“Most of my competition was a hundred pounds overweight.”
“Stop it. Just once, let someone say something nice about you.”
“Sorry. Thanks.” He can barely hear his own voice.
“But those girls didn’t love you,” Rose says. “I didn’t love you either. I didn’t even want to love you. I didn’t want to tell myself I loved you if what I really loved was the house and the passport. I stopped working because of you, did you know that? I told myself I stopped for me, but I didn’t. And after I stopped, I talked myself out of you a hundred times. Sometimes my heart hides from me. It took everything, Poke. It took a long time, it took months of being with you, it took Miaow, even, seeing the way you are with Miaow, but I love you.”
“And I love you,” he says helplessly. The words hang in the air with a kind of phantom shimmer, a tossed handful of glitter. Rose looks at him in a way that makes him feel like a developing Polaroid: Out of the infinite potential of nothing comes a specific human face, with all its weaknesses and limitations. When she has his face in focus, or committed to memory, or transformed into what she wanted to see, or whatever she was doing, she looks down at the box and opens it.
The ring has three stones—a topaz, a sapphire, and a ruby, none of them very large. “The sapphire is your birthstone,” Rafferty says. “The ruby is mine.” It sounds puerile and silly as he says it. “The topaz was my guess at Miaow. Now we can change it, make it a ruby and two sapphires.”
“The family,” Rose says. “In a ring.” She tilts the stones toward him. “Miaow between you and me.”
“I guess,” Rafferty says, wondering why he never saw that.
“Poor baby,” she says for the second time, but her tone is very different. “You want a family so badly.”
“I want to put a fence around us,” Rafferty says. “Something to hold us together.”
Rose says, “We’re not going to fall apart. I won’t let us.” Her face is very grave. She raises the box to him, and he takes it and removes the ring and wraps the warm smoothness of her left hand in his, and slips the ring onto her finger. It sticks at the knuckle, and he pushes at it, and she starts to laugh and chokes it off, and then raises her finger to his mouth so he can wet the knuckle with his tongue. The ring glides over her knuckle. His arms go around her, and she fits herself to him, pressing the length of her body against his. Then she laughs. “Peachy is going to be so happy,” she says.
“Peachy can wait,” he says. “I want to make love with you when you’re wearing the ring.” He starts to lead her to the bedroom. “And only the ring.”
“Make the coffee first,” she says. “I think we’re going to need it.”
“Right.” Back at the counter, he glances down at the filters with her red lip prints on them, then takes the two that are still stuck together and drops them both into the basket. He upends the grinder into them.
“What’s wrong with the ones I got for you?” she asks.
“Nothing at all,” he says, feeling as though he will rise into the air, lift off, float inches above the floor. “I’ll eat them later.”
They are halfway across the living room, sipping coffee, hands clasped, when someone begins to hammer on the door.
!8
Maybe a Problem
oesn’t anybody have a goddamned wristwatch?” Rafferty stands there in a robe that has never felt pinker, holding the door open a couple of inches and looking at the two
uniformed Bangkok policemen standing in the hallway. “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”
“We know exactly what time it is,” someone says in American English. The cops part to reveal a thin, youngish man in a black suit. He steps between the policemen as though he expects them to leap out of his way, and they almost do. Behind the three of them, Rafferty is startled to see Fon, looking as though she’s just learned she has an hour to live.
“Open the door, sir,” the man in the suit says. He has short-cropped, receding dark hair with a part as sharp as a scar, a narrow face, and lips thin enough to slice paper. Rimless glasses, clinically clean, perch on a prominent nose.
“Oh, sure,” Rafferty says. “Maybe you’d like a piece of cake, too.” Rose has fled to the bedroom, clutching the towel.
