The Queen of Patpong pr-4

by Timothy Hallinan

  "Hold it," he says. "You had any customers today?"

  She opens her mouth, closes it, and then says, "No."

  "Okay." He pulls a fold of money out of his jeans and peels off a reddish note. "Here's five hundred baht."

  She avoids looking at the money and shakes her head.

  "It's for taking care of me. And for checking it out in there. Why should you do all that for free?"

  She raises her upper lip and sucks air through her teeth, making a little squealing sound. Then she takes the bill and says, "Thanks."

  "Tell me what you're going to do when you get in there."

  She shakes her head, fills her cheeks with air, and puffs out. "You same-same my mama. I go in. I look like I want find somebody. If I see, I call you. Hang up. Not go close. Not look him. Okay?"

  "Okay." He fights down the urge to tell her again to be careful and stands there watching her limp barefoot across the street, shoes dangling from her left hand, a girl from the northeast who'd been a village teenager six or eight weeks ago. Now she's been cast on the surface of the Bangkok ocean like chum. Food for sharks.

  She's inside, and Rafferty fights off a wave of uneasiness. He picks up her can of Coke and finishes it without tasting it, his eyes on the entrance. Without looking down he puts his phone on the table so he'll see it light up in his peripheral vision. It doesn't, and he knows he's got to move or he'll jump out of his skin.

  She'll be fine, he thinks, crossing the street. The Beer Garden is full of people. She'll be one girl among a couple of hundred. She's not going anywhere near him. Go in, look for somebody, push a button. It's simple. And even if everything goes wrong, even if John has somehow seen them together outside the Beer Garden, what could he do to her with all those people around?

  Rafferty positions himself about half a block to the right of the door, on the Beer Garden's side of the street. He figures John will head right, toward Sukhumvit, once he comes out. He'll be able to get a cab more easily there. Rafferty settles in to wait.

  The phone doesn't ring. He has an irrational impulse to shake it.

  And then it does.

  He checks it and sees

  Unknown number, which is what he expects, so he puts it in his pocket and prepares to settle in and wait for John. But it rings again, and again.

  He fishes it out of his pocket, but it stops. Then, just as he starts to put it back, it rings again. He opens it and hears nothing, then a high, thin "Oooooo" and a choking sound, and then a clatter like the phone hitting a hard floor. Then it disconnects.

  Chapter 7

  Nam Pla Prik He's already running when the phone vibrates and then rings again, and he stops and answers, but no one is there. Instead he gets one of those twirling barber-pole lines that means something is downloading, and a moment later he's staring at an out-of-focus close-up of Pim, her eyes taking up half her face, looking like someone who's just opened the door to death.

  He runs across the soi and jumps up the steps to the open-air restaurant where he and Pim had sat. The woman who waited on them looks apprehensive as she watches him come, moving behind her counter just in case.

  "Nam soda," Rafferty gasps. "Soda water. In the bottle. Orange juice to go. Hurry."

  "You take bottle? Extra baht if you take-"

  "Yeah, yeah. Here." He throws another hundred-baht note on the counter and shifts helplessly from foot to foot as the woman opens the cooler at Thai speed and pulls out a bottle of soda.

  "Not so cold," she says doubtfully.

  "I don't care. Open it and give it to me. Get the orange juice."

  The woman pops the cap, releasing a spurt of soda, a sure sign that it's warm. Rafferty snatches it from her right hand and plucks the cap from the counter. As she prepares the orange juice, he pours out about a third of the soda, making a bubbling puddle at his feet. He snaps the bent cap back on as tightly as he can, shoves the bottle into the center of the back of his pants, against the gully of his spine, and tugs the T-shirt free so it hangs loose over his jeans. In the meantime the woman has taken a clear plastic bag and filled it halfway with orange juice, then stuck a straw into it, twisted the bag around the straw, and with expert quickness wrapped a rubber band around the bag to create a tight seal. She hands it to him and watches openmouthed as he undoes the rubber band, pulls the straw out, and pours the orange juice onto the concrete floor. Then he turns to the selection of condiments and picks up a clear glass bowl of nam pla prik, fish sauce with hundreds of tiny, fiery red and green peppers floating in it. He upends the bowl of chili sauce into the bag, replaces the straw, and reseals the bag with the rubber band. He wraps his right hand loosely around the bag and takes off at a dead run toward the Beer Garden.

