He makes a sound that’s all U’s and H’s, a sound someone might make as a bull plows into his midsection, and he realizes he can barely lift his arms. Through the roaring in his ears, he hears Yellow Shirt.
“You’re right-handed, and you should have realized I’d know it. But to show you that we can get along if you’ll drop the project, we’ll leave your right hand alone.”
As though from a spot four or five feet above his own head, Rafferty watches his limp, numb left hand as Mr. Left picks it up and puts it on the back of the front seat. He holds it there as Mr. Right brings his blackjack up and then down onto the intricate latticework of bones in the back of the hand, and Rafferty’s scream tears his throat ragged.
“You should see a doctor,” Yellow Shirt says. “Probably a couple of fractures, and hands need to be looked at fast.” He waves the gun back and forth again. “This will take hours to treat. You’ll be out of circulation for the rest of the day, and then you’re going to stop, right? I’m going to tell my principal that you’re quitting, and you’re not going to make me look bad again.”
“No,” Rafferty says, through a windpipe that feels narrower than a pencil. “I mean, yes. I’m quitting.”
Yellow Shirt nods. “Good, good. You can get out now. Wasn’t this better than getting shot?” He leans over the seat and drops the cell phone into Rafferty’s shirt pocket. “You can call your friend back,” he says. “Although it may be a while before you can dial.”
34
You’ll Probably Be Sterile
This is for teeth,” Dr. Pumchang says. From the speaker in the corner of the room, the Carpenters are singing “Rainy Days and Mondays,” a song Rafferty had hoped never to hear again.
“It’ll do,” Rafferty says, between jaws tight enough to have been wired together. “I just need to know whether it’s broken.”
He sits with his left hand throbbing in a steel bowl of ice water while his dentist, with doubt animating every muscle in her face, lines up small pieces of dental X-ray film to create a rectangular area a little bigger than Rafferty’s hand. Out in the waiting room are the pumpkin-colored chairs where he and Elora Weecherat had talked.
“The machine can only photograph a small area at a time,” Dr. Pumchang says. “I’m going to have to take a dozen pictures. Why can’t you be like everyone else and go see a real doctor?”
“It’s not like I play the piano,” Rafferty says, and then grabs a breath and holds it as the nerves in his arm stand up and do the wave to pass a burst of pain along to the part of his brain that keeps track of such things. When he can talk, he says, “I use this hand mainly to comb my hair.”
“How did this happen?” Dr. Pumchang puts the last piece of film in place and studies the quiltlike rectangle she has created. With a long, meticulously lacquered fingernail, she pushes one edge piece half a millimeter toward the center. The picture painted on the nail is Hokusai’s famous ocean wave.
“I closed a car door on it.”
Dr. Pumchang makes a noise Rafferty’s mother would have called a raspberry. “Single point of impact,” she says. “Not a straight line of force, like a car door. No abrasions, no broken skin. If you’re not going to tell me the truth, don’t tell me anything.”
“Fine,” Rafferty says. “Don’t ask me questions.”
“What it looks like,” she says, “is that someone slammed it with something small and heavy.”
“That’s what it looks like, huh?”
“Dry your hand,” she says. Her lips are drawn so tight that they’ve practically disappeared.
He takes the towel and very gently pats the hand dry.
“Flap it around. Let the air get to it. Get it dry.”
“The film gets wet in my mouth. How come it can’t get wet now?”
“Just listen to the nice music and do what I say. Or go see a hand doctor.”
“Nobody listens to the Carpenters anymore.”
“I do.”
“Probably cheaper than anesthetic.”
Dr. Pumchang pulls the X-ray unit toward him. “Put the hand down carefully, fingers as close together as you can get them, palm flat, if you can do it, and don’t mess up my film. If you move the pieces around, I’ll have to do the whole thing over again, and I’ll probably think better of it.”
“So much for bedside manner,” Rafferty says, lowering his palm carefully onto the pieces of film and hoping she doesn’t notice how they spread out beneath his hand.
