the errand he has undertaken can have five outcomes: (1) He can find Uncle Claus alive and make Clarissa happy. (2) He can find Uncle Claus dead and make her unhappy. (3) He can find an Uncle Claus who is radically different from the one she thinks she knows, and break her heart. (4) He can fail to find Uncle Claus at all and leave everything unresolved.
Or (5) Arthit’s renegade cops could kill him.
The dinner with Superman—the First Supper, as he’s beginning to think of it—had been well beyond grim.
The children had sat on one side of the table and the adults on the other. Rose had talked enough for four, and Miaow had eaten enough for two. The boy, for the most part, had stared at his food as though he expected it to start wriggling on the dish. At one point Miaow had broken a spring roll in half and reached over and put it in his mouth, and he had removed it and dropped it on her plate as though it were a stone. Rafferty had fought the impulse to pull the cloth off the table, dishes and all.
“You have to eat something,” he finally said. “Rose cooked this food for us, and you have to eat something.”
The boy had looked at Rafferty for a good count of ten and picked up the half a spring roll and put it in his mouth. Then he had chewed it, noisily and deliberately, for at least five minutes. He had swallowed it three times. Then he pushed his chair from the table and sauntered down the hallway to Miaow’s room.
This performance had been followed by a long silence. Rose ate asthough nothing had happened. Rafferty counted to a hundred. Miaow stared at her lap.
“He wants to show you he won’t eat much,” she finally said.
“He’s smoking yaa baa ,” Rafferty replied.
“He’s just confused,” Rose said placidly, helping herself to some more noodles. “He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, and that makes him angry. He needs time.”
“Not smoking,” Miaow said very softly.
“How do you know?” Rafferty had asked.
“Not smoking,” Miaow repeated more loudly.
“Fine,” Rafferty retreated. “He’s not smoking. Tell him he has to eat, Miaow. It’s the only way I’m going to know.”
“He’s not smoking,” Rose said. “He just doesn’t know what he feels.”
And they left it there. The boy had slept on the couch in the living room, with Rafferty rejecting Miaow’s repeated offer to give him the top level of her bunk bed, and when Rafferty woke up, he was gone. Rafferty secretly hopes he won’t return.
He has started a game of solitaire on the computer when the phone rings.
“Poke,” Arthit says. “Do you have a pencil?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m a writer.”
“While you try to find one,” Arthit says, “here’s an update. No results on the photograph yet in either Phuket or Phang Nga. There are four guys working on it now, but there are a lot of people to talk to. So far, though, no one recognizes him either alive or dead.”
Rafferty is opening and closing drawers. “That’s because he wasn’t down there.”
“Maybe not. Got the pencil yet?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The one that has come to hand is dimpled with the tooth marks Rose always puts into it when she subtracts her assets, little indentations of anxiety.
“Here comes the first part of your favor: 555–0475. That’s Hank Morrison’s number. Do you know Hank?”
“Pilot or something. Runs that school for street kids.”
“He puts the kids through a few years of basic schooling,” Arthit says. “He—what’s the word?— socializes them. You know, teaches them not to kill each other over who gets the first helping of noodles. And then he arranges their adoption. I’ve told him to expect your call.”
“Adoption? You mean, like adoption ?”
“Have some coffee,” Arthit says sympathetically. “Crank up those verbal skills, then give him a call. And keep working on Claus Ulrich.”
Rafferty is already dialing when he realizes he hung up on Arthit without saying good-bye.
Or (5) Arthit’s renegade cops could kill him.
The dinner with Superman—the First Supper, as he’s beginning to think of it—had been well beyond grim.
The children had sat on one side of the table and the adults on the other. Rose had talked enough for four, and Miaow had eaten enough for two. The boy, for the most part, had stared at his food as though he expected it to start wriggling on the dish. At one point Miaow had broken a spring roll in half and reached over and put it in his mouth, and he had removed it and dropped it on her plate as though it were a stone. Rafferty had fought the impulse to pull the cloth off the table, dishes and all.
“You have to eat something,” he finally said. “Rose cooked this food for us, and you have to eat something.”
The boy had looked at Rafferty for a good count of ten and picked up the half a spring roll and put it in his mouth. Then he had chewed it, noisily and deliberately, for at least five minutes. He had swallowed it three times. Then he pushed his chair from the table and sauntered down the hallway to Miaow’s room.
This performance had been followed by a long silence. Rose ate asthough nothing had happened. Rafferty counted to a hundred. Miaow stared at her lap.
“He wants to show you he won’t eat much,” she finally said.
“He’s smoking yaa baa ,” Rafferty replied.
“He’s just confused,” Rose said placidly, helping herself to some more noodles. “He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, and that makes him angry. He needs time.”
“Not smoking,” Miaow said very softly.
“How do you know?” Rafferty had asked.
“Not smoking,” Miaow repeated more loudly.
“Fine,” Rafferty retreated. “He’s not smoking. Tell him he has to eat, Miaow. It’s the only way I’m going to know.”
“He’s not smoking,” Rose said. “He just doesn’t know what he feels.”
And they left it there. The boy had slept on the couch in the living room, with Rafferty rejecting Miaow’s repeated offer to give him the top level of her bunk bed, and when Rafferty woke up, he was gone. Rafferty secretly hopes he won’t return.
He has started a game of solitaire on the computer when the phone rings.
“Poke,” Arthit says. “Do you have a pencil?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m a writer.”
“While you try to find one,” Arthit says, “here’s an update. No results on the photograph yet in either Phuket or Phang Nga. There are four guys working on it now, but there are a lot of people to talk to. So far, though, no one recognizes him either alive or dead.”
Rafferty is opening and closing drawers. “That’s because he wasn’t down there.”
“Maybe not. Got the pencil yet?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The one that has come to hand is dimpled with the tooth marks Rose always puts into it when she subtracts her assets, little indentations of anxiety.
“Here comes the first part of your favor: 555–0475. That’s Hank Morrison’s number. Do you know Hank?”
“Pilot or something. Runs that school for street kids.”
“He puts the kids through a few years of basic schooling,” Arthit says. “He—what’s the word?— socializes them. You know, teaches them not to kill each other over who gets the first helping of noodles. And then he arranges their adoption. I’ve told him to expect your call.”
“Adoption? You mean, like adoption ?”
“Have some coffee,” Arthit says sympathetically. “Crank up those verbal skills, then give him a call. And keep working on Claus Ulrich.”
Rafferty is already dialing when he realizes he hung up on Arthit without saying good-bye.
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