“Mr. Rafferty,” says the man in the suit. “This is not a productive attitude. We need to talk to you and Miss . . . um, Puchan . . . Punchangthong.” After mangling the pronunciation of Rose’s name, he pushes the door open another few inches before Rafferty gets a bare foot against it. “Now,” he says.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
The man reaches into the inside pocket of his suit coat, pulls out a black wallet, flips it open, and then closes it and returns it to the pocket. He takes a step forward and runs into Rafferty’s hand, fingers outspread, in the center of his chest.
The man does not look down. “Remove your hand, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir’ unless you mean it,” Rafferty says. “And do that cute little wallet flip again. You’re not on CSI, and you didn’t get a close-up.”
“The hand,” the man says. His eyes have not left Rafferty’s.
“The wallet,” Rafferty says, “or you’ll be looking at the outside of the door again. How are you, Fon?”
“Not good,” Fon says.
“Sorry to hear it.” To the American he says, “What about it? We need a retake on the wallet.”
“I can’t get to it,” the man says through his teeth, “with your hand on my chest.”
“Back up,” Rafferty says. “So I can close the door if it’s a Boy Scout merit badge.”
“We’re coming in,” says one of the cops. He loses some face by looking to the American for approval.
Rafferty doesn’t even glance at him. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see it.”
Stiff-faced, the American brings out the wallet again and lets it hang open. A silvery shield with a star in the center reads u.s. secret service.
“I don’t know how to break this to you,” Rafferty says, “but we’re in Thailand.”
“That’s why these gentlemen are with me,” the American says.
“And very terrifying they are, too. This got something to do with you, Fon?”
“It does,” says the American.
“I didn’t ask you.” Rafferty looks past him. “Fon?”
“Yes,” she says. It barely registers as a whisper.
Rafferty studies her face: desolate as a razed house. “Then I’ll let you in. But hang on a minute,” Rafferty says to the American. “And don’t let these goons knock the door down unless you want to pay for it.” He closes the door in the American’s face and goes into the bedroom. Rose is wearing jeans and the Totoro T-shirt, the sight of which makes Rafferty’s heart constrict. “Maybe a problem,” he says, throwing on a pair of linen slacks and the first T-shirt in the drawer. He has it halfway on before he realizes it says yes i do. but not with you. He stops tugging it down for half a second, says, “The hell with it,” and leaves it on. Motioning Rose to stay put, he goes back into the living room and opens the door.
“Mi casa es su casa,” he says, moving aside.
“That may be truer than you know,” says the American. He steps into the center of the room and looks around. He registers the cake on the table, ignores it, and focuses on the view through the sliding glass door to the balcony. “You’ve got it nice here.”
“Architectural Digest is coming in the morning.” The cops trail in. One of them has his hand on Fon’s upper arm. Rafferty says, “She can walk without help.” The cop gives him hard eyes but lets go of her arm. “Do you want to sit down, Fon?” Rafferty asks in Thai.
“English only,” says the American.
“Okay,” Rafferty says, suddenly blind with fury. “How about ‘Fuck you’?”
There is a moment of silence, and then one of the cops says, “He asked if she wanted to sit down.”
“Sure,” the American says, his eyes locked o
n Rafferty’s. “Let her sit.” Fon collapses onto the couch, eyeing them all uncertainly. She sits bent forward, hands in her lap, as though trying to present the smallest possible target. The American smiles at Rafferty, making his lips disappear completely. “You’re forcing me to be unpleasant,” he says. “Unfortunately for you, I enjoy being unpleasant.”
“A name would be nice,” Rafferty says. “Just so I can be sure they bust the right jerk.”
“Elson,” the American says. “Richard Elson. E-l-s-o-n.” He looks around again. “Where’s Miss Punchangthong?”
“In the other room. She’s choosy about her company.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Elson says, and the next thing Rafferty knows, one of the cops has hold of his right arm and is pulling him away from Elson.
“Actually,” Elson says, “it would be easier if you hit me. We could just take you all in and do this right.”
“Don’t do anything silly, Poke,” Rose says in Thai, and Rafferty turns to see her in the bedroom door. Elson turns at the sound of her voice, and for a moment he’s just another man getting his first look at Rose. His eyes widen slightly, his thin lips part, and he inhales sharply.