  He veers left, into the alley. John and his friends, if he has any with him, will be watching the entrance. If Rafferty goes in through the entrance, he'll have no options at all.

  As he tears around the corner of the second alley to the right, he finds himself at the base of the eight-foot wall at the back of the Beer Garden. The Beer Garden is essentially open-air, although a roof has been built over the central area, covering the bar and the restaurant booths to the right of the door. But the roof is raised on poles; it doesn't join the walls in most places, and back here, where the kitchen and the restrooms are, there's a gap between the top of the wall and the roof, to let out heat and odors.

  If Rafferty can get in here, he'll be at the back of the establishment, near the kitchen and the restrooms and behind everyone in the main room who's facing the doorway.

  But the wall rises eight feet, and eight feet is too high. He could jump and get his hands on top of the wall, but there's no way he could hold on, much less climb up.

  The area at the base of the wall is shaded by the umbrellas of vendors-a shoeshine man, a guy who repairs disposable lighters for a few pennies, a barber, complete with chair and mirror. About five feet from the wall, a woman carefully sews the hem of a skirt that's apparently been plucked from an overflowing basket beside her. She's using an antique sewing machine powered by a foot treadle. It's a heavy machine, and the old oak table it rests on looks like it's supported its burden for decades without so much as a creak of protest. Rafferty grips the bag of nam pla prik between his teeth, setting the tip of his tongue on fire, says "Shorry," grabs the table, and drags it to the base of the wall.

  The woman calls after him, but by the time anyone has registered what he's doing, Rafferty is balanced on the table, feet on either side of the sewing machine. The table is a little more than three feet high, so he can get both arms over the top of the wall and haul himself up. The woman is still yelling at him and drawing a crowd, so he extracts yet another hundred-baht bill and lets it flutter down.

  Because of the bottle tucked into the back of his pants, he has to go over the wall on his stomach. He hears women's voices, indignant and scolding, behind him, and when he turns, he sees a group of eight or ten Beer Garden regulars, women of various ages and shapes, tightly clustered around an open door. They look angry and upset, and some of them are trying to push others forward, through the door. The women at the front hold back, obviously unwilling or afraid to go in.

  One of the women at the rear spots Rafferty and waves him to hurry. He palms the bag of chili sauce and covers the distance at a run. The women part, and he's looking into the men's room.

  It's not much-a row of urinals with those round pink cakes in them that somebody somewhere thinks smell better than piss, a filthy once-white tile floor, a couple of sinks to the left of the door, and three toilet cubicles with a great many words scratched into them.

  John is standing with his back against the wall of the center cubicle. He's sweating heavily, and there's a mean-looking six-inch knife in his hand, which he's using to try to get the crowd of women to back up. Crumpled on the floor beside him, leaning against the door of the right-hand cubicle, her face a twist of pain and her left arm hanging uselessly in her lap, is Pim. Her shoes lie on their sides next t
o her, and the bandage around her ankle is soiled from the floor. Tears have eroded deep, wet tracks through her cakey makeup from her eyes to her jawline. A teardrop dangles from her chin.

  Rafferty eases the last woman aside and says to John, "Get away from her."

  "The hero," John says. "Send in a girl. What an asswipe. Come on in here, asswipe."

  "You're fucked," Rafferty says. "I don't think Howard is going to like this at all."

  "The hell with Howard," John says, but he sounds less certain. "Get in here."

  "Yeah? What do you think you're going to do? Cut me in front of all these ladies? Fight your way out of here with me bleeding in the bathroom? Howard will love that, his fifth-rate jerkwater backup in jail, charged with stupidity. What were you supposed to do? Follow me. Find out where I went. Get a little information. Report back to Howard, wherever Howard is. Instead here you are, stuck in a toilet with a knife in your hand." Rafferty comes just inside the door. "Where's Howard?"