“Just be quiet and hold still.” She positions the lens over the center of his wrist, leaves the room, and Rafferty hears a short buzz. Then she comes back in and moves the lens a couple of inches. “I really don’t know why I’m doing this.”
“Because you’re a good Buddhist.”
“Don’t push it.” She leaves again, and Rafferty hears the buzz again. “By the time we finish this,” she says, coming back into the room, “you’ll probably be sterile.”
“OKAY,” DR. PUMCHANG says, “what you’ve got is two fractures. Second and third metacarpals.” She is peering at the pieces of film, which she’s joined together with transparent tape and clipped onto a light box. “They’re pressure breaks, like you’d get if you bit down too hard on a chicken bone. Can you visualize that?”
This was exactly what Rafferty hadn’t wanted to hear. “All too vividly.”
“The good news is that almost all the pieces are in place. In other words, the splinters are right where they should be. More or less. Properly cared for, the bones should knit without any real lasting damage.”
“And what constitutes ‘properly cared for’?”
“A splint, then a cast, a month or so of not using it.” She looks over at him. “Say something so I know you’re listening to me.”
“Okay. I’m listening to you. Here’s what I want you to do: I want you to take the case this awful Carpenters CD came in, and I’ll put my palm on it with my fingers jammed together, and you just tape the hell out of it. That way I’ll be back on the street in about ten minutes.”
“This is your hand,” Dr. Pumchang says. “You’ve only got two of them. You’re risking severely impaired function. How would you like not to be able to bend your fingers?”
“For how long?”
“For the rest of your life.”
“Oh.”
“In the best prognosis, you might be able to use it as a Ping-Pong paddle.”
“Well, then,” Rafferty says, “you’d better tape it really well.”
DOWN ON THE street, it takes him three one-handed tries to bring up “recent calls” on his cell phone and press the “connect” button to dial Arthit. He puts the phone to his ear, looking down at the white adhesive-taped rectangle of his left hand, and waits.
“Hello,” says someone who is not Arthit.
The hair on the back of Rafferty’s neck stands on end. The tone is recognizable the world around. “Is Arthit there?”
Not-Arthit says, “Who is this?”
“I’ll call him back.” Rafferty folds the phone one-handed and puts it into his shirt pocket. There’s no question in his mind that Arthit’s phone has just been answered by a police officer. Immediately his phone starts to ring. He doesn’t even have to look at the readout to know it’s the cops, calling him back.
35
Off the Board
The envelope says, DON’T COME IN. CALL A FRIEND.
It sits, meticulously centered, on the coffee table in front of the couch in Arthit’s living room. It is the only thing on the table. The characters are written in thick black felt-tip. Noi’s usual handwriting was slapdash, the lines of text slanting up to the right in a way that Arthit always saw as optimistic. But these words are ruler-straight and meticulously formed. The kind of care she would take with the last thing she would ever do.
Where did she sit to write it? he asks himself, and immediately knows the answer: the kitchen table. There had been a half-drunk cup of tea on the table. He’d seen it before his foot sli
pped.
“Can I get you anything?” Kosit asks.
Sitting in the center of the couch, Arthit shakes his head. He says, “She didn’t finish her tea.”
Kosit blinks and says, “I hadn’t noticed that.”
“She was in a hurry,” Arthit says. “She wanted to make sure.”
“Sure?”
“That I didn’t come home too early. That the…that the pills had time to work.” He can’t find the voice to continue, so he clears his throat and looks back down at the envelope. He hasn’t opened it yet. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to open it.
The front door stands wide open, and an ambulance’s red lights blink on-off-on through the window. A few people have gathered curiously on the sidewalk. Arthit can hear the medical technicians talking in the bedroom. When they wheel Noi out, it will be the last time she ever leaves the house. Their house.
Of course he had gone in.
After all, he’d come home early. She might still have been…
“A glass of water,” he says. His voice is husky.
