an e. “Carole with an e,” that was how she’d introduced herself to him, as though remembering that silent letter were important for some reason. Imagine thinking that anything that didn’t threaten your life was important.
He’d been holding his breath without knowing it when he stretched one side of the zipper as tightly as he could, a good steel zipper in a prime pair of Levi’s. So he exhaled slowly, put the zipper’s serrated edge against the top of the cast, over the center of his left quadriceps muscle, and began to saw it up and down.
And was instantly rewarded by a fine sifting of white powder on his thigh.
His breath exploded out of him with a rush, as though he’d just done an entire length underwater, and he sat there, breathing deeply, until the spots before his eyes were gone, and then he went back to work. And here he is, God only knows how long afterward, with all of five inches cut into the plaster.
The plaster’s not the problem—well, that’s stupid, of course the plaster is a problem—but the real issue is the goddamn linen gauze beneath the plaster. The fibers snarl in the spaces between the zipper’s teeth and have to be pulled out. And even five inches down, he’s having trouble getting his bottom hand far enough under the cast to give his saw a little travel space. So he’s going to have to do step two considerably earlier than he wanted to. He’d hoped to have sawed down another couple of inches; the deeper he’s cut, the easier it will be for him to snap the plaster.
He has four fingers, palm up, wedged between the the cast and his thigh, six to eight inches from the place where he’s cut it. Four deep breaths, close eyes, and pull straight up.
Oh, my God. He’s holding a triangular piece of the cast in his hand. The skin on his thigh, newly bared, feels cold.
Now he has a second starting point, and for the first time he thinks it might work. He puts the zipper’s edge to work again, instantly snarls it in linen, clears it while doing a lot of inventive silent cursing, and starts back to work. His left calf, the one in the cast, chooses that moment to cramp again, and he has to choke off a groan. He can’t possibly lengthen the muscle to fight the cramp; he just has to let it have its way with him.
At that moment he hears heavy footsteps coming up the stairs at the end of the hall. It’s the Other One.
Jeans under the covers, laid flat. The knee without a cast raised up to cover the bulge. Pull the bobby pin from the cuffs, put it in his mouth. Wrists in cuffs, cuffs closed. Shut both eyes.
Is the IV stand in the right place?
The door opens, and the giant comes in. He hits the overhead light, lets the door swing closed, and kicks the bed to rouse the patient.
Buddy opens his eyes, blinking against the light. The chair to his left, the one his jeans were on, suddenly looks enormous, conspicuous, and as empty as outer space.
The big man doesn’t even glance at it. He extracts an orange syringe from his breast pocket, pulls off the little cap at its tip, and slips it into the intake for the IV bag. He follows it with a yellow one. Then he gives Buddy a long, pensive look, shakes his head once, as though in regret, and leaves the room.
Buddy waits to make sure the footsteps go all the way down the stairs, and then he fishes the bobby pin out of his mouth again. As soon as he has both cuffs off, he turns to yank the IV needle from his wrist, and he’s already closed his fingers around it before he remembers that pulling it out sets off an alarm. He thinks for a moment about trying to crimp the line, but that requires one of his hands when he needs both, and he’s not sure that wouldn’t set off the alarm, too. In the end he decides the only thing he can do is to work as fast as he can. He clenches his teeth and begins to saw at the plaster, but six or eight minutes in he stops sawing and sits slumped over, feeling it coming, feeling it round a bend and come straight at him. The hand holding the jeans seems to dance away in front of him. Whatever he’s been given, it’s arrived. And it’s a fucking train.
teerapat, the screen on his phone says. Kang puts down the new beer, rejects the call, and sends Teerapat a text that says, what?
He waits, tension twisting at his gut. Teerapat is a well-fed police lieutenant with fat, short fingers that are too thick for texting but slip easily into other people’s pockets. After a moment Kang reads, no postcards lately.
Greedy son of a bitch. still working the patient, Kang writes.
get something now, Teerapat writes. then rid of him. not a good time.
Suddenly Kang is sitting bolt upright. He puts the beer down and reads the message again. He keys in, call me, and waits. In a minute the phone rings.
“Why?” he demands before Teerapat can say hello.
“An inquiry. From Phaya Thai station. Hand-carried by a policewoman.”
“What does she want?”
“Well, at first I thought maybe you’d cured the current patient and he’d been fished out. Got my blood pressure right up there, since you hadn’t sent me any—”
“What does she want?”