  John says, "Fuck yourself," and flourishes the knife, doing a gleaming, professional-looking, little back-and-forth razzle-dazzle, but Rafferty ignores it. Either the man will use it or he won't.

  "I asked you a question."

  John puts the tip of his tongue to his upper lip and then retracts it. "And I told you what you can do, if your dick is long enough to stick it up your ass."

  "I also told you to get away from her."

  "Man," John says, "you are so not listening."

  Rafferty's got no moves that will protect him from a blade. What he can do, if he can work up the courage, is to offer John another target. He takes a longer look at Pim, who is staring up at him wet-eyed, slumped slightly to the side to try to ease the weight of her damaged left arm. He flips a mental coin, and it comes up heads: John would prefer not to use the knife. So Rafferty grabs a deep breath and brushes past the man as though he's not there, barely bothering to sidestep the knife, and bends down over Pim, practically waving in John's face the freshly bandaged left elbow.

  John seizes the advantage, grabs the bandages, and squeezes for all he's worth, with explosive results. Rafferty lets out a bellow of pain, straightens convulsively, and through a sort of red haze he brings his right hand, with the plastic bag in it, up into John's face. When the straw is pointed at the other man's eyes, Rafferty squeezes the bag.

  His own cry is still ragged in his throat, but even so he can hear John howl. John yanks his head back, slamming it against the wall of the toilet cubicle and scrubbing at his eyes with his forearm as Rafferty reaches back, lifts his T-shirt, and brings out the heavy soda bottle, clutching it by the neck. With an effort that begins at the soles of his feet, he slams the bottle against the side of John's head, so hard that the bottle almost flies out of his hand. There's a surprising crack, a sound that nearly persuades Rafferty he's broken the man's skull. John's knees accordion outward like he's doing a dance step, and he goes down. Rafferty whacks him again for insurance as he drops, hitting his ear this time. John crumples on the floor like a loose sack, looking as though he has no muscles in his body.

  Rafferty stands over him, panting, making sure the man is out. From beneath John's head, blood begins to pool across the tile floor. The women standing in the doorway break into applause.

  Taking it one deliberate step at a time, Rafferty puts the bottle down carefully, not spilling the remaining soda, and kneels beside John. He pries the knife from the man's hand, tosses the blade against the opposite wall, and puts a couple of fingers over John's pulse, which is reassuringly strong and steady. As if on cue, the man moans, and Pim lets out a squeak of terror and scrabbles away from him, using her good arm to pull her along.

  "I need a belt," Rafferty says in Thai to the women in the doorway. They're pushing at each other now, peering in at the flattened man and the injured girl. A woman in front, older and tattooed and somehow familiar, unbuckles her belt, slips it free of her jeans, and throws it to him.

  She says, in English, "Here, Poke," and Rafferty takes his eyes off the belt to look at her, and it falls at his feet, the heavy buckle making an echoing clank as it hits the tile.

  "Move," Rafferty says to Pim, and when she's scooted farther away, he rolls John over onto his stomach, yanks his arms behind his back, and makes a tight figure eight with the belt, wrapping it around and between the arms just above the elbows, Khmer Rouge style, where John won't be able to reach it with his hands. When he's tugged it as tight as he can, he secures the buckle and takes a quick look at John's scalp. The bottle broke the skin, but there doesn't seem to be any real damage, just the usual aggressive bleeding from a scalp wound. He rolls John onto his back again.

  "Hold still," he says to Pim. He puts his hand on her left shoulder and probes it gently. She lets out a shrill yelp. "Dislocated," he says. "Stay where you are."

  Pim says, around a sniffle, "But-"

  "Do what I say. If you move around, it'll hurt more." He turns to the woman who threw him the belt. He's suddenly immensely weary. "I'm sorry. I know you, but I can't remember your name."

  "Lan," she says. "I dance King's Castle long time. Before, me friend for Rose."

  "Right, right. Sorry, Lan. Where's security? They should be here by now."

  "You want?"

  "No, I don't. If they come, try to keep them out, okay?"