“Sure,” Kosit says. He gets up but stops as two uniformed patrolmen come in. “What?” he asks. “Why are you here?”
“We got called. Fatality, right?” The senior patrolman is in his early fifties, nut brown. He’s got a nose as bulbous as a head of garlic, the skin covering it a miniature map of broken veins. Beneath a flop of dirty hair are tiny eyes, the whites a disconcertingly sweet pink. His younger partner looks embarrassed, his eyes fixed on the carpet.
“Suicide,” Kosit says. “The survivor is a cop. You’re not needed.”
“We got a call,” says the senior patrolman. “From headquarters.”
“It’s a mistake,” Kosit says. “Go away.”
“From whom?” Arthit asks.
“Excuse me?” The senior patrolman scratches the back of his neck, revealing a dark, damp circle under his right arm.
Arthit says, “I asked who put out the call.”
“You’re the husband, right?” says the senior patrolman. He waits for an answer, letting the silence yawn between them.
“I am,” Arthit says at last.
“Yeah, well, then, I don’t see that you need to know who put out the call.” His partner shifts his gaze from the carpet to the tops of his own shoes.
“You’re being offensive,” Kosit says. “This man is a lieutenant colonel on the force. We have a note, in the handwriting of the deceased.”
“Where?” asks the senior patrolman. He takes two more steps into the room, claiming it as his own.
“It’s—” Kosit says, glancing down. The coffee table is bare. “It’s in the…um, kitchen,” he says.
“We’ll need it to take it,” says the senior patrolman. “And, sir,” he says to Arthit, “we’ll need your weapon.”
Arthit says, “What’s your name?”
“And where’s your name plate?” Kosit demands.
“In the car.” The senior patrolman rests his hand on the butt of his automatic. “I want the weapon, sir. Now.”
“Why is your name plate in the car? And him”—he lifts his chin at the embarrassed partner—“did he forget his, too?”
“For the third time,” the patrolman says, “I want your weapon.”
“I’ll have to get it,” Arthit says, standing up. He goes toward the dining room, then stops and says over his shoulder, “Surely you’re not going to let me go alone. How do you know I’m not going to come back shooting?”
“Go with him,” the senior patrolman says to his partner, who swallows convulsively at the prospect.
“I’ll go,” Kosit says. “This man’s rank deserves that kind of respect.”
The wheels of the gurney squeal from the hallway. Arthit forces himself not to turn to look, but the senior patrolman’s eyes flick toward the noise, and he watches with some curiosity. “Go,” he says.
Arthit leads Kosit through the dining room, listening to Noi’s progress down the hall on the other side of the house. “This is about taking me off the board,” he says very softly to Kosit when they’re crossing the breakfast nook. “It’s about the thing Poke’s involved in, the thing with Pan.”
“Who put out the call?” Kosit says.
“Thanom. He’s probably the guy who scrubbed Pan’s records.”
“That tapeworm. What can I do?”
“Give me your money.”
Kosit pats his pockets, locates a wad of bills folded so tightly they look like they’ve been ironed, and passes them to Arthit. Arthit pulls out his own money, puts the two stashes together, and slips them back in his pocket.
By now they are in the kitchen. Moving quickly, Arthit goes to the kitchen table, the table where he and Noi ate breakfast only that morning, where she rested her head on his shoulder, the table where they’d eaten all their meals since it became more difficult for her to carry the food even as far as the breakfast nook. The table where she probably wrote the note.
Next to the half-empty teacup, on which he now sees a pale lipstick print that stabs him through the center of his heart, are the gun belt and holster. Arthit pulls the automatic free and lets the belt and holster fall to the floor. He stares down at the gun in his hand long enough to make Kosit put a hand on his arm.
Arthit looks up. “Count to thirty,” he says. “Then knock over the table and call for help.”
“Got it.”
Arthit opens the back door. “I’ll call you after I buy a new phone. They’ll be looking out for calls from this one.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Kosit. The two men regard each other for a long, silent moment.