A pause to let Kang know that Teerapat has registered his tone and dislikes it. “Personal effects. Everything they had.”
“On how many—”
“As many as she could get. We gave her two.”
Kang sits back, thinking, and then he registers what Teerapat has said. “What? Why did you—”
“I wasn’t here when she came,” Teerapat says. He sounds testy, although he always does. “But she had enough rank, she had ID, she had an official request for the material.”
Kang rubs the skin on his forear
m, which suddenly feels cold enough to be wet. “Interesting.”
“It gets worse. She asked what we knew about the bodies from other stations’ jurisdictions. A bunch of ones I knew about.” He pauses. “And a couple I didn’t.”
“It’s a mistake,” Kang says. “There aren’t any you don’t know—”
“Because, you know,” Teerapat says over him, “I’d hate that.”
Kang gets up and takes slow and deliberate paces into the living room. “There haven’t been.”
“Wonder what she meant, then.”
Kang says, “I have no idea.”
“What about the one you’ve got now?”
“We’ve only taken a little so far. He’s not as rich as some of them.” Kang clears his throat. He doesn’t usually talk this much.
“I believe you, of course,” Teerapat says. “But if you’re wrong about how wealthy he is, or if you’ve miscounted the take, let me know and send something along. And in the meantime you might want to empty that room and keep it empty until we learn who’s so interested.”
“How are you going to learn that?” He’s looking around at his wretched little apartment. He’s always disliked it, but it’s offered him a kind of life: stability, money, a woman, no one staring at him all the time.
“I’ve got someone on the woman cop,” Teerapat says. “She met a farang in the Exchange Tower around noon, and a few hours later she went to a big house, a new one, in Thonglor. She spent a couple of hours there.” He pauses.
Kang says, “Yes?”
“Your guy with the small bank balance wouldn’t be from there, would he? Some nice new houses there. Lots of money.”
Kang says, “Goodbye.”
“House she went to is owned by a guy named Dell. Sound familiar?”
“Like I said, good—”
“Just trying to help. If the current guy, the one I saw when I dropped in about eight days ago, is named Dell, two things: First, take whatever else you can get, right now, and get the hell out of there, and second, send me my share. I’d hate to have to get involved in the investigation.”
“Like I said,” Kang says, and disconnects.
A little rill of rage, like a fast-moving ripple on a lake, runs through him. Fucking fat-ass cops, thick, greasy thumbs in everything, collecting money they do nothing for, ready to bust you and then help you commit suicide in the cell if you’ve got any evidence that might give them an uncomfortable moment or two. Dropped in, the son of a bitch, always checking to make sure he’s not getting cut out, nothing is being sneaked past him. Then Kang stops in the middle of the room, thinking, I should give the guy upstairs the last shot of fospropofol. He stands, irresolute. As angry as he is, a quarter of one will help him relax, think more clearly. He hardly ever uses it himself, no more than once a week, but this is an unusual occasion. He takes the remaining syringe out of his pocket.
25
No Accounting for Taste
After all this time in Bangkok, Rafferty was certain that he was past being deeply shocked, but some of the things Auntie Aspirin said to him made it literally impossible for him to maintain eye contact with her. And yet, as awful as much of it was, he finds himself experiencing a small—a very small—pang of pity for Buddy Dell. No one, he thinks, could actually want to live that way. And he realizes that some of the concern he feels is for Edward.
He settles back in the—what? fourth? fifth?—cab of the day. His head aches, and he suddenly realizes he’s hungry. Except for whatever he nibbled at Edward’s house, he hasn’t eaten since he was at Chu’s with Clemente. Well, he’s on his way to the Landmark at last, to take care of things there. He can grab something to go in the ground-floor restaurant before . . .
Before what? He’s had no response from Rose, and his reaction to the silence has slowly begun to eclipse everything else he’s said he’ll do. He dials Miaow, and the moment she picks up, he says, “Everything okay?”
“You mean since we saw each other, has there been a tragedy that I haven’t called to tell you about? No.”
“You got home all right?”
There’s no response, but it’s the kind of no response that is a response, and he has to remind himself that she survived alone on the streets of this city for years, beginning when she was probably three. She’d gotten home all right even when there wasn’t a home to get to, and she’s being patient with him. “Are you sure,” he says, “that you don’t have a phone number for Fon?”
