The phone feels slick. His palms are sweating.
After two rings the telephone is picked up. Nobody says anything, but Rafferty can hear the shrieks of what sound like a million children on a roller coaster. “Hello?” Rafferty says. The squeals rise in pitch as the roller coaster, or whatever it is, reaches the top of its arc. “Hello?”
On the other end of the line, somebody laughs. From the sound of the laugh, its possessor is less than three feet tall and easily amused.
“Is Hank there? Khun Hank, is he there?” Rafferty asks in Thai.
After a deliberative pause, the person on the other end says, “Yes,” and hangs up.
Rafferty counts to twenty to give the child time to become interested in something else and wander away, and then he dials again. Four rings this time, and then a deep male voice says, “Hello.”
“Hank Morrison? This is Poke Rafferty.”
“Hey, Poke. Did you just call?”
“Sort of.”
“Natalee said someone had called. She’s got the basic idea, but she’s a little shaky on the drill.”
“You’re training them early,” Rafferty says.
“You don’t have to train them at all. They fight to help out. One thing about kids, they like to feel useful.”
“Hank, I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“This is about what Arthit mentioned.”
“Actually, the first thing is business.”
“Fire away. Listen, if you hear me drop the phone suddenly, hangon. It just means I’m intervening in one of the day’s near-death situations. We’ve got prospective adoptive parents coming through today, and it gets the kids kind of worked up.”
“Okay, the business. I’m looking for a guy as a favor for Arthit. He’s supposed to be active with kids here. Do you know anyone named Claus Ulrich?”
“Claus…”
“Ulrich.”
“Can’t say I do. What organization does he work with?”
“I have no idea.”
“Might help if you could find out. But I’ve never heard of him, and I think I know most of the folks who are really doing something. Maybe he’s an angel.”
“An angel?”
“You know—doesn’t do the work but gives the money. Is he well-off?”
“Seems to be.”
“Okay, I’ll ask around and get back to you. Now, what about the child Arthit mentioned? How old?”
“She’s eight,” Rafferty says. “I think.”
“A little girl,” Hank says carefully.
“That’s right, Hank,” Rafferty says, suddenly angry. “An eight-year-old female is often called a little girl.”
“Sorry, Poke. It’s more…complicated with girls. How did you get involved with her?”
“I met her in Patpong, selling gum. She didn’t have a place to live, and I didn’t want her on the street. I put her in a rented room for a while, and I set her up in one of the international schools. After a while I cleared out my office, here in the apartment, and she moved in.”
Morrison clears his throat. “Is she still in school?”
“Yes, and she’s doing great.”
“Poke, what did you tell the school about her? What have you been telling people in general?”
“Not much. It doesn’t come up that often, actually. I have a long-time girlfriend who’s here a lot, and that sort of takes some of thecurse off. When someone asks—at the school, for example—I say she’s my adopted daughter.”
“Mmmm,” Morrison says. “You want to be careful with this.”
“I know. I worry about it.” The person he worries most about is one of the people who lives on his floor, a Mrs. Pongsiri. A regal-looking lady of a certain age who works very peculiar hours, leaving in the afternoon and coming home late at night, Mrs. Pongsiri never misses an opportunity to gaze speculatively at Miaow. She has demonstrated a vast repertoire of ways to purse her lips. Since she is essentially the central switchboard for the apartment house’s gossip network, her interest is disconcerting.
“You should worry about it. And for the meantime you want to avoid rubbing people’s noses in it. What’s
After two rings the telephone is picked up. Nobody says anything, but Rafferty can hear the shrieks of what sound like a million children on a roller coaster. “Hello?” Rafferty says. The squeals rise in pitch as the roller coaster, or whatever it is, reaches the top of its arc. “Hello?”
On the other end of the line, somebody laughs. From the sound of the laugh, its possessor is less than three feet tall and easily amused.
“Is Hank there? Khun Hank, is he there?” Rafferty asks in Thai.
After a deliberative pause, the person on the other end says, “Yes,” and hangs up.
Rafferty counts to twenty to give the child time to become interested in something else and wander away, and then he dials again. Four rings this time, and then a deep male voice says, “Hello.”
“Hank Morrison? This is Poke Rafferty.”
“Hey, Poke. Did you just call?”
“Sort of.”
“Natalee said someone had called. She’s got the basic idea, but she’s a little shaky on the drill.”
“You’re training them early,” Rafferty says.
“You don’t have to train them at all. They fight to help out. One thing about kids, they like to feel useful.”
“Hank, I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“This is about what Arthit mentioned.”
“Actually, the first thing is business.”
“Fire away. Listen, if you hear me drop the phone suddenly, hangon. It just means I’m intervening in one of the day’s near-death situations. We’ve got prospective adoptive parents coming through today, and it gets the kids kind of worked up.”
“Okay, the business. I’m looking for a guy as a favor for Arthit. He’s supposed to be active with kids here. Do you know anyone named Claus Ulrich?”
“Claus…”
“Ulrich.”
“Can’t say I do. What organization does he work with?”
“I have no idea.”
“Might help if you could find out. But I’ve never heard of him, and I think I know most of the folks who are really doing something. Maybe he’s an angel.”
“An angel?”
“You know—doesn’t do the work but gives the money. Is he well-off?”
“Seems to be.”
“Okay, I’ll ask around and get back to you. Now, what about the child Arthit mentioned? How old?”
“She’s eight,” Rafferty says. “I think.”
“A little girl,” Hank says carefully.
“That’s right, Hank,” Rafferty says, suddenly angry. “An eight-year-old female is often called a little girl.”
“Sorry, Poke. It’s more…complicated with girls. How did you get involved with her?”
“I met her in Patpong, selling gum. She didn’t have a place to live, and I didn’t want her on the street. I put her in a rented room for a while, and I set her up in one of the international schools. After a while I cleared out my office, here in the apartment, and she moved in.”
Morrison clears his throat. “Is she still in school?”
“Yes, and she’s doing great.”
“Poke, what did you tell the school about her? What have you been telling people in general?”
“Not much. It doesn’t come up that often, actually. I have a long-time girlfriend who’s here a lot, and that sort of takes some of thecurse off. When someone asks—at the school, for example—I say she’s my adopted daughter.”
“Mmmm,” Morrison says. “You want to be careful with this.”
“I know. I worry about it.” The person he worries most about is one of the people who lives on his floor, a Mrs. Pongsiri. A regal-looking lady of a certain age who works very peculiar hours, leaving in the afternoon and coming home late at night, Mrs. Pongsiri never misses an opportunity to gaze speculatively at Miaow. She has demonstrated a vast repertoire of ways to purse her lips. Since she is essentially the central switchboard for the apartment house’s gossip network, her interest is disconcerting.
“You should worry about it. And for the meantime you want to avoid rubbing people’s noses in it. What’s
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