“I’m counting,” Kosit says. “One…”
Arthit takes one last look at Noi’s kitchen. Then he says, “Thanks. I won’t forget this.” A moment later he’s out the door and into the dark, wet warmth of the night, the gun cold and reassuringly solid in his hand.
36
Head-On
He should have accepted the painkillers Dr. Pumchang offered.
If he bends his elbow sharply and holds the taped hand against his chest at about heart level, the throbbing subsides to a point at which it’s just a hairsbreadth on the wrong side of unbearable. He cradles the left wrist in his right hand, with the result that he has no hands free. It’s getting dark, but the sidewalks are still crowded, and he negotiates his way through the oncoming crowd, hands clasped to the center of his chest like someone who is about to open them to sing, his elbows pointed out in front of him to keep anyone from blundering into the rigid, swollen, white-wrapped rectangle that used to be his left hand.
His cell phone rings, and he lets go of the bad hand long enough to bring the phone’s display into his field of vision. Arthit’s number again. He’ll have to answer sooner or later, but right now he hasn’t got the courage to find out what’s happened. Not that a cop will tell him. But why doesn’t Arthit have his phone? He’ll face it when he gets home.
Rafferty is a city boy by choice, and this is normally the hour he likes best, when the day shrugs its shoulders and allows the night to slip back in, when Bangkok goes through four or five kinds of light in an hour. The show begins with the gradual softening of dusk, the buildings’ windows growing brighter and their edges sharper against the darkening sky as the first bats flap raggedly across it, and finishes with the sidewalks chalky with the spill of light from stores and restaurants and bars, and the bluish electric snap from the buzzing streetlights high overhead. He’s often thought that Tolouse-Lautrec would have loved it.
But tonight it seems hellish and sulfurous, as though the world were lighted by Lautrec’s gas-lamp footlights, turning faces into irregular expressionistic assemblages of light and shadow, concealing eyes and washing the color out of clothes. Making it harder to spot Yellow Shirt or any other extra, unwanted wheels he might be hauling along. Rafferty is keenly aware that he’s the next thing to helpless—he’d do anything to prevent a blow to his hand—and the anxiety makes him scan the faces
around him with an added degree of intensity.
Which is how he spots the girl.
As he nears the turn that will take him to his apartment, he becomes aware that the makeup of the crowd on the sidewalk has changed. There are more children than he is used to seeing, street children by the look of them, feral and filthy-faced and wearing dirty, ill-matched clothing. They weave in and out among the larger figures, sometimes passing him in the direction in which he is going, sometimes coming at him head-on. He notices one girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, who has a tangle of wild hair above a scar that slashes diagonally down her forehead through her left eyebrow, mercifully skips the eye, and begins again as a furrow plowed into her smooth cheek. He watches her in profile as she overtakes him and disappears into the throng. Four or five minutes later, he sees her coming toward him.
Okay. Not random.
The girl doesn’t glance at him, doesn’t even seem to feel his eyes on her, but he knows she has registered his gaze, sees it in the almost undetectable increase in the speed at which she walks, in the sharper downward tilt of her head. Clutching the injured hand against his chest, he works his way over to a shop window and backs up until his shoulders touch the glass. Whatever is coming, it will at least have to come head-on.
And then, of course, he knows what it is that’s coming.
He is already looking for the boy by the time the familiar face appears down the street, moving along at precisely the pace of the crowd, angling slowly toward the window where Rafferty waits, feeling his heart thrum in the vein at his throat and wondering how in the world he can factor this into his life right now. And then he realizes that whatever the boy wants, it would not be good for whoever is tailing him to see the connection between them, so he pulls the bandaged hand away from his chest and uses his right to hike the sleeve above the adhesive tape so he can check his watch. He does his best to register impatience and scan the crowd like someone who’s being stood up, and then he turns and moves with the flow, but more slowly, keeping the buildings at his left shoulder.
Breathing Water Page 22