“Miss Punchangthong?” he says. He pronounces it right this time.
Rose nods without turning to him. It’s the non-look she gave to customers in the bar who had no chance of getting any closer to her than across the room.
“Richard Elson, United States Secret Service. You speak English?”
“Small.”
Elson flicks a finger at Fon. “Do you know this woman?”
Rose’s face is stone. “Yes, know. Her my friend.” The crudity of the pidgin surprises Rafferty, and he glances at Rose, who avoids his eyes.
“And an employee,” Elson says.
“Where is this going?” Rafferty demands.
“You’ll know in a second.” Elson doesn’t look at him. “An employee?”
“You say so,” Rose says. She turns her head to regard Fon. “But her my friend first.”
“I want to know what this is about right now,” Rafferty says. “Or you can come back here tomorrow with a lawyer.”
“It’s about this,” Elson says, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. He opens it and displays a thin sheaf of currency. He shows it to Rose. “Did you give this to Miss Sribooncha— Jesus, these names. What the hell did you call her? Fon? Did you give this to Fon today?”
“Not give,” Rose says.
“That’s not what she says.”
“Peachy—” Fon begins, but Elson silences her with a glance. “Miss Punchangthong?”
“Fon get money today,” Rose says. “But me not give.”
“But you own the business.”
Rose shakes her head. “Peachy and me own, same-same. Hasiphasip, you know? You speak Thai?” As angry as he is, Rafferty has to turn to the sliding door to hide his grin.
“No,” Elson says, a little grimly. “I don’t speak Thai. So, in a sense, you paid her.”
“In a sense?” Rose asks. “What mean? What mean, in a sense?”
“It means—” Elson begins. He stops. “It means, um . . .”
“English only,” Rafferty says happily.
Elson licks his lips and turns to the cops. “One of you explain.”
The cops look at each other, and one of them shrugs.
“Want some help?” Rafferty asks.
“What I’m saying,” Elson says, “is that it doesn’t matter which one of you gave her the money. It came from both of you, since you both own the business.”
Rose seems to be reviewing the sentence in her head. Then she shrugs. “Not understand. Fon need money. Her want eat, you know? Pay for room. Same you.”
“Right,” Elson says. He slides the gleaming glasses down and rubs the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Fon needed the money. So let’s go over this. Miss . . . um, Fon got the money from you and your partner, right?”
“From Peachy,” Rose says stubbornly.
Elson shakes his head. “From your company. The company you own part of. And your partner got it where?”
Rose spreads her hands, the bewildered peasant girl “Maybe bank? Bank have money, na?”
Elson turns his head and says something like, “Pssshhhh.”
“Oh, come on,” Rafferty says. “No matter what this is about, how can you even say that’s the same money Fon was paid? I mean, is it special-issue, just for her? Does it say ‘Fon’ on it or something?”
Elson slips the money back into the envelope and closes the flap. “Which bank?”
“Have many bank,” Rose says. She scratches her head at the unreasonable nature of the question. “Have bank too much.” She points through the window and down toward the street. “Have bank there, and there. . . .” She points farther off. “And there, and—”
“Okay, okay,” Elson says. “Banks all over the fucking place. So you don’t personally handle the money.”
“Me?” Rose asks, giving up on the street and pointing at herself. “I talk you already, me no give money. And ‘fuck’ talk no good. Not polite.”
Elson emits a sound that could be a groan.
“Same question,” Rafferty says. “How can anyone be sure this is the actual money Fon got this morning?”
For a moment Rafferty thinks Elson is not going to answer him. He gives Rose one last despairing look and then flicks a finger at Fon. “It’s not just old Fon here. Three of the women who work for Miss Punchangthong’s company took money to the bank today.”
“They probably all did,” Rafferty says.
