explosion of fury from a street child named Boo—the child who’d rescued Miaow when she was first abandoned on the sidewalk and given her a home and a band of friends, of sorts, before burning himself almost into invisibility in the fire of amphetamines.
And what
is
Boo up to now? he wonders. The kid’s been off drugs for a few years. Last time Rafferty saw him, he was working, a bit uneasily, with a pair of crooked cops in a scam to rip off tourists who tried to pick up children. Rafferty thinks the kid could probably succeed at anything he wants to do that doesn’t require formal education, but doubts he would stop working with homeless kids. Especially not now, with thousands of them flooding into Bangkok as Thailand’s rural farming communities break down.
He gulps the coffee and lets his eyes wander the room, seeing Murphy’s money everywhere: stacked beneath the cushions of the hassock, inside the couch, running all the way around the edge of the room beneath the carpet in stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Back in the old days, he’d felt flush if he had forty or fifty thousand baht stowed in the safe hidden in the headboard of his and Rose’s bed.
But, of course, this money isn’t really his. He doesn’t even know whether the person to whom it actually belongs is alive.
In all, the apartment has a little less than half a million dollars in it, jammed into every piece of furniture, in empty cereal boxes in the kitchen, in weighted baggies in the toilet tanks. He knows it’s silly to salt it everywhere like this—when he took it from a burning house eight weeks ago, it had fit very snugly into a single large briefcase—but he can’t bring himself to keep it all in one place. Given the number of unpleasant people who have come unbidden through their front door and the ease with which they’ve done it, it’s always possible there will be another, so why make it simple by putting all that money in one place? This way, at least the son of a bitch will have to work for it.
At times he wishes he could throw the money off the balcony. He can’t bank it because he can’t explain where he got it, and in Bangkok a large sum of money emits a fragrance that can penetrate the thick walls of banks, all the way to government and law-enforcement offices. The ones in uniform would give him a few memorably bad moments and take it all.
Here’s
another
reason he wishes he could just call Arthit. As a cop, Arthit probably knows how crooks hide the huge sums of illicit money the papers are always talking about. But he and Arthit—perhaps the best male friend he’s ever had—haven’t spoken comfortably since Arthit announced, in a brusque, awkward phone call, that Anna—Dr. Chaibancha—was going to move in with him.
Poke and Dr. Chaibancha have a wary non-relationship. She had been an acquaintance of Arthit’s now-dead wife, Noi, but when she knocked on his door to re-establish her friendship with Arthit, it was under false pretenses: she had actually been sent by Thai security police in the hope that she would learn, through Arthit, where Rafferty was and pass the information back to them. The cops had lied to her, appealed to her patriotism, but he still doesn’t trust her, and she knows it, and it can’t be paved over. The memory of her treachery, a little less than a couple of months ago, stands between him and Arthit like a wall.
The cup is empty. Rafferty shifts his weight from foot to foot in the middle of the living room, wishing he had work to do, wishing he knew how to talk to his daughter, wishing he could call his best friend, wishing he wasn’t burdened with all that money. Wishing he weren’t haunted by the image of a girl running into a burning house. Wondering how someone who has everything in the world that matters to him could be so deeply and so completely discontented.
12
Home
A RTHIT SAYS , “S AME man?”
Anna nods. She won’t speak aloud in public. They’re in the back corner of
And what
is
Boo up to now? he wonders. The kid’s been off drugs for a few years. Last time Rafferty saw him, he was working, a bit uneasily, with a pair of crooked cops in a scam to rip off tourists who tried to pick up children. Rafferty thinks the kid could probably succeed at anything he wants to do that doesn’t require formal education, but doubts he would stop working with homeless kids. Especially not now, with thousands of them flooding into Bangkok as Thailand’s rural farming communities break down.
He gulps the coffee and lets his eyes wander the room, seeing Murphy’s money everywhere: stacked beneath the cushions of the hassock, inside the couch, running all the way around the edge of the room beneath the carpet in stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Back in the old days, he’d felt flush if he had forty or fifty thousand baht stowed in the safe hidden in the headboard of his and Rose’s bed.
But, of course, this money isn’t really his. He doesn’t even know whether the person to whom it actually belongs is alive.
In all, the apartment has a little less than half a million dollars in it, jammed into every piece of furniture, in empty cereal boxes in the kitchen, in weighted baggies in the toilet tanks. He knows it’s silly to salt it everywhere like this—when he took it from a burning house eight weeks ago, it had fit very snugly into a single large briefcase—but he can’t bring himself to keep it all in one place. Given the number of unpleasant people who have come unbidden through their front door and the ease with which they’ve done it, it’s always possible there will be another, so why make it simple by putting all that money in one place? This way, at least the son of a bitch will have to work for it.
At times he wishes he could throw the money off the balcony. He can’t bank it because he can’t explain where he got it, and in Bangkok a large sum of money emits a fragrance that can penetrate the thick walls of banks, all the way to government and law-enforcement offices. The ones in uniform would give him a few memorably bad moments and take it all.
Here’s
another
reason he wishes he could just call Arthit. As a cop, Arthit probably knows how crooks hide the huge sums of illicit money the papers are always talking about. But he and Arthit—perhaps the best male friend he’s ever had—haven’t spoken comfortably since Arthit announced, in a brusque, awkward phone call, that Anna—Dr. Chaibancha—was going to move in with him.
Poke and Dr. Chaibancha have a wary non-relationship. She had been an acquaintance of Arthit’s now-dead wife, Noi, but when she knocked on his door to re-establish her friendship with Arthit, it was under false pretenses: she had actually been sent by Thai security police in the hope that she would learn, through Arthit, where Rafferty was and pass the information back to them. The cops had lied to her, appealed to her patriotism, but he still doesn’t trust her, and she knows it, and it can’t be paved over. The memory of her treachery, a little less than a couple of months ago, stands between him and Arthit like a wall.
The cup is empty. Rafferty shifts his weight from foot to foot in the middle of the living room, wishing he had work to do, wishing he knew how to talk to his daughter, wishing he could call his best friend, wishing he wasn’t burdened with all that money. Wishing he weren’t haunted by the image of a girl running into a burning house. Wondering how someone who has everything in the world that matters to him could be so deeply and so completely discontented.
12
Home
A RTHIT SAYS , “S AME man?”
Anna nods. She won’t speak aloud in public. They’re in the back corner of
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