  "Okay. Him." She points her foot at John, a gesture of contempt. "Him boxing her. Bang, take her hair, pull her."

  "Well, he's not going to enjoy the next few minutes." John moans again, and Rafferty gets up, turns on the water in the sink, cups his hands beneath the spout, and throws the water at John. He does it three or four times, and then John's eyes are open. He struggles once against the belt, takes a quick look around the bathroom-at Rafferty, at the huddled Pim, at the band of angry women. His eyes find the knife on the other side of the room, and he goes still. He's not even looking at Rafferty.

  "What's your full name?" Rafferty asks, kneeling beside him again.

  "Fuck you," John says. He's looking past Rafferty at the wall.

  Rafferty picks up the soda bottle, which feels like it weighs ten pounds. "If I hit you in exactly the same place, it's going to get your attention." He wiggles the bottle by its neck.

  John closes his eyes and slowly opens them again. "Bohnert. John Bohnert."

  "Spell it."

  "B-o-h-n-e-r-t."

  "What did you think you were doing today? When I saw you on Sukhumvit."

  "Looking for a library. I'm a big reader."

  "Who else was following us?"

  The question provokes a surprised contraction of Bohnert's eyebrows, quickly smoothed away. Then he shakes his head.

  "Was somebody else following Rose?"

  Bohnert squirms for a moment, testing the strength of the belt, and Rafferty puts an open hand on the man's throat and presses down, hard. "Stay put and I'll let you breathe. I asked whether anyone was following Rose."

  Rafferty lifts his hand, and Bohnert coughs. "Who's Rose?"

  "Be like that," Rafferty says. "But listen. You're going to tell me what I want to know, and you really ought to do it the easy way. So I can feel good about myself when this is over."

  "Have I said 'fuck you' yet?"

  "Well, it's a good thing my self-esteem is solid," Rafferty says. "Otherwise I might regret doing this."

  He picks up the bottle of soda and holds it to the light, checking the level. Still about two-thirds full. John winces at the sight of it and draws his head away, but Rafferty pops the cap with his thumb, puts the bottle down again, and pulls the straw out of the bag of chili sauce.

  There's a murmur among the women gathered at the door. Three or four of them are whispering to others.

  "You know this one, do you?" he asks them. Even Pim is watching now, although she looks puzzled. She hasn't been here long enough to learn the trick, which owes its existence to the limitless imagination and limited resources of the Thai police.

  "A friend of mine who's a cop told me
about this. It's not a complicated recipe," Rafferty says to Bohnert, who's working on looking impassive, his eyes once again on the wall. "The trick is to get the proportions right. Also, it works better if you can grind the chilies to a paste, but this is an improvisation."

  He gathers the open end of the bag of chili sauce into a tight bunch and works it into the neck of the soda bottle. Then he upends the bag and squeezes on it again so the nam pla prik flows into the soda water, turning it the color of weak tea with lots of little red and green bits floating in it. To Bohnert he says, "You following this?"

  Bohnert says nothing.

  "One more chance," Rafferty says, hoping the man will cooperate. He's seeing little bright flashes at the corners of his vision, and he can hear his blood singing high and thin in his ears. His voice sounds distant, as though he's hearing it through a wall. "One more chance for us both to walk out of here feeling relatively okay. Where's Horner?"

  Bohnert says, "You're dead. You and the whore and the midget. You're dead."

  Rafferty says, "I'm sorry you feel that way." He puts his thumb tightly over the top of the bottle and shakes it vigorously as the women's voices rise in expectation. When he can feel that the pressure's increased as much as it's going to, he brings the Coke bottle up to Bohnert's nose, removes his thumb, and jams the bottle into the left nostril.

  Coca-Cola spurts out of Bohnert's nose and over Rafferty's hand, and John's knees unbend spasmodically, scissoring in both directions. Rafferty rises and steps back as Bohnert thrashes on the floor, coughing and choking, and then the chili hits, and he roars and jackknifes and then straightens, kicking his feet out so fast that he cracks both shins against the vertical support of the toilet cubicle, and he twists back and forth, rocking on his bound arms, hacking and spitting and sobbing simultaneously.