“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 hypothetical: 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
A Formless Nimbus of Light
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.
>
Standing near the window, on her own at the edge of the crowd, her hands folded in front of her, is Miaow. Without discussing the situation with either Rose or Rafferty, she has apparently made a decision. She wears the “schoolsiest” dress she owns, and yesterday she bought a hair rinse that would emphasize her new highlights. Her hair is even redder than it was before. She does not look toward Boo or Da.
She’s tough, Rafferty thinks. But that doesn’t mean she can’t break your heart.
The front door opens, and a group of people emerge, calling out words of parting. There is a general movement inside, people getting ready to go back to their lives. Soon enough, Rafferty knows, Arthit will be left alone to spend the first night in this house without Noi by his side. To begin something new.
IT’S ON THE coffee table, centered in front of him, still sealed. The side of the envelope that told him not to come into the bedroom is facedown, revealing the sealed flap. Kosit stands to one side of the sofa and Rafferty to the right. It seems wrong somehow for them to come too close to him right now.
Arthit looks up. He says, “Well.”
“Well,” Rafferty says. The look on his friend’s face makes him want to burst into tears.
Arthit breathes deeply, leans forward, and uses both hands to pick up the envelope. As he does, Da comes into the room, stops suddenly, and then goes to Rose and whispers something to her.
“What?” Arthit says.
“Oh,” Da says, blushing scarlet, “it’s…um—”
Rose tells him, “She says there’s someone sitting next to you.”
Arthit’s eyes go to Da. He blinks as though to clear his vision, and then he says, “Thank you.”
He opens the envelope.
51
News from the Sun
BANGKOK MAN ARRESTED IN BABY-SELLING SCHEME
Exclusive to the Sun by Floyd Preece
A Bangkok businessman with alleged ties to the underworld was arrested yesterday by Bangkok police on charges of running a complex and highly profitable operation that purchased, and in some cases stole, infants in order to sell them to wealthy foreigners.
Wichat Kangsomthong, 57, was taken into custody at his offices on Sathorn Road in Bangkok’s Yannawa district. Police officials acknowledged that the arrests were in part a reaction to two earlier stories in the Sun detailing the sale of babies at costs in excess of 1.2 million baht to foreigners, mostly European. The infants, both Thai and Cambodian, were taken from their birth parents and given temporarily to beggars who were “protected” by Mr. Wichat’s syndicate.
In addition to facing charges of kidnapping and enslavement, Mr. Wichat is being investigated for violations of international human-trafficking laws because some of the children were allegedly transported across borders. Some of these charges carry the potential of life imprisonment.
Author’s Note
Many of the Thai names in this novel, both surnames and nicknames, are invented. While the visitor to Thailand may be overwhelmed by the sheer length of Thai surnames (five or six syllables in some cases), the names of the oldest families are quite short. Relative newcomers to the kingdom are asked to submit several potential surnames, one of which will presumably be approved, and adding a syllable or four is the easiest way to retain something approximating a family’s original name without duplicating the name of an existing family. Therefore, the odds are quite high that all people who share a surname are related. This means that a writer should be careful about using a “real” surname, especially for an unsympathetic character, since that could be construed as libel.
I also made up some of the nicknames, aiming at simplicity and memorability, since there are so many characters.
And I should probably stress that the Bangkok in this novel (and the earlier ones) is a fictional environment, inspired by a real one. Distances have been compressed here and there, and some geographical liberties taken, primarily because it would be impossible to maintain a thriller’s pace while stranded in Bangkok traffic. Those of you who find it difficult to believe in the Bangkok that’s depicted here should know that millions of people feel exactly the same way about the real-life city.
But the unstable political landscape presented here is not, in the main, fictional. It’s a defining fact of present-day Thailand, and no one can say how it will ultimately play out. In fairness, it should be pointed out that murder and assassination play virtually no role in Thai politics. But, of course, this is a work of fiction.
Acknowledgments
First place in the gratitude parade goes to Jonathan Whipple, who told me about a card game in which one player won the right to write another’s biography. This situation allowed me to cut by about thirty percent the amount of time it took me to get Poke into trouble. The game also gave me the alternating series of opening chapters that contrast the rich, uselessly throwing money away high above the pavement, with the people who scuffle for survival on the sidewalks.
Profuse thanks are due to my editor at Morrow, Peggy Hageman, who helped me to focus the book more precisely and to clarify some confusing story points, all the while acting as though the improvements were entirely my idea. My former editor, Marjorie Braman, suggested some key plot elements, among them the return of Superman, that made the book stronger. And my agent, Bob Mecoy, went over the manuscript with a critical eye and a mental X-Acto knife to tighten things up and reinforce some of the bearing beams.
The book’s wet, wonderful jacket is the work of James Iacobelli. And the manuscript inside the jacket had the benefit (as have all of Poke’s adventures) of an enlightened copyedit by Maureen Sugden, who knows her Hokusai from her Hiroshige and suggested literally dozens of improvements. Still don’t know about some of those commas, though.
This book, like all the others, was written mostly in coffeehouses in America and Southeast Asia. I’m especially grateful to the people at Novel Cafe in Santa Monica, California, and Bee Bee Cafe in West Los Angeles, as well as to those angels of mercy who fed me and kept me caffeinated in Phnom Penh, at Corner 33, Black Canyon Coffee, and Freebird. Coffee World in Bangkok also gets some of the blame.
As always, the writing of this novel had a soundtrack, courtesy of an overstuffed iPod. Most frequently played were Bob Dylan, Rufus Wainwright, Rilo Kiley, Vienna Teng, Shawn Colvin, Conor Oberst, John Prine, Vampire Weekend, Angelique Kidjo, Emmylou Harris (always and forever), Mary Gauthier, Elvis Costello, Rihanna, Delbert McClinton, Taylor Swift, Patti Griffin, Calexico, Over the Rhine, Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, the perpetually heartbreaking Townes Van Zandt, TV on the Radio, The Hold Steady, Tegan and Sara, and Kyung-Wha Chung. And about four hundred others.
My deepest and most heartfelt thanks go to the person I’m blessed to share my life with, my wife, Munyin Choy-Hallinan. As this book’s first reader, she helped me make parts of it better and strengthen (or at least plaster over) its weaknesses. Without her, it would never have been finished.
About the Author
TIMOTHY HALLINAN has written ten novels and a work of nonfiction. He divides his time between Los Angeles and Southeast Asia, primarily Thailand, where he has lived off and on since 1985. For more than twenty years, he ran one of America’s top television consulting firms, advising many Fortune 500 companies. He has also taught writing. Hallinan is married to Munyin Choy.
www.timothyhallinan.com
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ALSO BY TIMOTHY HALLINAN
The Fourth Watcher
A Nail Through the Heart
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The Man with No Time
Incinerator
Skin Deep
Everything but the Squeal
The Four Last Things
Credits
Jacket design by James L. Iacobelli
Jacket photography © by Shaun Egan/Getty Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and d
ialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BREATHING WATER. Copyright © 2009 by Timothy Hallinan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition July 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-190117-1
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