“But I was only at the bank three of them used,” Elson says. “And unless all three of them stopped and swapped bills with someone for some reason, every bill they deposited was counterfeit.” He smiles at Rafferty, the smile of the smartest kid in class, the only one with the right answer. “And that’s a problem.”
“Fine,” Rafferty says. “So three women walked into a bank with a few thousand baht in counterfeit money. And that’s worth a visit at five a.m.? And it’s Thai money, so what the hell does it have to do with the United States government?”
“Quite a lot, Mr. Rafferty,” Elson says. “As you’ll find out.” He looks around the room again, as though he is memorizing it. “And now you can go back to your English lesson or whatever you were doing.” He gestures for Fon to get up, and the two policemen flank her again. Elson goes to the door.
“Have good night,” Rose volunteers from the bedroom doorway. “Maybe you find girl, you boom-boom, you feel better.”
Elson ignores her, but his nostrils are white and pinched, and his lips vanish again. “Just so we’re clear,” he says to Rafferty. “We know where you are if we need you.” Holding open the door to the hallway, he motions Fon and the cops through it. He pauses in the doorway as the cops ring for the elevator. “And don’t think about going anywhere outside Thailand,” he adds, “because as of about ten minutes from now your passport won’t even get you into a movie.”
!9
Carrots Were the Last Straw
e’s just a bully.” They are in bed again, but the glow they shared an hour earlier is a fading memory. Rafferty’s fury, however, is still very much alive.
“He’s a government,” Rose says. The sky has paled during the time it took him to talk her into trying to get some rest. Early light leaks balefully through the gaps in the tape over the space around the window air conditioner. Rose gives the new day the look she reserves for uninvited visitors and follows her train of thought. “Worse, with those policemen along, he’s two governments. I may not have written a bunch of books, Poke, but I know you don’t punch a government.”
“I didn’t punch him.” He can’t bring himself to tell her what Elson said to provoke the aborted attack. “And I’m not the one who told him to go get laid.”
“He needs it,” Rose says.
“I don’t think so. He probably jerks off to a spreadsheet.”
“What mean ‘jerk off’?” Rose asks, reverting to pidgin. “Same-same ‘beef jerky’?” She takes another drag on the cigarette and hits the filter. “He has very bad energy,” she says in Thai. “He likes power too much. He needs to spend some time in a monastery. And you should have been more careful. You should have kept a cool heart.”
“He had it coming. His behavior was, as they say, ‘inappropriate.’ ” He uses the English word because he can’t think of a Thai equivalent.
“What does that mean?” Rose lights a new cigarette off her old one, not a good sign. That was the way she smoked when he met her.
“ ‘Inappropriate’ is government talk.” He slides the ashtray closer to her so she can stub the butt. The stink of burning filter fills the room. “It means someone has fucked up on a planetary scale. When an American congressman is videotaped in bed with a fourteen-year-old male poodle, his behavior is usually described as inappropriate.”
“Fourteen is old for a dog,” Rose observes.
“Gee, and I thought you weren’t listening.”
“I’m listening, Poke. I’m even thinking.” She shifts her back against the pillow propped behind her. The cloud of smoke she exhales is penetrated in a vaguely religious fashion by the invading fingers of light, good morning from Cecil B. DeMille. “This could be very bad for us.”
“Oh, relax. It’s not like you and Peachy are printing money in the basement. Today they’ll go to the bank where she got the bills, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“Maybe.” She pulls the sheet up over her shoulders as though she is cold.
“Sure it will. It was an accident. Bad luck, that’s all.”
She does not reply. But then she shakes her head and says, “Luck.”
He slides his knuckles softly up her arm. “Okay, it’s not luck, it’s a kink in somebody’s karma. Worse comes to worst, you have to replace the counterfeit junk with real bills. Come on, Rose. It’s only money.”
She does not look impressed by the insight.
It didn’t cheer you up either, Rafferty thinks, and then, pop, he’s got something he’s sure will distract her. “Listen, did I ever tell you that it was money that first made me want to come to Asia?”
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