For a moment he thinks she’s going to let him go unanswered again, and he feels a little blink of irritation, but then she says, “Can I go through Mom’s drawers?”
“You can pull them out and turn them upside down as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s not good enough,” she says. “I need you to give me permission and promise to take the blame if she gets pissed off.”
“I do and I will.” Her apprehension about Rose’s being angry reassures him. She’s not as worried as he is.
“I’ll call you back.”
He forces himself to sit back yet again, thinking, How do I keep getting into this position without even being aware of it, as though I’m about to climb into the front seat and grab the wheel? Out loud he says, “Yikes.” The driver, probably not knowing the word, looks at him in the mirror, eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Sorry,” Rafferty says. “Nothing.”
At a loss for something to do, he flips through the printout of Pygmalion’s first act, now dry again but rippled from exposure to the day’s humidity. The backs of several of the pages are scrawled with his notes. He finds what he’s looking for, a phone number copied from a business card in an eye-splitting pink that Auntie Aspirin had appropriated from Buddy Dell’s wallet. It features a bright pink clock face with something like twenty hands, pointing everywhere. Beneath that, in a fancy, flowing script, are the English words “Good Times,” and below that, “Any time is a good time to call!” He dials the number.
And gets a truncated electronic burr representing a ring and then a burst of the kind of bright, tinny music he associates with cheap Japanese anime, yielding to a woman’s voice—almost as bright as the music—telling him that she’s away from the phone at the moment, but if he’ll leave a message, she’ll get right back to him, and she knows he’ll be happy he called. She’s speaking American English, pretty well, so either she had a script and a good ear or she’s spent a lot of time with Americans. He doesn’t want them to hear a hang-up, get curious about it, and possibly call him back, so he says, “Hi, my name is Richard Milton, and I’m at the Landmark. I didn’t memorize the room number, but they’ll ring you through. Just call when you get a chance.” He hangs up.
And once again finds himself sitting forward, one hand on top of the driver’s seat.
He slides back across the upholstery and imagines Velcro on his shirt, keeping him in place where he belongs, thinking that he might have just heard Lala’s voice. What would she look like? Tall, short, in between, glamorous, cute, nymphetlike, ripe, motherly, young, old, slight, willowy, voluptuous, built like a linebacker? Would the stuff of Buddy Dell’s fantasy world be memorable, or would she be someone he, Poke, wouldn’t notice if he passed her on the street?
She could, of course, be any of those things, plus dozens of others he hasn’t thought of; he’s learned that the spectrum of what men want in a temporary companion, paid or not, is much, much broader than he’d once assumed, in terms of both the kinds of experience the customer wants and the ideal appearance of the person who, in his fantasy, will provide that experience. Decades ago, when Poke was in his early teens, his normally volatile half-Filipina mother, Angela, had suspected her husband of cheating on her (again) and had limited her protest, at least while Poke was in earshot, to the expression, repeated quite often and about a vast array of things, There’s no accounting for taste. It was, in its way, more intimidating than a screaming
match and infinitely more flexible. She used it to describe everything: choosing a car, picking a TV show, changing a hairdo, wearing a certain shirt, selecting from a restaurant menu. Inoffensive topics, all of them. But Poke, sitting in the backseat, saw his father’s ears go red; saw, in the living room, the muscles bunch in his father’s jaw; and finally, one night in bed, heard all hell break loose. Years later, after his father had deserted them, he learned who had been the object of his mother’s suspicion, and he’d been flabbergasted: She was, to his eyes, so ordinary as to be invisible. His mother was once a great beauty.
Rose had once said to him, “There’s nothing that some man, somewhere, won’t pay for.”
Where the hell is Rose?
He’s seen dozens of variations on this theme of unexpected preferences among his acquaintances in Bangkok. Few things, he’s come to realize, are less predictable and more inexplicable than someone’s sexual tastes, especially when that someone has had the time, the license, and the means to indulge them for a while. Rafferty had thought there wasn’t much he hadn’t heard about, but Auntie Aspirin, in her soft, cotton-candy voice, had shone a light on new and deeply unappealing continents of bad conduct.
He texts the Good Times phone number to Arthit with a few words to explain its provenance and to request an address, if one exists in this age of mobile communication. He’s just pressed send when the phone rings: Miaow.
Fools' River Page 22